Charles Sheffield - The Mind Pool

And then, suddenly, it ended. The rounded tunnel walls stopped. S’greela’s light beam met a tangled mess of creeper, ten feet above the ground. Below that, nothing. The group moved forward cautiously to stand on an open area of jungle floor.

According to Angel, Nimrod should be less than fifty meters ahead. So what now?

Before Chan could give any command, three things happened at once. An insane burst of metallic clicking came from Angel’s communicator, and rose to a supersonic scream of activity that hurt Chan’s ears. Shikari burst apart, filling the air in the clearing with a whirling swarm of components. At the same moment S’greela’s light jerked high into the air, then abruptly went out.

Chan froze. Angel went suddenly silent. The darkness around them was absolute. Chan turned to move closer to the others. Before he could take a step he was gripped tightly around the waist and whipped off his feet. Something immensely strong and wiry spun him dizzily end-over-end, then violently threw him, outward and upward.

He flew on for ages. Chan curled into a ball and protected his skull with his arms. At any moment he might smash into one of the huge and solid tree trunks. The impact would be fatal at this speed.

The feared collision never came. Instead his wild flight was ended by a soft material that stretched and stretched to absorb his momentum. He was slowed to a halt, then dropped headfirst. He prepared for collision with the spongy jungle surface, but that too never came. Instead he found himself suspended in mid-air, wriggling in the restraining hold of a rubbery, fine-meshed net.

Chan had never felt so helpless. He had lost his weapon. He could not see. The net offered no resistance, nothing tangible to struggle against. Even if somehow he were able to escape from its hold, he would have no idea what to do next.

That problem was solved in a moment. The whole net was suddenly moving, carrying him along at high speed in a horizontal direction. Something big was clearing the way in front of him. He could hear the thresh of its rapid passage through soft, hanging creepers.

It was another short trip. Within a minute they stopped, and Chan was lowered gently to the ground. The net loosened and rolled him out of it. He came to rest on the fibrous damp floor of the forest, facedown and breathing in the stale-sweet aroma of mold.

He sat up, dizzy and still in darkness. It was a few more seconds before he was able to clamber to his feet and take a few hesitant steps forward. He held his arms out in front of him. His groping fingers finally met the furry bole of one of the giant megatrees. It was at least something familiar. He moved forward gratefully to rest against it. After a few seconds he turned, sat down, and leaned his back on the trunk.

What could he do now? And where were the other team members?

A faint whisper of movement came from in front of him. Something was there, something drifting towards him and almost silent on the spongy surface. Chan felt a new horror. A warm, dry grip closed on his outstretched hands and secured his wrists. He struggled, and tried to force his way to his feet. It was impossible. More fastenings came to curl around his ankles and waist. They pulled him, gently but irresistibly, until he was lying flat on his back on the soft carpet of the jungle. Thick, velvety bonds pinioned him there, holding him securely at wrist and ankles.

He waited. And finally came the event that told him he was doomed. Either Nimrod had taken him, or he had crossed the border into total madness.

“Chan,” whispered a soft voice, no more than a couple of feet away from his face. “Ah, my Chan.”

It was a voice that he knew well, a voice that he had known forever. It was the unmistakable voice of Leah Rainbow.

Night in the Gallimaufries had been dark, but there were always at least a few lights. And there was always plenty of noise — usually too much. Nothing in Chan’s experience had prepared him for the close, silent and enveloping darkness of Travancore’s abyssal forest.

Leah’s voice had spoken to him, and then a second later it was gone. Its reality drained away into anechoic blackness. Chan longed desperately for another word, for a single spark of light.

Finally the gentle voice came again, near enough to reach out and touch. “Chan?”

“Who are you — what are you?” Chan’s voice cracked, a thin reedy voice that seemed to come from beyond his body.

“I am Leah.”

“You cannot be.”

“And I am also not-Leah. There is something that cannot be explained. It must be experienced. Relax. Lie quiet. Do not struggle.”

There was a steady rustling, as of Tinker’s wings, just inches away from Chan. Something touched his arm, then moved along his chest. He tensed, and tried to writhe away from it.

“Don’t be afraid.” The words were breathed close to his face. He felt warmth on his cheek and his neck. The scent in his nostrils was achingly familiar, forever-familiar: Leah.

Something warm and soft was placed on his stomach.

His clothing was loosened, cut away, eased from his unprotected body.

Chan struggled against his bonds. It would do no good to cry out. If any or the other team members had been able to help him they would already be calling to him, asking where he was. The forest around him was as still as the grave.

His clothing had been taken, leaving him naked and defenseless. Another touch came on his chest, different but equally soft. It moved lower. There was a strange little laugh in the darkness above him.

Chan’s chest felt a warm breath, and soft lips. Gentle fingertips were drifting gently across his midriff and wandering slowly down his abdomen. The caresses became more intimate. Minutes ago Chan had been terrified and feverish to the bone. It seemed impossible that in these circumstances he could become physically aroused, no matter what the stimulus. But it was happening. The scent of Leah was like a drug, lifting him away from his own body.

In the darkness the succubus above him slid close. Chan felt warm flesh pressing on him. He could not move, to resist or to encourage the embrace. The fragrance in the air was stronger, mingled now with an unfamiliar musk. As he became more aroused he felt an urgent breath along his neck, and an increased tension in the body that moved above him.

“Relax,” whispered Leah’s voice. “This is as it should be. Don’t try to resist. Let yourself flow.”

Beyond his control, Chan s body was moving along its own road, drawn by the action of the partner silent above him. She moved more strongly, lifting him irresistibly towards a climax. Chan shivered and shuddered, straining upward to match the unseen pressure.

The critical moment was nearing. Nearer. It came, and his partner groaned, flexed hard against him, and cried, “NOW!”

There was a roar in the darkness, a whirr of invisible wings. Chan, in the moment of most intense ecstasy, was buried under a pressing clutch of tiny bodies. They swarmed over him, covered his eyes and ears, blocked his mouth and nose. Chan, still straining upward in climax, could not breathe.

He was choking.

He writhed, uselessly. The agony of asphyxiation was deep in his chest. He shuddered to draw a last breath, knowing that he was dying, dying … dying on Travancore.

And in that moment he could breathe again — breathe, even though his nose and mouth were still covered.

He could see, but not through his eyes.

He could hear, but not with his ears.

Chan had left his body, sucked away into a no-man’s-land of non-identity. With one set of ears he listened to the ultrasonic song of jungle creatures, sending their far-off calls at frequencies far beyond human senses. With one set of eyes he studied the microwave emissions from the forest floor, tracing the faint dark swaths that told of water beneath the surface. With other eyes he saw the bright thermal outline of two coupled humans, the woman kneeling astride the man. He was surrounding them, feeling them from every side, their bodies warm to his antennae. He was filled with multiple sensations. The soft forest floor on his back, the legs gripping tight around his thighs, the damp carpet of mold under his (her?) knees, the exciting touch of a body (Chan’s body!) pressing up against her. Closeness. Warmth of touching.