Quarry of Gor Read online

  Quarry of Gor

  Gorean Saga * Book 35

  John Norman

  Chapter One

  I am Zia

  I am Zia.

  There is a light metal collar on my neck.

  It encircles my neck closely.

  It is locked there.

  I cannot remove it.

  Masters will have it so.

  Too, my thigh is marked with the cursive kef.

  Masters will have it so.

  I am a slave girl, one of many, on the planet Gor.

  We are not important. We are commodities, goods, properties. We are owned.

  This planet, as I understand it, is in the same system of worlds as my former world, one called “Terra,” or “Earth.” Accordingly, this world, and my former world, share a common star. We spoke of it as the sun, or Sol; they speak of it as Tor-tu-Gor, Light-upon-the-Home-Stone. My former world is commonly referred to by Gorean men, those apprised of the Second Knowledge, as “the slave world,” presumably because women such as I are frequently brought here for their markets. Those limited to the First Knowledge think of “Earth” as a distant, barbarous land. We are commonly brought to the towns and cities in naked, scorned, marched coffles, subject to the impatient whips and straps of masters, or naked in slave wagons, our ankles shacked to a central bar, parallel to the sides of the wagon bed. In this way the ships by means of which we are brought here are not in evidence. Indeed, I have never seen such a ship myself, nor I suspect, have most others. We are commonly rendered unconscious on Earth, as I was, and then awaken on Gor. It is soon clear, of course, that we have been brought to a different world. The slight difference in gravity is noticeable when we first awaken, though it is common for us to deny the difference, sometimes hysterically. Yet, soon, no one notices it, no more than the gravity of our former world. Too, of course, there are three moons here, the White Moon, the Yellow Moon, and a smaller moon called, for some reason, the Prison Moon. The air is unbelievably fresh, and bracing. On Earth I had not realized the foulness, and the pollution, of the air I had no choice but to breathe. Food here, too, is fresh, nourishing, and often delicious, even when we must eat it from bowls placed on the floor, denied the use of our hands. Such things help to remind us that we are slaves, though, I assure you, we are in little danger of forgetting that. It is as clear to us as the collars on our necks, the marks on our thighs, the tiny, revealing garments permitted us, when we are permitted garments. Gor is an incredibly beautiful, natural world, much as Earth might once have been. Indeed, Goreans love beauty, light, and color. Their buildings, inside and out, are bright with color. Even slaves, when clothed, as we need not be, as we are animals, are commonly clothed in bright, attractive tunics, or less. These tunics, of course, are tunics fit for slaves, and designed to conceal little of the charms the suggestion of which doubtless first brought us to the attention of our acquirers. The plant life of Gor is much like that of my former world, but there are many differences, as well, different trees, flowers, vegetables, and so on. There are many differences in animals, as well, and in birds and insects. Culturally, too, of course, one soon comes to realize one is on a different world. Perhaps the first thing one learns is that one is not free, but a slave, only a slave. We are quickly marked, and fitted with collars. No longer then can we bargain with our bodies and sell ourselves to advance our own prospects and fortunes. Now, owned by others, we are marketed to advance the prospects and fortunes of others, our masters. No longer are we without identity; our identity is now clear; we are slaves; we now know how to behave, act, and speak; we are to behave, act, and speak, as what we now are, slaves, when we are permitted to speak. No longer are we useless; the slave has her uses. No longer are we without purpose; we now have a purpose; it is to serve and please our masters.

  Garmenture, in locales with which I am most familiar, is reminiscent of Earth’s Greco-Roman civilization. I have seen no firearms and very little technology, though I know such things, or similar things, must exist somewhere. Surely one does not traverse the lonely seas between worlds with ships of wood. The principal language on this world, as far as I have been able to determine, is Gorean, spoken of commonly, simply, as “the language,” as though there might be no other. Needless to say, we must learn it quickly, and as well as possible. The free are not easy or patient with us. We are slaves. We quickly learn to fear the switch and whip. One who does not speak Gorean natively is commonly accounted a barbarian. The distinction between barbarian and nonbarbarian, thusly, is commonly drawn in terms of language. To be sure, Goreans apprised of the Second Knowledge, those better informed, aware, for example, that Earth and Gor are planets orbiting a common star, tend to regard Earth as a barbarous planet. Who but barbarians would taint their food, poison their atmosphere, foul their rivers, lakes, and seas, and crowd, despoil, and disfigure a lovely, innocent world, their own? Have they no understanding, no love? Have they no guilt, no shame? Have they no Home Stone? What is such a world good for, save the extraction of slaves, to serve their betters? Many, mostly free women, feel that such as we should not be brought to Gor, that we should be left on Earth, to reside in our own squalor. But others, say, merchants, disagree. We are attractive, abundant, easily obtained, and sell well. So we are trapped, caged, and brought to market. I personally suspect that the motivations of the Gorean free women who object to our importings as cargo and merchandise, as domestic animals, are not so much a matter of fittingness or propriety as of personal animosity, even jealousy. Gorean men find us attractive. Is it so strange that a lightly-clad, collared, owned animal, sexual and beautiful, exciting and needful, her slave fires kindled by the will and doings of men, might be found, however undeservedly, of interest to men? What man would wish, save for social or economic advantage, to indefinitely pursue, with exasperation and misery, a coy free woman when, with a snapping of his fingers, a slave will hurry to his feet, to cover them with kisses and beg to please him, and in the ways of the female slave? What man does not wish, at least upon occasion, that one of his lofty, disdainful, arrogant free women, opaquely veiled and encumbered in her voluminous robes, were stripped before him, marked, collared, and thrown to his feet, a slave? How momentous and catastrophic must be that transition for a Gorean free woman, given her lofty status and the awe in which she is commonly held, when, as in the fortunes of war, she might fall into bondage! As harrowing and dramatic as it may seem to us at first, the transition from freedom to slavery is less hard, I suspect, for us, imports from Earth, than for a Gorean free woman, for on Earth almost all are free and when all are free, freedom is of little interest or consequence. Indeed, in a sense, no one is really free or not free. Perhaps better, where there is no slavery, freedom is neither special nor important, and certainly is not momentous.

  I am attractive; otherwise I would not have been brought here; otherwise I would not have been collared and marked. But, like most girls, I am not expensive. Many of us are cheap. Most men, even poor men, can afford a female slave. I would suppose that you could buy me, if you wished. There are, of course, many to choose from. It is interesting, that even a beautiful girl from my former world, one whose beauty might have led to wealth and position, may, on this world, be owned by a poor man. Let her then, in her collar, barefoot, in her rag, at her labors, think on that. There are many beautiful women on this world. Accordingly, they are cheap. Indeed, many are natively Gorean, stolen, seized in raids, taken as prizes in war, and such. The female of the enemy is commonly regarded as a slave not yet in one’s collar. She is a familiar form of loot. Indeed, many male Goreans think of all women as slaves, only that some, the legally free, have not yet been put in the collars in which they belong.

  It does not
take us long to learn that we are animals, and properties. We are, as noted, marked and collared. Is that not fit for beasts? We are herded, caged, and chained. We are stripped and exhibited. We are bought and sold.

  On my world, interestingly, I had long suspected that I was a natural slave. Why should it not be admitted, at least now? As a slave I am not permitted to lie. A free woman may lie, but a slave may not. That is one of the many differences between a free woman and a slave. A slave can be severely punished for lying. Yes, I had often suspected that I was a natural slave. In my dreams, and reveries, I had worn many collars and served many masters. I do not know, of course, if this sort of thing is the case with other women. I can speak only for myself. How I had fought this suspicion, the dreams and reveries, this whispering, pressing conviction that I was a slave, a natural slave! Was I such that I should be a rightless possession? Did I long to be owned, to have a master? Did I long to love and serve, surrendered and vulnerable, helpless, owned, and choiceless, to serve rightlessly, helplessly, selflessly? How fearful, how terrible! What tumult, what misery! It was antithetical to all that I had been taught, against all the rules and prescriptions I was not to question, opposed to all the lies and artificialities in which one must pretend to believe, so uncritically and unquestioningly. One is torn between convention, armed and aggressive, and socially coercive, and truth, between formulas and words and one’s heart and blood.

  So it seemed with me.

  Let it be with you, as you might wish.

  I do not legislate for you; do not legislate for me.

  Oh, I resolved to fight the thoughts, the dreams, and reveries, the collar! I did what I could, what I thought I should. I tried to be true to the conditioning program to which I had been subjected, ever since the innocence of childhood, only later recognizing what it was, what it had tried to do to me, what it had tried to make me. The pins and nails of lies try to pin us to the boards of others. One trembles, one struggles, one tears one’s flesh and wings, but one can escape.

  One tries to find oneself, not a picture or image of oneself imposed by others, not the self you are told to be, but one’s true self, the authentic self.

  And then I was brought to Gor, and found myself a slave, then in all legality no more than an object, an animal, a property.

  Think of yourself as a property, if you can. It is what I am, and what you, too, could come to be. I was doubtless scouted, assessed, considered, and decided upon without my knowledge, and then my acquisition was arranged. Perhaps you, too, have been noticed; perhaps you are, even now, without your knowledge, being scouted, assessed, considered. Should you then not be more careful of your posture, the tilt of your head, the line of your body, the grace of your movements? Should you not present yourself fittingly? Should you not endeavor to be more beautiful and pleasing, as befits one being considered for the collar? Surely you wish to appear worthy. Surely you wish to create a favorable impression on the acquirers, the masters. Do they regard you and think, “That is a pretty one; she might do well on a block; I think we could make some money on her”? Perhaps you have already been given a number, and a place on a shipping list. Perhaps there is already a collar on Gor, one of hundreds, waiting in a slaver’s house, which will be put on your neck. If not, one of the caste of metal workers can easily supply this lovely, light, identificatory device, nicely measured to your throat. Many slavers think of a woman as a slave as soon as she has been decided on, as soon as she has been added to their list. In this sense, as you go about your day, aware of nothing, thinking of nothing, shopping, chatting, dining, dating, and such, you may already, without your knowledge, be a slave. How do you think your date, your male friends, would view you, if they understood you were a slave? How would they think of you, how would they treat you? Would they pity you and commiserate with you, or would they do with you what they would feel like doing, would want to do, would have a right to do, and should do, remove the lying presumption of clothing from your body, and force your lips down to their boots?

  I had known, of course, in a superficial sense, verbally and intellectually, of the radical sexual dimorphism of the human species. How could I have ignored it or dismissed it, for years? Had it no consequences? Did it mean nothing? Supposedly not. The most fundamental dichotomy in human biology was not to be noticed.

  The men who processed me, and the others, of course, had no interest in my ruminations, my tumults, questions, alarms, and fears. Do the stockmen in stockyards concern themselves with the inner life, the thoughts and dreams, the wants and needs, of the goods they deal with, with the beasts they handle? We were naked, as the animals we are. We were denied speech. When one or two of us protested or tried to speak, she was whipped, and was then, as the rest of us, silent. We were lined up, our hands braceleted behind us. Our left thighs were locked in a rack, and, one after the other, we were routinely marked. I wept as I was marked, but was not whipped. We were then fitted with house collars. The mark was small and graceful. I later learned that it was the cursive kef, a common brand. ‘Kef’ is the first letter of the word ‘kajira’, which is the most common Gorean expression for a female slave. The house collar, I later learned, had the house name and a number. The first Gorean words I was made to say were ‘La kajira’. I found out later what they meant. ‘I am a slave girl’. Freshly branded and collared, we were unbraceleted and placed in a long line, before a long, waist-high chain to which our wrists, crossed, were bound. This chain then, by a windlass, was drawn upward, before us, and our bound wrists were drawn high over our heads, so that we stood beneath the chain, our bodies stretched. Our heels could not touch the floor. Then only the tips of our toes could touch the floor. Our arms so positioned, held high over our heads, our breasts were lifted. We were well exhibited. We were aware of the metal on our neck. One does not forget the snapping shut of the lock. It is a small, sharp, decisive sound. Our bodies were extended, strained, stretched. We were helpless.

  Two men, tunicked, stepped to the side, and a third man, sturdy, with cropped hair, approached, robed in blue and yellow, carrying a whip. He walked up and down our line, regarding us, and then assumed a position near the center of the line, a few feet before us.

  He glared at us.

  I feared he found us displeasing.

  We were helpless, and naked.

  He snapped the whip once, in seeming annoyance, unexpectedly, fiercely, abruptly.

  I, and several of the others, cried out with fear. Misery coursed down the line. The chain shook above us. Surely he must not strike us. He must not do that! We would have not a strand of silk between our bodies and the fiery hiss of that supple, dark, glistening, dread implement!

  He recoiled the whip.

  Our agitation subsided.

  He seemed impatient, and angry. He scowled, and grimaced.

  How could this be?

  Surely he must be pleased, a man, to have beauty such as ours, stretched and exhibited, helpless and naked, before him.

  What true man would not wish to have us so?

  But we, astoundingly, despite our obvious health, youth, and beauty, were disparaged.

  “What a miserable lot,” he said, in English. “I have never seen so pathetic a display of strung, dangling, worthless meat. Have our suppliers gone blind? Were they all drunk? I have seen better slabs of meat hung in a butcher shop. We ask for beauty. They give us pigs and garbage.” We looked wildly, uncomprehendingly, at one another. Never had I seen so much beauty in so small an area. Was he mad? Surely these women were amongst the most beautiful I had ever seen! Each, in her own way, was outstandingly lovely. They were the sort of women of whom men dream, the sort of women who are avidly sought, whose beauty could open doors and smooth ways, women who were accustomed to having their way with men, the sort whom men hastened to please. Could this sort of beauty, so rare on Earth, be common, be familiar, be scarcely noteworthy, on this world? Surely not! “You should all b
e ground up for sleen feed,” snarled the man. “It is all you are good for.” I had no idea what a sleen, or sleen, might be. “Is this the best that your sorry world, with its teeming millions, can do?” continued the man. “To be sure,” he said, “how could so sorry a world as your Terra produce even one female whom one might glance at twice? Surely this is the ugliest lot I have ever seen. Cast them to eels, feed them to urts, throw them to leech plants!” He then handed his whip to one of the other men, and stormed away, leaving the chamber.

  The fellow to whom the whip had been surrendered, tunicked, perhaps in his early twenties, then took his place before our line. He said something to his fellow, which I did not understand, and then faced us. “As you may suspect, my homely, naked, two-legged beasts,” he said, speaking English, as had his predecessor, “your lives have changed. Yes, they have changed, completely, and for the better. On your world you were worthless, but now, for the first time in your life, you have some worth. You will now, for the first time in your life, be good for something. You have been branded, as the animals you are. The brand is permanent. You are marked. It shows what you are. The collar also shows what you are, but it bears a legend. Collars can be changed, but do not expect to be without one. Merchant law requires that such as you be collared.”

  “What are we?” I wondered, but feared I knew.

  What else, stripped, collared, and branded, and strung up like meat, could we be?

  “This is a whip,” he said, lifting the supple implement in his hand. “You will learn to respect it, and fear it.”

  I knew I already did so.

  But we were women!

  Surely it could not be used on us!

  At this point several other men, tunicked attendants, entered the chamber from behind us. Twisting in my bonds, looking back, I saw, trembling, that each of these men carried such a whip. There was then one behind each of us.

  I did not believe, for a minute, the disparaging remarks which had been uttered by the robed fellow, nor those of the tunicked fellow to whom he had handed the whip. We were clearly attractive, and many of us were beautiful. Were we so shabby and worthless as they suggested, we would not have been brought here, and would not now, naked, utterly helpless, our bodies stretched, be fastened to the high, overhead chain. Perhaps we were of less quality than some shipments. But surely we were not homely, nor “pigs and garbage.” When the acquirers had populations of millions to choose from, and could choose as they wished, it was highly likely that the average shipment would be of high quality. And surely then, ours was of high quality, as well. What was startling to me, and somewhat unsettling, was the comprehension that our beauty, rare as it was on Earth, might, given the selections of the acquirers, be unremarkable on this world, at least amongst importations such as we. How then might women native to this world, for there must be such, view us? Not pleasantly, I supposed. But, still, given our attractions, our beauty, why should we have been so unaccountably slighted, so demeaned and ridiculed? I think it was intended to shock us, informing us that our beauty here was not special, and it was not enough on this world to be beautiful. On Earth, a beautiful woman need be little but beautiful. Society is at her feet; men vie to serve and please her. Here, on this world, on the other hand, where beauty is common, at least amongst slaves, and she is not special, she must obey, work, and perform, must now strive herself, fearfully and zealously, to please and be found pleasing.