Smugglers of Gor (26 page)

I looked up at him, as a meaningless slave to her adored master.

No longer did I think of escape. All such thoughts fled from me. I loved him! I wanted only to be his! I wanted to love and serve him! I wanted to be only his helpless, loving slave!

He was here!

He must want me. Was I not his?

It was he who had brought me to this, to the bondage which I had feared, and for which I had longed, a bondage in which I must serve, a bondage in which I would know myself owned, a bondage in which I would be a mere property of my master, a bondage in which I would find my fulfillment as a woman, and a slave.

I was at his feet, the feet of my master!

He had followed me, even from Brundisium, so far, to this strange, remote, and wild place, to seek me for his collar!

I was his!

I looked up at him. My lips trembled. I wanted to speak, but dared not do so.

Surely he could see the hope, the surrender, the love, in my eyes. I forced myself to hold my hands down on my thighs, that I not lift them piteously to him. I did not wish to be cuffed. But I found them turned, inadvertently, so that their palms were uppermost, their small, soft, sensitive, vulnerable expanses of tissue exposed to him.

I am yours, I thought. Buy me, own me, I thought.

He smiled, but it was a smile of contempt. He then turned away. I remained as I was, kneeling on the rough boards of the dock.

I do not even think he recognized me. My small frame was shaken with fury. I looked after him, moving away, as though nothing had happened. Indeed, from his point of view, nothing had happened. He had merely had a brief encounter with a meaningless slave.

He had not recalled me. I was nothing to him!

Tears ran down my cheeks. On my thighs I clenched my fists. I wanted to scream with helplessness, futility, and rage.

Well then did I understand that I was marked, tunicked, and collared.

How I hated him, and all men, the masterful beasts who would take us in hand, own us, and do with us as they pleased!

I stared after him, angrily, the callous brute, so tall and strong, with that easy, unhurried walk, the proud, high gaze before which men might take pause, the broad back, the narrow waist, the sturdy legs, that indifferent, cruel, magnificent larl of a man, to whom my feelings were nothing.

I did not even know his name.

Buy me, buy me, Master, I thought.

No, no, no, I thought.

I hate him, I hate him!

All my pride of Earth welled up within me. How horrifying that I should be here, on a remote world, a marked, half-naked, collared slave!

How incomprehensible and lamentable was my fate!

I looked after him, enraged, and hated him!

It was he who had brought me to this, to the indelible marking of my body, to the shame and degradation of a collar, to the revelatory scandal of a tunic, he who had brought it about that I was now an animal, that I was now goods and merchandise, that I might now be given away, or bought and sold. How miserable I was, there, kneeling alone on the boards! How I hated him! And all men! Why could they not be like the men of Earth, sweet, understanding, sensitive, weak, confused, timid, eager to please, easily guided, suitably conditioned, manipulable, repudiators of nature, betrayers of their blood, traitors to their manhood? Why were Goreans so different, so unassuming, so thoughtless, so unpretentiously confident, so unconsciously and innocently proud, so self-satisfied, so unquestioning, so virile, so powerful, so strong, so unaware, so triumphant? Why did they look upon us, and see us as theirs, and make us theirs? I did not think the men of Earth and Gor were so different, if at all, biologically. Surely they were of the same species. The differences, I was sure, were those of enculturation. Why had those of Gor never abandoned nature; why had they never strayed from her, why had they never betrayed her, and themselves? Doubtless there were complex historical explanations for such things.

I then looked about, wildly, at the long dock on which I knelt, the heavy boards stretching before me, diminishing in the distance, the great ship ahead, uneasy at its moorings, at the broad river to the left, the sheds, shops, and forest on the right.

I must escape. I would escape.

I must be wary. No sooner would a man lay his eyes upon me than he would see me as goods, as a slave. The tunic, the collar! How different to be a slave on Gor, I had gathered, as opposed to a free woman! They were everything, we nothing. I had never even seen a Gorean free woman, though there must have been some about, say, when I was on the dock in Brundisium, coffled, blindfolded, my hands tied behind me. Perhaps some were outside the market wall, but yards away, when I was in the exposition cage. Within the wall there were only men, regarding us, considering their choices. I had heard there were male silk slaves. Perhaps there were other markets where they were exhibited and sold, markets frequented by women rich enough to buy them. Such slaves were apparently scorned by Gorean males. It was said Earth was a good source of such slaves, as its males had already learned to fear, please, and obey women. Many were silk slaves and did not know that they were silk slaves. Some were natural silk slaves and others had been raised, taught, and trained to be such. These were told they were “true men.” Even their mistresses despised them. What, on Earth, did they lack but a distinctive garb, and the collar? I had not seen a Gorean free woman but I had heard much of them, particularly from my instructresses in my house of training. They spoke of them with loathing, but also fear. One of the sorriest fates of a kajira would be to find herself the serving slave of such a self-centered, regal, haughty monster. It is supposedly harrowing even to encounter one on the streets. For some reason, they hate us. I had gathered that the Gorean free woman, in the might of her liberty, possesses a standing, prestige, status, and force far beyond that of the allegedly free woman of Earth. Even Gorean males who may have a dozen servitors and own a hundred women, and be followed by a score of clients, will step from her path, and defer to her. They will listen attentively to her, even though she might speak the most arrant of nonsense. She is, after all, free. She need not kneel and humbly, as a slave, request permission to speak, a permission which may not be granted. She is said to well and shamelessly exploit the eminence and authority which the culture bestows upon her. Where all are free, at least after a fashion, there is nothing special or important about freedom. It is taken for granted, and one thinks little of it. The Gorean free woman, on the other hand, understands that she is free in a manner which might dismay, and would surely far exceed, that of the allegedly free woman of Earth. Certainly she may contrast herself with the meaningless animal, the female slave. Why then do free men court the free woman and buy the slave? Why do they yield their place in the theaters and concert halls to the free woman, and drag the slave by the hair to a tavern’s alcove? When the free woman is courted, she may be uncertain if it is she, or her wealth, her influence, her familial and caste connections, or such, which are sought; when the slave is purchased, as she has nothing, she is well aware that is she herself which is desired, and for the purposes of a slave, service and pleasure, inordinate pleasure. How horrifying it must be for one of these lofty free women, hitherto so exalted, privileged, and superior, hitherto so smug, petulant, arrogant, and demanding, hitherto so incomparably, so insufferably proud, if she should, to her horror, undergo a catastrophic reversal of fortune, if she should find herself reduced to bondage, to be stripped, collared, and sold! Yet how strange, too, that these women, so many of them, seem restless, impatient, short-tempered, and miserable. Surely this is incomprehensible. Do they not have everything for which a woman might long, cultural elevation, standing, status, prestige, power, dignity, and respect, even awe? Why then are they so unhappy? And why are they so cruel to us, and hate us so? We are not interfering with their precious freedom. We could not do so if we wished. We are only helpless beasts, in our collars and tunics. Can we help it if men want us more? And why do they so often insult and taunt men? Are they angry with men, and, if so, why? What do they want from men? Do they not understand that this might annoy, or anger, the men? A slave might die of fear before risking such a thing. And why do some of them join small caravans, and risk dangerous journeys to far places, or wander dark, unguarded streets, or stroll the high bridges alone, in the bright moonlight? Are they so smug, so sure of themselves, that they do not understand the perils of such things? Do they court the collar? Do they long to be owned, and thrown naked, with a jangle of chain, to the furs of love?

I looked about myself, at the men about, the workers, several of them, a mercenary or two, a mariner in his brimless cap. These were Gorean men. Such men wanted women as slaves, and so they had them so. Such men were scions of a culture founded on nature and its fulfillment, not its denial. I wondered if such men knew we yearned for their collars.

I thrust such thoughts from my mind!

I was of Earth!

Goreans were fools! I would escape!

“What is wrong, Master?” inquired Asperiche.

“Nothing,” I told her, angrily.

“You have seen her!” she laughed. “At long last! Here, in Shipcamp!”

“Who?” I asked.

“She whom you have sought so long,” she said. “Even in Brundisium, surely in Tarncamp!”

“I have sought no one,” I said.

“I think Master did not come to this remote, forlorn place for two staters,” she said.

“Gold staters,” I said.

“Even so,” she said.

“Do you wish to be beaten?” I asked.

“Is she well-curved,” she asked, “a blonde or a brunette?”

“You would look well,” I said, “on all fours, bringing me the switch in your teeth, whimpering plaintively to be beaten.”

“I trust she is not a barbarian,” she said.

“What is wrong with barbarians?” I asked.

“I thought so,” she said. “They are stupid.”

“They twist, sob, and cry out, as well as any other woman,” I said.

“Buy her,” she said. “Does she have a private master?”

“No,” I said, “she is a camp slave.”

“She will be cheap then,” she said. “Has she been in the slave house?”

“I do not know,” I said.

“If so,” she said, “she would be well heated by now.”

“I do not want her,” I said.

“Buy her,” she said. “Get her out of your system. Get her on your chain, have her crawl about for a time in your collar, use her for slave sport, make her sob and cry, and beg, and then sell her.”

“She is nothing to me,” I said. “I turned my back on her. I left her on her knees, on the dock.”

“What is her name?” she asked.

“I do not know, nor do I care,” I said.

“Was she sold in Brundisium?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, “to agents of the Pani, who were stocking slaves for the camps.”

“More likely, for trade goods,” she said.

“Perhaps,” I said.

“What was her lot number?” she asked.

“119,” I said.

“Master has an excellent memory,” she said.

“I scouted her, on the world called Earth,” I said. “She owes her collar to me.”

“I have heard it is a sorry world,” she said.

“It has not been well kept,” I said.

“Not even the urt soils its own nest,” she said.

“I have no interest in her,” I said.

“If you know her former lot number,” she said, “it would be easy enough for you, a free man, to learn her name, and where she is housed. Records are kept. I could be beaten if I inquired.”

“Curiosity,” I said, “is not becoming to a kajira.”

“So I have been told,” she said.

“And now you have been told again,” I said.

“Asperiche understands,” she said. “She is not stupid. She is not a barbarian.”

“We do not bring stupid slaves to Gor,” I said.

“Naive slaves then, ignorant slaves,” she said. “Barbarian kajirae do not even know they are women.”

“They soon learn,” I said.

“They are all frigid,” she said.

“Not all,” I said.

“Some,” she said.

“The collar takes that out of them,” I said.

“Slaves talk,” she said. “There are only so many barbarians. Lot numbers take time to wear off. Masters are not the only ones with memories. Would you like me to find her for you, bind her hands behind her, and switch-herd her to your feet?”

“Certainly not,” I said.

“You do not want her kneeling, bound before you?”

“No,” I said.

“What is special about her?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “Where are you going?”

“To fetch food,” she said. “The kitchen is open now.”

“I have not seen you so,” I said to Tyrtaios.

“I have been contacted,” said Tyrtaios.

“Friends?” I asked.

“One might say so,” he said.

“In the camp?” I said.

“No,” he said.

“Across the river?” I asked.

He looked at me, suddenly, narrowly. “What do you know of what lies across the river?” he asked.

“Very little,” I said. “I do know there is a palisaded compound there, which presumably houses special supplies, and perhaps prize slaves, too precious to be risked amongst the men of Shipcamp.”

“You have access to a glass of the Builders,” he said.

“No,” I said. “I have heard such.”

“I see,” he said. His hand fell then to his side. No longer did it rest, half opened, poised like a crouching sleen at the hilt of his belt knife.

“Whatever your business,” I said, “I think it must soon be brought to a conclusion, for the great ship is muchly fitted.” The single great rudder had been hung yesterday. “I suspect the eyes will be soon painted.”

“I think not,” he said. “Tersites has forbidden it.”

“Men may fear to sail,” I said, “if the ship cannot see.”

“Those who do not embark,” he said, “will be left behind, or slain.”