Counterpunch

by Aleksandr Voinov

  “Why do you want to know, anyway?”

  “I need to know how it affects your performance when they send you out. Can’t have you distracted from your training. Like you are now.”

  “The fuck I am.” He had to remind himself to not run faster, stay where he was, and that grated. He wanted to run, to race as fast as he could. At least get to the point where Les had no breath left to level accusations against him. “I guess it’s a nice chunk of money. How much is slave dick worth?”

  “I wasn’t there when they negotiated that,” Les said, as if that explained anything. Or made him less complicit. Les wasn’t one of the guys; he wasn’t a slave, for one, and he was employed by the management. Which made him just as complicit as Curtis or a pair of fucking shock bracelets. But Brooklyn had learnt to keep those thoughts to himself too. The hard way.

  “Listen, if it doesn’t serve as a vent, I can recommend they put a stop to it.”

  “Vent?” Brooklyn almost laughed. “No, whatever. Prefer that way to getting fucked up the arse.”

  “Jesus, Brook.”

  “What? You think there’s a freeman out there who will let me top him? Maybe. But he hasn’t plunked down the cash for it yet. Tends to be wankers who get off on topping somebody like me. Somebody strong.”

  “And that you are,” Les said, almost under his breath.

  Those words deflated the anger, turned it into cold, bitter spikes sitting low in his guts, a feeling like tears tightening his lungs. He felt almost like crying, just from those words, out of nowhere. Unsettled, a low blow to a part of him he thought he hadn’t exposed. A weakness he thought he’d covered well. And fuck Les for finding that weakness.

  Hold me down, babe. Love me rough.

  Anything but thinking of his wife.

  “We should be lovers,” Brooklyn said, grinning when his coach groaned. “We already quarrel all the time.”

  “It’s banter.” Les touched him on the shoulder—fucking again—and dropped onto his hands and feet to put in a few push-ups. “Gimme fifty, champ.”

  Brooklyn was doing some light bag work late one Monday morning when he noticed one of his fellow slaves had stopped his rope-skipping. He paused to reach for his water bottle and half turned when the front door opened.

  Suits. Here, they stood out like accountants in the jungle. A tax raid? That would just be too ironic, but he really couldn’t afford to hope for the worst. Slaves tended to be the first things sold when somebody hadn’t paid their taxes or couldn’t afford some fine or other. They were the most movable of assets.

  Les led the suits to the side of the ring, explained something about the sparring going on there.

  Visitors? Prospective buyers? Why was Les doing that and not Cash? He was the money man, after all.

  “Oi, I believe you’re here to work, slave.” Curtis drew close, hand on his tonfa.

  “Wanna hold the bag?”

  “Fuck you.” Curtis pulled the tonfa and took the short grip, the length of the weapon protecting his lower arm, with plenty of wood sticking out to allow him some nasty punches. Fuck him.

  Brooklyn kept one eye on the guard and returned to working the bag, imagining it was Curtis’s bulk he was punching, which focused him enough to ignore the visitors.

  The worry returned when Les approached him a little later. The suits had to have left, because Les took the pads and made Brooklyn punch them, calling out what he wanted to see. Uppercut, cross, punch, hook. Stay light on your feet, even though you’re a heavyweight. A familiar litany of training for which Brooklyn fell too easily, punching the pads like it was required, as if he believed in it too. Les would give him some chore or other if he didn’t think Brooklyn’s heart was all in it.

  “Who were they?”

  “None of your business,” Les said with half a smirk.

  That was even more suspicious. “Management?”

  His owners—the owners of everybody here—were only ever referred to as “management,” and Brooklyn knew almost nothing about them. The only thing he did know: there were several. Les could be one of them, but his coach had never struck him as a man who was secretly rich enough to own high-end slaves. He’d asked him once, though, back when he’d hated everybody who was still free. “No, I bought a house instead,” Les had said. And that was that.

  Les paused. “Why are you asking?”

  “Rare enough that anybody wears anything much here, but suits? With ties? Don’t look like traders who want to pretend they’re real men. And, err, women.”

  Les snorted. “No, the stock market’s still open.” He glanced around and lifted the pads. “Stop thinking about it. Won’t affect you.”

  Brooklyn gritted his teeth and went back to working the pads, taking pleasure from every time he managed to make Les take a half step back after an especially good punch. Technique was crucial, getting his whole leg and core strength and body weight behind every move. He felt the response feed back into his own body when the punch was on target. When it wasn’t, he didn’t feel much of anything.

  After the session, he showered and grabbed some food in the communal hall. The usual diet of roasted chicken breast, salad, and complex carbs. At least they fed them well. It still didn’t sell him on the whole slavery thing, though. He knew all the usual stories—that slaves couldn’t look after themselves, as if they lacked opposable thumbs and couldn’t toss a plastic tray into a microwave and remember to press the Cook button.

  Another training unit, this time with a long cool-down period of light skipping and stretching. More food in the evening, and then most of the other slaves gathered around the TV to watch the Sports Channel. Boxing time.

  Brooklyn was on the way to the sleeping quarters in the back but paused when he heard the TV mention Dragan “the Destroyer” Thorne: Serbian-American heavyweight champion, six foot five of muscle and attitude, current world champion. Freeborn, and what was worse, still free, even though his string of ex-wives likely wanted to see that changed.

  He was a good boxer, if lumbering, like the worst of the Eastern Europeans, who mistook bulk for finesse. Didn’t matter, because he won by knockout in ninety-five percent of all his fights. Who needed to win by carefully shoring up points if you could just send your opponent to the mat?

  Brooklyn remembered the fight when Thorne’d taken the championship off Darius Smith. From the safety of his couch, cool beer in his hand, he’d been in turns fascinated and horrified that Smith’s coach hadn’t thrown in the towel.

  Hell, Thorne was partly to blame that Brooklyn had gained enough weight to qualify as a proper heavyweight, even if that had involved hundreds of litres of foul protein shakes and mind-numbing amounts of time in the gym. He’d had a goal.

  Going pro was probably the only thing that had kept him sane after the trial. With everything else cut from his life—family, house, job, friends, nights down at the pub—all that remained was boxing. Ironic that, with all distractions amputated, he’d become a pretty good boxer. Better than he’d ever been as a free amateur. It was the only thing between him and despair.

  He paused long enough to listen to Thorne’s opponent—a regional hotspur Brooklyn had never heard about—declare the fight would be even. Brooklyn didn’t believe it for a moment, but at the very least, the kid would get a nice payout for all the pain he’d have to go through.

  Unlike him. All the money went back to the management, paying for his upkeep and most likely the acquisition of additional slaves to replace those that got too old or hit too often in the head.

  “What do you think of the young contender, Dragan?” the interviewer asked on screen.

  “He’ll look good on the posters—at least until after the fight.”

  Brooklyn grinned to himself, but deeper inside, a gnawing ache opened in his guts. It was a stupid idea, an even stupider hope. He couldn’t fight the Destroyer. Thorne was a freeman. He chose his women, his men, or whatever else he was fucking. He didn’t wear shock bracelets when he trained.
He could travel. Fuck, he could even rent a fucking car and sign his own contracts.

  Unless Brooklyn found a way to be free again, he’d never fight the real champion. Because who gave a fuck about the champion in the slave leagues? Freemen would always—always—only admire one of their own. Even if he became the best boxer in the world, the lowliest freeman was still better than him everywhere that counted.

  Brooklyn was well into the first training session of the day when he spotted Les with a guest. Two guests, actually—the woman trailed farther behind, looking around like she’d never seen a boxing gym. Brooklyn pretended he hadn’t seen them and kept working with Stu, hitting the body armour with enough force to keep Stu at a distance. Nothing that went on outside the ring was of any interest to him. He shouldn’t care. Shouldn’t ask questions.

  “Brook!”

  Brooklyn added a couple more punches before turning to acknowledge his trainer, who was speaking in hushed tones to the two strangers. Brooklyn walked to the ropes and followed the gestured command to step out of the ring.

  “That’s Brooklyn. Our great new hope.” How Les managed to say that without sounding completely stupid was a mystery.

  “Hi, Brooklyn.” The guy offered a hand and then withdrew it when Brooklyn lifted his gloves. Besides, nobody shook his hands these days, anyway. It wasn’t done with a slave, like the bracelets were contagious.

  “Hey.” Brooklyn glanced to Les.

  “Brook, this is Steven and Catherine from Sublime.”

  “Nightclub?”

  “Magazine,” Catherine corrected. “We’re journalists.”

  Brooklyn cast a longer glance at Les, but his trainer only smiled.

  “Right.” He wiped his forehead on his arm.

  “They’re here to do a feature on you.”

  “Right.” Sublime? What the fuck was that? He knew Sports Illustrated, Boxing Week, even the semi-pornographic Apex Fighters—featuring “the hardest men and women on the planet,” usually in a state of undress.

  “Are you aware of Sublime?” Catherine asked.

  “Err, refresh my memory.”

  “Do you know Cosmopolitan?”

  “Yeah, the drink and the mag.”

  “We’re like the Cosmo for slaves.”

  Brooklyn almost laughed. Extremely expensive cosmetics and clothes for people who couldn’t even have a bank account, never mind an overdraft. But the hacks’ eager, open faces told him they meant it. He cast another glance at Les. “So what am I supposed to do?”

  “Relax and do what they tell you.” Les patted him on the shoulder. A-fucking-gain. “Management will vet what he’s saying, though.”

  “Of course, Mr. Flackett,” Catherine said. “We’ll submit the first draft for review next week, which gives you two weeks for quote and fact check.”

  “That should be fine.” Les nodded towards Curtis, who stood at his side, legs braced, arms crossed. “If you need any assistance, Miller over there will be happy to help.”

  Well, happy only if it involved his fucking tonfa.

  “I think we’ll start with the location. This is a very atmospheric place.” Catherine was already reaching for the big camera bag slung over her shoulder.

  Steven looked around with clever, perceptive eyes, pausing on a pink-splattered white towel lying on the ground near the ring. Those eyes were a different kind of camera, and Brooklyn felt weird when they rested on him. What did he see? A brute? A slave? A fellow human? A fighter?

  “We’ll start with a few questions to warm up.”

  Brooklyn exhaled deeply and rolled his shoulders. “Why not.”

  “When did you get the bracelets?”

  “Twenty-two months ago.”

  Steven exchanged a glance with Catherine, but it was hard to read. Pity? Surprise? Brooklyn opened the straps of his training gloves and pulled them off, setting them down ringside.

  “Mr. Flackett mentioned you weren’t born a slave, but that’s very recent.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “What happened?”

  Brooklyn gritted his teeth. “I was convicted.”

  Steven glanced up, a hint of alarm and excitement in his brown eyes. “Violent crime?”

  There were several answers to this, but only one would titillate the readers. Plus, if anybody bothered to look him up, it would be all over the net, anyway. “Yeah.”

  “How do you feel about your crime now?”

  Brooklyn grimaced. He couldn’t help it. At least the other people in the gym left him alone. Nobody asked about his past, normally. And if they did ask, he fed them the bare minimum. Convict. Violent crime. Fucked if I care.

  But he did care. Cared a great deal about a head and face covered in blood. Legs on the ground that kicked, uncoordinated, like those of a dog in its sleep. “You call that a warm-up?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “I’m sorry it happened.” He rubbed his wrists, too aware of the brushed steel bracelets only half-covered by the red cotton bandages stabilising his hands. How long would it take to no longer think about them as anything special? As a kid, he’d been excited about his first wristwatch, but eventually, it had become natural. Putting it on and taking it off had warranted no real thought. But the bracelets still sat like a bullet in his flesh. There was no way he’d ever get used to that.

  He heard a soft sound and glanced to the side, noticing Catherine’s enormous camera erection pointed his way. Anger rose immediately, leapt to the fore of his brain, and if he were free, he’d have asked her what the fuck she thought she was doing.

  Instead, more photos. She was cold-blooded to pull the trigger again.

  He turned to face Steven. “Show me a halfway decent human being who doesn’t have regrets.”

  “That’s a good line. I’ll be using that,” Steven said.

  “You’re welcome.” Not like he could stop them. Restlessly, he tapped the gloves together. “Want to see some training?”

  Catherine lowered the camera. “I’d like to see what you usually do. Talk us through it.”

  That was easy enough. He could fall back into his routine and just be watched, answer questions, like he would explain stuff to a rookie. He put on his gloves.

  Once he’d worked up a sweat, the anger receded, became a dull sensation deep in his belly rather than something tightening his throat. He was good at this. He liked showing off and made Steven hold the bag for him, grinning to himself when the journalist had to take a half step back every time he put all his weight behind a punch.

  “Tighten your abs, mate.”

  “What abs?” Steven huffed back, but leaned into the punches long enough to make this part somewhat worthwhile.

  “Wow, and I thought it looked easy on TV,” he said after Brooklyn was done.

  “You mean taking punches?” Brooklyn grinned. “No, it’s not, but you get to the point where you’re used to it.”

  “Uh-huh.” Steven nodded to Catherine. “Any other suggestions?”

  “I’d like some photos of him sparring.”

  Brooklyn nodded. “We can do a short one. I was working with Stu. The guy over there.”

  “Can he lose the T-shirt?”

  “Sure.” Brooklyn climbed back into the ring and motioned Stu over. “Lose the shirt; we have guests.”

  Stu grinned. “Gloves off too?”

  Catherine climbed into the ring. “May I?” She pulled the T-shirt from Stu’s body and placed it gingerly over the ropes. Considering that Stu was an enormous heavyweight, black as the night, and scarred to hell, Brooklyn did admire her cool. Then again, Curtis would be on them like a rottweiler if anybody dared to so much as wolf whistle at her. And for all his appearance, Stu was a kind soul. Born into slavery and never even considered rebellion, just like all the other slave-born boxers who seemed to prefer a career in boxing to a “proper job.”

  Brooklyn lifted his gloved fists to protect the sides of his face, and squared up with Stu. They knew each o
ther well enough to sense when the other was ready.

  It wasn’t much more than a light bout, a few solid punches to the sides and chest, but Stu was holding back. Allowing him to look good in front of the camera? Brooklyn was about to try to lure him out when Catherine told them to stop.

  Brooklyn stepped away and left the ring.

  “I think I want to be at your next fight,” she said. “So Steven can get the atmosphere.”

  “Cash can arrange backstage passes. Can I take the gloves off?”

  “Sure.”

  He pulled them off but left the bandages on.

  “Can you show us your quarters?”

  “Yeah. This way.”

  The communal sleeping hall wasn’t much to look at with its single metal beds, hard and thin mattresses, and grey blankets. But compared to prison, this was still luxury—a converted Victorian-era rail carriage storage building, Les had explained once, which accounted for the high ceiling and vaulted brick structure.

  “Lie down on the bed, on your front, leaning on your elbows.”

  He followed the order, let her take more photos of him on the bed. Then on his back, gazing up to the ceiling, thinking nothing (harder than she could know). She had him pull down his shorts to bare more of his six-pack and show off the lines of his Apollo’s belt.

  “Now shower.”

  Brooklyn obeyed, undressed in front of the camera, reminding himself he’d done worse for money. And he was in peak shape. Currently at his fighting weight, ribbed and defined, and he knew that was part of his “popularity.” He was easy on the eye.

  Don’t let them break your pretty face, baby.

  He ignored the camera, didn’t look in Catherine’s direction, merely unwrapped the bandages and undressed before stepping under the shower. He picked up the soap and began washing.

  “You think you could get a little bit hard?”

  “Are you going to put me in the classifieds?” But he reached down and began to stroke himself. It was too bloody easy, even with witnesses, even with the camera. Compared to how much he’d got laid as a freeman, he was on a sexual starvation diet now. If they didn’t whore him out, a quick handjob was all he could manage, every now and then.