Plunder of Gor (10 page)

Following our watering and feeding, we were returned to our cell, on all fours. When we arrived in the cell, and the door was closed and locked, we were further informed that whereas we might sit in the cell, lie down, recline, kneel, or such, we were not permitted to stand. Our heads were to be kept at or below a man's belt. Further, we were not permitted to speak, though we were free to express ourselves, if we wished, by small sounds, animal noises, whimpers, and such.

I was pleased to note that in our absence from the cell, it had been supplied with a wastes pail.

I think these strictures had two purposes; one was to punish us for our hitherto unruly behavior in the cell, regarded as inappropriate for kajirae, and, secondly, perhaps, to familiarize ourselves with a modality of discipline. It is well to for a slave to learn quickly she is not a free woman.

That night several more women were brought to the enclave, perhaps thirty, or so, in two separate lots, but they were housed in other cells.

Doubtless they, too, would soon be in their tunics.

“We have enough now for the capsules,” we heard one of the masters say to another.

“It is soon, is it not?” said the other.

“You are new?” said the first.

“Yes,” said the other.

“It is not so soon,” said the first. “Two-legged cattle are easy to acquire.”

I did not understand.

What could he mean, ‘two-legged cattle'?

Then I recalled that I and the others were now stock, beasts, animals, and so, I supposed, ‘two-legged cattle'!

I understood better then how we were viewed, what we were.

We were slaves.

“I gather then,” said the other. “The ship will soon embark.”

“Yes,” said the first.

I was frightened to hear of a ship. Surely they were joking. Surely there was no ship. Surely there was no such place as Gor. “There is no place such as Gor,” I told myself. “There is no place such as Gor!”

Chapter Seven

I lay quietly.

I was afraid to open my eyes, and look about me.

I had the sense I lay on a closely woven straw mat. I did not know where I was.

Surely I was not on my bed, in the apartment. I pressed my eyelids closely together. I had the sense that there was metal on my neck. Memories rushed back, the incident in the office, that on the beach, my awakening in my own bed, in the apartment, in my blue silken nightgown, discovering I could scarcely part my wrists, that they were handcuffed together, closely. I recalled Paula's appearance at the apartment, her freeing me of the handcuffs, and, later, the sudden, swift ingress of three men into the apartment, the simplicity and ease of our capture, the ride in the van, the arrival at the warehouse or storage facility, the cell, the taking of our clothing, our tunicking, our feeding.

I grimaced, recalling a horrid, foul taste.

Our hands had been tied behind us, and we had been knelt; then our heads had been pulled back by the hair. I recalled the plain roof of the storage facility. A drain of a plastic funnel had been forced between my teeth, and a man had pinched shut my nostrils. I could breathe only through my mouth. In a moment the funnel was flooded with some vile liquid. I felt it fill my oral cavity. As I was held by the hair and my nostrils pinched shut I could not cast out the liquid. Then I must breathe but I could breathe only through my mouth, and, to do so, to breathe, I had no option but to clear the passage of the intervening blockage. I swallowed down the liquid, swallow by repulsive swallow, shuddering.

“Every drop, kajira,” said one of the men.

“Good little kajira,” said another.

I was then permitted to rise, and run to the cell. I hurried to the wastes pail and put my head over it, sick, but I could not disgorge the liquid. I wanted to put my finger down my throat, to gag it out, but my hands were tied behind me. Paula was already in the cell, her hands, too, tied behind her.

“Do not struggle, dear Phyllis,” she said. “Be patient, be grateful. It is for your own good.”

“They torture us!” I wept.

“No,” she said. “They control us. They are our masters.”

“Torture!” I wept.

“No,” she said, “it is slave wine.”

“What is slave wine?” I asked, tears in my eyes.

“The masters spoke of it,” she said. “It is brewed from sip root. It prevents conception. Be pleased you are not a white kajira owned by the red savages of the Barrens, who do not care for white men or white women. There you must chew and swallow the root, raw.”

“I cannot now become pregnant?” I said.

“No,” she said, “not until masters decide you are to be bred, and with whom.”

“Paula!” I wept.

“The breeding of slaves is supervised,” she said, “as is the case with other domestic animals.”

“No!” I said.

“Now try to sleep, lovely kajira,” she said.

I now twisted about, on the mat, unwilling to bring myself fully awake. My hands touched a chain; it was attached, somehow, to the metal on my neck.

It was a horrid memory, the taste of the brew. And yet I was pleased that it had been administered to me. The slave may be bought and sold, and must expect to be frequently used. She is to be always at the convenience of the master.

One other memory forced itself upon me.

My group, the seven of us, were chained together by the neck and our hands were fastened together behind us, in slave bracelets, and then we were conducted down a long tunnel, until we reached a large, domed chamber. In this chamber there was a large, disklike object, perhaps forty yards in diameter, and eight to ten feet in depth, or height.

“This is one of our ships,” said our guide. “The domed roof parts.”

“Surely it cannot be a ship,” I thought. “There are no wings, no tail. I see no visible engines. Surely this is some gross imposture foisted upon us, but for what reason? What purpose would such a charade serve?”

“We are proud of her,” said our guide. “We like to show her off. Many units simply render a kajira unconscious, after which she is encapsuled and transmitted to Gor. Indeed, she may go to sleep one night, suspecting nothing, not even being aware that she has been scouted and selected, and not awaken until she finds herself in a Gorean slave pen, naked and shackled. That is a pity. She has never even seen the ship. You, on the other hand, we choose to favor. Perhaps it is a vanity on our part, but it is one that appeals to us. If you will now ascend the ramp, we will give you a sense of the interior of the ship, its bridge, its crew quarters, its galley, the propulsion chamber, and such. Too, of course, you might be interested in seeing the tiered capsules that you will occupy.”

That night, after our feeding, in which we were allowed to use our fingers, I spoke to Paula.

“You are intelligent,” I said to her.

“Perhaps, a little,” she said.

“These men must think we are fools,” I said.

“How so?” she asked.

“They insult our intelligence,” I said.

“I do not understand,” she said.

“Surely you do not believe that was a real ship,” I said. “Surely you do not believe there is a world, Gor.”

“Go to sleep, sweet Phyllis,” she said.

I twisted on the mat, unwilling to open my eyes, fearing to do so. The last thing I remembered was kneeling, in the cell, with the others, and being handed a small metal bowl, which I was to hold in both hands. Few Gorean cups, I would learn, have handles. Too, a slave's holding the cup in two hands not only affords greater stability, making it less likely that the drink might be spilled, which can be a punishable offense, but it is an aesthetic modality, as well, as it accentuates and frames the slave's beauty.

In the cup, from a decanter, was poured a small amount of an aromatic ruby beverage. It must have been spiced.

“Drink, kajirae,” we were told, and we drank.

I had never tasted so delicious a beverage.

We were kneeling, in our tunics, holding the small bowls. Some of the masters were about, in the cell. They did not seem concerned with us. The door of the cell was open.

We did not attempt to leap to our feet, and run. Where would we run? Where would we go? What would we do? Too, it is not easy to leap to one's feet from a kneeling position, for one is muchly helpless on one's knees. Surely it is a suitable position for a slave before her master. And I would learn later that it is even more difficult to leap to one's feet, if one were placed in the position of the pleasure slave. But I would be taught, as well, how to rise gracefully from either position, either from the lovely, modest position of the tower slave or from the more blatant, though similarly beautiful, position of the pleasure slave, which position leaves a girl in little doubt as to what she is for and how she is viewed. The slave, in either case, is expected to be beautiful. She is a slave.

The members of my small group looked uneasily at one another. Hitherto, we had had nothing to drink but water. But now, though we were but kneeling kajirae, we had been privileged to imbibe a liquid, clearly a wine, which exceeded in bouquet and flavor any I had ever tasted. I had no way of conjecturing the vintage or year. It was a wine unlike any I had ever tasted. I supposed it would have been exorbitantly expensive if purchased in some exclusive establishment catering to an affluent and discerning clientele, and yet, here, it was being given to us, only objects and goods, only kajirae.

“On your feet, pretty beasts,” said one of the masters. “We are going for a little walk.”

Momentarily there seemed a little darkness about the edges of my vision. Perhaps the light in the warehouse, the storage facility, had been momentarily dimmed. I shook my head, to clear it. I rose to my feet, and caught my balance.

“It is not a long walk,” said the master. “Indeed, it will be familiar to you.”

I heard one of my group whimper.

“Order, single file,” said the master. “Tallest girl first, thence in descending height, the shortest last”.

We knew the order. It was the same as our coffle order. Slaves are often arranged aesthetically, or purposefully. The descending-height arrangement is typical. Surely it is simple and lovely. Too, in selling lines, as in sales generally, arrangements are seldom accidental. One may mix hair and eye colors, heights, complexions, figures, slender, fuller, and so on. Men vary in their interests and tastes. Sometimes two or three plainer girls, comparatively speaking, are used to lead up to, or frame, a less plain girl, in order that her beauty may seem even, by contrast, more striking.

One of our group, one of those who had worn jeans and a sweatshirt, now briefly tunicked in white, half stumbled.

“Steady, kajira,” said a master, kindly.

“Hands behind your backs, wrists crossed,” said another master, a handful of laces dangling from his hand.

I felt my hands fastened together, behind my back. I did not know why we were being bound. One does not inquire. One is kajira. A kajira is often rendered helpless. It is part of being kajira.

I shook my head, again.

Why had we been bound?

“The door is open,” said a master. “Go that way, as you did before. Proceed.”

“Surely, pretty cattle,” said another, “you need not be whipped, switched, or prodded.”

The first girl, she who had worn the expensive jacket and skirt, leaned against the side of the door, to steady herself, and then, a moment later, moved through the opening.

The second in line was she who had worn the maid's uniform, or what seemed such a uniform; third was she whom I had first seen in the torn evening gown; her legs were well revealed in her short tunic; then came the taller of the two young women who had worn the frivolous, boyish garb, apparently adopted to conceal, or diminish, her sex; but in the tunic there was no doubt as to her sex; the sex of slaves is never to be in doubt; in slave garb it is clear that a woman is a woman; Paula was fifth; I was sixth; and the second of the two girls who had worn jeans and a sweatshirt was last. She was of the sort that some men characterized as “cuddly.” I supposed she would make a graspable, delicious “slave armful.” It was she who had half stumbled, but moments before.

I wondered if they were deliberately lowering the lights in the building.

One of my steps was unsteady.

“Surely it will not be necessary to fasten you in coffle,” said a master. “Hurry, proceed.”

“Surely you do not expect us to carry you,” said a master.

“It is not far,” said another.

“Move, move, kajirae,” said another.

I had taken only a few steps when I realized that we had been drugged.

“Move along, kajirae,” said the man. “It is not far.”

My head swirled, I almost stumbled. I saw the bound hands of Paula before me.

I now realized why our hands had been bound behind us. We would soon realize we had been drugged. Now we were unable to take action, dared we do so, to expel the beverage. It was in us, working the will of masters.

“Keep moving,” said one of the masters. “Do not be concerned. It is scarcely a trace of tassa powder. The common dose renders a woman unconscious almost immediately. You can imagine how useful it is to slavers, in their collections. A free woman accepts a drink from a stranger and, when she awakens, some Ahn later, she discovers herself stripped, and in his chains.”

I knew nothing of tassa powder. I did not know what an Ahn might be, other than that it was clearly some unit of time.

I pulled at my bound wrists, weakly. I must strive to keep my place in line.

“The matter is delicate,” the man continued. “The amount to be administered must be estimated. It must be small enough to permit, for a time, the prolongation of consciousness and the practicality of movement, as in walking, and large enough to assure an eventual effective sedation. Some consideration is given to apparent body weight. Larger women get a bit more than a dusting of the powder. The matter is further complicated by the fact that movement, your walking, for example, hastens the action of the drug.”

I was not fully cognizant of my surroundings.

I followed Paula, mechanically, unthinkingly, before me.

Yet the way seemed somehow familiar.

Then I knew I was in a tunnel, the sides were about, the tunnel. I remembered the tunnel. I supposed it must be the same tunnel. Before it had been brightly lit, even painfully so, but now, though the bulbs were surely illuminated, that one could note, they seemed dim. I did not remember the margins of the encircling shadows. That was different. The focus of my consciousness now seemed small, a circle within a circle, a circle within a circle, that of an encroaching, menacing hue. I sensed redness about, but nothing was red. The walls of the tunnel were white. I recalled that. The line then stopped, and I wavered. I struggled to remain on my feet. I was sure now I knew where we were. I sensed the proximity of the large, disklike object, silverish in the light; I had seen it before. It is not a ship, I told myself. It cannot be a ship. I had seen no engines, no wings, no tail. What would the point of building such a thing? What could it be for? We were still now. I was unsteady. I feared I might fall. I think one of the girls may have slumped to the floor. I had the sense that she was being lifted, and carried.

“Move ahead, up, up the ramp,” said a master, almost at my elbow.

I did not think that Paula was before me now.

I did not know where she was.

I think she had preceded me, in her turn.

I was sure of very little.

My knees felt weak.

I struggled to retain consciousness.

“Up the ramp,” I was told.

I felt the corrugated steel flooring of the ramp beneath my bare feet. I do not think I will ever forget that sensation. It seemed the clearest thing to me, the surface of the ramp, cold, hard, rippled, the most real thing. I began to climb, step by step.