The Emma of Gor Trilogy: An Introduction

The 'Emma of Gor' trilogy is a series of fan-fiction books set on John Norman's Counter Earth world of Gor. Chronologically speaking, they occur in the following order:

What Remains of Rebecca Palmer Chapter Twelve

 

Chapter Twelve: Voight-Kampff

 

I stepped into the assessment room, and for a moment the stark utility of Chastity Reach fell away. The room had been deliberately softened, almost prettified, in the way one might arrange a consultation suite to calm a nervous patient rather than interrogate a worker. Pale beech panelling lined the walls, broken only by a single long expanse of reinforced glass that stretched the entire length of one side. Beyond it lay the wild, windswept landscape of the Isle of Jura - now renamed Chastity Reach - its dark, sullen moors rolling toward jagged sea cliffs under a bruised Autumnal sky. Thin sunlight silvered the heather and caught on distant whitecaps. It was the first real view of the outside world I had been permitted in over a month; my usual workstations sat deep in the complex, lit by artificial panels and pierced only by narrow arrow-slits for security. The sudden breadth of landscape hit me like cold air after confinement, beautiful and disorienting.

 

Two low armchairs faced each other across a small, round table of polished oak. On it rested a plain ceramic teapot, two cups, a small dish of shortbread, and a single white orchid in a glass vase - subtle touches meant to signal civility, safety, routine. A soft wool throw lay folded over the back of one chair. The lighting was warm, indirect, from recessed fixtures rather than the harsh fluorescents of the corridors. Nothing in the furnishings shouted surveillance, yet I knew better. Dr. Fenella Voss rose as I entered. She was younger than I had expected, with long, wavy dark brown hair that cascaded past her shoulders in soft, voluminous waves, and a deep side part that gave it an effortless elegance. Her skin was fair and smooth, and her makeup was subtle but polished - rosy lips, defined brows, and just enough eyeliner to make her striking blue-green eyes stand out even more behind those stylish black rectangular glasses. They had a slight cat-eye tilt that suited her oval face perfectly.

What Remains of Rebecca Palmer Chapter Eleven

 

Chapter Eleven: Surveillance State

 

The days turned into weeks and those turned into a whole month. 

 

I became… acclimatised. 

 

For most of the day I’d been reviewing the routine surveillance files on my primary assignment - Dr. Eleanor Vale - that sat waiting for me each morning like an early Christmas present begging to be unwrapped. It was like a regular window into her life, and a window to the world outside of Chastity Reach, off the coast of Scotland. I was becoming fascinated with Dr. Vale’s daily life. 

 

I drank my body weight in coffee as I flicked between the reports, audio files, location flags, and transcript downloads that filled out the Eleanor Vale file each day. I nibbled my lower lip and glanced around the wide office, seeing all the other women like me, similarly dressed, gazing at their own terminals, listening to audio files through their earpieces. No one spoke to one another except in passing by the coffee machine, and even then we were aware we could be overheard. My fingers fluttered over the keyboard. Files sprang open for me. 

 

DEVICE HARVEST — SUMMARY (PREVIOUS 24 HOURS)

 

Email Traffic: 42 inbound, 17 outbound. Notable correspondents: two university colleagues, one literary editor, one unknown encrypted address (flagged for investigation).

 

Content themes: lecture revision, book proof corrections, interview scheduling.

 

I always opened the encrypted exchanges first. They were always the most intriguing. This time the message exchange was short and ambiguous:

 

“They’re escalating their tone. Be careful with phrasing this week.”

 

Vale’s reply simply read, “I’m aware. I won’t give them theatre.”

 

I flagged the exchange for narrative reframing: Secretive communications/paranoia indicators, that sort of thing. I was actually getting good at this. The Steel Worlds would be proud of me. 

What Remains of Rebecca Palmer Chapter Ten

 

Chapter Ten: Target Acquisition

 

The studio lights were soft enough to flatter, and bright enough to expose. I watched from my workstation in Sector 4, the broadcast split across my screen alongside live sentiment metrics and engagement graphs. Comments scrolled in real time beneath the video feed, all flagged and colour-coded for my ease of understanding.

 

On screen, Dr. Eleanor Vale sat with the easy composure of someone long accustomed to public scrutiny. She wore tailored dark slacks paired with a sharp navy jacket over a simple white blouse, the lines of her outfit precise without being ostentatious. The jacket was structured but unadorned, signalling professionalism rather than vanity. On her feet were modest heels - practical, elegant, and understated. Her jewellery was minimal: small stud earrings and a fine, almost invisible necklace at her collarbone. Her hair, chestnut brown and cut to shoulder length, was styled in a smooth, professional blow-dry that framed her face without distraction. Everything about her presentation suggested discipline and clarity - nothing superfluous, nothing accidental.

 

Opposite her, Marianne Holt – the public voice of New Feminism in the UK - presented a carefully curated vision of mid-century domestic grace. She wore a pale blue dress patterned with neat white polka dots, cinched at the waist and flaring softly at the skirt in unmistakable 1950s fashion. The fabric sat primly at the knee, modest and demure, as though lifted from another era’s catalogue. Around her neck rested a single strand of pearls, matched with pearl earrings that caught the studio lights when she turned her head. Her blonde hair was styled in a sculpted, vintage wave, swept back and pinned into a polished half-up arrangement that evoked the golden age of televised homemaking. The look was immaculate - every curl set in place, every detail deliberate. Her warm smile completed the tableau, reassuring at first glance, though held just a fraction too long to feel entirely natural.

 

Between them, Fiona Bruce, the BBC moderator, smiled. “Tonight,” she began smoothly, “we’re discussing the growing influence of New Feminism and whether it represents a cultural correction or a step backward for women.”

 

She turned first to Holt. “Mrs. Holt, I’ll begin by asking you, is New Feminism restricting women’s freedom?”

What Remains of Rebecca Palmer Chapter Nine

 

Chapter Nine: The Kajira

 

Several Years Ago:

 

I was fifteen years old, going on sixteen, when my father showed me a kajira for the first time. Julia and I were enjoying a half term break from Ravenscourt school for girls and were trying to relax from the stress of our upcoming exams. 

 

The Manor, as Father always called it, or Chessington Grange, as the postman knew it, was a sprawling 18th-century pile deep in the Wiltshire countryside, with its high ceilings, polished oak floors, and walls lined with portraits of stern ancestors who had no idea what secrets their descendants would keep. The air smelled of beeswax polish and the faint lavender from Mother's sachets, but today there was something else - a subtle, unfamiliar perfume, like exotic spices from one of Father's hidden shipments. Julia was beside me, her arm linked through mine, her usual bubbly energy subdued into wide-eyed curiosity. We had been summoned here after lunch, and just before we were due to play tennis, Father saying it was time for us to ‘understand more about the worlds we serve’. Coming of age, he called it. We'd grown up hearing whispers about Gor, of course - the hidden planet, and the Steel Worlds orbiting the Jupiter belt, where our benevolent patrons, the Kurii suffered in exile, but much of it was abstract, like stories from one of those forbidden books in the library. Until now.

 

Father sat in his favourite wingback chair by the fireplace, the one with the carved lions' heads on the arms, looking every inch the Inner Party elite in his tailored suit, hair impeccably combed, a glass of single malt in his hand. His eyes, sharp and calculating as always, flicked to us with a nod. "Come in, girls. Rebecca, Julia – please sit. There's someone I want you to meet."

What Remains of Rebecca Palmer Chapter Eight

 

Chapter Eight: Chastity Reach

I stood out on the open deck when the ferry rounded the last shoulder of the Isle of Jura, off the rugged west coast of Scotland. The wind came at us sideways, sharp and wet, driving the rain in needling sheets that found every gap in my coat. It tasted bitterly of salt and iron. The sea below was slate-dark and restless, slamming against the hull with a rhythm that felt less like travel and more like warning. I gripped the rail with both hands, knuckles already numb, my short hair plastered to my face as I gazed out at the bleak coastline.

 

No one else stayed out on deck for long. We were all women, all with similar haircuts, wearing the same drab overcoats, and underneath those coats, we wore the same utilitarian, knee-length grey dresses with long sleeves and fold down collars. We had all been processed. 

 

Most of the women had retreated indoors, leaving the deck sparsely populated by the stubborn and the foolish. I told myself I wanted air. I told myself I needed to see where we were going. After having been locked up in a security installation for a couple of months I wanted to breathe clean, fresh air again. 

 

The island rose out of the water ahead of us, bleak and treeless, its hills flattened by cloud. Rain blurred the edges of everything, collapsing distance so that land and sea seemed pressed together, indistinct and hostile. For a moment, I thought the rumours had been exaggerated — that Chastity Reach would be hidden somewhere inland, modest, easily missed.

 

Then I saw it. The complex did not emerge gradually. Rather, it announced itself. A cluster of tall, angular structures clung to the shoreline like a deliberate wound, all concrete and steel, their surfaces darkened by constant exposure to weather. Nothing decorative. Nothing accidental. The buildings were laid out with a cold precision that made the surrounding landscape feel irrelevant, as if the land itself had been pressed into service and stripped of choice. Lights glowed behind narrow windows — white, unwavering, indifferent to the storm. Even from the ferry, they looked clinical. Watchful. I felt something tighten low in my stomach.

Gods of Gor Chapter Ten

 

Chapter Ten: The Barge

 

“River pirates,” said Brinn as he gazed to the left of our canoe. 

 

“It seems so,” remarked Tijani. We had paused paddling for the moment while the men assessed the situation. I wasn’t too concerned as the pirates were already engaged in looting and securing their ill-gotten prizes and would be unlikely to jump back into their pirogues and chase after us.

 

“I suppose we have now paddled enough distance up the Nyoka that the security afforded by the might of Schendi can no longer reach this far.”

 

“It would seem so,” agreed Tijani. “From now on we need to be on guard and keep our blades close at hand.”

 

“I am always on guard,” remarked Brinn. “And my blade is never far from reach.”

 

“When we camp we will have to ensure additional security.”

 

“Indeed.” Brinn actually seemed pleased by the idea. For him this was now less of a genteel canoeing holiday and more of a dangerous incursion into savage lands. Why did that make him happy…

 

“Observe the barge,” remarked Tijani as he leaned forward. “It obviously fled in panic and ran aground.” The flat bottomed barge had veered left and had struck a sandbank under the surface of the water. An experienced river captain would not have permitted his vessel to run aground, but then I suppose when river pirates are in hot pursuit, you are forced to take chances. The captain had obviously tried to reach the shore where his passengers might hide themselves in the thick tree line. Pirates rarely wish to plunge deep into the forested interior, where their advantage can be squandered. They are also nervous to leave their pirogues unattended for too long.

 

“Help me!” The cry was from a woman on the barge and it was directed at us.

 

“She is making a stand,” remarked Tijani. He reached for a water bottle and took a sip. “I admire that. Do you not, friend Brinn?”

 

Brinn merely grunted in a reluctant manner. He seemed uninterested.

Gods of Gor Chapter Nine

 

Gods of Gor: Pillow Talk

 

The jungle pressed in on us like a living, breathing beast, its emerald heart throbbing with heat and hidden life. Vines thicker than a man's thigh draped from the canopy in lazy, sinuous loops, heavy with clusters of blood-red orchids that wept nectar in slow, glistening drops, each one catching a fractured spear of moonlight. The air itself was a warm, wet soup, saturated with the sweet rot of fallen fruit, the sharp green bite of crushed ferns, the faint metallic copper of river mud, and the ever-present musk of unseen animals: jaguar piss sharp as vinegar, the heavy animal sweetness of black larl fur, the sour tang of fermenting sap where a tree had been scored by tusk or claw.

 

Every breath tasted different. In the darkness the air cooled slightly, carrying the clean mineral chill of moss-covered stone and the faint iron scent of hidden springs. Step into a sun-dappled clearing during the day and the heat slammed down like a physical weight - humid, suffocating, making sweat spring instantly along the spine, behind the knees, under my breasts. Insects filled the gaps: the high, metallic whine of mosquitoes orbiting like tiny silver knives, the low, throbbing drone of cicadas that rose and fell in waves, the sudden dry rattle of a stick insect unfolding wings the colour of dead leaves. But at night the air was cooler, more bearable.

 

The sounds never stopped, of course. Somewhere a howler monkey screamed - a raw, ascending wail that ripped through the green like a blade, answered by the softer, questioning hoots of smaller primates. Birds flashed overhead - scarlet macaws with wings like torn flame, tospore birds trailing iridescent plumes that shimmered violet and emerald as they darted between shafts of moonlight. Beneath it all ran the constant rustle: leaves shivering as something large moved just out of sight, the soft plop of fruit dropping into dark pools, the slow creak of branches bending under the weight of unseen bodies.

Gods of Gor Chapter Eight

 

Chapter Eight: A Question of Honour

 

Kwame rose slowly, his grin vanishing, replaced by a thunderous scowl, muscles tensing like coiled vines. "You placed the flowers around her shoulders. You took Meralisha under them. You bound yourself before the spirits!"

 

“A simple misunderstanding,” said Brinn, as he regarded Kwame with a soppy smile. 

 

Here’s the thing – people sometimes misunderstand Brinn’s expression. When he’s trying to be diplomatic (and believe me, it doesn’t come easy to him) he ends up with this dopey expression on his face, and people either assume he’s intimidated (he really isn’t), he’s mentally deficient (okay, so the jury is sometimes out on that one) or he’s being patronising (Brinn is the least patronising person I’ve ever met. He always means exactly what he says). And I could see that right now he had that expression on his face, and Kwame was reading it as Brinn mocking his family.

 

“You bedded my sister!” snarled Kwame.

 

And here’s the other thing – arguments aren’t helped by delays, where Mina has to translate back and forth. Brinn would say something, Kwame wouldn’t understand him, and then both men would have to stare at each other and wait for Mina to find the words in the corresponding language. And God knows what important subtleties were lost in translation. And all the while a dark mood was boiling amongst the tribal men and women, and that in turn was making Brinn more defensive. Right now he would be thinking they weren’t listening to him, and they weren’t appreciating just how ‘nice’ he was being about the situation.

 

This was going to be a bloodbath.

 

We were all going to die.

Gods of Gor Chapter Seven

 

Chapter Seven: Blood Brothers

 

“I wear scarlet,” said Brinn, thumping his tightly muscled chest with the clenched fist of his right hand. “I am of the warriors – a High Caste on Gor. I do not… sneak around… like some common thief in Port Kar. Do not speak of this again, Emma.”

 

This was going to be difficult. 

 

I sighed, fearing the worst now. “They will try and kill you, Master. There will be spears raised and…”

 

“It is a misunderstanding – nothing more. But were I to slink away in the dead of night, then what would men say of my honour?”

 

“They might say you’re still alive?” suggested Tijani as he gazed out of the hut towards the river.

 

“Thank you, Master!” I said, grateful at least that Tijani was taking my side. 

 

“I am sometimes concerned you may not fully appreciate the concept of honour,” said Brinn, frowning now, to Tijani. “It is a complex principle, of course, but even so…”

 

“I’m a pirate,” said Tijani with a grin. “I reave, I pillage, and I wench. Not necessarily in that order.”

 

“Those things can be done honourably,” suggested Brinn.

 

“But not for long,” added Tijani. “Men like you always spoil things by demanding – say – one on one combat... to the death.”

What Remains of Rebecca Palmer Chapter Seven

 

Chapter Seven: Moon Blood

London 2014:

 

I was twelve years old when I bled for the first time. 

 

“You have your moon blood, Rebecca,” said my mother, proudly, as if I had just graduated to using the toilet on my own. “Oh, my dear baby, how the years have sped by.” She reached out and hugged me with a fierce joy that left me wondering whether now was perhaps a good time to ask her for a pony? 

 

I so wanted a pony. I had been begging my mother for over a year, but she had remained steadfast in her resolve. “Where would we put it, darling? We don’t have a stable.”

 

“Mother?” I had stained the bed sheets last night and my initial reaction was one of fright. Had I injured myself? The blood was clearly coming from between my legs. But when the house maid had secretly smiled at me that morning, and nodded her head in tacit understanding, I knew I wasn’t going to be told off. 

 

Father had been lost for words. He had looked clearly uncomfortable with the idea that he might speak to me about whatever had happened.

 

“Your mother will explain things, Rebecca.” And then he headed to the safety of his study before anyone might include him in the conversation. I heard the door lock with a degree of finality which meant he wasn’t to be disturbed. When my mother did talk to me, it was with a formality I hadn’t expected. I had been told to wait for her in my bedroom.

What Remains of Rebecca Palmer Chapter Six

 

Chapter Six: Redemption

They didn’t tell me about Chastity Reach when I was arrested.

 

Or when they shot my dog.

 

They didn’t tell me about Chastity Reach when they took my parents away down a different corridor; my mother - with a leather hood over her head, buckled tightly around her throat - turning back once, already learning not to reach for me. They didn’t tell me during intake, or the first nights, or the days that blurred together in a way that made time feel like another thing they had confiscated.

 

They waited until the worst of it was over.

 

That was how I knew it mattered. By then, my body had learned the rules. How to sit. How to stand. How to answer without tone. The pain had receded into something dull and instructional. I had stopped expecting explanations. I knew how to ‘play the game’. I knew what made the difference between punishment and approval.

 

So when they moved me to a smaller room - cleaner, quieter - I felt something close to relief. There was a chair. A table. A cup of water already waiting for me.

The woman who came in wore a soft institutional grey instead of black. No insignia. Her hair was neatly arranged, her hands folded as if this were a conversation between equals.

 

“Rebecca,” she said.

 

It startled me that she used my first name.

Gods of Gor Chapter Six

 

Chapter Six: Rite of the River Whisper

 

There’s a scene in an early episode of HBO’s TV series, Rome, where an entire Roman legion is standing around in a long column, not going anywhere, and then the camera tracks over to the side of a tree where General Mark Antony (played by the always brilliant James Purefoy) is fucking a peasant girl up against the trunk, and the entire Roman army has to wait for him to finish before they can continue marching. 

 

Well, I know what’s that like now, because this was day three of us sitting around in the village while Brinn fucked around with one of their Free Women.

 

“I thought you, as a rule, never had sex with Free Women, Master?” I said to him on the third day. 

 

“I never said that,” said Brinn as he sat on a cot bed beside a beautiful, sleeping, black skinned woman. I had seen her walking around the village, and she was as graceful as a gazelle, with long legs and a seductive smile. I knelt, lacing up his sandals as he yawned and stretched his arms. “When did I ever say that? Is it too early for paga?”

 

“Yes it is too early for paga.” I had already hidden his bottle. “Master, this is all lovely, I’m sure, but even Tijani is getting impatient. You have four slaves. You don’t need to…” I stopped talking as I saw the Free Woman stir in her sleep. A few seconds passed by and then when I felt sure she wasn’t waking up, I continued to speak in a quiet whisper. “And the village men here think you have companioned her.”

 

Brinn laughed at that. “You have quite the imagination, Emma. Companioned her – as if I would do that.”

 

“No, Master, listen to me – I’ve been picking up some of the language, and Mina filled in some of the details last night while you were…”

 

“Wasn’t there a paga bottle by my bed?” mused Brinn as he scratched his enormous hairy balls. The shaft of his penis looked impressive even while it lay flaccid. It resembled a short hosepipe. 

 

“I think you must have drunk it all, Master. But, please, listen to me… 

What Remains of Rebecca Palmer Chapter Five

 

Chapter Five: Adjustments

 

I heard the bolt slide back before I heard the hinges creak.

 

I was sitting on the floor with my back against the wall, the blanket pulled around my shoulders, when the door opened and a man stepped inside carrying a pair of scissors. They were large, industrial-looking things, the metal dull and nicked, like they had been used for purposes other than hair. He did not look at me at first. He closed the door carefully behind him, then set a small stool in the centre of the cell. “Stand up,” he said.

 

My stomach dropped. I stayed where I was. “What is this?” I asked. My voice sounded thin, even to me. “Please. What are you doing?”

 

He glanced at me then, briefly, without interest. “Grooming adjustment,” he said. “Routine.”

 

“No.” The word came out before I could stop it. I pressed my hands to my head instinctively, fingers threading into my hair. “Please don’t. You don’t need to do this. I’ll cooperate. I have been cooperating. You know I’ve been cooperating! Please, let me talk to Michael!”

 

He sighed, as if I were being tedious. “Stand up,” he repeated.

 

When I didn’t move quickly enough, he crossed the room and took hold of me by my hair. His grip was rough and absolute as he pulled me to my feet and guided me to the stool as though positioning a piece of furniture. My knees trembled as I sat.

 

“Please,” I said again. “My hair - please. It’s all I have left.”

Gods of Gor Chapter Five

 

Chapter Five: Lady Taleisha

 

“I’m not talking to you,” I snarled under my breath as I crossed my arms and looked away from Mina. “Slut,” I added.

 

Because she was.

 

Skanky little slut. 

 

Slutty, skanky, little slut.

 

It was mid-morning, and Mina had something she wanted to say to me, but she could fuck right off.

 

“Emma, don’t be like that. I can hardly say no to Brinn, can I? I’m a slave.”

 

Brinn had told me – HE HAD FUCKING TOLD ME – that I’d be in his furs last night, and then he got drunk and Mina was all over him while I was peeling suls!

“Oh, you’re a slave, are you?” I snarled, without looking around. “Well that makes a fucking change to hear you say that!”

Gods of Gor Chapter Four

 

Chapter Four: Reflections from a Distant Past

 

We paddled eastward down the wide, sluggish river, Mina, Saffron, Chloe and I, our wooden canoe slicing through the steaming brown waters that carried us ever deeper into the equatorial jungle east of Schendi. I sat in front of Mina, our light steel ankle links clinking softly with each synchronized stroke of our paddles. Once the self-proclaimed Ubara of the Black Kingdoms – the captain of the feared pirate ship, the Larl of the Thassa - the former pirate queen now belonged to Tijani, the lean, muscled, dark-skinned warrior whose gold rings caught the fractured sunlight whenever he moved. I belonged to Brinn, whose ice-blue gaze rested on me with the calm certainty of ownership, seeing every bead of sweat, every tremble in my arms, every effort to please. The men lounged in the stern, voices low and rough with talk of coin, silk, and the kajirae prices they had seen in the markets we had left behind in Schendi, while we slaves drove the canoe forward—slow, deliberate, obedient.

 

The jungle pressed in on both sides, a green wall so thick it seemed to lean toward us, hungry and ever watchful. Towering trees strangled by vines as thick as a man’s arm arched overhead, their canopy filtering the sun into shifting bars of gold and deep shadow that played across my bare skin like fingers. Broad leaves dripped moisture onto my shoulders; heavy-scented orchids and crimson blossoms exhaled perfume that coated my throat, sweet enough to make me dizzy. The air was wet heat, clinging, making the thin cotton of my brief skirt slide and cling with every stroke, every breath. I felt Brinn’s eyes on the small of my back, tracking the way the fabric moulded to my hips, and my belly tightened in that familiar, helpless flutter.

Gods of Gor Chapter Three

 

Chapter Three: Mimi ni mtumwa

 

We sheltered under some canvas tarpaulin as the rain continued to fall sporadically where we camped. It was like someone was turning a hose pipe on and off repeatedly. I snuggled close to Brinn as he fed me pieces of cooked fish. It was warm, despite the rain, and I felt good that evening. We had taken the first nervous steps into the Gorean terra incognita and found it not quite as daunting as I had feared. As long as we followed the river itself it was nigh on impossible to get lost, though I would not fancy entering the dark veldt of the rain forest without a native guide to hand. Mina and Saffron’s collars were chained together with a long length of chain, designed of course to keep Mina secure. From time to time I saw her gaze wistfully into the depths of the darkening jungle, wondering perhaps how difficult it might be to escape in the days to come. The men, sensibly, weren’t taking chances with her. She had grown up in the jungle after all, and although this was an unknown area to her, she knew instinctively how to survive in this kind of terrain. 

 

I gasped suddenly as I felt Brinn’s hand stray between my legs. He was touching me there, feeling my sexual warmth and I nuzzled him in response. I could do little else but moan and sigh as he aroused me slowly, feeding the slave fires within my body. 

 

“Slave,” said Brinn.

 

I simply squirmed and kissed him with renewed passion. 

 

“Do you remember when you were my enemy, Emma?”

 

“I was never your enemy.”

 

“You were an agent of the Kurii. Had you been a man, I would have killed you. Instead, I promised to put you in a collar.”

Gods of Gor Chapter Two

 

Chapter Two: The Emerald Forest

 

Fuck. Our collar chain got caught on a branch again. “Mina! Hang on just a moment.” She felt the tug on the chain at the same time I spoke. Mina stood still in the rain forest canopy as I carefully freed the links of the chain from where it had hooked against some vegetation. The chain was only ten feet in length and connected the ring on Mina's collar to the ring on mine. This was because Chloe still considered Mina to be a flight risk and wasn't going to let her loose in the jungle perimeter without securing her to another girl she could trust not to run away. It did make things awkward for us though as we strolled between the canopy of trees.  

 

I could hardly move without a plant touching my skin, so dense was the foliage this close to the river bank. There's probably more life here per square metre than anywhere else on the planet and the noise alone is incredible: so many insects, birds and mammals chirping and chittering away like some natural history symphony. The rain falls thickly in drops as large as ramberries, yet it's so warm the wet isn't as big of a problem as it is in the Sardar when it falls in sheets from the mountain air. But as we tread through the bracken I'm so alert for the deadly bugs and snakes I can't relax at all.

   

“You walk too slowly, Emma,” said Mina.

 

“No, you're walking too quickly. We need to watch out for snakes.” I was petrified that I might step barefoot on a venomous snake as we pushed through the low vegetation. Snakes were everywhere! I knew they were! They were sniggering in hiding as they saw me coming. I knew that just like I knew we should never venture near a riverbank for fear of a river tharlarion lying in wait under the water to rise up and snap us in two between its powerful jaws.

What Remains of Rebecca Palmer Chapter Four

 

Chapter Four: Kindness

 

As the next couple of days passed I began to fear the sound of the opening of my door – the grinding of its hinges, following the sliding of a steel bolt on the other side.

 

My fear wasn’t centred around the door itself, but rather the split seconds of uncertainty as to who would walk through the door into my cell.

 

Would it be Him… or Her.

 

The man was kind. He had given me a blanket. He had seemed shocked that I had been doused in ice water. That had been overstepping the bounds of decency, he had said. I had been Inner Party, after all. That had to mean something, he said. The next time he visited – perhaps twelve hours later - he had brought a thermos flask of hot tea and two scratched plastic cups.

 

“This must be such an ordeal,” he said as he sat down opposite me and placed the thermos flask on the table. “Now, I don’t know whether you take sugar or milk?”

What Remains of Rebecca Palmer Chapter Three

 

Chapter Three: Acquiescence

 

They had taken my shoes.

 

Spoken aloud, it sounded trivial. But when they ordered me to unbuckle them and hand them over, I began to cry with all the shock I had not yet been allowed to feel.

 

I stood in a windowless room somewhere underground that was bleak and cold, where the air had the weight of dead, buried things. It smelled of cold cement, disinfectant, and something faintly metallic, like old water sitting too long in pipes.

 

Harsh strip lights ran the length of the ceiling, humming faintly, casting a flat white glare that left nowhere for shadows to hide. The light was merciless. It drained colour from everything it touched, including me. The walls were bare concrete, painted a tired institutional grey that had been scuffed and repainted so many times it had lost any claim to smoothness. In places the paint had bubbled and cracked, revealing darker patches beneath, as if the building itself were bruised.

 

The floor was unfinished cement, cold through the stocking-clad soles of my feet. Every sound echoed slightly - footsteps, breathing, the soft scrape of a chair being dragged back into place - giving the impression that the room was larger than it really was, or emptier, or both. There were no windows. No clocks. No indication of time passing at all.

 

A single metal table stood in the centre, bolted to the floor, with two chairs on either side. One was lighter, clearly meant to be moved. The other – mine - was fixed, its edges worn smooth by countless previous occupants. I became acutely aware of how many people must have sat there before me, waiting, just as I was.

 

She was already in the room when I entered.

What Remains of Rebecca Palmer Chapter Two

 

Chapter Two: Rendition

 

The van’s engine cut with a low, grinding halt, leaving a hush over the driveway. For a moment, the estate seemed suspended in the late summer air. I felt Marcus stiffen beside me, tail lowered, ears swivelling toward the sound of shifting tires. The dog’s unease made my own pulse quicken, though I could not yet name why.

 

The doors of the van opened slowly, each one releasing a measured, deliberate hiss. Then they emerged. One by one, men in black sweaters and worn jeans, dressed alike enough to be mistaken for one another at a distance, stepped onto the gravel, moving with a precision that seemed almost rehearsed. Their faces were sharp, severe, and unreadable, as if sculpted for the sole purpose of intimidation.

 

I froze, my stomach twisting. Who were they? Government inspectors? Police? Something worse? The air thickened around me, and even the warm sunlight felt wrong, too bright, too exposing.

What Remains of Rebecca Palmer Chapter One

INTRODUCTION: At the conclusion of the novel, 'Steel World Inc', Karl Magnus, the Ubar of London, executed Willard Frick with a gunshot to the head, against the express orders of the Steel Worlds Council of America.   

Retribution was soon to come, not just to Karl Magnus, but to those London Families (The ‘Inner Party’ of the Court of the Steel Worlds in Great Britain) who were seen to be loyal to Karl Magnus. One by one the great American families took them out.

 

One such family was the Palmers – loyal to the Steel Worlds for generations, dating back to the Golden Age of the British Empire.

 

This then is the tragedy that befell their privileged daughter, Rebecca. 

 

What remains of Rebecca Palmer when the Steel Worlds clenches its iron fist?

The Shadow in the Dark Chapter Thirty Five - Final Chapter!

 

I was led - guided, really - through a sequence of archways and narrow corridors until the space opened into something more intimate than the grand halls I had first woken in. This inner chamber felt like the heart of the villa: tall but enclosed, the walls covered in frescoes of gods and nymphs frozen in moments of motion, their painted eyes following me no matter where I stood. Sunlight filtered down through a high, latticed opening, turning the dust in the air into drifting gold.

 

I stood alone in the middle of it, barefoot on warm stone, my red silk tunic whispering against my thighs every time I shifted. The fabric was scandalously thin and cut far lower than anything I would ever have chosen for myself, exposing a deep V of skin that made me acutely aware of how vulnerable I was. The steel collar sat at my throat like a brand, cool and unyielding, a constant reminder that whatever this place was, I was not free in it.

 

My heart thudded painfully as I waited. I didn’t know what I was waiting for, only that something was coming.

 

Then music burst into the room, accompanied by a swirl of disco ballroom lights.

 

Dance, Boogie Wonderland, hey, hey

Dance, Boogie Wonderland

 

Not flutes. Not lyres. Not anything that belonged to this ancient, marble-and-mosaic world.

Beginning Tomorrow: ‘What Remains of Rebecca Palmer’

 

I had doubts as to where we're going

But you gotta hand it to the guys upstairs

I've been put on a whole new program

Don't have to handle my own affairs

Everything I want is on my printout

I don't need anything anymore

I'm not confused by useless knowledge

 

I don't even know if it's 1984 

for sure

 

Rules rule Ok, ask no questions

Welcome to the age of consent

Fasten seat belts, drive with caution

Don't take shots at the president

Robot man's a wonderful creation

Automatically obeys the law

Laws of nature, man and physics

I don't even know if it's 1984 

for sure (1984?)

 

(Oh)

 

The only thing you need to know

Big Brother is watching you

You'll love him

1984

The Shadow in the Dark Chapter Thirty Four

 

The woman with the whip stepped forward, her presence suddenly overwhelming in the chamber. With a flick of her wrist, the coil of the whip unravelled, until the end trailed across the floor. I felt a shiver travel down my spine as her shadow fell across me. Her dark eyes appraised me coolly, and I understood, instinctively, that what she said next was not a request.

 

“Kneel,” she commanded. “Nadu. Let us see how your muscle memory is.” I sank to my knees on the polished mosaic floor, the red silk tunic sliding slightly against my bare legs, the steel collar pressing uncomfortably at my throat. My hands rested lightly on my thighs, though every instinct in me bristled against the submission I was being forced into. To my surprise my posture seemed instinctive, as if I had knelt like this many times before. I felt my knees close tightly together as I was in the vicinity of a woman. A curious thought at the back of my mind made me think the posture might be very different if I knelt before a man.

 

“It’s strangely instinctive, isn’t it, Ashlee? The way your body understands a word you couldn’t define to me.”

 

I suddenly realised I didn’t know what nadu meant – though there was a vague sensation I’d come across the word before - but I was kneeling instinctively on my heels, my back straight, hands on my thighs, my head up, and my knees pressed tightly together. 

 

She circled me slowly, heels clicking softly against the stone, the whip trailing loosely from her right hand. Her gaze was meticulous, taking in every detail - the way I held myself, the curve of my shoulders, the line of my neck, even the nervous tremor of my hands.

 

“You are a curvaceous thing,” she said finally, almost to herself, as though cataloguing me in her mind. “Eyes alert, hair full, skin soft… posture promising.” Her voice was cold, clinical, as though she were appraising an object rather than a person. “No wonder he lusts after you. You filthy little slut.”