Renegades of Gor

by Norman, John;

  “Do not leave your kneeling position at such a time,” begged Lady Claudia, tears in her eyes.

  The head reappeared behind the observation panel and found us in our places. As soon as it left the panel this time I bent down to see if it might be possible to seize her somehow from under the door. But, to my irritation, a pan, into which had been ladled some meal and a piece of bread was thrust beneath the door with a rod. Lady Claudia rushed to the pan and placed the meal and bread in the cell’s food pan some five feet in front of her and then replaced the delivery pan half under the door. It was pulled back with the rod. The warder, given that she was a female, had been well taught suitable alterations in the common routines of warders. Doubtless, too, somewhere there were men about, to back her up, if need be. I was angry. I then straightened up in time to be in place when she looked through the panel again. The use of the two pans is not primarily for security as one pan could be used, or an exchange of pans, provided suitable distances between the prisoners and the warders are maintained, but rather to keep pans localized to given cells. This helps to prevent the spread of infections and makes each cell responsible for its own hygiene.

  “Please give us more to eat!” cried Lady Claudia.

  “You are too fat now,” said the warder.

  “Please!” begged Lady Claudia.

  Lady Claudia, in my opinion, was certainly not fat. On the other hand, it was probably true that she had been better fed than most in Ar’s Station, at least prior to her incarceration in the cell, given her former hoarding and the additional food she had obtained at the wall, in the basket.

  “Are you afraid your pretty complexion will suffer?” asked the warder.

  “Please!” said Lady Claudia. “Please!”

  The panel slid shut.

  “The she-sleen!” cried Lady Claudia. “How I hate her!” She clenched her fists. “I hate her! I hate her!” she said. She pounded her fists on the stone, the blows softened by the intervening straw. Then she looked dismally, angrily, at the bit of meal and the crust of bread in the pan. “Surely it is their intent to starve me!”

  “Us?” I asked.

  “Yes, us,” she said.

  “You are probably being fed as well as most in Ar’s Station,” I said. The men on the walls, hopefully, would receive more. Yet those I had met had seemed half starved. “Too,” I said, “it is not unlike the rations given to new slave girls early in their training period, when they are being taught their dependence on men for their food.”

  She made an angry noise and stood up. She made as though to move to the pan, but stopped short. “Oh!” she said. My hand had closed about her ankle.

  “Get on your belly,” I told her.

  “What are you doing?” she exclaimed, angrily. She could not advance toward the food.

  “Now,” I said.

  Angrily she went to her belly and I drew her back a foot or two by the ankle. She put out her hands but could not reach the food. I then got up and went to the pan. I picked it up and took it back, toward the back of the cell, where I sat down, cross-legged, the pan before me. She turned about, not daring to leave her belly, to look at me.

  “You may approach,” I told her. “But do not come close enough to touch the food.”

  She squirmed forward, desperately.

  “Are you hungry?” I asked.

  “Yes!” she said.

  “Would you like to eat?” I asked.

  “Yes!” she said.

  “Perform,” I said.

  “No!” she cried. “I am a free woman!”

  “Very well,” I said. I paid her no more attention. I fingered some of the meal into my mouth. It was in a glutinous, semisolid glob. It was neither sugared nor salted.

  “Please!” she cried. She had not risen from her belly.

  “Do you think you are still alone in the cell?” I asked.

  “Please!” she begged.

  I fingered more of the meal, a good two fingersful, into my mouth.

  “I will perform!” she said.

  “Stand up,” I said, “back a bit, where I may see you.” I put the pan to one side, on the straw, on the stone, and looked at her. She was not a woman of Earth. She was a Gorean female, and knew the men of Gor. A woman of Earth, if not beaten, and swiftly forced to learn her womanhood, would doubtless have held out for a time, confident that Gorean men, like those to whom she had become accustomed on her native planet, would prove to be weak, that they would yield to her. They learn, soon enough, however, that the average Gorean male simply does not share the conditioned political conceptions of the female which in so many cases have succeeded in crippling, weakening and demasculinizing the men of Earth. She finds that she is viewed rather in the context of biology and nature. She quickly learns, too, that where women are concerned, and thus where she is concerned, the average Gorean male has a will of iron. She also quickly learns that he has, personally and culturally, the power to enforce this will.

  “Stand straight,” I said, “the palms of your hands on the sides of your legs.”

  She did so.

  The spy was lovely, though there was a kind of hardness, and nastiness, about her.

  “Perform,” I said.

  “For such performances,” I said, “it is hard to believe that the guards would have fed you.”

  She looked at me, angrily.

  “Now,” I said, “perform for me, as you did for them.”

  “Not bad,” I said, fingering more of the meal into my mouth. I was, after all, hungry, too. I had not eaten since early morning, at the small tent I had shared with Phoebe. To be sure, Lady Claudia would not have had anything since noon, the day before.

  “Please!” she said.

  “But I,” I said, “am more demanding than the guards. Do you understand?” I put more meal into my mouth.

  “Yes!” she said. She then began, again, to try to please me, this time even more desperately. She did not do badly. Then, after a time, I helped her, giving her detailed instructions, putting her, here and there, and about the cell, through detailed woman paces. Then she lay on her belly before me, gasping, covered with sweat. I motioned that she should kneel near me, and I placed her hands on her thighs. I rubbed my hand on her head. The short-cropped hair was wet with sweat. I then, having her lean forward, keeping her hands on her thighs, bit by bit, as I chose, fed her by hand. She would lean forward, eagerly. Sometimes I made her stretch, holding the food just a little out of her reach. Sometimes I had her lick and suck my fingers, too, which she did eagerly enough, that none of the meal would be lost. Then we had finished the bit of meal and bread between us. She knelt back, regarding me reproachfully.

  “Stand,” I said, “back a bit, where I can see you, straightly, with your hands on the sides of your legs, as you did before.”

  I then rose up and went to her, and looked at her, walking about her. Then I stood again before her.

  I put my hands on her upper arms. “Look at me,” I said. She lifted her head.

  “You are hard, and petty, and nasty,” I said.

  She looked up at me, angrily.

  “But you are pretty,” I said.

  She did not respond.

  “Yes,” I said. “You will do.”

  “‘Do’?” she said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I do not understand,” she said.

  “Do not tire me,” I said. I then flung her back, behind where we had stood, to the straw, and put her to my purposes.

  13

  Food

  “My hair,” she said, “is grown out more now.”

  “Yes,” I said, rubbing the brush of it near my thigh, where her head rested.

  “I want my hair to grow out,” she said.

  I did not respond.

  Chloe looked up at me, from where she lay, beside my thigh. “You have made me soft, and female,” she said. “You would have it so, and have had it so. Now I can be no other than that, nor do I desire to be other than that.”<
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  “Kiss me,” I said.

  She did so, softly, obediently, much as might have a slave.

  I had given her, for my purposes, the name ‘Chloe’. Technically, of course, as she was still a free woman, she was still Lady Claudia of Ar’s Station. She had, however, however deceitfully, several days ago upon the wall, lowering her message in the basket, declared for Cos. Accordingly I had given her a Cosian name. It was a lovely name. She responded well to it, psychologically, socially and sexually. Further, she understood the propriety of its having been put on her.

  Five days ago the walls of Ar’s Station had been breached. Cosians were now within the city. The defenders, sometimes fighting street by street, and building to building, and those who could reach it, had now withdrawn to the citadel, bringing with them what belongings and supplies they could. In the citadel now, hungry and miserable, besides the defenders, were crowded hundreds of women and children. Ar’s Station was in flames. Smoke drifted even to our cell.

  “What was that?” cried Chloe, leaping up.

  I, too, leaped up.

  There had been a rumbling crash from somewhere outside the citadel.

  “I am not sure,” I said.

  Later that afternoon there were several more such crashes, all on the land side of the citadel.

  “There is another,” said Chloe, toward dusk.

  “It is Cosians,” I said. “They are clearing the ground outside the citadel, destroying the buildings, that they may bring their engines within range.”

  We heard, from somewhere outside, the long, wild scream of a woman, perhaps from among the buildings, outside the wall.

  Chloe looked at me.

  “She has been caught,” I said.

  It had had a sudden wild ring about it, as though she might suddenly, to her dismay, have felt ropes settle about her body, and draw tight.

  “I, too, was caught,” said Chloe. “And then, later, you, too, caught me. I do not mind having been caught by you. I am pleased to have been caught by you.”

  I pulled her up beside me, and kissed her. She snuggled into my arms, frightened.

  “The slavers are out there, somewhere, aren’t they?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “With their cages, and chains, and wagons,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “For hundreds of pasangs about,” she said, “women will be cheap for months.”

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  “I envy them their chains,” she said, “especially with what I have learned in your arms.”

  I put my hand gently on her head. She was still a free woman, and in the keeping of those she had betrayed. Well might she envy those whose fate would be merely a brand, a collar and the personally irreversible, universally honored, absolute helplessness of Gorean bondage.

  “Many of those captured,” I said, “might be shipped to the islands, Cos, Tyros, Tabor, Asperiche and so on. If that is the case, they might not depress the market as much as you feared.”

  “You are kind,” she said.

  “Do you wish to be beaten?” I asked.

  “No,” she said, quickly.

  “And many, most, I suspect, of those women of Ar’s Station who had not managed to flee earlier, at the approach of Cos, or somehow escape the city, are in the citadel.”

  “There must be hardly room to move in the citadel,” she said.

  “Our quarters are doubtless among the most luxurious,” I said.

  “Why do they not take us outside and chain us to a post?” she asked.

  “Perhaps that the people not tear us to pieces,” I said.

  She shuddered. The cell door, now, it seemed, so stoutly locked, might be serving as much to protect us as confine us. On the other hand, perhaps most of the people outside did not even know why we were here. If they did, perhaps they would have been at the door, trying to force it open.

  “The Cosians must not bring their catapults into action, at this range,” she said.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “The people,” she said. “The crowding. It would be terrible.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “Surely they would not do so,” she said.

  “I would conjecture that the engines will be in place by morning,” I said.

  “But they will not use them!” she said.

  “I would expect them to do so,” I said, “with stones, and oil, and javelins.”

  “There must be little food in the citadel now,” she said.

  Our rations, small though they were, had been halved. We were both weak.

  “Why do they bother feeding us?” she asked.

  “I do not know,” I said. I had some idea as to why they were probably feeding her, at least. I did not, however, want to speak to her of this.

  The observation panel in the door slid back. I saw the head of our warder rise up, behind the slot, as she stepped up, onto her platform. She still had the white, scarflike turban and veil. “Prisoners, forward,” she said. “Kneel.”

  We obeyed. It was toward dusk. It was not time to be fed.

  “You, Claudia, slave girl,” she said. “Kneel behind him and to his left.” A slave girl, in heeling her master, commonly follows on the left. That she follows indicates that she is subservient, that he is master and she slave; that she follows on the left is a cultural matter probably indexed to the fact that most Goreans are right-handed. Her presence on the left, thus, is not likely to interfere with his draw or the movements of his sword arm.

  “You are pretty, slave girl,” snarled the warder to Lady Claudia. “How natural you look there!”

  “Yes!” said Lady Claudia to her. “I am a slave girl! He has taught me that I am a slave girl! I know it now!”

  “Slave! Slave!” snarled the warder.

  Lady Claudia, of course, was not a slave, not a legal slave, at any rate. She was still, legally, a free woman. I had seen no point in embonding her. Similarly, I had ordered her not to submit herself to me, of her own free will, even when she had begged to do so. In either case, she could have been taken from me easily enough by force, and then freed, to be made again legally susceptible to whatever punishments they wished to visit upon her. To be sure, they might, if they wished, make her a slave themselves, or let her be a slave, either by my action or her own, and then, if she were a slave, do anything they wished with her.

  I found it hard to understand the warder’s hatred for Lady Claudia. It surpassed anything which seemed rationally connected with her culpability in the matter of espionage. The first time I had used Lady Claudia, the first day I had been in the cell, flinging her to my feet in the straw, I had taken little time with her. Her raping had been suitable for a nasty little spy. Later that afternoon, after I had slept, I had awakened and snapped my fingers. She was over against the far wall, awake, wide-eyed, half covered in the straw, lying on her side, watching me. At my signal she had crawled across the floor, through the straw, and then knelt before me, her head down, submitted. I had taken her by the arms and thrown her again to the straw. I had not expected the intensity and helplessness of her response. Within the Ahn she had become, in effect, my slave. That night I gave her the name ‘Chloe’. A transformation had soon become visible in her, over the next two or three days, in her entire body and personality. The hardness, the selfishness, the nastiness, the smallness, the pettiness, the meanness which had so characterized her began to melt away. In its place she was becoming soft and feminine, delicate and attentive, eager to please and serve, and loving. At first the warder was much amused by the imperious and uncompromising treatment to which my fair cellmate found herself subjected, taking great pleasure in her fate. Sometimes, in the first day or two, the warder would even watch us, encouraging me and jeering at the helpless, lovely spy. Soon, however, as it became clear that the Lady Claudia was becoming happier, and more fulfilled and more beautiful her attitudes changed, dramatically. The warder now began to castigate her, and subject her
to incredible verbal abuse, of the sort to which free women often subject slave girls. The Lady Claudia, on the other hand, though not even enslaved, did not seem to mind. She was beginning to understand, dimly, it seemed, what the nature of bondage might be for a female. The sterner I was with her the more she seemed to enjoy it. The stricter I was with her the more she loved it. When I would cuff her from me she would crawl back to my feet, kissing them. Treated as a woman, and finding herself in male power, she would look up at me, with love, awe and gratitude in her eyes. I scarcely dared conjecture what her responses might have been, had she known herself truly, helplessly, embonded. I had little doubt that she, even now, exhibited and auctioned, would bring an excellent price on the slave block.

  “Slut! Slut! Slut!” screamed the warder at her. Her hostility was clearly directed at the Lady Claudia and not me. She could not stand it, it seemed, that the Lady Claudia, almost before her eyes, had become beautiful. I regarded Lady Claudia, the “Chloe” of my uses. She had indeed now become beautiful, wholly and through and through beautiful. She was now very different from her former self. She could not now even dream of betraying Ar’s Station, or men. Yet her former self had done so, and her new self, whether in true justice or not, could be held accountable for the action.

  “Yes,” said Lady Claudia, softly, humbly, then adding, meaningfully, somewhat maliciously perhaps, for she was still a free woman, “—Mistress.”

  The warder cried out in fury and smote on the cell door with her small fists.

  “For what purpose have you interrupted us?” I asked the warder.

  “I am not speaking to you,” she said.

  “But I am speaking to you, female,” I said.

  The head moved angrily, behind the slot. I wished I could reach the veil and pull it away from her, face-stripping her. I wondered if she would be pleasing.

  “Do not think that you can escape punishment by pretending to be a slave!” said the warder to Lady Claudia.

  “Do not fear, my dear,” said Lady Claudia. “I know that I am a legally free woman. I may be in my heart a slave, and I may be kept in this cell, and serve here, as a slave, but I know that I am legally free.”