Priest-Kings of Gor

by John Norman

  Vika was still crying a bit, but I took her hair and wiped her face and told her to stop her noise. She bit her lip and choked back a sob and stopped crying, though her eyes still brimmed with tears.

  I regarded her garment which, however soiled and torn, was still recognizably that of a Chamber Slave.

  It would never do. It would be a clue to her identity. It would surely provoke curiosity, perhaps suspicion.

  My plan was a bold one.

  I looked at Vika sternly. "You must do whatever I say," I said, "and quickly, and without question."

  She hung her head. "I will be obedient," she said softly, "—Master."

  "You will be a girl brought from the surface," I said, "for you are still unshaved, and you are to be delivered to the Vivarium on the orders of Sarm, the Priest-King."

  "I do not understand," she said.

  "But you will obey," I said.

  "Yes," she said.

  "I will be your keeper," I said, "and I am bringing you as a new female Mul to the breeding cases."

  "A Mul?" she asked. "Breeding cases?"

  "Remove your clothing," I commanded, "and place your hands behind your back."

  Vika looked at me with surprise.

  "Quickly!" I said.

  She did as I commanded and I thonged her wrists behind her back.

  I then took the handful of rags she had worn and discarded them in a nearby waste container, a convenience with which the Nest was, to my mind, excessively provided.

  In a few moments, putting on something of an air of authority, I presented Vika to the Chief Attendant of the Vivarium.

  He looked at her unshaved head and long, beautiful hair with disgust. "How ugly she is," he said.

  I gathered he had been bred in the Nest and therein had formed his concepts of female beauty.

  Vika, I was pleased to note, was considerably shaken by his appraisal, and I supposed it was the first time a man had ever looked upon her with disfavor.

  "Surely there is some mistake?" asked the Attendant.

  "None," I said. "Here is a new female Mul from the surface. On the orders of Sarm shave her and clothe her suitably and place her in a breeding case, alone and locked. You will receive further orders later."

  It was a most miserable and bewildered Vika of Treve whom I bundled into a small but comfortable plastic case on the fourth tier of the Vivarium. She wore the brief tunic of purple plastic allotted to female Muls in the nest and save for her eyelashes her hair had been completely removed.

  She saw her reflection in the side of her plastic case and screamed, throwing her hands before her face.

  Actually she was not unattractive and she had a well-shaped head.

  It must have been a great shock for Vika to see herself as she now was.

  She moaned and leaned against the side of the case, her eyes closed.

  I took her briefly in my arms.

  This seemed to surprise her.

  She looked up at me. "What have you done to me?" she whispered.

  I felt that I might tell her that what I had done was perhaps to save her life, at least for a time, but I did not say this to her. Rather I looked rather sternly down into her eyes and said simply, "What I wished."

  "Of course," she said, looking away bitterly, "for I am only a slave girl."

  But then she looked up at me and there was no bitterness in her eyes, no reproach, only a question. "But how can I please my Master," she asked, "—like this?"

  "It pleases me," I said.

  She stepped back. "Ah yes," she said, "I forgot—your vengeance." She looked at me. "Earlier," she said, "I thought—" but she did not finish her sentence and her eyes clouded briefly with tears. "My Master is clever," she said, straightening herself proudly. "He well knows how to punish a treacherous slave."

  She turned away.

  I heard her voice from over her shoulder and I could see her reflection in the side of the plastic case before which she stood. "Am I now to be abandoned?" she asked. "Or are you not yet done with me?"

  I would have responded, in spite of my better judgment, to reassure her of my intentions to free her as soon as practicable, and to tell her that I believed her greatest chance of safety lay in the anonymity of a specimen in the Vivarium, but it would have been foolish to inform her, treacherous as she was, of my plans, and fortunately there was no opportunity to do so because the Chief Attendant at that moment approached the case and handed me a leather loop on which dangled the key to Vika's case.

  "I will keep her well fed and watered," said the Attendant.

  At these words Vika suddenly turned to face me, desperately, her back against the plastic side of the case, the palms of her hands against it.

  "I beg of you, Cabot," she said, "please do not leave me here."

  "It is here you will stay," I said.

  In my hand she saw the key to her case.

  She shook her head slowly, numbly. "No, Cabot," she said, "—please."

  I had made my decision and I was now in no mood to debate the matter with the slave girl, so I did not respond.

  "Cabot," she said, "—what if my request were on the lips of a woman of High Caste and of one of the high cities of all Gor—could you refuse it then?"

  "I don't understand," I said.

  She looked about herself at the plastic walls, and shivered. Her eyes met mine. I could see that not only did she not wish to stay in this place but that she was terrified to do so.

  Suddenly she fell on her knees, her eyes filled with tears, and extended her hands to me. "Look, Warrior of Ko-ro-ba," she said, "a woman of High Caste of the lofty city of Treve kneels before you and begs of you that you will not leave her here."

  "I see at my feet," I said, "only a slave girl." And I added, "And it is here that she will stay."

  "No, no," said Vika.

  Her eyes were fixed on the key that dangled from the leather loop in my hand.

  "Please—" she said.

  "I have made my decision," I said.

  Vika fell to her hands and slumped to the floor moaning, unable to stand.

  "She is actually quite beautiful," said the Attendant, appraisingly.

  Vika looked up at him dully as though she could not comprehend what he had said.

  "Yes," I said, "she is quite beautiful."

  "It is amazing how proper clothing and a removal of the threadlike growths improve a female Mul," observed the Attendant.

  "Yes," I agreed, "it is truly amazing."

  Vika lowered her head to the floor again and moaned.

  "Is there another key?" I asked the Attendant.

  "No," he said.

  "What if I should lose this?" I asked.

  "The plastic of the case," said the Attendant, "is cage plastic and the lock is a cage lock, so it would be better not to lose it."

  "But if I should?" I asked.

  "In time I think we could cut through with heat torches," said the Attendant.

  "I see," I said. "Has it ever been done?" I asked.

  "Once," said the Attendant, "and it took several months, but there is no danger because we feed and water them from the outside."

  "Very well," I said.

  "Besides," said the Attendant, "a key is never lost. Nothing in the Nest is ever lost." He laughed. "Not even a Mul."

  I smiled, but rather grimly.

  Entering the case, I checked the containers of fungus.

  Vika had now regained her feet and was wiping her eyes with her arm in one corner of the case.

  "You can't leave me here, Cabot," she said, quite simply, as though very sure of it.

  "Why not?" I asked.

  She looked at me. "For one thing," she said, "I belong to you."

  "I think my property will be safe here," I said.

  "You're joking," she said, sniffing.

  She watched me lifting the lids of the fungus containers. The materials in the containers seemed fresh and of a good sort.

  "What is in the containers?
" she asked.

  "Fungus," I said.

  "What for?" she asked.

  "You eat it," I said.

  "Never," she said. "I'll starve first."

  "You will eat it," I said, "when you are hungry enough."

  Vika looked at me with horror for a moment and then, to my astonishment, she laughed. She stood back against the rear of the case scarcely able to stand. "Oh Cabot," she cried with relief, reproachfully, "how frightened I was!" She stepped to my side and lifted her eyes to mine and gently placed her hand on my arm. "I understand now," she said, almost weeping with relief, "but you frightened me so."

  "What do you mean?" I asked.

  She laughed. "Fungus indeed!" she sniffed.

  "It's not bad when you get used to it," I said, "but on the other hand it is not really particularly good either."

  She shook her head. "Please, Cabot," she said, "your joke has gone far enough." She smiled. "Have pity," she said, "if not on Vika of Treve—on a poor girl who is only your slave."

  "I'm not joking," I told her.

  She did not believe me.

  I checked the tube of Mul-Pellets and the inverted jar of water. "We do not have the luxuries in the Nest that you had in your chamber," I said, "but I think you will manage quite well."

  "Cabot," she laughed, "please!"

  I turned to the Attendant. "She is to have a double salt ration each evening," I told him.

  "Very well," he said.

  "You will explain to her the washings?" I asked.

  "Of course," he said, "and the exercises."

  "Exercises?" I asked.

  "Of course," he said, "it is important to exercise in confinement."

  "Of course," I admitted.

  Vika came up behind me and placed her arms around me. She kissed me on the back of the neck. She laughed softly. "You have had your joke, Cabot," she said, "now let us leave this place, for I do not like it."

  There was no scarlet moss in the case but there was a straw mat on one side. It was better than the one she had had in her own chamber.

  I looked about the case and it seemed that everything, considering the circumstances, was quite comfortable.

  I stepped to the door and Vika, holding my arm, smiling and looking up into my eyes, accompanied me.

  At the door I stopped and as she made as if to pass through the door my hand on her arm stopped her.

  "No," I said, "you remain here."

  "You are joking," she said.

  "No," I said, "I am not."

  "Yes you are!" she laughed, clinging ever more tightly to my arm.

  "Release my arm," I said.

  "You cannot seriously mean to leave me here," she said, shaking her head. "No," she said, "you can't—you simply can't leave me here, not Vika of Treve." She laughed and looked up at me. "I will simply not permit it," she said.

  I looked at her.

  The smile fled from her eyes and the laugh died in her lovely throat.

  "You will not permit it?" I asked.

  My voice was the voice of her Gorean master.

  She removed her hand from my arm and stepped back, trembling, her eyes frightened. The color had drained from her face. "I did not think of what I was saying," she said.

  Terrified, she, as the expression is, knelt to the whip, assuming the position of the slave girl who is to be punished, her wrists crossed beneath her as though bound and her head touching the floor, leaving the bow of her back exposed.

  "I have no wish to punish you," I said.

  Bewildered, she lifted her head and there were tears in her eyes.

  "Beat me if you wish," she begged, "but please—please—take me with you."

  "I told you," I said, "my decision has been made."

  "But you could change your decision, Master," she said, wheedling, "—for me."

  "I do not," I said.

  Vika struggled to restrain her tears. I wondered if this were perhaps the first time in her life in a matter of importance to her that she had not had her way with a man.

  At a gesture from me she rose timidly to her feet. She wiped her eyes and looked at me. "May your girl ask a question, Master?" she asked.

  "Yes," I said.

  "Why must I stay here?" she asked.

  "Because I do not trust you," I said simply. She reacted as if struck and tears welled in her eyes. I could not understand why this assertion of mine should have troubled one of Vika's proud and treacherous nature but she seemed somehow more hurt than if I had administered to her when she had knelt the blows of a slave whip or the lashings of my sword belt.

  I looked upon her.

  She stood, very much alone, in the center of the smooth plastic case, numb, not moving. There were tears in her eyes.

  I was forced to remind myself in no uncertain terms of the cleverness of this consummate actress, and how so many men had weakened to her insidious blandishments. Yet I knew that I would not weaken, though I was sorely tempted to believe that she might be trusted, that the feelings she expressed were truly those she felt.

  "Is this," I asked, "how you chained men to your slave ring?"

  "Oh Cabot," she moaned, "Cabot—"

  Saying nothing further I stepped outside.

  Vika shook her head slowly and numbly looked about herself disbelievingly—at the mat, the jar of water, the canisters along the wall.

  I reached up to slide the plastic door downward.

  This gesture seemed to shake Vika and her entire frame suddenly trembled with all the panic of a beautiful, trapped animal.

  "No!" she cried. "Please, Master!"

  She rushed across the case and into my arms. I held her for a moment and kissed her and her kiss met mine wet and warm, sweet and hot and salty with the tears that had coursed down her cheeks and then I threw her back and she stumbled across the case and fell to her knees against the wall on the opposite side. She turned to face me there, on her hands and knees. She shook her head in denial of what was happening and her eyes filled with tears. She lifted her hands to me. "No, Cabot," she said. "No!"

  I slid the plastic door down and clicked it into place.

  I turned the key in the lock and heard the firm, heavy snap of the mechanism.

  Vika of Treve was my prisoner.

  With a cry she leaped to her feet and threw herself against the door, her face suddenly wild with tears, and pounded on it madly with her small fists. "Master! Master!" she cried.

  I slung the key on its leather loop around my neck.

  "Good-bye, Vika of Treve," I said.

  She stopped pounding on the plastic partition and stared out at me, her face stained with tears, her hands pressed against the plastic.

  Then to my amazement she smiled and wiped back a tear, and shook her head as though to throw the hair from her eyes and smiled at the foolishness of the gesture.

  She looked out at me.

  "You are truly leaving," she said.

  I could hear her voice through the vent holes in the plastic. It did not sound much different.

  "Yes," I said.

  "I knew before," she said, "that I was truly your slave but I did not know until now that you were truly my master." She looked up at me through the plastic, shaken. "It is a strange feeling," she said, "to know that someone—truly—is your master, to know that not only has he the right to do with you as he pleases but that he will, that your will is nothing to him, that it is your will and not his that must bend, that you are helpless and must—and will—do what he says, that you must obey."

  It made me a bit sad to hear Vika recount the woes of female slavery.

  Then to my astonishment she smiled up at me. "It is good to belong to you, Tarl Cabot," she said. "I love belonging to you."

  "I don't understand," I said.

  "I am a woman," she said, "and you are a man, and stronger than I and I am yours and this you knew and now I have learned it too."

  I was puzzled.

  Vika dropped her head. "Every woman in her heart,"
said Vika, "wants to wear the chains of a man."

  This seemed to me quite doubtful.

  Vika looked up and smiled. "Of course," she said, "we would like to choose the man."

  This seemed to me only a bit less doubtful.

  "I would choose you, Cabot," she said.

  "Women wish to be free," I told her.

  "Yes," she said, "we also wish to be free." She smiled. "In every woman," she said, "there is something of the Free Companion and something of the Slave Girl."

  I wondered at the things she said to me for they seemed strange, perhaps more so to my ears than they would have to one bred and raised from infancy as a Gorean, one as much accustomed to the submission of women as to the tides of gleaming Thassa or the phases of the three moons.

  As the girl spoke and I tried to lightly dismiss her words, I wondered at the long processes of evolution that had nurtured over thousands of generations what had in time become the human kind. I wondered of the struggles of my own world as well as on Gor, struggles which over millennia had shaped the blood and inmost being of my species, perhaps conflicts over tunnels in cliffs to be fought with the savage cave bear, long dangerous weeks spent hunting the same game as the saber-toothed tiger, perhaps years spent protecting one's mate and brood from the depredations of carnivores and the raids of one's fellow creatures.

  As I thought of our primeval ancestor standing in the mouth of his cave one hand gripping a chipped stone and perhaps the other a torch, his mate behind him and his young hidden in the mosses at the back of the cave I wondered at the genetic gifts that would ensure the survival of man in so hostile a world, and I wondered if among them would not be the strength and the aggressiveness and the swiftness of eye and hand and the courage of the male and on the part of the woman—what?

  What would have been the genetic truths in her blood without which she and accordingly man himself might have been overlooked in the vicious war of a species to remain alive and hold its place on an unkind and savage planet?

  It seemed possible to me that one trait of high survival value might be the desire on the part of the woman to belong—utterly—to a man.

  It seemed clear that woman would, if the race were to survive, have to be sheltered and defended and fed—and forced to reproduce her kind.

  If she were too independent she would die in such a world and if she did not mate her race would die.