CHAPTER 17
Sweat and Research
The experienced Grievar recognizes the body’s chain of structures. In order to attack any part of the chain, a fighter must focus on first stabilizing the larger structure. To attack the elbow, the shoulder must be fully controlled. To attack the wrist, the elbow must be controlled. To attack the foot, a Grievar must first control the knee. Undue focus on a goal will prove less successful when the variables surrounding it are not controlled.
Passage Six, Eighteenth Technique of the Combat Codes
Murray trudged up the long stair of the Knight Tower.
Though he no longer had official access to the Citadel’s prime training facility, he hadn’t forgotten that the back entrance by the thicket of thornbushes was often left ajar. Murray had received a few suspicious glances from the Grunt servicers but had made it to the staircase without a fuss.
The quarters were quiet now. At dusk, most Knights would be resting their bodies between sessions. Memnon would have them moving again in an hour or so, sprinting up these very stairs to get to evening Circle training.
Murray felt a tweak in his back as he climbed, starting with a jolt at the base of his neck and ending in electric nerve pain spreading across his buttocks.
Darkin’ Dragoon. Though Murray had won that fight, he’d pay for it for the rest of his life.
He looked down at the same cracked stairs he’d climbed so many times as a younger, fitter man, the same knotted doors leading to the Knight quarters at each level, the same soiled stone landings, blotched with spilled ale from drunken revelries and bloodstains from open wounds. Though he was sure nearly everything had gone to shit in this place, it was comforting to know a few things remained the same.
Murray heard footfalls approaching from above. He pulled his cowl forward, attempting to sink into the shadows despite his considerable girth.
“Then she says I got to bring her flowers e’ry day, just because I gone and done a nice thing for her this once.” A lanky Grievar walked toward Murray, another thickset one at his side.
“That’s your decision, Fegar,” the thick one replied. “Never should be spoiling yer gals, sets expectations too high.”
The two Knights passed Murray without a second glance as he continued up the stairs. Another thing that hadn’t changed. Knights had their minds on fighting or their next conquest and not much else. Murray shook his head as he passed a floor of dormitories.
He remembered these halls well: the friendly banter beneath torchlight, the buzz after a good training session, being so hungry that you could finish five sizzler’s servings in the mess hall. He could nearly hear Anderson and Leyna’s voices echoing off the dense walls, the three of them talking about what sort of crazy practice Coach had in front of them, feeling that familiar excitement creeping up in his stomach.
Now Murray felt only the longing for a drink in his gut. He patted his vest and growled as he realized he’d left his flask back at the barracks.
Murray nearly passed the floor he intended to visit. He stepped back and slowly walked beneath a stone arch with a rusted plaque atop it, letters etched on the metal plate.
TRAIN IN THE DEPTHS OF HELL AND THE REAL FIGHT WILL BE ON A TIMID SPRING DAY.
The Knights living here likely thought the words were from the Codes, like most of the inscriptions across the Citadel’s walls. But Murray remembered when this plaque was placed at the top of the training quarter entryway. He’d watched Coach hammer at the frame with a nail clenched between his teeth. Those were Coach’s words above his head.
Murray listened carefully for a moment, heard nothing, and moved into a long hallway with tall windows running along each side. The large rooms beyond were dark and quiet.
Murray knew these rooms would normally be frenetic with activity: wrestling practice in the padded room, striking drills on the wood across the way. Circles of every alloy to train in. He passed a stocked weight room he remembered being full of Knights trying to best each other’s lifts and a track for sprinting around when Coach didn’t have them climbing Kalabasas Hill in the cold.
Murray had come at this hour because he didn’t want to attract attention. He couldn’t have all these Knights telling Memnon—or worse yet, the coward Albright—that Murray Pearson had come by asking questions.
But there was one place where he knew there’d still be some Knights milling around, even at rest hour. A place where men weren’t afraid to wag their tongues. Because some things didn’t change.
Murray stopped at the end of the hall in front of a thick oak door with a fogged window on top. He heard muffled voices coming from within, the echo of a dull laugh.
Murray took a deep breath, expelled it, and gritted his teeth as he prepared himself.
“Dark it, let’s do this,” the old Grievar growled as he untied his cloak, letting it drop to the floor. He lifted the vest from his shoulders and pulled his shirt over his head. Murray took his boots off, unbuckled his belt, and let his trousers drop to the ground before removing his undershorts.
He felt cold air cross between his legs, making the hair on his arse stand on end. Murray savored that breeze, breathed in again, and opened the door.
A blast of hot, dry air hit Murray in the face. He stepped with bare feet onto the wood planks of the room and winced as his flesh burned.
The room was about the size of his barracks at home. Small red spectrals flitted from the cracks between the cedar planks beneath his feet, seeming to languish in the extreme heat as they drifted toward the ceiling. Murray’s eyeball dried out and he felt the pores of his skin preparing for perspiration.
Murray darkin’ hated the hot room. Even when he’d been a Knight, he’d hated sweating until his body looked like a withered prune. Murray remembered feeling like a husk of a man in this hot room.
But there were always those that enjoyed it. Three Knights sat on a bench across the way, their bodies hazy behind the heat waves coming off the floor. One Knight was laughing, his thickly muscled shoulders bouncing up and down as another told a story from beside him. All three stopped as Murray entered, casting their eyes on the newcomer to the hot room.
“You get lost, old-timer?” the Knight with a razor shark flux swimming across his chest asked. “The histories museum is on the other side of the Citadel. I hear it’s popular with retired folk like you.”
Murray didn’t speak. He stepped forward and focused on not grimacing visibly as the floor continued to scorch the bottoms of his feet. As a Knight, he’d built up calluses from visiting the hot room regularly, but those were long gone. Sweat began to bead atop his brow, little droplets forecasting the great flood that would leave his body in another few minutes. Murray watched another Knight with a serpent flux wrapped around his shoulders look up at him in recognition.
“Yang, you darkin’ idiot, this isn’t no normal retiree coming for a visit of glory days,” the man said.
“Huh?” the Knight named Yang responded, squinting his eyes to peer across the hot room at Murray. Yang suddenly sat a bit taller, his muscled form tensing.
“That’s Murray Pearson,” the serpent-fluxed Knight said as Murray slid onto the bench across from them. He exhaled as the burning hot plank scorched his backside. Though Murray knew he wasn’t going to outlast these Knights in the hot room, he had to at least get enough time to hear what he needed.
“Well, I’ll be,” the bald Knight on the other side of the bench said. “The man himself. Mighty Murray. What the dark are you doing here in our hot room? Thought you’d gone and become a Scout for that worm Callen, last I heard.”
“You heard right,” Murray wiped sweat off his brow and attempted to set his breath to last in the heat. Three quick exhales and one long draw. Talk in between.
The Knight with the serpent flux stood unabashedly and offered a hand to Murray, which he grasped wrist to wrist. “Whatever reason you’ve come, it’s an honor to meet you. My pops used to have you on SystemView every fight. One of the reasons I got into the service. Raymol Tarsis.”
Murray nodded. “Well met, Raymol. Heard you’re next in line for the captain’s belt.”
“Ray only has a shot at the belt because he’s been licking Memnon’s boots on the regular,” the bald Knight said with a smirk as he also leaned forward to shake Murray’s wrist.
“Go dark yourself, Jora,” Ray responded. “You want the belt just as bad as I do. But neither of us has any chance with Halberd on the tear.”
Murray let a smile cross his face as he took another measured breath. His entire body was glistening with sweat, and he could feel his heartbeat pulsing against his skull.
“I’ll catch Halberd soon enough.” The Knight named Yang flexed his muscled body, letting the razor shark dive across it. Yang did not appear to give Murray the same deference as his two companions. The man stayed seated with his arms crossed, frowning. “Lot of balls you got coming back here, after the way you left the service.”
“Shut up, Yang,” Ray said.
“Why should I?” Yang raised his voice and leaned toward Murray. “’Cause of this darkin’ man, people I know starved. Didn’t have carbs on the table because he decided he was done with the service all of a sudden. Because he couldn’t handle a loss.”
“It was his choice.” Jora put a hand on Yang’s shoulder to steady him. “It’s all our choice to say when we want out.”
“Yeah, it’s a choice to leave,” Yang said. “But most aren’t cowards enough to do it like this one.”
Murray felt a familiar nausea rise in him as sweat streamed from his body. He wanted to ask his questions right away. He wanted to get out of this hellhole. But he knew he had to sweat with these men before he could get what he wanted from them: the truth. And to get the truth, you needed to give the truth.
“You’re right. I hurt folk by leaving.” Murray met Yang’s fiery stare. “I let my team down, my best friends, I made them pick up my slack, take my fights, risk their lives when they couldn’t handle the load. It was my fault Ezo didn’t pull the season’s shipments over the border that year. It was my fault some Ezonians starved on the streets.”
The three young Knights stared at Murray. He’d spoken the truth and he had their attention. Now he just had to make sure he didn’t pass out.
“Good thing you can own up to it,” Yang said as he stood. The man was a wall of muscle. He threw several quick punches, sweat flying from his corded arms. “So, what then? You here to see if you can still hang with the best? Heard you put the Dragoon down. But I’m no second-grade Deep merc. I’m Kal Yang.”
Murray stood to meet Yang’s eyes, but more to gauge his stance. Back leg planted, front leg light, ready to throw that head kick Murray had seen the man use so many times up on SystemView. Murray knew he’d lose this fight. He was too slow, too broken to handle a top-shelf specimen like Yang. But that didn’t matter. Sometimes you had to take one on the chin to get what you needed. And he’d promised Cego he’d figure things out.
“Hold on.” Ray stepped between Yang and Murray, his arms spread wide. “Do you realize what Memnon would do if he heard there was a scuffle in the hot room, let alone with Murray Pearson? And if you got injured before the tournament up in Venturi?”
Murray watched Yang’s front foot slowly bear weight as he backed down. “I wouldn’t break a sweat against this old-timer, but you’re right.” The Knight slid back onto the bench.
Murray breathed a sigh of relief that he wouldn’t have to fight in this forsaken place. But the adrenaline had cut his nausea and helped him stave off passing out. Like he’d taken a shot to the chin and was still standing.
“I’m not here to fight either,” Murray said. “I’m here for… information about Knight enhancement programs.”
“Why not just go to the high commander himself?” Jora asked. “I hear you two go way back.”
“We do.” Murray nodded. “But that’s the problem.”
“Memnon and the old Knight commander had a falling-out back in the day,” Ray explained. “And some held their loyalties.”
“Yeah,” Murray said. “Coach and Memnon couldn’t see eye to eye. Coach left and the Knight program started changing. They were pushing some stuff hard I didn’t want any part of… at the time.”
“You mean stims?” Jora smirked. “So that’s when it all started. Bet you’d like to see the sort of stuff we’re getting now, eh? Makes those old-school stims feel like crunch candy.”
Murray nodded. Now he needed to tell his first lie in this hot room. Like some hawker trying to sell a shiny rock in place of a lightdeck. Codes be damned, he’d made Cego a promise and he meant to keep it. Not like a board, like a blanket. Murray heard Old Aon’s advice echoing in his head.
“Since I fought the Dragoon, my back’s been a mess. I’ve been on the decline, can’t seem to catch my wind. I heard the new sort of stims circulating might help me get back into the Circle. Something to turn back time a bit…”
“Don’t know why you’d even want to get back in a Circle.” Yang shook his head. “Know when to call it quits. Your day is over, old man.”
Murray set his jaw and let the feint roll off his tongue. “Please, I need it.”
Ray looked at Murray with pity. It was well known that many retired Grievar could never leave the light gracefully.
“Everything we’re using here requires a full cycle,” Ray said. “Whatever I could give you from my personal stash wouldn’t help fix things for you.”
“I don’t expect to get anything out of you,” Murray said as he wiped more sweat off his face. “Just need information on who can give me with what I need.”
“From the outside?” Ray shook his head. “You’re only going to find bad mixes on the street. Garbage cut with Kirothian tar. Sort of stuff you’ll take for a fix, but you’ll end up with an extra finger or two.”
“Definitely don’t need more fingers, maybe a new eye, though…” Murray trailed off. “Is there any new stuff out there that helps take the light better?”
There it was: the actual punch planted behind his feint. He eyed the men to see if any had caught on.
“There’s something for everything now, old-timer,” Yang said. “But we’re Grievar Knights, not Daimyo makers. Don’t think you’re in the right place.”
“Give the man a break, Yang,” Ray said. “Try to see in front of your own ugly nose for once. Imagine when your career is over. When you’ve got nothing to live for. Wouldn’t you want someone to help you out?”
“Thanks… I guess.” Murray raised an eyebrow as little white stars started to spark at the edge of his vision. He tried to steady his breath. He wouldn’t last much longer in this heat.
“Even if I wanted to help him, we don’t have what he’s needing.” Yang shook his head. “Some miracle stim to help him turn back the years on that blasted body of his?”
“There’s someone who used to work closely with Memnon when I first joined up,” Ray offered. “High commander went to him for all recommendations on stim mixtures, dosage, any other training tech we’ve used outside the light. He’d know for sure…”
“Who?” Murray felt the room closing in on him, the waves of heat fluttering across his face.
“In fact,” Ray said, “think the man came up with you. Strange fellow. Knew his stuff, though. Jezar D’lysien was his name.”
“Shit,” Murray heard himself say as he tried to get to his feet.
“You two didn’t get along, eh?” Ray looked up at Murray. “Seems to be a trend with you.”
Murray moved toward the door, no longer worried about looking weak or a fool. All he cared about was making it out of this hellish heat. He stumbled the last few steps and planted a hand against the cedar door before he turned back to the men.
“Where…” Murray tried to breathe. “Where’s Jezar?”
“You didn’t hear?” Ray’s voice sounded distant, from another world. “D’lysien screwed the Citadel. He was selling half the stims he procured for the team to the black market and pocketing the bits for himself.”
“Where is he?”
“Memnon threw him in a cell,” Ray said. “Jezar D’lysien is a prisoner at PublicJustice.”
Murray burst out the wooden door, using the last of his strength to close it. He slumped against the wall beside his pile of discarded clothes.
Cego stopped by the medward first thing in the morning before classes began. He craned his neck to peer over the curtains as he walked down the wide ward hallway. There were always so many injured Grievar in here. Cego passed by laid-out Knights, Defenders, even several Lyceum students that he vaguely recognized.
Toward the end of the hallway, he stopped abruptly.
He stood in front of a large glass vat, staring into it. Marvin Stronglight. The sixth pick in the class of Level Ones.
Marvin was suspended within the vat, floating in a red-tinged viscous liquid. Bubbles swarmed around the boy like feeding fish, and small tubes ran from his head to a control panel outside the glass vat.
Marvin had met Kōri Shimo in last week’s challenge. Shimo had relentlessly battered Stronglight, even after he was down, even after the light had faded from the Circle. It had taken three of Shimo’s own teammates to pull him off his opponent—his entire body had been covered in blood as they’d dragged him from Marvin’s motionless form.
Cego would never forget the look in Kōri Shimo’s burning yellow eyes. They’d been blank, as if the boy hadn’t even been standing there in the Circle. Shimo hadn’t savored beating on his opponent as a jackal like Shiar did. Shimo had done it as if he’d had no other choice.
Cego stared at Marvin’s suspended form, pressing his hands against the glass vat. The boy’s eyes were closed and he appeared completely lifeless. He almost seemed peaceful to Cego, floating there, suspended in time, between life and death.
The boy’s eyes burst open. Cego fell away from the glass in surprise. Marvin stared directly at Cego with alarmingly wide eyes as his body twitched violently. The nearby panel started to beep before it shut off within a few seconds. The boy’s eyes closed and his body relaxed again, floating peacefully as if nothing had happened.
“Neuroplasmic reaction to the solution,” a little voice chimed from behind the control panel.
Cego was holding his breath.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to do anything…” Cego stuttered.
Xenalia, the Daimyo cleric, emerged from behind the panel, straight-lipped as usual.
“As I said, what caused the patient’s reaction was a neuroplasmic reaction to the solution he is suspended in. It was not you, Cego, who caused the reaction,” Xenalia said.
“Xenalia!” Cego was glad it was her and not some senior cleric who had caught him. “I was actually just looking for you, and then I saw Marvin…”
“Curiosity is one of the hallmarks of scientific inquiry, so I do not fault yours; however, I would warn you against wandering the medward like so, as the senior clerics are very protective of their patients and maintain a zero-interference environment here.”
“Yes, I understand,” Cego said, inadvertently keeping an eye on the floating Grievar beside him. “A neuroplastic… What did you say again happened?”
“Oh, yes. I forget from our previous conversation I need to speak in simpler terms for your kind to understand me,” Xenalia said with no hint of condescension in her voice. “A neuroplasmic reaction is the Grievar’s nervous system reacting to the chemical solution he is suspended in—aminolyte solution, to be specific.”
“Oh… What’s he doing in this vat?” Cego asked.
“Well, technically, he is not doing anything—which is exactly the point. After such a grievous injury—that is why they call you the Grievar, is it not—his body needs to be doing nothing at all, even without the force of gravity acting on it, to promote its full internal healing capabilities. The aminolyte solution provides the perfect in vitro environment for this promotion of non-activity, while also containing compounds to stimulate the Grievar’s symbiot reaction.”
A hundred questions ran through Cego’s mind. He’d never given any thought to why Grievar were called Grievar, or what was going on inside his body.
“Symbiot reaction?” Cego asked, embarrassed that though he was a Grievar, he appeared to know so little about himself.
“I am… glad for you to ask this, Cego.” Xenalia’s eyes glinted and her thin lips curved upward, though she didn’t quite smile. “My neophyte doctorate was actually written on the intricacies of Grievar neurophysiology. Grievar have the most wonderful internal mechanisms that have evolved over thousands of years.”
The little cleric began to speak rapidly, making it even more difficult for Cego to follow.
“Obviously, the foremost mechanisms of Grievar physiology—the plurality of fast-twitch muscle fibers and the density of the skeletal structure—have evolved to cause injury to others. However, amazingly, the Grievar has also evolved a completely compatible healing system, a thoroughfare of blood vessels and dendritic nerve bundles, to counteract the injuries regularly sustained. This is what we call the Grievar symbiot reaction.”
“I see…” said Cego, trying to appear thoughtful. “So, the aminolyte solution Marvin is floating in is helping his symbiot reaction function better. It’s healing him?”
“Yes! Perhaps I have underestimated the capabilities of a Grievar mind. If you can grasp these basic concepts… Wayland’s theory of Grievar neurodegenerative cognition may still be proven wrong.”
Xenalia quickly jotted down some notes on her lightdeck. Her little red spectral had floated over during the conversation to hover above the cleric’s shoulder.
“So, he is healing on his own, pretty much?” Cego asked.
“No. That is where a Grievar’s internal healing capabilities lose touch with the actual damage inflicted on their body. I believe this one…” Xenalia swiped her lightdeck. “Marvin’s top several vertebrae were severed, rendering him completely paralyzed. Though his symbiot reaction has kicked into gear, currently the main preventive factor from a full recovery is his mind.”
Cego stayed silent. Completely paralyzed. Why didn’t Kōri Shimo stop?
“The Grievar brain hasn’t caught up to the Grievar body’s ability to sustain extreme trauma. When this boy was injured, his brain shut down as a natural defense mechanism. So, while his spine is repairing adequately through his natural healing process, his mind is still in a state of extreme trauma. Without our intervention, his brain would certainly have shut down and instructed the rest of his body to do the same.”
“Intervention?” Cego asked.
Xenalia nodded to the tubes running to the Grievar’s head. “We have a Sim running into his lower anterior neocortex. It is the only way to keep his brain active. Essentially, the Sim is tricking his brain into thinking everything is okay. It is fooling his body into thinking it has not actually sustained the trauma that it has. Without the Sim, his brain would shut down completely. He would die.”
Cego immediately thought about Knees. And himself.
“The Sim you are running in his brain… is it like the Sim used for the Trials?” Cego asked slowly.
“Good question,” Xenalia said. “Though I’m no Bit-Minder… I believe the two are programmed off the same base code architecture. Although the Sim running here is primarily targeted to stimulate the cerebellum—base brain function—whereas the Trial Sim targets the cerebral cortex—the higher-functioning part of the brain. Our Sim code at the ward is purely developed for the long-term objective of maintaining base level stimulation. There’s no need for the more complex code that the Trials use.” Xenalia paused, staring into Cego’s eyes.
For a moment, Cego could sense something in Xenalia he hadn’t noticed before—she was worried about him.
“Speaking of the Trials, Cego, how are you doing? I’ve always been a proponent of having new Lyceum students come back to the ward for checkups, though my suggestion is turned down every year due to lack of resources. And I don’t see any apparent physical injury to you currently.”
“Oh, no… It’s not that. I mean, that’s not why I’m here. I’m fine,” Cego said, quickly deflecting the subject. “I’m actually here to ask you a few other questions. Incidentally relating to the subject of the Grievar symbiot reaction and its potential healing capabilities…”
Xenalia perked up. “Of course. I have several minutes prior to my next patient check-in. Ask me your questions, Cego.”
After the final class of the evening, Cego relayed his medward findings to the Whelps in the hopes of kicking off their covert campaign to recover Knees. They gathered in Quarter D, sitting atop mismatched pieces of furniture with the moon bright in the room’s single window.
Cego tried to explain it simply to the Whelps. “The first part of the plan is all about perceived weakness. Each team here is always vying for the precise opening to challenge other teams. They’re looking for the right time to strike. We need to give them that opening.”
There were constant reconnaissance efforts at the Lyceum to see which teams might be in weakened states. If someone was hurt or got sick during training, it did not go unnoticed. The last challenge the Bayhounds had made occurred exactly one day after Damon Heartstead of the Rocs had shattered his collarbone. They were forced to fight without one of their top members and ended up losing the challenge to Shiar’s team.
“We have to make this seem believable, though,” Cego said. “If we all appear weak at once, the other teams will sense something’s wrong.”
Trickery like this had certainly happened before and would happen again—it was a part of the gamesmanship at the Lyceum. The Whelps needed their weakness to seem genuine.
“Our natural symbiot healing reactions, in combination with planned visits to Xenalia in the medward, will keep us in the game,” Cego said. “We can’t be damaged so badly that we’re unable to finish the last stretch of the semester and make a run at the final challenges.”
Sol raised her eyebrow, clearly impressed. “You really have been doing your research for once. It’s a big risk, but it just might work.”
“It’s for Knees,” Cego said as he looked at the crew. “We all need to be in this together to pull it off.”
Though Abel had never spoken to Knees, the Desovian boy was eager to help him out after Cego mentioned his friend had originally come from Venturi.
“Ah, my ancestors traveled over border to great desert of Venturi. Very hot, very big. But I heard good people there. They welcomed my family, gave us water,” Abel said.
As usual, Joba just smiled broadly and nodded in response to the plan. If he did understand what was going on, the boy was game for pretty much anything.
Mateus Winterfowl surprisingly did not dissent. Cego made sure to make this fair—even a stuck-up boy like Mateus deserved to have a say. After all, if the plan was successful, Mateus would be their concession trade for Knees. Even though the pug-nosed purelight had relaxed over the course of the semester, he still made it clear that he wanted to be back with his group of peers.
“So, you’d rather be on a team that didn’t even want you in the first place, just because they are purelights like you, than be with these folk, who picked you up and have tried their hardest to accept you?” Sol asked Mateus angrily, not expecting an answer.
It was the teammate who was usually most willing to rush headfirst into any endeavor that was the only dissenting opinion. Dozer.
“Why should we stick our necks out for him?” Dozer stood away from the rest of the crew with his arms crossed. “He wouldn’t do it for us.”
“Knees isn’t himself,” Cego tried to explain. “The Trials really scrambled his brain. He saw things from his past… that no one should have to relive.”
Dozer didn’t appear moved. “We all went through the same Trials. Don’t see why that gives him the right to start acting like a piece of shit.”
Cego saw the stubbornness in Dozer’s face. The big kid was truly hurt that Knees had abandoned him. The two had been practically inseparable before the Trials.
Sol patted Dozer on the shoulder. “Listen, if we can pull this off, if we can get Knees, we’ll at least be giving him a chance to recover. But as long as he’s staying beside Shiar, seeing the way that coward thinks, Knees won’t have a chance.”
Dozer’s chest heaved as he turned away from his team. Cego could see the boy was clearly conflicted.
“Dark that,” Dozer growled before stalking out of the dorm. “I’m going to get myself second dinner.”
“Not a bad idea,” Mateus said as he followed Dozer. The rest of the crew dispersed for the evening. Abel continued the story he’d been telling Joba for the past several nights. The giant lay across two cots with his hands behind his head, smiling as the Desovian enthusiastically told his tale.
Cego had made a habit of going to the abandoned second-floor training room to work the heavy bag at this time, but tonight he didn’t have the energy. He felt restless, though, so he paced across the floor, trying to breathe and quiet his thoughts.
“Dozer will come around,” Sol said as she organized her training gear in neat piles beside her cot, just as she did every evening.
“I hope so.” Cego stopped pacing. “I don’t think he understands what Knees went through in there.”
“Do you understand?” Sol asked, looking up from her folding.
The sudden thought crossed Cego’s mind to tell Sol about his entire experience in the Trials. He’d largely avoided the subject and certainly hadn’t told anyone but Murray about seeing his brother Sam in there.
“No,” Cego said. “I went through my own experience. But it wasn’t the same as his. So I don’t know.”
“But you still care,” Sol said. “Knees has done everything possible to turn us against him but you still want to help him.”
“Even though he’s not asking for help, I’d like to think someone would notice and do the same for me,” Cego said. He thought of Murray and his parting words, how the man had made a promise to help figure things out. Murray didn’t have to help him. The man could have just gotten on with his life.
“Maybe we don’t know it when we need help the most,” Sol said.
Cego thought of watching Sol’s father fight on the common ground’s big board, how the fiery girl had put Shiar on his back.
“Do you… need help?” Cego asked.
“Help folding my gear?” Sol avoided the question. “I think you’re better off looking after your own stuff, or Dozer’s, better yet.” The girl glanced in disgust over to Dozer’s corner, where sweaty gear and leftover food were strewn about.
“Not with the gear,” Cego pressed. “With… what happened after your father’s fight the other night.”
“I think I did a decent job of putting Shiar in his place.” Sol clenched her jaw.
“But it’s not like you to give in like that. He was looking for a reaction from you,” Cego said.
Sol looked at the floor. “You’re right, I shouldn’t have done that. I risked our team getting docked points. It was selfish.”
“I don’t care about the points.” Cego sat on the cot beside her. “I care about… what you’re going through. With your father. You don’t need to talk about it, I just thought—”
“It’s why I keep my gear organized like this,” Sol said.
“My mother died in childbirth.” Sol turned to the moonlit window. “It was just me and Father when I was growing up. When I was little, he made sure to teach me techniques every day.”
“Not a bad teacher to have,” Cego said. “Best fighter in the world.”
“Sometimes, he’d let me do crawl-arounds.” The corner of Sol’s mouth curved up. “It was so hard to climb up on his shoulders and get all the way around, though. I’d fall off over and over. But still, he stood in place like a statue for hours at a time, just to let me work.”
Cego smiled. “No wonder you’ve got such good back takes.”
“Yeah,” Sol said. “But… eventually, the team demanded more from him. He had to travel for fights. The nation was depending on him. He wasn’t around much and so I made sure to keep up the work on my own. I needed to stay sharp. I studied technique on SystemView, drilled with my mechanical dummy, ran around the estate for cardio every day.
“Last time I saw him, he was heading out to Karstock.” Sol’s voice became quiet. “He told me he’d bring me along on the next trip so I could come help him train and watch him fight. I made sure to keep all my gear organized, neat and folded, so I’d be ready to travel when he came back.”
Wetness shimmered in Sol’s eyes. “He never came back.”
Cego wanted to pull her close, but his hands remained at his sides awkwardly. “I know what it’s like. To have someone by your side all the time. Then one day, they’re just gone.”
Sol sniffed before she shook her head and turned away. “Best we get some rest. If Dozer’s in, and we’re going to pull this plan of yours off, we’ll be needing it.”