Anne McCaffrey - The Thorns of Barevi

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The Thorns of Barevi

By Anne McCaffrey

CHRISTIN BJORNSEN WONDERED IF SUMMER on the planet Barevi could possible be the only

sea-son. There had been remarkably little variation in temperature in the nine months since she'd arrived

here. She'd been four months in what appeared to be the single, sprawling city of the planet when she'd

been a slave, and now had racked up five months of comparative freedom-tooth-and-nail survival-in this

jungle, after her escape from the city in a stolen flitter.

Her sleeveless, one-piece tunic was made of an indestructible material, but it would not be very warm in

cold weather. The scooped neckline was indecently low and the skirt ended midway down her long

thighs. It was closely modeled, in fact, after the miniskirted sheath she had been wearing to class that

spring morning the Catteni ships had descended on Denver. One moment she was on her way to the col-

lege campus; the next, she was one of thousands of astonished and terrified Denverites being driven by

forcewhips up the ramp of a spaceship that made the Queen Mary look like a bathtub float. Once past

the black maw of the ship, Chris, with all the others, swiftly succumbed to the odorless gas. When she

and her fellow prisoners had awakened, they were in the slave compounds of Barevi, waiting to be sold.

Chris aimed the avocado-sized pit of the gorupear she was eating at the central stalk of a nearby thicket

of purple-branched thom-bushes. The bush instantly rained tiny darts in all directions. Chris laughed.

She had bet it would take less than five minutes for

the young bush to rearm itself. And it had. The larger ones took longer to position new missiles. She'd

had reason to find out.

Absently, she reached above her head for another gorupear. Nothing from good old Terra rivaled them

for taste. She bit appreciatively into the firm reddish flesh of the fruit and its succulent juices dribbled

down her chin on to her tanned breasts. Tugging at the strap of her slip-tight tunic, she brushed the juice

away. The outfit was great for tanning, but when winter comes? And shouldn't she concentrate on

gathering nuts and drying gorupears on the rocks by the river for the cold season? She wrinkled her nose

at the half-eaten pear. They were mighty tasty, but a steady diet of them ...

A low-pitched buzz attracted her attention. She got to her feet, balanced carefully on the high limb of the

tree. Parting the branches, she peered up at the cloudless sky. Two of the umpteen moons that cir-cled

Barevi were visible in the west. Below them, dots that gave off sparkles of reflected sunlight were

swooping and diving.

The boys have called another hunt, she mused to herself and, still standing, leaned against the tree trunk

to take advantage of her grandstand seat.

Before her chance to escape had presented itself, Chris had picked up a good bit of the lingua Barevi, a

bastardization of the six or seven languages spoken by the slaves. She had gleaned some information

about her captors, the Catteni. They were not, for one thing, indigenous to this world but came from a

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Anne McCaffrey - The Thorns of Barevi

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