The Usurper (25 page)

“I am a free woman!” she cried.

“Be silent!” said the girl before her, turning back. “They will lash us all!”

“I will buy and sell you all!” screamed Cornhair. “I will put you in the fields to draw water for laborers, in pens to swill with pigs, in stables to shovel dung, shackle you in public sculleries, have you fed on garbage and beaten every morning and evening!”

“Be quiet,” said the girl, “or we will all be beaten!”

“What is going on here?” asked a docksman.

“Nothing, Master,” said the girl before Cornhair.

She put her head down, humbly, and Cornhair did so, as well. What might be hoped for, from a simple docksman?

He was soon about his business, and Cornhair raised her head.

It was warm on the loading pier, and, to her left, the immense, vertical hull of the freighter towered above her, gray against the blue sky and white clouds. At its side, open and gantry-like, was a vertical frame, its loading platform now at the pier level.

The sky was bright and the air clear. The world's star, Inez, was near its zenith. Docksmen called to one another. An official, with his white uniform, was some fifty feet away, turning papers in a ringed tablet. One could hear the trundling of wheeled carts on the pier. Some minutes before, some two hundred yards away, there had been a roar and a geyser of smoke; the pier had shaken, and a blast of heat had swept the pier, and, trailing flame and smoke, a ship, gradually at first, like a thoughtful arrow, and then, as though resolved, ever more quickly, sped away, disappearing in the sky, as though hungry for some unseen, but intended, target.

Cornhair lifted her head.

Somewhere meat was roasting, probably in the pan of a pier vender. She could detect the scent of baled spices, and the scents, too, of a hundred forms of flowering plants, exotic perennials in their potting troughs, for Inez IV, from her noted flower markets, famed throughout the galaxy, exported such things to many worlds, often barren worlds, where guests and neighbors, informed, might come from miles about to look upon a flower, and too, of course, now and again, one might scent, sharp, acerbic, and repelling, the acrid remembrance of combustion.

Beneath her bared feet Cornhair could feel the roughness of the thick planks of the pier. She pulled a little at the circlets of steel confining her wrists. She tossed her head, feeling the coffle collar on her neck, its weight, and how it, moved, returned to its place, and noted the rattle of the attached chain. A slight breeze played on her skin. As a free woman she had traversed life muchly unaware of the bright wealths of sensation about her, of sight, touch, sound, taste, and smell, each so different and precious, each so lavishly bestowed, each so little noted. As a free woman, shod and robed, the natural world, of rain and sunlight, of grass and wind, had been of little interest or importance to her. Muchly she had managed to shut it away, to overlook it. She had scarcely attended to the world in which she found herself. How easy it is to shelter and protect oneself from the world which has given one birth. It is easy to walk inertly, to hear without listening, to see without noticing. It is easy to be a stranger in one's own world. Cornhair was not trained, of course, or not well trained, but she had learned, in the storeroom, something of the thousand elements involved in a girl's training, and one was sensitivity to one's environment or surroundings, to a bit of moisture on a stone, to the cordlike knap on a carpet, to the smoothness of a tile, to the feel of rope on one's body, to the hands of a Master on one's skin, and such. To be sure, one can be blinded and dazzled, distracted and overwhelmed, by sensation, but one should be aware that it is always there, even when wisely banished. But surely one can open the door a little, now and then, from time to time.

Cornhair shuddered, feeling the wind on her body, the clasp of the bracelets, the tiny sound of their linkage, the weight of the chain.

It is said that the body of a slave girl is the most alive of all female bodies.

Certainly Cornhair had heard that, in the prison of the storeroom, while she and the others had awaited their shipment.

“But I am not a slave girl!” she cried out to herself.

Yet she knew that on her thigh, tiny, clear, unmistakable, lovely, was a mark, one recognized throughout galaxies, the slave rose.

Cornhair knew, of course, that she was, however often or strenuously, or irrationally, she might seek to deny it, in all the profundities of legality, in all the exactness of indisputable law, a female slave.

But what she more feared was that she was, beyond all the explicit obduracies of legality, beyond the clear implacabilities of the law, as inflexible and mighty as they might be, in her deepest heart and nature, fittingly and suitably, a female slave.

She feared she was such as are born for the collar, and cannot be themselves without it.

“No, no!” she cried to herself.

Surely one can deny oneself to oneself. Do not many do so?

Indeed, are there not societies which recommend, if not require, that one deny oneself to oneself?

Could such societies exist without their hypocrisy and lies?

But might not one, even in such a society, kneel, bow one's head, and beg the collar, without which one cannot be oneself?

Surely not!

Never!

But what if, in some society, in the midst of one's confusions, protests, and denials, one should be simply seized, and put in the collar, routinely, in a businesslike fashion, by indifferent, efficient, callous brutes who cared nothing for one's denials, to whom one's feelings and protests, whether sincere or fraudulent, were not merely unavailing, but of no interest, brutes whose simple interests were merely those of owning you, or making a profit on you, selling you for others to own?

What could one do?

One could do nothing. One would be on one's knees, collared.

She then understood how a woman, voluntarily, of her own free will, might prostrate herself, and petition the degradation of the collar, the liberating, fulfilling, joy-bringing gift of the neck-band.

If one is a slave, how can one be happy if not a slave?

Let slaves be slaves; let others be what they wish.

“No, No!” she thought. “I dare not entertain such thoughts! I must not think them! I will banish such thoughts! I will not permit myself to think them! They must be denied! I am not a slave! I am not a slave!”

She put her braceleted hands on the coffle chain, angrily.

Tears ran down her cheeks.

Many men were now on the pier, near noon, coming and going, loitering, passing.

Any one of them, she supposed, might buy her.

Who could not afford fifteen
darins
?

But surely in such a crowd there might be one, a gentleman, a noble citizen, one sensitive to her fate, one touched by compassion, who might discern her plight, and rescue her!

“Help! Help!” she cried, suddenly. “Rescue me! Save me! I am not a slave! I am a free woman! I should not be here! I should not be here, confined and helpless, as you see me! I should not be naked! I should not be chained! I am a free woman. Help! Help!”

“Be silent!” said the girl before her, frightened.

“Stop! Stop!” said she behind her. “You will get us all punished!”

“What noisy beast is that?” said a man in the crowd about.

“That one,” said a fellow.

“A pretty beast,” said another.

“A curvy beast,” laughed another.

“Perhaps twenty
darins
,” said a fellow.

“Please!” called Cornhair. “Please!”

“Guardsmen!” said one of the girls in the coffle, tensely.

“What is going on here?” said a gruff voice.

“I am a free woman, officer!” said Cornhair.

“You have the curves of a slave,” said the voice.

“I am a free woman!” said Cornhair. “I am the Lady Publennia Calasalia, of the Larial Calasalii!”

“Is there trouble here?” asked a man, in the red livery of the company, Bondage Flowers, the patch on his left sleeve, with its chain-encircled flower. He carried a whip, useful in the control of slaves.

“This pig,” said the guardsmen, “claims not to be a pig.”

“Turn your left thigh to me,” said the second guardsman. “Do you dare to meet my eyes?”

“Forgive me, Master,” said Cornhair, looking away. “I mean, ‘Forgive me, sir'!”

“The rose,” said the first guardsman.

“I was marked!” said Cornhair.

“Slaves are often marked,” said the second guardsman.

“But not always,” said the first.

“What is the slave's name?” asked the first guardsman of the attendant.

“I am Publennia Calasalia, of the Larial Calasalii!” said Cornhair. “I am not a slave!”

“Call her whatever you wish,” said the attendant. “She is a slave.”

“She wears a shipping anklet,” said the first guardsman.

“Of course,” said the attendant. “They all do.”

“Then she is a slave,” said the first guardsman.

“No!” said Cornhair.

“Of course,” said the attendant. “The papers of all of them are in order. Check with the pier officer.”

A whistle indicated that departure was imminent.

“Free me of this hideous impediment!” said Cornhair, shaking the coffle chain with her braceleted hands.

The girl before her put her head down, and shuddered.

The official, he earlier remarked, with the white uniform and the ringed tablet, now approached.

“We have a schedule to meet,” he said.

“You are the loading officer?” asked the first guardsman.

“Yes,” he said.

Almost at the same time another officer, in a blue uniform, that of the pier administration, approached.

The two guardsmen apparently recognized him, for both deferred to him, stepping back.

“What is going on here?” asked the newcomer.

“I gather the slave is disruptive,” said the first guardsman. “She claims not to be a slave.”

“Unfortunate,” said the man in the blue uniform.

“For the slave,” said one of the guardsmen.

“The papers on this lot are all in order,” said the fellow from Bondage Flowers. “They have been reviewed, and certified.”

“I have the certification confirmation here,” said the fellow in the white uniform.

“Then all is in order,” said the fellow in the blue uniform.

“Certainly,” said the loading officer.

“I am not a slave!” said Cornhair.

“Check with the pier officer,” suggested the fellow from Bondage Flowers.

There were then two blasts on the departure whistle.

“Hurry!” said the loading officer, anxiously.

“I am the pier officer,” said the fellow in the blue uniform.

“Sir!” begged Cornhair.

The pier officer then fixed his gaze on Cornhair.

“Sir?” she said, putting her head down.

“Are you aware,” he asked, “of the penalties for a slave impersonating a free person?”

“No, sir,” she whispered.

“It is a capital offense,” he said.

Cornhair was silent, shivering, her head down.

“I am sure,” said the pier officer, “you are intelligent, as well as beautiful. I am sure, too, you know the law, and what you are. I am now going to ask you a clear, simple question, and I require a clear, simple answer. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” said Cornhair.

“Think carefully,” he said. “And answer with the absolute truth.”

“Yes, sir,” said Cornhair, not daring to raise her head.

“Are you a slave?”

“—Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.

The fellow in the blue uniform then turned away.

“You should be punished,” said the man from Bondage Flowers to Cornhair.

“Forgive me, Master,” she said.

“A slave,” he said, “is not a free woman. A slave should be invariably pleasing, and perfectly so.”

“Forgive me, Master,” she said.

“You called attention to yourself,” he said. “You were disruptive. You dallied, you made a nuisance of yourself, you inconvenienced free men, you delayed our departure. You told a lie, claiming to be free, when you knew better.”

“Please, forgive me, Master,” she said.

“Do you know why you are all front braceleted,” he asked, “though coffled?”

“No, Master,” she said.

“It further reminds you that you are slaves,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

She felt the key thrust into the right-hand cuff lock, and her wrist freed. “Left hand back, behind the small of your back,” said the man. With a jangle of chain Cornhair complied, and felt the opened right cuff strike against her back. A moment later, her freed right wrist was whipped behind her and locked into the dangling cuff. Her hands were then fastened behind her.

“How will I feed, Master?” she asked.

“You should all be whipped,” he said.

“Please, no, Master!” said more than one of the girls.

“Punish Cornhair, not us!” said another.

“She it was who displeased Masters!” said another.

“Leave her to us,” said a girl.

“We will attend to it,” said another.

The fellow from Bondage Flowers raised his whip.

Several of the girls tensed.

“Load, board!” pleaded the fellow in the white uniform.

The fellow from Bondage Towers looked about, and then he lowered the whip.

Time was short, the weather hot.

“Stand as slaves,” he said. “Stand beautifully. Stand as what you are, the most beautiful, exciting and desirable of women, women accepted for bondage, women found suitable for servitude, women found worthy of chains, women found fit for the great privilege and honor of wearing a Master's collar!”

There was a rustle of chain, down the line, from the linkages, and the braceleting.