Darkweb

by Lia Laserre

  I let out a rattling breath. “Hey, what’s the idea of using me as a punching bag? Wasn’t ready.”

  “That’s the point. No one’s ever ‘ready’, like in a tournament. More quick jabs. Less overthinking. Move in as if you’ve got it all figured out, without hesitation, with confidence. Don’t wait for the other guy to get too prepared. You lose that way. And forget the fancy feet. You’re moving like you’re on a dance floor. This is not a talent show or rave. You should have been making fist combos.”

  Jenie nods. I growl out a sardonic laugh.

  “Try again!”

  So we go at it again while Angelos steps out to inspect another pairing on the sparring mats and oversee what’s happening at the punching bags.

  Okay, good. I feel better when he’s not hovering.

  While Jenie circles, I keep her back with my strong right leg. She ducks a high hook kick, my heel passing a half inch from her chin guard. While she’s recovering, I catch a movement out of the corner of my eye. Fret’s holding the bag while Rack launches in with a vicious eight combo, all his weight into the bag. I like the shape of his rounded shoulders and gleaming biceps. He’s got a sheen of sweat on his slightly oiled skin. Joey’s not bad either, but I think Rack’s got him beat.

  As my mind wanders, Jenie’s getting some hits in I shouldn’t have allowed. A tingling now in the left ribs. A warm throb in the upper right thigh.

  I’m thinking how some of the guys go easier on the girls, not just because it’s more chivalrous but not wanting to look like bullies either. Angelos always says this is wrong. He claims it’s a suicide mission to underestimate any opponent, whether based on weight, age or sex. So the guys learn not to take kid gloves to me. A lot of the girls are quicker on their feet, Jenie and I in particular, which is a huge advantage.

  Angelos has been watching. He pulls me out of the ring and pits Jenie against Rack. They do a mock round. Rack’s fresh and pumped. He scores five points on her two in the space of a few minutes.

  Angelos puts me back in the ring, with Rack. This surprises me. There are some clicks of tongue and grumbling from the sidelines. I’ve had my turn and there’re eight others waiting to go. Angelos just does this rippling thing with his shoulders, like a mock defiant shrug. He does stuff like that. Riles up people’s emotions. Incites animosities and petty jealousies among us, then when the moment’s ripe, he pounces, puts us in the ring and works one against the other while we’re at our worst, steaming mad or messed up. His way of putting the ‘screws’ to us. “You’re only as good as your weakest mental moment. Once your opponent figures out how to unnerve you, you’ve lost.”

  I’m already off balance, with my mind wandering all over the place. Rack, of course, is picking up on this and is already sticking it to me. Hard.

  My muscles strain. I do a T-bone tinkerbell dance, doing more blocking than hitting. No good with a guy as capable as Rack, with all that muscle and speed. He’s a slugger and I’m an outboxer. No contest, he’s more than my match. But I hate to give in. I hate Rack knowing that he’s always going to win, so I dig in my heels and grit my teeth. I want to prove him wrong, give him a clear signal that tables can be turned. I duck under a swing, one thrown too casually, lean in and punish his ribs. He’s pushed back to the ropes. Rather than beat me back with fist and knees, he does a cocky little walk around the ring in arrogant Rack fashion, holding up a gloved fist as if to say, everything’s all right, folks, nothing to see here. Maybe just giving me a chance to catch my second wind. Whatever.

  Angelos pretends not to notice. He’s watching everything from the side like he’s trained us to do, even while balling out Fret for being such a gorilla against the bag and not practicing his footwork while sparring with Joey on the mats. “Any idiot can punch a bag to death. Can you dodge nine out of ten hits?” I’m momentarily distracted. While Fret’s not looking, Angelos lets one loose, and Fret’s head snaps back. Fret licks his lip. He’s ready to tell him to f-off and smack back but thinks twice about it. That makes me smile. But the smile is wiped off my face when Rack’s big blue glove connects with my bony jaw. I catch the glint in Rack’s green eyes before I stumble back, ears ringing, barely able to scoot out from under a crippling kick and stagger to the other side of the ring.

  Angelos is now shaking his head as he sees my awkward recovery—or blunder. But I’m able to hold my own. I get one good switch kick in Rack’s left side just above the kidney and a left hook to his shoulder, but he’s still advancing, making me run around the ring to keep away from his strong right leg. My breath’s catching in my throat, and I can smell my own sweat, and Rack’s, which is more pungent, a sweet-sour mix. I dance around and we trade some fists and stupid words, me trying to goad him into a mistake, but he’s not biting. More amused than anything, he stays away from my taps and jabs, using my own tactics against me, which only serves to double my anger and frustration. I make some more dumb mistakes, even though my mind is screaming at me to settle down, and just let him poke around a bit and think he’s winning, then when he’s off guard, sucker him into an awkward position and clock him in the head. But of course, none of this I can do when I’m in this agitated, impatient, reckless mood and while everyone’s watching. I’m feeling the pressure, more self-conscious than ever, and the heat rise up my spine. I land another good right to his chest but he counters with a hook kick to my right thigh. And that hook has me reeling back.

  Angelos holds up his hand. “Okay, enough. Another clown match. You managed to recover well, Ellan. I’ll give you that. But you got distracted by whatever meathead stuff is cycling through your hormonal brain. It’s your worst enemy. Wandering mind—I can see it a mile away, from the way your eyes move. Also some negative beliefs. You think you can’t win against Rack because he’s bigger, faster, has more muscles and experience. Wrong thinking like that will bury you. It’s bullshit.”

  Rack just smiles.

  “And wipe that grin off your face, Rack. You’re just as bad as she is. You think you can toy with her and she has no advantage over you. Think again. You’re one of these big lazy, puffed up domestic cats that ends up getting trashed in the back alley by the sneaky, visiting tomcat. You’re going to lose big time one of these days.” That prediction has Rack’s brow furrowing and a sliver of a tongue tracing an uneasy line on his upper lip. The quiet laughter from the guys around the punching bag doesn’t help. Angelos gusts out a weary breath. “You need to feel bad so you’ll think harder. Listen, you’re both good fighters and I’m proud of you.” He gives us each a fatherly thump on the back and smiles. “You two are going to spar again next week, I promise, and I’d like to see some more kazoo from both of you.”

  “Sure, Angelos.” Rack turns with a wry grin.

  We both bunt gloves and duck under the wire.

  “No, Rack, I want you to stay in. Ellan you’re out.”

  I feel slightly miffed at that. It’s unresolved between Rack and me, but it’s Angelos’s way of letting me know I can do better and to take time to think about it. This time I’m grateful for the time out, thinking maybe I should have eased up on the jogging. But my other half wants instant revenge on Rack. A chance to redeem myself.

  I’ve only vaguely absorbed what Angelos has been saying. My mind’s still bouncing around, over darkweb, 5G, Peters’ warning, Hent’s slap on the wrist, the halobands. Angelos is right, but my head’s still spinning over too many things and there’s a ringing in my ears.

  Rack is pulled out soon enough. Angelos’s words have unnerved him too. He puts Max and Conn in, old rivals from way back to pre-teen years.

  Angelos yells something to Max from the side. “Not with the elbows! Keep them tucked in. This isn’t some turkey shoot or duck strut. Get with the program.” All the while he’s half-eyeing Max spar with Conn, half munching on a sandwich and taking a drink of carbonated water, making jokes with Fret. It looks really bad from say a new arrival’s perspective, but I know it’s all an act. Soft words pad a fighter’s e
go, Angelos says. Despite his sharp tongue and his barbs, he’s got our best interests in mind. He didn’t get to where he is without knowing a hell of a lot about the sport and the psychology of its subtle nuances and the discipline required to edge out tough opponents.

  Max is hitting Conn hard with powerful legs and his strong right, but Conn is just taking it, tiring Max out. Everyone can see it. Even me.

  “No finesse. You guys are hobos. Get out!” Angelos jerks a thumb over his shoulder and climbs in the ring. He calls over Joey who he knows is less sloppy. “Watch us. Lose the clumsiness.” He and Joey start a clean fight. Joey’s light on his feet, not falling into the obvious traps. Yet. He’s putting on his best performance, being in the center ring with the big boss, dodging Angelos’s wicked right hook. Most of the time. Angelos is only going at it half power, or maybe a third. He stops the play and points out where Joey could have done better. Way better. Maybe anticipated faster. But Angelos’s just as quick to yell out, “Good move, J-boy! Remember to keep your head down and feet moving and fists in front of your face at all times. Could save your brain one day. Now, another round!” He and Joey amp it up and some cheers rumble from those of us watching.

  The hour and half goes by faster than a chance rainfall as we watch and do more sparring and exercises. I’m sore, my arms and chest are aching. I’m feeling down because I’m still distracted and not absorbing much of Angelos’s lesson. Sure, my ears are hearing all his advice, but my mind’s not taking it in. I’m sure I’d go back in the ring next week and just do all the same stupid things over again. Angelos knows all this and he’s patient with me. With everybody.

  I don’t hang around the club long, anticipating too many of the guys trying to hit on me. I’m not really into them in any visceral way, except maybe Rack, he’s kind of a heartthrob, but I know for sure he has a girlfriend. Still doesn’t stop him, from flirting with me.

  Men.

  Joey swaggers over in his half trot as I’m exiting the steel doors. He’s dragging a towel over his glistening shoulders. “Nice moves, Ellan. Some good hits back there. Need a lift back?”

  I look over at his beat up car, a dirty brown Bel-aire hand-me-down from his father who runs an auto-body shop. Joey, one of the few kids who has his own wheels.

  “No thanks, Joey. Need some air. I’ll jog back.”

  “Doing a lot of jogging these days.”

  “Yeah, it’s catchy. It’s how I blow off steam. See you tomorrow—at school.”

  “Sure. Suit yourself.” He walks off, slightly miffed. His back is stiff, probably nose out of joint too as all the guys are watching and I can see that it’s important for him to be seen with me and to have me accept his chivalrous offer. They know I’ve blown him off, and that was a bit hard to take, male ego and all—but he’ll have to suck it up.

  Chapter 8

  By the time I get back home, Mom’s pretty up tight. She’s sitting on the family room couch, looking no less stunning in her white dress and tight-cinched belt, drink in hand, wristlet in full spread showing charts, color stats, images of haloband ad conferences. Thankfully Dad’s not around. Guess this haloband stuff is ramping up from her end.

  She snaps off the screen and—I’m guessing she’ll be on her way to another public talk about haloband soon—starts tapping her fingernail against the glass, no doubt hard liquor. Her eyes are slightly dilated, so I can guess this is not her first drink of the day.

  “Mr. Peters just informed me about your outrageous presentation. Wanna talk about it?”

  “No.”

  “Where’d you get access to that information?” Her hazel brown eyes glint with accusation.

  “Mom, before you get all mad, let me ask, what do you remember about the world when you were young? Growing up, I mean. What life was like?”

  She hesitates, squirms in her seat. Her cheeks flush as if such is taboo territory. “I remember my mother and father hiding me, protecting me from the roving bands. We hid out in a shelter after the riots.”

  “What happened to them—Gran and Grandad?” I’d asked her this before, but she’d always hedged.

  Her lower lip trembles. Her eyes mist. I can see her struggling with a painful memory, as if weighing the cost of lying versus the relief of sharing what went on decades ago. It’s a sensitive issue long overdue—especially now that I know more about what really went on in our forbidden past…

  “They died. Victims of some epidemic—the Sion plague before vaccines were made available. We huddled in shelters. I was moved from warehouse to warehouse, raised by caring souls in the communes. Thousands of us. Those were tough times, Ellan. Little food, even less hygiene. People were lucky to have some rags for clothes and shoes on their feet.”

  I swallow, trying to absorb the horror of it. An empty pit forms in my stomach, thinking of my mother, all dirty, her hair ragged, running barefoot through the cracked, mob-ridden streets, a gaunt, emaciated urchin without proper food.

  “Sounds horrible.”

  “It was. We were all crammed into community centers by the military. Half of populations worldwide had died practically overnight, so we were told. People would just suddenly gaze into space then topple over. The country was in chaos, everything shut down: power, telecom, roads blocked. Helicopters and fighter jets flew overhead. Mass panic to get supplies, fuel, anything, weapons, food. Looting, riots, destruction. Knife-fighting in the streets.”

  Her eyes stare into space, unfocused. She sucks in a breath, forces her delicate features to show a composed face. “I was so young, I didn’t think anything about it. I thought life was just like that. By the time I was five or six, they started to rebuild things. Schools, roads, power grids, radio towers. But there were big changes.”

  So, she was part of it. Meaning the cataclysm happened about thirty five years ago, if she’s forty-two.

  “How much do you know about Starcom?”

  “What do you mean, Starcom?”

  “Where did they come from? How did they start up?”

  Mom is on her guard, her hand flicking to her semi-permed hair, red mouth set in a firm line.

  When she doesn’t answer, I make it easier for her. “Ever hear of a company called ‘Google’? What about Huawei? AT&T?”

  She downs her glass, leaving lipstick on the rim. “Where’d you hear those names?”

  I wet my own lips. “Same place I heard about 5G and GMOs.”

  “No, I haven’t heard of them.” But I knew she had. She just didn’t want to talk about it. Funny, she’d talk about her bleak past, but not about her own company. “I heard that’s where Starcom came from, those dead megacorps.”

  Her face kindles in fascination, as if such a fairy tale hits closer to the truth. “Where Starcom comes from…Maybe,” she said. ”But it was a long time ago. Who’s been feeding you those names?”

  “Nobody, just rumors at school.”

  “Yeah, right.” She makes a hoarse noise in her throat. “Better stay off the darkweb, Ellan. People don’t like mention of the past.”

  I let it drop. From what little she divulged, she’d confirmed my darkest suspicions.

  “People have gotten into big trouble talking about forbidden topics, old ghosts, things bigger than themselves. There’s worse trouble for spreading rumors than you can imagine.”

  “No worries, Mom. I’ll be more careful.”

  Her cherry-red lips chink into a smirk. “Don’t ‘no worries’ me. I’m going to change my password.” She reaches for her wristlet.

  Go ahead, Mom. I’ll just get Bram to dig up a new one. There are always other bits of dirty work I can get him to do for me. He can open all kinds of back doors.

  * * *

  I can’t sleep. Although I’ve had a sleep problem since I was child. Maybe a coincidence? No, I don’t think so. Karie and other friends have it, to varying degrees of severity. The clinics are full of people with problems, from migraines to attention disorders to mood swings to hardcore fatigue. We’ve been to
ld it’s just part of growing up. But could it be because of this 6G+? The debilitating aftereffects of our toxic heritage? My mind is churning. We’ve been duped. Misinformed. The darkweb tells us truths of a magnitude we may not be ready to hear.

  There’s more to my stress. Zone competition’s coming up. I like kickboxing and its adrenalin rush, but real combat under lights and crowds has me perspiring.

  Morning comes too early. About a quarter of Peters’ class is absent. Why am I not surprised? It seems HB has caught on too fast. Everbody’s got a date with their new haloband.

  A slow, dull day. I’m watching the clock. Not surprised Peters’s slapping me with another project, deeming my last unacceptable and stricken from the record. Sure, have it your way, Petie.

  It’s a Friday night, and Joey’s invited me to a rave. I’m allowed to date and stay out late. Just not too late.

  I catch a fleeting glimpse in the bedroom mirror as I’m practicing my dance moves. Snapshot of a twirl, a quick hip roll, like one of those gaudy models on public net, black blouse, black-dyed jeans, accentuating my sleek curves, boyish hips. A luxurious mat of wavy hair veils my face and hangs down past my shoulders. Joey comes early to pick me up. He’s got his jet black hair oiled back and is wearing hip khakis and a bright short sleeve tie-dye. Looking not too shabby. Hot, I’d say.

  We’re at this party at Nord’s over on Baymont. Music thudding away, kids in small groups drinking, piping, vaping, a bunch of us dancing on the monster living room floor with the wild lights flickering on and off. Nord’s got a pretty good setup here. A sense of good fun too: strobe, a mini rave box, AI-controlled with sensors. It tells the central unit to base its next picks and flavor of techno beats on the mood of the house. How cool. Tables, chairs, all’ve been cleared away. His parents are gone for the weekend. I start to move to the beat like a gypsy child. “Right on, girl!” Karie slaps palms with me. We mirror each other’s movements then get lost in the beat before I lose sight of her. We are all in our own element, our own head space. It’s dark, kind of dusky crimson and ultramarine dark with all the dry ice and stuff floating around. I see Ben Gilsen’s here, June, Leta, Darrin, Zandra, others.