The Emperor

by Norman, John;

It is not known what became of the Turona’s silver and copper, or, at least for a time, the five cartridges, but it is reasonably clear what became of the slaves. As they were technically stolen goods, or contraband, and the statute of limitations on their recovery had not yet expired, they were disposed of discreetly, in small groups, in fairs, festivals, camps, and minor markets. Certainly major houses would be unlikely to risk dealing with them, at least while the statute of limitations was still in effect. Some were sold from itinerant, wheeled platforms and some, as you have doubtless surmised, informally, from slave posts at one crossroads or another. In a sense, they were disposed of in one black-market or another. Some worlds, and some areas, of course, are more tolerant of such dealings than others. It was even rumored that some magistrates, possibly for a consideration, welcomed such dealings in their districts.

  Yana, frightened, turned her head away, and her body tightened and stiffened. How aware she was of the sun, the post, her nudity, her braceleted wrists, her helplessness. In the moment, Teela’s counsel was lost, forgotten, flown away like a startled bird. She was aware that the small, rectangular placard which hung about her neck, on its thin leather cord, was lifted in the hand of a man, who was doubtless perusing it. She did not meet the man’s eyes. A bold look, or even a direct look, into a man’s eyes can be interpreted as a confrontation, a challenge, a defiance or insolence. Such an indiscretion usually occurs only in the case of a new slave, who may not yet understand fully that she is a slave, and only a slave. Such mistakes are seldom repeated. To be sure there are situations and relationships in which a direct eye contact between the master and slave is not only permitted, but welcomed and encouraged. Much depends, obviously, on the individual master and slave, and the nature of the eye contact.

  “There is not much information here,” said the man, releasing the placard. Yana felt it fall back, against her bosom.

  “Forgive me, Master,” she said.

  “There is little here but a name and a caveat,” he said, “warning a buyer of an absence of certain forms of memory.”

  “I have little recollection of my past,” said Yana, “except for the last few days.”

  “I have heard of such cases,” said the man. “One loses one’s identity, who one is, where one lives, and such. It is commonly consequent on a blow, a fall, some emotional trauma, or such.”

  “Yes, Master,” said Yana.

  “Perhaps you will recover your memory,” said the man.

  “As I am a slave,” said Yana, “it matters little.”

  “True,” said the man. “Indeed, it is perhaps just as well, or better, that you do not regain your memory.”

  “Yes, Master,” said Yana.

  “It might make you easier to train,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” said Yana.

  “It is not like a scar, a limp, a lost ear,” said the man.

  “No, Master,” said Yana.

  At that point the man turned away, to examine the girl at the next post.

  When he had moved further down the line, Teela turned to her left, to regard Yana, somewhat reproachfully.

  “I am sorry,” said Yana. “I did not know what to do, how to act.”

  Then Teela turned away, and smiled.

  “Here is a pretty one,” said a fellow.

  A little later, Teela gasped, and said, “Oh!”

  “She is responsive,” said the fellow.

  Teela was shortly thereafter sold.

  Another girl was brought out of the holding tent and braceleted at the post. In such situations, as a girl may be for hours at a post, she is braceleted, rather than thonged. Thonging is usually reserved for shorter confinements. Husbandmen, so to speak, tend to be watchful and careful of their stock. Bracelets are more secure than thongs, which anyone might untie or cut away. Also, bracelets, while confining the slave with perfection, are usually looser, and more comfortable, thus minimizing any risk of impairing circulation.

  Yana backed against her post, feeling its roughness. The linkage of the bracelets made a tiny noise. Wagons and carts passed, moving down the larger, more trafficked, of two roads. It was parallel to this larger road that, back some feet, was the line of selling posts, twenty-two posts. Other traffic, including a number of pack merchants, single file, afoot, was traversing the smaller, intersecting road. She also noted a hoverer, some yards overhead, following the larger road. As it was permitted, she knelt at her post, her hands fastened behind it. She closed her eyes, and put her head down.

  The sun passed meridian.

  “Slave,” said a male voice.

  She struggled to her feet, that her placard be easily read.

  When she felt the placard drop back against her breast, she looked to the side, to avoid possible eye contact.

  “Can you read?” she was asked.

  “I do not know,” she said, frightened.

  She was cuffed twice, sharply, and she felt blood at her lip.

  “Anyone knows whether they can read or not,” said the voice.

  “I do not remember,” she said. “I think I can read. I feel I can read.”

  She was then struck again, twice.

  Many slaves, of course, cannot read. Presumably it would have been safer for Yana had she denied being able to read. That might easily have been believed. With most forms of memory loss, of course, basic skills, such as knowing a language, being able to read, and so on, are not affected. I think there is little doubt that Yana could read. She had not read, of course, since awakening in the room with the red carpet at Tinos Station. Her response was presumably motivated by the fear that if she were challenged to read, she might find the marks unintelligible. We do note that she thought she would be able to read, that she felt that she would be able to read. Much in her mind was confusion, still, and, to some extent, terror. Presumably it would be a frightening experience to awaken, a stranger to oneself, and learn that one is a slave.

  The man turned away, annoyed, exasperated. “What an incredibly stupid slave,” he muttered. There were tears in Yana’s eyes. She did not think she was stupid. How can one help what one can remember, and not remember? She then ran her tongue over her cut lip, and tasted a bit of blood. She then knelt again, and closed her eyes, listening to the cries of passing birds, and the trundling of wagons and carts on the intersecting roads. She also heard the hum of another passing hoverer.

  She did not even know, given the confusions, variations, and changes of the past few days, the different confinements, camps, ships, and routes, on which world she was.

  She and the other slaves, toward the late afternoon, were watered and grueled. The watering slave took some strands of Yana’s hair, moistened them, and wiped away the dried blood on her lips and chin. For that Yana was grateful. Slaves, as other women, tend to be sensitive with respect to their appearance.

  Two hoverers passed by overhead, each following the larger road, but traveling in different directions.

  Occasionally a hoverer, one which did not contain free women, would reduce its altitude and slow or poise its flight to examine the girls at the stakes, to inspect and review, so to speak, the proffered “stake meat.” When this took place the slaver’s men would often hail the hoverer and invite it to land. Three times hoverers did land, and Yana had seen two girls purchased, one from the tent and one from the stakes.

  More wagons on the main road now were traveling in one direction, away to Yana’s right. This suggested to her, given the time of day, that they might be in the vicinity of a town or, more likely, a city, as some municipalities restrict wagon traffic, particularly that of heavy wagons, to night hours. This reduces congestion. On the other hand, even in municipalities without such ordnances, many deliveries are at night, in order that the markets may be supplied before dawn.

  Yana now sat at the stake, her hands braceleted behind it.

  “
Does a slave not kneel in the presence of a free man?” she was asked.

  Yana, startled, struggled to a kneeling position, and put head down. She had not noted the man’s approach.

  “Up, girl,” she was told.

  Yana stood. Her placard, then, might be the more easily accessed. She kept her head down.

  “Raise your head,” she was told.

  She raised her head, but avoided eye contact.

  Her placard was read, and then, again, it dangled on its leather cord.

  “You remember little?” she was asked.

  “Very little,” she said. “I am told I was embonded on Safa Major, and first sold, formally, placarded, in Carleton, on Inez II. I have also been told that I have had five Masters on three worlds.”

  “You were told?” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said. “I remember nothing of it.”

  “You had a fall?” he asked.

  “Perhaps,” she said. “I do not know.”

  “If you have had five Masters, on one world or three,” he said, “it seems you were not satisfactory.”

  “I fear it must have been so,” she said.

  “Yet you are comely,” he said, “and are nicely curved.”

  Yana put her head down.

  Suddenly she cried out, and, as she twisted, frightened, helpless, trying to withdraw, felt the post roughly abrade her back.

  Her body, stimulated, was suffused scarlet. Her body then, suddenly, reflexively, thrust itself forward, pleadingly. Her arms were straight behind her, held in place by the braceleting. Then, recovering herself, she pushed back, head down, against the post. “Forgive me, Master,” she said.

  “Do not be absurd,” he said. “You are not a free woman. You are a slave. You are free to be the sexual creature you are. Indeed, you must be the sexual creature you are, and wholly, for you are a slave. Rejoice in your vitality. Understand your collar and love it. Revel in your sexuality. You are free to do so. You are not a free woman. You are a slave.”

  “Yes, Master,” she whispered, head down.

  “It seems to me,” he said, “that you would be quite satisfactory.”

  She kept her head down.

  When she looked up, he had gone.

  Yana tried to understand her feelings. How was it that her body, seemingly of its own accord, had behaved as it had? She was confused and bewildered. Had it betrayed her, or revealed her? She had a profound sense then of what it might be to be a slave, to be submitted, owned, and mastered. “I am a slave,” she thought. “It is my nature, and being. I do not want to be free. Let others be free, if they wish. I want to be a slave. It is what is right for me. I know that now. I want to serve, yield, and love. I am a slave. Why should I not live so, and be so? I want to live so, and be so. Why should I not be a slave? I want to be a slave. But, I am vulnerable, and helpless. I cannot choose my master. I have nothing to say about who owns me!”

  Then, again, braceleted to the post, she was frightened.

  The evening was warm, a summer night on this world, and it took some time for night to fall. Once again, Yana sat at the post. Some four torches were set amongst the stakes. Traffic continued to move on the large road, mostly moving to Yana’s right. There was little traffic on the intersecting road, save that which turned at the larger, and that moved to Yana’s right. Some of the wagons bore lamps. To the side, two slaver’s men conversed. As midnight approached, the girls would be freed of the posts and chained in the large tent. Yana had drifted off to sleep, when she woke, still half asleep, hearing the hum of a hoverer in the night. She looked up. She, rising and turning, detected it, after a bit, in the darkness, the poised, disklike shape, some forty feet in the air, behind the line of stakes. Oddly, given the hour, it bore no lights. It descended, and landed behind the stakes, several yards away from the road. She heard men talking, and then saw one of the slaver’s men lift a torch, and approach. He was followed by three men, two large, and one small, the small one closely behind him.

  Yana worked her way back about the post, so that she faced the road. She then knelt, head down.

  So, too, did the other girls, those near to her, to her left and right.

  But it was before Yana that the men stopped. She felt herself illuminated in the torchlight.

  “Raise your head, slave,” said the slaver’s man.

  “She is still here,” said one of the newcomers, one of the larger men.

  “Good,” said the smaller man, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction.

  Yana dared to glance at the smaller man, and quickly moved her head to the side, recoiling, shuddering. She had never seen a man whose face wreaked so of deceit and corruption. Many are the ugliest of men whose interior man is straight, fine, and strong, and many are the handsome fellows whose smooth and clever looks fail to reveal a dishonest or trustless heart, but Yana sensed that the interior man of the smaller figure was well manifested in the hideous configuration she feared to behold.

  “It is she?” said the second of the two larger men.

  “Indeed,” said the smaller man.

  “I thought it might be so, from the ship, this afternoon,” said the second of the two larger men. “I thought you would wish to inquire into the matter.”

  “You did well,” said the smaller man. Then he said to Yana, “Look at me.”

  Yana, shuddering, obeyed, then looked away, quickly.

  “Do you know me?” he asked.

  “No, Master,” said Yana.

  “You are sure?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master,” said Yana.

  “Perhaps it is not she,” said one of the two larger men.

  “She is not bad looking,” said one of the slaver’s men. “Are you interested in her?”

  “Possibly,” said the smaller man.

  “Stand, slave,” said the slaver’s man, “that your placard may be examined.”

  Yana rose to her feet, and backed against the post.

  “We need not examine the placard,” said the smaller man.

  “No,” said one of the two larger men, he who had just spoken. “Something is strange here. Read the placard.”

  The smaller man looked at him, angrily.

  “He is a barbarian,” Yana thought. “He cannot read.”

  “I will read it,” said the larger man.

  The slaver’s man with the torch approached and lifted the placard, turning it a bit to the side, to make it easier for the larger man to read it, from where he stood. Yana looked to the side, to the right, away from the glare of the crackling torch. She could not look directly at it. She felt its heat on her bared skin. She then, naked, braceleted at the post, under the torchlight, listened while the contents of her placard were read aloud. This was the first time she had been apprised, with any specificity, of her placard’s contents. Horses, pigs, slaves, and other goods, as is obvious, need not be informed as to how they are described or advertised. Such matters are the proper concern of sellers and buyers, of merchants and customers, not of goods.

  “Ah, memory,” said the smaller man.

  “Perhaps it is not she,” said the second of the two larger men.

  “It is she,” said the smaller man, rubbing his hands together.

  “Slaves may resemble one another,” said the second of the two larger men.

  “It is she,” repeated the smaller man, continuing to rub his hands together.

  At this point, having emerged from the tent, and seeing the position of a torch at a post and the five men gathered there, the slaver himself approached.

  “Have we interest in a slave here?” he asked.

  “Possibly,” said the smaller man.

  “This one,” said the slaver, “is one of my best.”

  “Doubtless,” said the smaller man.

  “As the hour is lat
e, and we may seek a new location tomorrow,” said the slaver, “I am willing to let you have her at a bargain price.”

  “That is generous,” said the smaller man.

  “Sixty darins,” said the slaver.

  Yana was startled, for she knew her market value, in a minor market, in a roadside market, indeed, one dealing with suspect slaves, possibly stolen slaves, who had doubtless been acquired at very low prices, would be expected to be closer to eight to ten darins. In such matters, buyers, as well as sellers, were shrewd. Indeed, Teela, whom she thought was quite beautiful, had sold for only fifteen darins. Too, she was not trained, could not play a musical instrument, and knew only one language. She had little to commend her, save what could be seen at the post. Too, there was the problem of the loss of so much personal memory. She was not even sure she could read.

  “Too high?” asked the slaver.

  “Perhaps, a bit,” said the smaller man.

  “I could not let her go for less than fifty-five darins,” said the slaver, regretfully.

  “This is a roadside market,” said the smaller man. “I doubt that you are renting space. I suspect that you have little, or no, overhead. I doubt that you have much more than a tent, a wagon, and some posts. In such a market, one expects bargains.”

  “You are obviously a master bargainer,” said the slaver. “I fear I am outdone. How can a poor, struggling merchant cope with one who negotiates so fiercely? Fifty-four darins.”

  “May I make a counter-proposal?” asked the smaller man.

  “Of course,” said the slaver.

  “I suggest you give her to us, for nothing,” said the smaller man.

  “You are mad,” said the slaver.

  “Not at all,” said the smaller man.

  “I do not understand,” said the slaver.

  “This is a stolen slave,” said the smaller man.

  “I do not deal in stolen slaves,” said the slaver.

  “Where are her papers?” asked the smaller man.

  “Many slaves have no papers,” said the slaver, angrily.

  “Perhaps she is not a stolen slave,” said the smaller man, “but she may be a stolen slave.”