Smugglers of Gor (34 page)

Why is it that we make such excellent slaves? Surely it is because it is what we want to be, and are.

Certainly I knew I wanted to kneel, and be owned, and had known this even from my former world. Being brought to Gor was thus for me, in its way, more than a dream come true; it was a restoration of human biological reality, a recovery of a rightfulness of nature, a returning of me to the path of my heart, a bringing of me to a world in which I would have no choice but to be myself. Here, I found myself at the feet of men, where I belonged; here I knew my identity as a female.

I touched my collar.

I was not displeased to be a slave.

No, no, I thought! I am a woman of Earth! I must repudiate my heart! I have been taught so! Should not biology crumble before political injunctions? What rights has she before rules, invented to thwart and subvert her? Dismiss nature. What has she to justify herself, save reality, blood, and need? I knew what I had been taught, in a thousand ways, a thousand times. Why had it seemed to me so false, and so alien, even on my former dismal, unhappy, polluted, awry world? What were its motivations, what ends did it seek, whose programs was it intended to promote? Surely not mine, surely none I recognized or found congenial. Is it appropriate that a culture be founded on division, and hate? Nature denied is nature poisoned. The weather, the tides, the circulation of the blood are without ideology; they are themselves, clean, innocent, and honest.

Would it be so wrong, I wondered, for humans, too, to be themselves?

It was now late in the afternoon.

I was no longer sure how far I might be from Shipcamp, and the Alexandra.

Let the great ship sail. I would be far away. I would be chained in no hold; I would not be penned like a verr.

I looked back at the thick tangle of vines and pods, which I was sure was a thick stand of leech plants.

I understood that it might be the fate of a displeasing slave to find herself cast, naked and bound, to such hungry, alert growths.

And I was suddenly terrified to realize that I, in my flight, might be accounted just such a displeasing slave.

No matter.

I would not be recaptured.

I was clever. I would not permit it.

I must hurry on.

Yet I was not eager to travel through the night.

What if, in the darkness, I might inadvertently stumble into another stand of such hungry, alert growths?

I was hungry, but saw nothing about to eat.

It seemed dark now, for the time of day. The wind was rising, and some leaves fell from the nearby branches. It was time, at Shipcamp, that the slaves of Kennel Five would be given their warm slave gruel, before they would be returned to their chains in the low, heavy enclosure. Usually we were permitted to feed ourselves, but sometimes we must eat on all fours, head down, not using our hands. This is useful in reminding a girl that she is a slave. Often enough we are given bread and fruit. In some kennels the girls, kneeling, feed from a trough, not using their hands, which are often tied behind them, but not in our kennel, Kennel Five. My training group had occasionally been put to a trough for our feeding. Once, to help us keep in mind what we were, we shared the trough with tarsks. Our common drink was water. Private slaves, I understand, fare much better. Some are the pets of their masters, but the whip is always on its peg. One hopes to keep it there. Occasionally we are given a handful of slave pellets. I do not know what is in them, but they are nourishing. Our diet, our exercises, our rest periods, and such, are carefully regulated, as would be expected, given that we are stock. Attention is given to our health, vitality, and desirability. Masters concern themselves with our weight, and figures, even to scales and measures. We each have our “block measurements,” and are expected to keep closely to them. We are to be such that we could be brought responsibly, and plausibly, to the block, at any time, not that we are to be sold but that we are to be such as are obviously vendible. We are to keep ourselves clean and well-groomed. Our posture, our carriage, and our figures are to be such as would be likely to inspire envy and hatred in a free woman. Our bodies are commonly much exposed, and this makes it imperative to carry them well. Whereas there is a considerable variety in the figures of slaves, with respect to the presence or absence of a pound here and there, there are few, if any, obese slaves. We are not free women, who may be as unclean, unkempt, disgusting, and fat as they wish. Indeed, it is one of the transitions faced by the free woman reduced to bondage, that she must now, tunicked, even camisked, certainly well displayed, become exciting, attractive, and desirable. She might now, after all, be marketed. To be slovenly in a collar is not acceptable. The master will not stand for it. One might also note, in passing, that a free woman can be loud, intrusive, forward, unpleasant, ill-tempered, and so on. Such things are her prerogative. The slave, on the other hand, is to be deferent and obedient. Amongst free persons she commonly kneels. When she speaks, if she is permitted to do so, she will commonly speak softly and clearly. Her diction is to be excellent. She is not a free woman. Unless her need is on her, her presence, while obvious and lovely, is unobtrusive. She is to remember that she is her master’s animal. As a slave, she is expected to behave as a slave. On the other hand, let us suppose, for a moment, she is alone with her master. Her behavior then is likely to be whatever the master might wish. She might behave as before, should it be his wish, as it may be, but, too, if he wishes, he might snap his fingers, speak a simple word, point to the floor, or such, and he will have at his disposal something seemingly quite different, something free women can only enviously suspect, to their rage, a lascivious, needful pleasure object, perhaps indistinguishable from a paga girl or a brothel slut, something of the sort for which men bid heatedly. And it is at its own slave ring!

I heard thunder, which did not please me. But I supposed rain would be in my favor.

Though the day had been warm, it was late autumn. Twice I had seen ice in the Alexandra, doubtless washed down from some northern tributary. Though it was rumored that the great ship would soon cast its moorings, any day now, many had scoffed at this, speculating that it was unlikely, for the season. Certainly it was not a river ship, and, I was told, one does not take to Thassa, the sea, in the winter. Even in the summer, with her storms and moods, she is daunting, unruly, and dangerous. In the winter, I was told, it would be madness to venture amongst the swirling mountains of her waves, the cold and bitter hammers of her winds. Yet it seemed the ship was being readied. But eyes had not yet been painted on her bow. How then could she see her way? But what if eyes were not to be permitted to her, for some reason? Might not mariners be uneasy to crew a ship forbidden to see her way?

It was growing cold.

I was hungry.

It would soon be dark.

I felt a drop of rain.

I did not have my blanket. But I could not well have brought it from Shipcamp.

I cried out, as a small body, no higher than my waist when it struck the ground at my side, bounded past me. I could have touched it. It disappeared amongst the trees. I had glimpsed it only briefly, but it was a tabuk. I did not know if it were the one I had seen earlier, or not. It had paid me no attention; perhaps it had not even noticed me, or cared to notice me. I found that surprising, for it is difficult to approach a tabuk, as they are alert, skittish animals. I stepped back. There was nothing cautious or leisurely about its passage. It had been moving quickly. Yet its bounds, as it fled past, seemed erratic, unpredictable. But that is not unusual in a tabuk, if it is alarmed. Was it alarmed? Why did it not move in a straighter, more direct fashion? Then I could not move, but stood still, as though paralyzed, my hand before my mouth. Not three yards away, its motion arrested, there was a paused, crouching sleen, a wild sleen. I knew it was a sleen, as I had seen them in Shipcamp, where some are kept and trained by sleen masters. I found them frightening animals. Domestic sleen are often larger and more aggressive than sleen in the wild, for they are bred carefully and selectively for a variety of purposes, war, herding, the hunt, and such. I think the beast was as startled to see me as I was to see it. Its belly low to the ground, its shoulder was no higher than a bit above my knee. It was some five to six feet in length, its body sinuous, snakelike. It must be a young animal, I thought, as an adult sleen, even in the wild, may range from eight to ten feet in length. It reminded me of a furred reptile, viper-headed, fanged. The eyes in that triangular, fanged head were full upon me. Its tail lashed back and forth. I could not move. I could not even have cried for help. Then the beast’s head dipped, sweeping, to the ground. I heard it snuffling. Then its muzzle was almost at my feet. Its body literally rubbed against my leg as it snaked past me, and it continued on its way. I knew little about sleen, but I did know it was the planet’s most adept, reliable, tenacious tracker. That is why they are often used in hunting. A flaw, or virtue, of the sleen as a hunter is its single-mindedness. As a flaw, once fastened on a scent, and committed to it, it will ignore better, easier game for less desirable, more-difficult-to-obtain game; on the other hand, once committed to a scent, it is likely to pursue it relentlessly, which, if one is after a particular quarry, might be, I suppose, accounted a virtue. As noted, the sleen, in the wild, is predominantly nocturnal, usually emerging from its burrow at dusk, and returning to it in the early morning. The sleen, I gathered, was pursuing the tabuk, and, accordingly, I had been to it no more than an unexpected distraction. Still, what if another should come across my scent? I would hope it would not commit to it, but would ignore it in favor of more familiar game. But one does not know. Much depends on how hungry an animal is. The hungry sleen may attack even a larl, which is likely to kill it; in the far north I am told snow sleen will hunt in packs, rather like swarming sea sleen, but the sleen, generally, like the larl, is a solitary hunter. Older animals, of course, may be reduced to hunting slower, less-desirable prey. Where the sleen ranges, peasants, foresters, and such, commonly remain indoors at night, or, if venturing out, are likely to do so in armed groups. The hunts of wild sleen, of course, are not invariably successful, or the value of their range would be soon reduced by overhunting. In the wild, the sleen will usually return to its burrow by morning, and, after sleeping, seek a new trail the next night. Too, after a kill, many sleen, rather like certain reptiles, may remain asleep or quiescent for weeks, even months. This is not the case, however, with the domestic sleen, which are bred with different ends in view. They are restless, energetic, active, possess a rapid metabolism, sleep far less, and function well both diurnally and nocturnally. Their aggression, diverse behaviors, and such, are often triggered by private, secret, verbal signals, sometimes taken from only one person. Sometimes a bond, almost resembling affection, exists between the beast and its master.

I continued on.

Night was darkening the forest.

I would soon stop.

I knew that there were not only sleen in the forest, but panthers, as well. Larls are not indigenous to the northern forests, and I was confident I was far beyond the range of those employed for patrolling by the Pani in the vicinity of Tarncamp and Shipcamp. There was some danger of intruding into the territory of the wild bosk, but I did not much fear them. They would not be likely to seek me out. Similarly I did not fear forest urts or tarsk, though the boar can be dangerous. I had heard of Panther Girls but did not think there would be many, if any, about, this far north. Some bands, I had heard, roamed in the vicinity of the Laurius, much farther south. Too, in a few weeks winter would greet the forest. Should I encounter Panther Girls I thought I might join their band. But then I touched my neck. There was a collar on it. Panther Girls were free women. They despised slaves. Woe to the slave who fell into their hands! I did not understand the hatred of Panther Girls for slaves. What were they afraid of? Did they, in all their vaunted freedom, in their skins and necklaces, fear something in themselves? What might it be? Could it be the slave?

It was now dark.

I stood, and felt more drops of rain. One could hear its patter on leaves. I heard thunder, far off.

I was cold, and hungry.

I thought of a master, and tried to stir the heat of anger against him in my shivering body. It was he whom I had first seen, long ago, in the aisle of large, crowded, emporium on Earth. Our eyes had met. How weak I had suddenly felt. A free woman on an alien world I had almost fallen to my knees before him, my head lowered, placing myself before him, even in so public a place, in what could only be understood as a slave’s submission. Is such a thing so natural to a woman, I wondered? Has it been coded in us, since the savannas, and caves? How his eyes had looked upon me! Somehow it had been clear to me that this was no man of Earth, or no common man of Earth. Under his gaze I had felt stripped. It was the first time I had ever been looked upon as what I had so often thought myself to be, a female slave. I had turned about, and fled. He had later stood over me when I had lain bound in a warehouse. He had observed me in an exposition cage in Brundisium, and turned away from me, rejecting me, doubtless, as inferior merchandise. And I had fallen to my knees before him on the dock at Shipcamp, and he had again turned away! How I despised and hated him! I had prostrated myself before him, as a tunicked, collared, marked slave, on the dock at Shipcamp, and he had again turned away. I had been scorned. I hated him. And yet, I knew, in some sense, he was my master, and I his slave.

And I did not even know his name!

Lightning, far off, suddenly broke open the sky with a wound of light, and a moment later the atmosphere cried out, rumbling, as though in pain.

I did not even know his name!

I cried out with misery as the forest was suddenly illuminated about me, and, almost simultaneously, was shaken by a great stroke of thunder. It seemed almost over my head, at the crest of the trees. I couched down, making myself tiny, my hands over my head, sobbing and cold. For better than an Ehn I could not hear. The rain was then falling heavily. The tunic I wore, of rep-cloth, was light, and obviously cut for a slave. At its best it is a mockery of a garment, the sort in which one puts collar-girls, the sort which makes it clear to the girl and the world that its occupant is owned. It is certainly not designed to protect the girl from the elements. That is done with cloaks, boots, wrappings, blankets, jackets, leggings, and such.