Beasts of Gor coc-12

by John Norman

  “You are the Lady Rosa?” I asked.

  She drew herself up coldly. “I am the Lady Graciela Consuelo Rosa Rivera-Sanchez,” she said. “What is going on?” she asked.

  “There is an intruder in the complex,” I said.

  “Has he yet been apprehended?” she asked.

  “No,” I said. “How long have you been in the complex?”

  “Four months,” she said. Then she said, “Four Gorean months, not yet completing the fourth passage hand.”

  “Are you familiar with the chain-and-track system, for controlling the movements of slaves?” I asked.

  “Of course,” she said.

  “At its remotest terminations?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said, “but humans are not allowed beyond those points.”

  I smiled.

  “How could an intruder penetrate the complex?” she asked.

  “By means of a ventilator shaft,” I said. “You speak Gorean rather well,” I said, “though with a distinct accent.”

  “I have been intensively trained,” she said.

  That accent, I thought, which was aristocratic and Castilian, would not be objected to by most Gorean masters.

  “I have high linguistic aptitudes,” she said, coldly.

  I thought that that was fortunate for her. She would more quickly be able to understand and please a master in the subtleties of his pleasure, once she was totally owned by one. On the other hand, almost any girl, in a condition of slavery, learns quickly. She must. Slave girls are incredibly alert to the subtlest and most delicate nuances of a master’s speech. The tiniest inflection can tell her whether her master is joking with her or, if she does not do something differently almost instantaneously, that she is to be mercilessly whipped. Girls in collars strive to learn well the, language of their masters. Differences among them in the swiftness with which the various proficiency levels are attained are functions, generally, of native aptitude and exposure conditions. The slave girl is doubtless, among the most highly motivated of female language students. Yet, if they begin to learn Gorean as adults, or young adults, they will almost always retain traces of their native tongue. I have encountered girls on Gor who spoke Gorean with a variety of Earth accents.

  “What does the intruder want in the complex?” inquired the woman.

  “At the moment he needs a woman,” I said.

  “I do not understand,” she said.

  “Remove your clothing,” I said.

  She looked at me, startled.

  “Or I shall do it for you,” I said. “I am the intruder,” I explained.

  She backed away. “Never,” she said.

  “Very well,” I said. “Lie on the bed, on your stomach, with your hands and legs apart.” I drew forth the knife at the belt of the garment I wore. It is not wise to try to tear away the garments of a free woman with one’s bare hands. They may contain poisoned needles.

  “You’re joking,” she said.

  I gestured with the knife to the bed.

  “You would not dare,” she hissed.

  “To the bed,” I said.

  “I am the Lady Graciela Consuelo Rosa Rivera-Sanchez,” she said.

  “If you are pretty enough,” I said, “perhaps I will call you Pepita.”

  “You would take away my clothes, wouldn’t you?” she said.

  “I am Gorean,” I told her. I took a step toward her.

  “Do not touch me,” she said. “I will do it.”

  Her small hands reluctainly went to the hooks at the throat of the garments.

  “The veil, and hood, first,” I said.

  She brushed them back, with a movement of her hand, a toss of her head.

  “You would bring a high price,” I told her. She looked at me in fury.

  “Step from your slippers,” I told her.

  She did so. She was then barefoot.

  “Continue,” I told her.

  Her hands again went to the hooks at the throat of the garments. Angrily, deliberately, she loosened the hooks, one by one.

  She pulled the garments down a bit from her throat. Her throat was slender and lovely. It would take an engraved steel collar, bearing her master’s name, beautifully.

  Her hands were at the two outer robes. She looked at me.

  “We do not have all day,” I told her.

  They fell about her ankles.

  “Between the third and fourth robes,” I told her, “there is a sheathed dagger, concealed in the lining. Keep your hands away from it.”

  “You are observant,” she said.

  A warrior is trained to look for such things.

  The third and fourth robe slipped to the floor, about her ankles.

  There remained now but the fifth robe, and the light, sleeveless, greenish-silk, sliplike undergown.

  Her hands hesitated at the throat of the fifth robe.

  “Off with it,” I told her.

  It, like the others, fell about her ankles.

  “Step from the robes,” I said.

  She did so.

  She was yery slender, and exquisite, in the sheath of green silk.

  “Do not make me strip further, I beg of you,” she said.

  “Turn about,” I said.

  With the knife I cut the cord binding back her hair.

  “Excellent,” I said.

  Her flesh was very light; her hair, long, reaching below the small of her back, thick and lovely, was marvelously black. It contrasted vividly with the remarkable paleness of her arms, her shoulders and back. I wondered if she realized that women of her paleness and beauty had, in effect, like certain other types, been sexually selected, over generations, even on her native world, a world which seldom consciously thought of itself as a world breeding slaves. Many strains and types of beautiful women, of course, had been developed on Earth. The Lady Rosa was an excellent specimen of one such type. Earth women have been bred for love and beauty; it is unfortunate that they are educated for frustration.

  I found a comb on a nearby vanity. Sheathing my knife and holding her by the back of the neck with my left hand I swiftly, but with some care, combed out her hair.

  She sobbed in anger when the tiny, cloth-enfolded needle, tipped with kanda, fell from her hair, caught, and drawn out, by the teeth of the comb of kailiauk tusk.

  I turned her about, roughly.

  I looked down at her.

  She looked up at me, her eyes flashing. “I am now defenseless,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  With my knife I cut the thin shoulder straps of the sheath-like garment of greenish silk. With the back of the knife to her skin I moved the garment down and away from her, until it was at her ankles. She shuddered when the coldness of the knife blade moved against her flesh. She looked down at the knife, apprehensively. “What do you want me for?” she said. “Are you going to rape me?”

  She looked at the large, round bed, soft and deep, eovered with green silk. Well could she conceive of herself upon it, at my mercy, rightless, abused for my pleasure.

  “You would have to earn your right to serve upon such a bed,” I told her. “A wench such as you would have to first learn your lessons in the dirt or on straw, or on a fur thrown over cement at the foot of a master’s couch, under the slave ring.”

  I took her by the hair and pulled her to the side of the room, near some chests.

  There, from a chest, I took two sandal strings. With one of these I tied her hands behind her back. A sandal string is more than sufficient to hold a female. The other sandal string I tied snugly about her belly. I then took forth a long, linear face veil; it was red; it was an intimacy veil; any given layer of this veil is quite diaphanous; its opacity is a function of the number of times it is wrapped about the face; a free woman, entertaining an anxious lover, might detain him for days, each night permitting him a less obscure glimpse of her features, until the shattering moment when she perhaps permits him to gaze upon her unclothed face. Such nonsense, of course,
is not tolerated from a slave girl. She is simply ordered to the slave ring. The intimacy veil, I detected, had never been worn by the Lady Rosa. Its presence in her wardrobe was doubtless merely a function of the desire of her employers to assure its completeness and her adequate familiarity with Gorean customs, a familiarity she might have to develop in order to prosecute certain missions which might be expected of her on Gor.

  I looped the intimacy veil about the back of her neck and crossed it above her breasts and drew it to the sides, over her breasts, and then took both lengths around her body and behind her back, again crossing them, then looping them about the sandal string tight on her waist; I then took the two loose ends and passed them between her legs, drawing them up snugly and passing them behind and over the sandal string at her belly. I straightened the two layers of loose cloth in front; they were about six inches in width and fell beautifully below her knees.

  She looked at me with horror.

  “It will do for slave silk,” I said.

  I pulled her by the arm before a large mirror in the room.

  She moaned, regarding herself.

  “Note the slip knot on the sandal string,” I said. “The string may be removed by a simple tug.”

  “Beast!” she wept

  I observed her slim, lovely thigh. I thought it would look well incised with the standard Kajira mark of Gor; it is the first letter, in cursive script, of the word ‘Kajira’, the most common word for a female slave in the Gorean lexicon; it is a simple, rather floral mark, simple, befitting a slave, lovely, befitting a woman.

  She struggled before the mirror, but I held her in place by her left arm.

  Yes, the mark would look well on her thigh.

  “I have put you in red silk,” I said. “Is it appropriate?”

  “It certainly is not!” she said.

  “Perhaps it soon will be,” I said.

  She struggled fiercely, futilely. Then she stopped struggling. “I will give you gold, much gold, to free me,” she said.

  “I do not want your gold,” I said.

  She looked at me, startled, frightened.

  I dragged her to the threshold of her apartment. It was there that the chain dangled from its overhead track, within the door.

  “What do you want of me?” she begged. “The tiles are cold on my feet,” she said. “Untie me,” she said. “No!” she cried.

  I had lifted the chain and was looping it about her neck. I did so, four times. She would feel its weight. The loops would conceal to some extent that she wore no collar. The chain was color coded with two red bands. I thrust the heavy tongue of the stout padlock through two links of the chain, I then snapped it shut. It, too, was color coded with two, tiny red bands. I looked at her. She was now a component in the chain-and-track system of the complex.

  “I am the Lady Graciela Consuelo Rosa Rivera-Sanchez,” she said.

  “Be quiet, Pepita,” I said.

  She gasped. Then she said, “No! Do not force me outside the apartment clothed like this!”

  I thrust her through the door, out into the corridor. She looked at me with misery, the chain dangling behind her. She realized that she would be marched anywhere, if and as I pleased.

  I looked at her. I carried the dart-firing, rifielike con-trivance with me.

  I now had my guide.

  The red silk would diminish suspicion. A red-silked girl in a Gorean fortress is a not uncommon sight. Suspicion, if any, would be most likely generated by the fact that she was not, under the security alert, in close chains, in a holding area. Her modesty had made it unlikely that many in the complex would recognize her body or features, which had, I gathered, been generally kept from view by the multitudinous robes and veils of concealment common to the Gorean free women of the high cities.

  She sank to her knees in misery.

  I expected that Kurii would be manning the lensed monitors in the hall. I did not think they would notice, with the resolution available to normal scanning, that she lacked the small brand on the thigh. They would have been more suspicious had her thighs been covered. Similarly I did not expect them to note, under the loops of chain, with the standard lens resolutions they would use, similar to those in Half-Ear’s compartment, I supposed, that she lacked the slender steel collar of the Gorean slave girl.

  “On your feet,” I said.

  She struggled to her feet, and stood, regarding me, “On the red-collar system,” I said, “which is the most extensive in the track, is there any termination more remote than any of the others.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  This surprised me.

  “Take me to it,” I said.

  She drew herself up, proudly. “No,” she said. She winced, the barrel of the riflelike contrivance thrust into her belly. I forced her back until she was pinned against the wall. “You would not,” she said.

  “You are only a woman,” I told her.

  “I will take you!” she said. “But it will do you no good, for humans are not allowed beyond that point!”

  “Which way?” I asked.

  Her eyes indicated the direction.

  I thrust her, roughly, stumbling, with the side of the rifle-like contrivance, in that direction.

  “Faster,” I told her.

  We proceeded swiftly down the corridor.

  “If we pass men,” she said, “you know I need only cry out to them.”

  “Do so,” I said, “and half of you may remain on the chain.” I had not gagged her, for that, surely, would have provoked suspicion.

  “Faster,” I ordered. I prodded her with the barrel of the riflelike contrivance and she cried out with pain, stumbling, and hurried her pace.

  Soon she was gasping. She was an Earth girl. She was not in the condition of the Gorean slave girl, with her almost perfect diet, imposed by masters, her muscles toned by a regime of exercises, her legs and wind toughened by long hours of training in sensuous dance.

  I saw one of the lens monitors rotate on its swivel in our direction.

  “Hurry, Kajira,” I said. -“It is long past the time whea you should have been secured.”

  The monitor turned away.

  For several Ehn we hurried through the haIls. Sometimes we descended stairwells. She was sweating and gasping. The chain was heavy on her neck and shoulders. “Hurry, pretty Pepita,” I encouraged her.

  Then, on a given level, four below the central level, we saw four men approaching.

  “Walk,” I told her.

  I walked beside her, obscuring her left thigh.

  She shuddered, seeing how the men looked at her. One of them laughed. “A new girl,” he said.

  In less than four Ehn from that point, the track system terminated.

  “This is the farthest reach of the track system,” she said. The chain dangled downward, then looped up to her neck. Her small wrists twisted futilely behind her in the encircling, knotted sandal string, that simple device which constituted her bond. “Humans may not go further.”

  “Have you seen those who are not humans?” I asked.

  I knew there were few Kur in the complex.

  “No,” she said, “but I know them to be a form of alien. Doubtless they are humanlike, perhaps indistinguishable from humans.”

  I smiled. She had not seen the beasts she served.

  “I have brought you here,” she said, “now free me.”

  I opened the padlock and freed her neck of the chain. The attached padlock, with its key, I snapped about a link of the chain, between some four and five feet from the floor. This is the inactive position of the chain, lock at collar level, chain terminating with a closed loop, the loop about a foot off the floor, an arrangement permitting a girl to be quickly and conveniently put on the chain and permitting the chain, if no girl is upon it, to be slid in its track without dragging on the steel plates.

  She turned about, holding her bound wrists to me, that I might unbind them. Instead I took her by the hair and walked her, bent over, beside
me, sliding the chain along with us, backward, until I came to a branching in a hail. I slid The chain a distance down that hall, and then, still holding her, returned to that point at which the track system terminated.

  “Free me,” she begged. “Oh!” she cried, as my hand twisted in her hair.

  “You are too pretty to free,” I told her.

  I then thrust her ahead of me, down the corridor, beyond the termination point of the chain-and-track system.

  She turned about, terrified. “Humans may not go beyond this point,” she said.

  “Precede me,” I told her.

  Moaning, the bound, silked girl turned about and preceded me.

  I saw that no more of the lensed monitors covered this portion of the corridor. I grew uneasy, for it seemed matters proceeded too simply. A steel door lay at the end of the corridor. I had speculated that the destructive device would lie beyond the reach of slaves, and in an area secret to the monitoring system, which might be available at times to humans. Yet, now, I was apprehensive.

  I tried the door at the end of the corridor. It was open. I thrust it back with the butt of the riflelike contrivance I carried.

  I looked at the girl. I nodded to her to approach me. She did so. I held my left hand open, at my waist. She stiffened, and looked at me, angrily. I opened and closed my left hand once. I saw her training in Gorean customs had been thorough. But she never thought that such a gesture would be used to her. She came beside me, and a bit behind me, and, crouching, put her head down, deeply. I fastened my hand in her hair. She winced. Women are helpless in this position. I carried the dart-firing weapon, loaded, in my right hand. I looked cautiously about the frame of the door. I entered, conducting the girl. The room, large, seemed deserted.

  It seemed a normal storage room, though quite large. It was filled with boxes, the markings on which I could not read. Some of the boxes were in the nature of open crates. They seemed to contain machinery and parts for machinery. There were corridors among the boxes.

  I heard a sound and, releasing the girl, lifted the weapon, with both hands.

  A figure, in black, stood up, high, atop several boxes. “It is not here,” he said.

  “Drusus,” I said. I recalled him, he of the Assassins, whom I had bested on the sand of the small arena.