The Usurper

by John Norman

  “Mercy, please,” she begged.

  “What are you now?” he asked.

  “Be merciful,” she said.

  “I see at my feet, now,” he said, “only a naked, neck-ringed slave.”

  “What is to be done with me?” she asked.

  “I have a disposition in mind for you,” he said, “one you richly deserve.”

  “I am to be sold?” she said.

  “Perhaps, eventually,” he said.

  “I shall try to perform well on the block,” she said, “to see that you make good coin on me.”

  “You would perform well on the block, in any event, as other slaves,” he said. “The auctioneer’s whip would see to it.”

  “I have knelt before men,” she said. “I have experienced incredible sensations, the indescribable, suffusing thrills of what it might be to be owned, dominated, and mastered.”

  “Of course,” he said. “You are a human female. Such beasts are bred for the collar. They are never content until it is on them.”

  As she lay on her side, her fingers seized at the chain on her neck.

  “But you are petty and deceitful,” he said. “You lay in wait, armed. You pretended longing. You would have put me off my guard, you tried to kill me. Do you think I would bestow upon you so simply the warmth, reassurance, and joys of bondage?”

  “Do not throw me on the wire,” she said.

  “I do not intend to have you thrown on the wire,” he said.

  “Am I not to be kept a slave?” she asked.

  “You are a slave,” he said, “and you will remain a slave, but there are slaveries, and slaveries.”

  “I do not understand,” she said.

  “But first,” he said, “there are details to which we will attend.”

  “Master?” she asked.

  “I will teach you a little of your collar,” he said.

  “I do not understand,” she said.

  “Go to all fours,” he said. “Crawl to the foot of the couch. Put your head up, over the couch, you may climb a bit, and grasp the whip in your teeth, do not touch it with your hands, and then draw back off the couch, and, on all fours again, crawl back to me, and lift your head, the whip between your teeth.”

  He watched the slave fetch the whip. Such simple exercises are useful in apprising a slave of her bondage.

  She looked up at him, from all fours, her head lifted, her eyes frightened, the staff of the whip between her teeth.

  “Keep the whip as it is,” he said. “Do not release it. You are now going to be bound, hand and foot.”

  He then put her to her belly, crossed her wrists behind her back, and, with a slender leather thong, tied them together. He then similarly served her ankles. He then turned her to her back.

  “The whip,” he said.

  She opened her mouth, releasing the whip.

  She looked up at him, frightened.

  He, standing over her, shook out the coils of the whip.

  “As I recall,” he said, “you petitioned me to correct your behavior, you wished to be improved. You petitioned a beating. You wished to be informed that you were a slave. You did not wish to be left in doubt. Indeed, you begged to have the free woman lashed out of you.”

  “No, no, Master,” she said. “It was not my intention that such remarks be taken seriously. It was a ruse on my part, a mere ruse, to distract you, to have you turn away, to gather in the whip, and then I, your back turned, your attention elsewhere, was to strike you.”

  “You did not mean such things?” he said.

  “Certainly not,” she said.

  “It seems your ruse failed of its effect,” he said.

  “Clearly,” she said. “I can still feel your grasp on my wrist.”

  “You do not wish to be beaten?” he said.

  “No,” she said. “Certainly not.”

  “Why not?” he asked.

  “I fear the whip,” she said. “Its sight terrifies me. It would hurt. I do not wish to be hurt. I can scarcely conjecture what it might feel like on my body. I do not want to be whipped! I will try to be a good slave! Please do not whip me, Master!”

  “I understand you were switched on the Narcona,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “But you have never been put under the whip,” he said.

  “No,” she said.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “I think,” she said, “because I am too beautiful to whip.”

  “No slave,” he said, “if she is in the least bit displeasing, is too beautiful to whip.”

  “I will try to be pleasing, Master!” she wept.

  “Wholly pleasing?”

  “Yes, Master!”

  “I think I will lash the free woman out of you,” he said.

  “I fear, Master,” she said, “there is little of the free woman left in me.”

  “It is usually unnecessary and pointless to hurt a slave,” he said.

  “Do not hurt me, Master,” she said, eyeing the whip.

  “But I think it would be well for you to feel a few strokes,” he said, “a few strokes for your instruction, not so much to hurt you, as to inform you.”

  “Please, no!” she said.

  “Few things,” he said, “so convince a woman that she is a slave, more than feeling the lash.”

  “Please, no, Master,” she said.

  “She can no longer then maintain the pretenses of freedom,” he said. “She can no longer lie to herself. Once she has felt the lash she knows that she is truly a slave. She is convinced. She knows it in her deepest heart. All other options are precluded. She knows what she now is, a slave, only a slave, and is zealous to obey, that she not again be whipped.”

  “Please, no, Master!” she cried.

  As she twisted, and turned, crying out, helpless in her bonds, weeping, ten strokes of the lash were put upon her.

  He then cast the whip aside, and bent to her ankles, freeing them, and then cast her bodily, she gasping and startled, on her back, upon the deep furs which covered the surface of the couch.

  “Behold,” he said, “how you are honored, with the very surface of the couch.”

  She scrambled to her knees, amidst the furs.

  He removed his garments, and joined her upon the couch.

  She moved back, away from him, as she could, terrified, on her knees. She pulled futilely at her thonged wrists, fastened behind her.

  He motioned that she should make her way toward him, bound, over the soft sea of furs.

  She could not move.

  He then reached out, and seized the chain locked about her throat, and pulled her to him, across the furs, on her knees. The links of the chain struck against one another. The metal disk on the chain, with its message in three languages, including its pictograph, danced beside his fist.

  Then, holding her in place by the left hand, grasped tightly on the chain, he cuffed her four times, palm, back of hand, palm, back of hand.

  “A slave is to obey instantly, and unquestioningly,” he informed her.

  He then thrust her down, back on the furs.

  She looked up at him, frightened, wildly.

  He seized her ankles.

  “No!” she wept.

  Then the slave found herself, for the first time, and as a slave, put to a man’s pleasure.

  Later he rebound the ankles of the slave and placed her on the floor, at the foot of the couch. He then fetched a chain from the chest at the side of the chamber, and, with two heavy, metallic snaps, fastened her, by the neck, to the ring fixed in the bottom of the couch.

  “In the morning,” he said, “you will be branded.”

  “Do not brand me,” she said.

  “You are a slave,” he said. “All slaves should be marked. Y
ou will be marked.”

  “No,” she begged.

  “Collars might be removed, or changed,” he said. “I am thinking of the slave rose. It is small, tasteful, and lovely, clear, unmistakable.”

  “But all would then know me as a slave,” she said.

  “Do you not know you are a slave?” he asked.

  “I well know I am a slave,” she said. “It has been taught to me. I have felt the whip.”

  “But perhaps you would hope to conceal your slavery?”

  Her lip trembled, but she dared not speak.

  “Speak,” he said.

  “Might not my slavery be a kept a private matter,” she said, “something hidden, a secret?”

  “Perhaps,” said he, “on a world which denies the rightfulness of slavery for slaves, even if they need and seek bondage, if there is such a narrow, dismal world, but on better worlds, more open worlds, more tolerant worlds, more honest worlds, it should be proclaimed.”

  “But, marked, despite what I might wish, apart from my desires, all would then know me as a slave,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said, “all would then know you as a slave.”

  “My bondage would be fixed on me,” she said. “It would be what I was, openly, publicly, legally. It would be nonrepudiable!”

  “Precisely,” he said.

  “I would be property, and goods, forever,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said. “You would be known so on all the habitable worlds, the mightiest and smallest, the warmest and the coldest, on the most sophisticated and civilized, on the most savage and barbarous, on habitable worlds anywhere, throughout the galaxies.”

  “I fear the brand,” she said.

  “Appropriately,” he said.

  “I do not wish to be branded,” she said.

  “It is quite possible that cattle do not wish to be branded either,” he said.

  The slave, helpless in her bonds, her neck fastened by a chain to the ring on a free man’s couch, moaned.

  “Many slaves,” he said, “are proud of their bondage. They do not wish to be free women. They pity and despise free women, for the emptiness, the aimlessness, the boredom, the banality, the worthlessness of their lives, for their lack of identity, purpose, and meaning, for their lack of a Master. They welcome and desire the brand. They realize that it is a mark of distinction, that it is an inflicted badge of quality, of specialness, of desirability and beauty. It proclaims them wanted, so wanted that they are owned by men. They are proud of their brands. They have been found worthy of being owned, of being branded.”

  “I fear I might be such a woman,” she said.

  “Some desire and seek bondage,” he said. “They desire to submit, to be owned, to belong, to love, and serve. They desire to put themselves helplessly at the feet of a man, to be done with as he might please. They are not whole, nor content, until they are at a man’s feet.”

  “May I speak, Master?” she said.

  “Certainly,” he said.

  “Surely you will sell me,” she said.

  “In no way that you might expect,” he said.

  “I do not understand,” she said.

  “A slave need not understand,” he said, “no more than another beast.”

  “Please!” she said.

  “Recall that you have been a willing tool of cunning, duplicitous Iaachus, collaborating in schemes of deceit and treachery, that you would have killed me, that you, though a slave, were found less than wholly pleasing.”

  “What is to be done with me?” she asked.

  “I told you,” he said. “I have a special disposition in mind for you.”

  “What?” she begged.

  “Perhaps,” he said, “you will have preferred to have had your throat cut, or to have been put out for wolves, or to have been cast upon the wire.”

  “What, what, Master?” she begged.

  “You will see,” he said.

  Chapter Ten

  “Great Lady,” said Iaachus.

  “Loyal servitor,” said Atalana, empress mother.

  “It seems,” said he, “that the throne is safe, if but for a time.”

  “The schemes of the plotter and pretender, Julian, he of the despicable Aureliani, he with wicked designs upon the throne, have been foiled?”

  “One may hope so,” said Iaachus, “at least for the time.”

  The empress mother, her frail body tiny amidst the cushions of the throne in her private audience chamber, leaned forward, fixing her small eyes on the lean, narrow-visaged, sable-attired courtier. “Recount to me, dear Iaachus,” said she, “the manner of the falling out of these matters.”

  “Some months ago,” said Iaachus, “on a summer world, you will remember that the secret traitor, Julian, approached the throne, petitioning a commission for the barbarian, Ottonius. We deemed it dubious policy at the time to deny so seemingly innocent and trivial a request by one of his importance, one kin even to the mighty emperor. A refusal might have generated curiosity amongst the worlds. Too, such a refusal might have signaled to the schemer that his machinations had been sounded, with the consequence that he might have become even subtler, and more on his guard. Too, he is known amongst the worlds, and respected. To refuse, let alone topple, so popular a figure might engage speculations, even repercussions, inimical to the throne. Accordingly, we granted the commission, pretending not to discern its more remote import, and its place in his plans. We arranged that the commission for the barbarian would be delivered, as though in good faith, to him at his villa on Vellmer, where the barbarian was his guest. We planned carefully, if unsuccessfully. We assigned an agent, Tuvo Ausonius, a civil servant, from Miton, to seemingly transmit the document, it putatively enclosed in a latched case, to be opened by dialing a combination. The case, of course, actually housed an explosive device, which would fire shortly after the dialing of the combination. Julian and the barbarian, Ottonius, would presumably open the case. It was made clear to the agent that it was to be opened only in their presence. We also dispatched an imperial delegation to Vellmer, suitably and officially, that all would be in order, bearing the actual document bestowing the commission. The delegation was to arrive after the detonation of the explosive device, and would then, in seeming surprise, sorrow, and disappointment, return with the then-meaningless document. We anticipated the possibility, of course, that the agent, or the device, might fail us. Accordingly, the delegation, well armed and trained, was to assault the villa and destroy it. Indeed, upon the detonation of the device, the matter was to be assured by an air strike. As it turned out the device, though detonated, failed of its objective, its intended victims having withdrawn in time. Similarly, the air strike failed, given the shielding of the villa, and its weaponry. As planned, given the contingency, the delegation attacked the villa, which attack was withstood. Indeed, not one member of the delegation survived.”

  “I am apprised of these matters, dear counselor,” said the empress mother.

  “It is germane that I recount them,” said Iaachus, “that you may the better appreciate certain events which ensued, events consequent upon plans so secret that I did little more than allude to them in your presence.”

  “Who is to be more in your confidence than I?” she asked, sharply.

  “None surely, great lady,” he said, bowing, “but private audiences prompt speculation, and I hesitated to speak openly, even in the presence of the emperor himself.”

  “He is in his quarters, playing with his blocks and soldiers,” said the empress mother.

  “Or before his beloved sisters, the exalted, beauteous princesses, Viviana and Alacida,” he said.

  “That was wise of you,” she said. “Both are vain, frivolous, shallow creatures. They concern themselves with jewels and clothes, entertainments and amusements. They could no more hold a secret than a sieve
water. Would they had been men, stern of thought, wise in counsel, tenacious and far-seeing, with metal in their blood, to defend and expand the borders of the empire!”

  “There is the emperor,” said Iaachus.

  “Yes,” said the empress mother, “there is the emperor.”

  “I fear,” said Iaachus, “that the conspirator, Julian, hopes to wed the fair Viviana or Alacida, that he might one day be positioned for the throne.”

  “The emperor is young,” said the empress mother.

  “At his age,” said Iaachus, “some have led armies, and commanded fleets.”

  “The emperor amuses himself with other toys,” she said.

  “Few emperors have died in battle,” said Iaachus. “Most have met their ends within the walls of palaces.”

  “Tasters are employed,” said the empress mother. “Physicians are in attendance.”

  “A rush in the darkness, a knife to the heart,” said Iaachus, “renders useless the precautions of the subtlest taster, the ministrations of the most devoted physician.”

  “Who can I trust but you, noble Iaachus?” said the empress mother, wearily.

  “Would that either Viviana or Alacida had the brilliance, the shrewdness, the iron, the courage of Atalana!” exclaimed Iaachus.

  “But they do not,” said the empress mother. “Would that I had been a man!”

  “There would have been an emperor!” said Iaachus.

  “Do not flatter a weak, tired, old woman,” said Atalana.

  “I but speak the patent truth,” said Iaachus.

  “Is there no cure for the emperor?” said Atalana.

  “The emperor is beloved throughout the thousand worlds,” said Iaachus. “Glory to him!”

  “Yes, glory to the emperor,” said the empress mother, wearily, “while the empire totters.”

  “Despite your possible reservations with respect to the nature and character of your daughters, the beauteous Viviana and Alacida, who share much of your own beauty,” said Iaachus, “you must recognize their enormous political importance. A marriage to either would much abet the ambitions of treasonous Julian.”

  “Or the ambitions of any other,” said Atalana.