No Middle

People like Yulia and me, we’re below justice; people like Mercy Botha, they’re above it. There is no middle, there is no justice.

When Yulia was arrested, it was “mistaken identity.” Before anyone else was even aware she’d been arrested, she was transferred to the prison factory due to a “paperwork error.” An “industrial accident” left her dead on the second day.

I found her body in the morgue at the Special Work Prison, six-hundred kilometers away from the prison factory where they said she’d died. The SWP was, in all but name, a brothel for the rich and powerful. Young men and women were sold by the hour for the perverted delights of the elite. The haves taking even more from the have-nots.

I’d been lucky enough to find and retrieve her body — by claiming I was her mother — before she was cremated. It was obvious enough to me, but the forensic pathologist confirmed that her death was not from an industrial accident or indeed even accidental. Twelve rounds from a guard’s pistol at short range is far from accidental. Not that any kind of investigation would be done, and no justice beyond firing the guard for “unauthorized discharge of a firearm” and sending him back to the city.

As I said, we’re below justice, as is the guard, now. While he wore the uniform, he enjoyed the benefits, but those at the top will sacrifice as many of us as needed to keep the masses placated.

I’m done being placated. I believed the guard when he looked at me with his haunted eyes. He told me how the warden made him shoot her in front of the other new inmates as an example of what happens when you say no.

I believed him when he told me who was involved, and how their enterprise works. I believed him, but I didn’t answer his pleas for forgiveness. I looked down at where he knelt in front of me, his eyes filled with tears. “You could have, should have, said no,” I said, “like she did.”

His eyes grew wide as I drew the blade I’d hidden in my palm across his throat. The guttural gurgling he made was his last sound, and how I will forever remember him. I would’ve preferred to shoot him twelve times, but guns are not allowed to city residents.

When he was found a day later, in the sweltering June heat, he was logged as the 417th murder victim in the city for the year. I followed the public records for a couple weeks until I was certain no one was coming forward to claim him. Like most of the murders in this city, his would be ignored, to be marked “closed/unsolved” after some arbitrary number of days or weeks.

The rich and those of us they found “useful” — low-office politicians, faith leaders, entertainers, even the military — didn’t come to the city unless they had to. Police were another of the lower class that the elites found useful, but they still had to live with us in the muck and filth.

That utility, though, has limits. When a useful poor becomes the slightest liability, they’re cut off, returned to the cesspool as waste. Two officers were killed on the job, their throats slit while responding to a break-in call. The initial response was outrage from the elites and a city-wide manhunt. When it came out they were working a scam to arrest young people who “fit the description” of a real target, and selling them to the SWP with faked paperwork, the response was to mark the case as closed/unsolved and shut up about the whole thing, especially SWP involvement.

There may have been others in the precinct involved, but I had no evidence, so they escaped my justice. That left one person I had proof of involvement from — the warden — and one that was complicit in all the abuses of the SWP. Mercy Botha, the owner of the SWP and the prison factories, would pay for her complicity in Yulia’s death.

They’re both part of the haves, and as such are, as I mentioned earlier, above justice. At least, that’s what they think. When justice is personal, though, there is no above or below.

The warden is an odd one. Like me, he was born in the city and made himself “useful” in the military. Unlike me, he wasn’t kicked out for punching a senior officer. I doubt very many senior officers were trying to grope him. We were warned in boot camp that as women, we should expect that sort of thing and “grow a thick skin.” That lesson didn’t sit well with me.

After his military retirement, he contracted as security to the rich and famous until he had enough money to buy his way into society. He was on the bottom of the ladder, for sure, but he’d “made it” as one of the elite.

His residence was just outside the grounds of the SWP, and rumor had it he had a couple of favorite inmates he frequented on his days off, along with some very specific kinks. The hard part would be passing myself off as one the “lower-class upper-class.” Not just useful, but someone who, like the warden, had bought my way into society.

The military taught me how to blend into the shadows, how to disappear, and how to kill. Yulia’s murder gave me a reason to use that training. Similarly, living in the city meant I knew a lot of people with specific criminal skills, but this was the first time I’d sought to hire one.

I told the identity broker what I needed, and he called me three days later. He had the perfect ID for me, along with a no-limit credit card that would work for thirty days, but the price would be high.

I made him show me the goods before I’d agree to his terms. The ID was perfect, as was the credit card. I could play the part of the vapid divorcee of a hedge fund manager, living on a fat settlement and alimony.

He handed me a print-out of a photo. “This one. She comes back to work for me today or kill her. That’s the price.” He tried to look intimidating as he said, “I have to make an example of her, otherwise I’ll look weak.”

Those three words echoed in my head, “Make an example.” I smiled at his failed attempt to seem dangerous to me. “You look weak because you are weak, just like the warden.”

I slashed the blade across his throat before he could react. I snatched the ID and the credit card to protect them from blood spatter. As he choked on his own blood, I told him, “You should’ve let her go. You made the offer, I made the choice, your life or hers. I don’t know her, but she’s obviously stronger than you.”

I took my phone out of the faraday bag when I got home, and it started chiming immediately. Missed calls from a number I didn’t recognize. I called back and was met with an instant tirade.

“I don’t know who you are, but I’m going to find out, and when I do, you’ll be the newest attraction at Special Work. Jarvis said you’re too old for regular use, but we’ll sell you cheap as a pain pig. No safe words, no limits.”

It seemed I had gotten under someone’s skin. “Mercy Botha, I presume?”

“Good. You know who I am, so you know what I can do to you. You’ve had your payback for your little bitch. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave it there.”

“Ms. Botha,” I put as much honey into my voice as possible, “you really don’t know when to stop, do you? All your life, everything has been handed to you on a silver platter. Ask the warden what it’s like in the city. Maybe then, you would understand that threats don’t work on all of us, especially me. Be seeing you soon.”

I disconnected and dropped the phone on the counter. My location was no-doubt known to Mercy Botha now. The good thing about industry disappearing from the city six decades ago, along with the remnants of the middle class, is that places like this are everywhere.

Anyone can take over an old structure, as long as their tetanus shots are current, and they aren’t afraid of a little work. In my case, this former fertilizer mill worked out great. I even found some old chemicals in the sub-basement, once I cut the freight elevator loose and rappelled down the shaft.

I flipped the switch beside the door and walked away from my former home, taking only what city coin I had left and my new ID and credit card. I was probably two kilometers away when it blew; the sound of it echoed between the buildings. The fire was visible in a matter of minutes. There would be no response from the fire department, as it was outside the registered “habitation zone.”

I spent the following day working my way out of the city. First, I bought a new outfit with city coin and tossed my old clothes. As I neared the outer edges of the city, I stopped in a shopping center, buying somewhat better clothes with the credit card and changing to those.

Once I’d made my way outside the city proper, I went to the All Seasons Hotel and booked a room under my new name, “Minnie Tilly.” I had the concierge buy me a new phone and appropriate outfits after my “disastrous sight-seeing trip in the city.” Minnie Tilly is far from brilliant, and I wanted to make sure everyone knew that, and that she was kinky. The only outfit I specified in precise detail was a black leather strap harness, knee-high stiletto boots, a leather masquerade mask, and an eight-fall flogger.

I made the concierge stay in the room as I tried on the outfits and asked about sex clubs. I knew from the guard that this hotel is one of those that sends clients to the SWP. When he mentioned a “very exclusive club up north,” I knew I was in.

Some cajoling, plus a few thousand on tips, landed me an invitation to the SWP on a night when the warden would likely be there to play. Continuing with the airhead nouveau-riche act, I had the concierge charter a hover-flyer for me to get me there and back. I could’ve rented a self-driving luxury car for a quarter of the price, but I was playing the game.

Flying in, the multiple layers of security in widening circles are stark reminders of the nature of the place. Just before we landed, I squealed, “This is going to be so fun! And I’ve never felt safer with all the security!” I still put on my best idiot performance until I stepped out of the flyer and put on the leather mask. The first thing I saw inside the flyer were the “hidden” cameras.

The flyer gone, the mask covering the top half of my face, and the overcoat I’d been covered in dropped on the ground, I marched to the guard at the gate, flogger in hand. “Raincoats optional,” I said, that being the daily code word.

He led me through the guard shack to a tunnel that led to “the club” and turned to go. I stopped him by clearing my throat.

“Is my Jarvis pig down here tonight?” I asked. “I was hoping to give him an early birthday present for being such a little piggy.”

The guard swallowed hard. “I, uh….”

“It’s okay, dear. I cleared it with Mistress Botha.” I showed the guard the number I’d saved on my phone. I hoped he’d recognize it.

“He’s in room B-114. But he’s with an inmate.” He gestured behind himself with a thumb. “I’ve, uh, gotta get back to my post.”

“You do that, dear. Thank you for being such a good boy.”

He turned and ran back to the guard shack. I don’t know what he thought I might do to him, but it was better he was gone.

The room wasn’t locked. None of them were. Some were wide open, the elite proud of their ability to use and abuse the inmates. He didn’t hear me enter, but I slammed the door shut so he’d know I was there.

The young woman cuffed to the vaulting horse couldn’t have been more than eighteen, and probably less. Her tear-stained face and puffy red eyes didn’t paint a picture of someone who was happy in her position.

“Jarvis-pig,” I said, “Mistress Botha said you’ve been a bad boy.”

“Who are you?” he asked.

I struck him across the back with the flogger. “I am in charge, and the first and last words out of your mouth will be ‘Mistress.’ Do you understand me, piggy?”

“Mistress, yes mistress.”

I smiled internally at how quick he was to fall into the role. I took the handcuff keys from his trousers hanging near the door and released the poor girl. “You probably don’t want to see this,” I whispered to her, “so I suggest you run to somewhere safe.”

She pulled on her prison uniform, watching me cuff the warden to the vaulting horse. I stuffed a gag in his mouth, his expression one of unbridled lust and excitement. It changed to fear the moment I raised my mask. He struggled against the cuffs, tried to yell through the gag, but it was no use.

His previous victim asked, “Are you going to kill him?” To my surprise, when I answered in the affirmative, she kicked him — hard — in the balls before she left.

It takes a long time, and a lot of energy, to beat someone to death with a leather flogger. I would guess I was about halfway there when I took a break to look through his clothes. He had a pistol in there. A twenty-four shot, nine-millimeter with a suppressor. Not a standard guard’s pistol, more like something a gangster would want.

I was tired and shot him in the head. When it was nowhere near as loud as I expected, I walked out of the room to see the girl still standing there. She held out her hand, and I gave her the pistol, put my mask back on and left.

I don’t know how long she waited, but she killed twenty and wounded three — none of which were inmates — before the guards shot her dead. The news cycle was all about the massacre that had happened at a “charity fundraiser being held at the SWP.” I turned the viewscreen off when Ms. Botha began ranting about “Minnie Tilly, the killer Mistress” and vowing to release huge grants to police everywhere to find her.

They might, if I don’t find Mercy Botha first.