Plunder of Gor (7 page)

Chapter Six

The fellow approached the cell door.

“Step back,” he said.

There were five in the cell, other than Paula and myself. We were all clothed, to one degree or another. Paula wore a skirt, blouse, and sweater. She had apparently drawn on this attire quickly, in order to hurry to my apartment, in response to my unusual call. It seemed she did not care much how she might look on the street. She had, as I have earlier indicated, little sense of fashion. It is hard to wear a blouse, skirt, and sweater smartly. She had not even used lipstick. Had I responded to such a call, if choosing to do so, I would have done so more particularly. Of the five others in the cell two wore jeans and sweatshirts, perhaps ill at ease with their femininity, or perhaps fearing it, or feeling it appropriate to discount it, or protest it. Their garments would have been more appropriate to adolescent males. Another wore what I supposed might be a maid's uniform, black with white trim; I wondered from what penthouse or estate she might have been seized or obtained; perhaps her employer had hired a succession of such girls, to be observed, and examined, and, if found satisfactory, to be remanded here; the fourth wore a chic, expensive business jacket, with skirt, rather as I myself commonly wore to work; and the fifth wore the remains of an evening dress. It had been muchly torn from her. My nightgown, I suspect, was more concealing.

We moved back, toward the rear of the cell and the man unlocked, and opened, the cell door.

A few yards away, before the cell, facing it, there were four other men, two of whom carried switches, useful in the disciplining of women. The fellow who had opened the cell then joined them, and all were facing us.

“Emerge,” he called, “and form a line, facing us, abreast.”

We left the cell, and formed the line, as we had been told. I looked about, and could see the elevator door. I did not know how many floors we had descended to reach this level.

Suddenly one of the girls, she who wore the chic business jacket with skirt, cried out, miserably, ran to the elevator, fumbled about it, and pounded on it, futilely.

“You lack the key,” called the fellow who had opened the cell door, who seemed to be the leader, or spokesman for the others.

Then, after a few moments, she put her head against the elevator door, sobbing, and was still.

“There is no escape,” she was informed. “There are barriers, guards, gates, bars. Outside, there are dogs. The area is remote. You might die at the fence.”

She turned to regard him, dully, defeated, her cheeks stained.

“You are a female,” he called to her. “That is the single most important thing about you. From that, all else follows. Return to your place in line, directly and obediently.”

The girl did so.

We then stood quietly, uneasily, regarding the fellow.

“You are before men,” said the fellow. “Get on your knees.”

All of us knelt, except the woman who had run to the elevator. I was suffused with strange, indescribable emotions.

In the kitchen, on the linoleum, I had been on my knees before the men, for a few moments, but this seemed quite different. That had been, however disturbing, little more than a brief transition between the attitude of a prone, bound prisoner, and that of a wrist-tied, standing prisoner. It was natural that I would have been knelt, that the bonds on my ankles could be removed, making it possible for me to stand upright, before my bitting. There had been little or nothing of anything expected, fitting, or institutionalized in that posture.

This, however, was quite different.

“You are before men,” had said the fellow. “Get on your knees.”

Why should we, women, or, at least, our sort of women, be on our knees before men?

I recalled the brute from the office, he spoken of as Kurik. “Why are you standing?” he had asked, and had informed me that, as he was a free man, I should have been kneeling before him, as I was a slave. I had denied that I was a slave, of course.

“Do you think I do not know a slave when I see one? You lack only the collar,” he had said.

“Get out!” I had said.

“You might look fetching in a slave rag, or a slave tunic,” he had said, “and, perhaps better, clad only in your collar.”

“Get out!” I had said.

I was kneeling.

I was shaken, half fainting. I had never felt such emotions, such feelings. I was kneeling before men. Could it be, I wondered, that I belonged so?

Could it be that I was a slave?

I do not mean, of course, in some legal sense, but in some far more profound sense, a sense in which an explicit legal imposition of servitude would be little more than a technicality, however fearful a technicality, which would recognize, acknowledge, and confirm, in a formal manner, something ancient, something underlying, deeper, and more basic, more real, than statutes, pronouncements, and rulings, something true of my very being.

“I will not kneel, no, no, never, never!” cried the woman who had run to the elevator.

“Remove her clothing, and lash her,” said the man.

Two of his fellows, those without switches, started forward.

“No, no!” she cried. “I am on my knees! I am on my knees!”

At a gesture from the leader, the two fellows stepped back, being then as they had been before.

“You are women,” said the leader. “It is time you learned what you are for.”

Several of us looked wildly to one another. But Paula's eyes were bright. Her lips were slightly parted. She looked ecstatic.

“There are many worlds,” said the man. “You are now familiar only with one, a polluted, dismal world spoiled by selfishness, thoughtlessness, and greed, a barbarian world defiling nature and poisoning seas, a world in which men and women must be fitted to the machine, rather than the machine to men and women. But there are other worlds, better worlds, other civilizations, better civilizations, higher civilizations, civilizations in which nature is not abhorred and denied but celebrated and accepted, civilizations not opposed to nature but allied with her, supportive of her, promotive of her, civilizations in which, recognized, abetted, and enhanced, nature may flourish.”

I could make little of these words.

How could one understand such things?

“One such world,” he said, “is Gor. It is to that world you will be transported, shipped as the merchandise you are for her markets. You are being transmitted to Gor not because of your guilt, understand, though it might be deservedly so, not for your naive contributing to the desecration of a world, nor for your mindless participation in a pathology that mocks nature, but in virtue of the simple right of the stronger to acquire, own, and master the weaker. Each of you has been assessed for Gorean bondage. Each of you has been found suitable for Gorean bondage. Each of you has been selected for Gorean bondage. As soon as this determination was made you were no longer yours, but ours. You will learn the whip, collar, and chain. You are now, as in the case of diverse high civilizations, ancient and modern, merchandise, goods, properties.”

I almost reeled on my knees. I could scarcely believe what I was hearing.

“You are to keep your bodies clean, and well-groomed,” he said. “You now exist to serve and please the free.”

Another fellow then stepped forward. “You will remain on your knees,” he said, “and repeat what I say, aloud and clearly.”

He then issued a set of utterances which we, as bidden, frightened, repeated verbatim.

These utterances, which I recall well, were as follows:

I know nothing of what it is to be a slave.

I will be taught.

I will learn.

I am now worthless.

That is true, and I acknowledge it freely.

But I may be permitted to attain some minimal worth, as a slave.

That is my hope.

It is the only hope for me.

Accordingly, I beg to be a slave.

I beg to be permitted to serve masters, in all ways, instantly, perfectly, and unquestioningly.

I am a slave.

Embond me, legally, that I may serve openly, as the slave I am.

“An interesting lot,” said one of the men, one of those without a switch.

“Process them,” said the leader, turning away.

“On your feet, kajirae,” said the fellow who had just commented on us. “Return to the cell.”

We were then soon again in the cell.

The door was then closed, and locked.

“You may speak,” said the fellow, turning about, paying us no more attention.

We looked at one another, and then, suddenly, gratefully, words and cries, and sobs, like the issuance of hitherto blocked fountains suddenly freed, rushed forth, cascades of speech, torrents of confusion, fears, tremblings, threats, pleas, lamentations, and protests. Some of the girls ran to the bars, seizing them, demanding succor, release, consideration.

Only Paula, sitting on the floor, with her back to a wall of the cell, seemed content, more curious than apprehensive.

I sat down beside her.

“What are kajirae?” I asked.

“Slaves,” she said, “female slaves.”

“And what is the meaning of ‘kajira'?” I asked.

“It is a common word in Gorean for a slave, a female slave,” she said.

“And in the apartment,” I said, “you said ‘
La kajira
'. What does that mean?”

“Did you not tell me you said that some days ago, on the beach?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“It means,” she said, “‘I am a slave', ‘I am a female slave', ‘I am a slave girl', such things.”

“I see,” I said.

“When you said it,” she said, “you became a slave, a slave girl. I told you that, in the apartment.”

Much had rushed past me. I was confused, frightened. She had said something of this sort in the apartment. It came back to me now, frighteningly, clearly.

“I did not know what it meant,” I said.

“That does not matter,” she said, smiling, adding, “kajira.”

I glared at her, angrily.

“I thought, often,” she said, “that you belonged at a man's feet, that you would make a good slave for a man.”

“You seem calm,” I said, reproachfully, “in a cell, abducted.”

“I have long hoped,” she said, “to be noticed, to be acquired, to be picked, to be harvested, as slave fruit, to love and serve, to belong lovingly, selflessly, wholly to another. That was my dream. But I thought myself too plain, of too little interest.”

I did not say so, of course, but I, too, found the apparent interest of men, some men, at least, in Paula unaccountable. I supposed she was acceptable, but what could one see in her beyond that? She was far removed from the linear, svelte ideals presented to us by costumers and designers. Even I fell far short of such an ideal, though much could be done with clothing and carriage.

“I am afraid,” I said.

“At least it is warm in the cell,” she said.

She had opened her sweater.

“Are you not afraid?” I asked.

“A little,” she said.

“I should hope so,” I said.

“I am more excited, and thrilled, than afraid,” she said.

“How is that?” I asked, skeptically.

“I know something of Gor,” she said, “from my reading.”

“Surely we are in danger,” I said.

“I do not think so,” she said. “We are in the hands of Goreans, or, more likely, men much like Goreans. Such men relish, celebrate, and desire women, so much so that they will possess them, will own and master them, will have them in the way of nature, uncompromisingly.”

“I am afraid,” I said.

“We are in no danger,” she said, “if we are diligent, devoted, earnest, pleasing, and obedient.”

“That we should be so to men!” I cried, indignantly.

“We are theirs,” she said. “We are women.”

“Paula!” I cried.

“They are men,” she said.

“Not like the men we know!” I said.

“No,” she said, “not like the men we know, or knew. They are different. They will not be content with a smile, or a crumb. They will want, and will expect, and will have, everything from a woman, and the woman herself.”

“A chain was spoken of,” I said, “a collar, a whip!”

“We are slaves,” she said. “Of course we must expect to be collared, as other beasts. We must expect to be suitably identified as what we are. We are not free women. And surely we must expect to know the shackles and chains which are our due as slaves. And we must expect to be branded.”

“‘Branded',” I said.

“Certainly,” she said, “we are beasts. A collar might be removed.”

“They spoke of a whip,” I said.

“Surely,” she said. “As slaves we will be subject to the whip. And, Phyllis,” she said, “you may rest assured it will be used on your pretty skin if you are in the least bit displeasing.”

“You find that amusing?” I said.

“Knowing you,” she said, “yes. But strive to be pleasing to your master. Slaves are seldom whipped. Occasionally they might be whipped just to remind them that they are slaves.”

“I am still afraid,” I said.

“You are much safer than a free woman,” she said. “It could be death for a free woman to fall into the hands of an enemy, unsated, wild, hot with killing, thirsting for blood, carrying fire and sword into a village, town, or city. You are a beast. Understood loot. You would simply be roped or leashed, put in a coffle, herded into a pen, to change collars or chains.”

Paula put back her head, and laughed.

“Why do you laugh?” I asked, annoyed.

“I was thinking of the apartment,” she said, “and your threats, that you would hold a part of me over me, that you would threaten, if I were not cooperative, if I would not stay with you, to reveal my secret, that I longed for a master.”