Robert Onopa: The Pleasure Tube

“Yes,” I whisper, running my hand through the lush softness of her hair, “I like to touch.” The tropical odor refines itself, it is hers. Gardenias are everywhere.

ITINERARY//

FIRST-CLASS PASSAGE// Prog. 2NdCoord.

DA1 WELCOME AND FLYAWAY --- I/o-0926

DA2 FLT TO OE//DTRIP//LAYOVER 2, 3bid i/f-1021

DA3 BIOS RESERVE//MOVALLEY bid i/f-1951

DA4 SYNESTHETIC HARMON//VIDEON bid i/f-cont

SPEC

DA5 FANT CO-OP//EPICUREAN bid i/f-cont

CONSENSUS

DA6 ARR LASVENUS//CLUB EROTICA bid i/f-0900

DA7 LAYOVER//RISK VENTURE VECT bid cont

DAS RISK FEST 2, 3//SIDEREAL CONC bid cont

DA9 UKIYOE FLYAWAY bid I/O-0623

DA10 SENS SEVEN SPEC//MOONLOOP bid i/f-cont

DA11 SINS SEVEN SPEC//VIETAHITI bid i/f-cont

DA12 AQUAPLEASE//HOLO PREP bid i/f-cont

DA13 HOLD PROG//TOTAL HOLO 4 bid i/f-cont

DA14 TRIP TO THE SUN bl- i/f-----

CONTINUOUS VIDEON PROGRAMMING

THE PLEASURE TUBE IS AN EXPERIENCE/INDIVIDUAL VARIATIONS ARE COMMON AND PRECISE DESTINATIONS VARY//CONSULT YOUR SERVICE FOR DETAILS

2, INTERSECTION ITIN CLASS 2

3, INTERSECTION ITIN CLASS 3

4, MEDICAL CLEARANCE REQUIRED

OUR SERVICE IS PLEASURE//YOUR PLEASURE OUR SERVICE

LIE BACK // RELAX

thePleasureTube corp.@ 106codex

Light in the unit. My body slides, stretching on satin sheets, muscle pulling against muscle in an envelope of warmth—I stretch my back and a few cot-twisted vertebrae quietly pop into place, finally straightening out.

Morning light. Through the window/wall the sun is hovering on the arc of an horizon. It looks to be earth a hundred or more kilometers away. The entire window/wall holds a planet’s arc in two separating horizons, dark below, bright on a line above. The sun shoots orange-yellow fans through the atmosphere—yellow-brown fans.

“Something bothered you, didn’t it?”

I couldn’t speak if I wanted to; a thermometer is beneath my tongue.

“You came right up through the drug again. Nightmare?”

A sequence, I think; which? Key on a color, Werhner says, you remember everything.

The girl—Collette—draws a last drop of blood into a vial. I am in program for tests, final readings to establish my circadian rhythms for the trip, my own day, she tells me. Another way to say proper time.

Remember everything? Or is it a memory at all? Werhner also says that dreams are predictions. The woman frozen in space, the whirlpooling sun: these are not simple memories, they are not sequential points in a time line. My teeth grate the glass of the thermometer, my tongue slides along its side. I remember… yesterday, Collette on my thighs. And now she is wearing a light green satin robe, barefoot. I am still slightly groggy.

Collette finally slides the thermometer from my mouth and gently tugs at the tiny suction electrodes on my wrist, massages the puckered skin. “Anyway,” she says, “you’ve got good figures so far. You’re a healthy man, you have healthy appetites, you can pretty much do as you like. You’re cleared for total hologram, no restrictions.”

I ask her what a total hologram is, exactly. She tells me it’s a holographic projection system whose image, is actual, substantial, to the user, not just an optical effect. There is a feedback connection with the user’s neurology.

“I’m willing to try anything,” I say. Like Werhner’s water, the recliner module gives, floats with my weight. When I woke at first light, I remembered no dream, felt only the floating in space, slept again.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Collette asks, adjusting the fall of her robe at her knee.

“About…?”

“What made your EEG go bump in the night.”

She sounds like a member of the screening committee back on Guam. What I want is breakfast. “I’m fine,” I tell her. “I haven’t felt so well in weeks.”

“Then how’s your appetite for breakfast?”

I laugh at how she anticipates me. “Ravenous,” I say.

A sweet juice, purplish and thick, guava, Collette suggests. An egg on thick bacon and a scone. The mild bite of a sauce balances the buttery slide of the egg. Melon, cheese, coffee. I ask Collette for another egg, she answers there are only so many eggs in the world, I eat scones and butter, drink glass after glass of guava juice.

Already the cabin seems familiar—perhaps because its spaces analogue starship quarters. This recliner module is set against a side wall, halfway between a dark velvet couch and the window/wall. Like a coffee table, the inlaid table which opens into an ivory-keyed computer and codex terminal sits before the couch.

The rich furnishings are washed now in the atmosphereless spacelight. On the wall opposite the window/wall the fleshy pinks of the Rubens are radiant, and the painting’s stark, black frame casts a rhomboid shadow on the wall’s soft, textured surface. I notice only now a subtle geometry in the dark brown rug—hexagons with shared lines. The figures are the barest tone lighter—the precise shade of the draperies—and outline a reversed dome. Ghostly, soft, optically active. Off this lounge, or living-room arrangement, the kitchen/bar behind a divider of shelving modules glows with the spun-steel finish of instrumentation and machinery. I can see Collette through the divider, holding a dish in one hand, licking a cream-colored sauce from two fingers of the other.

Werhner, I think, what are you doing? Taylor, what questions are you imagining for me now?

I almost lose myself in the bath: its ceiling and walls are mirrored, a lush green rug is on the floor, and the fixtures are cast in the shape of seashells. The sink is a giant, opening scallop, its surface iridescent, the john a tun shell with its operculum hinged. The shower water has a faint aromatic oil added to it, as rich as cinnamon but lighter. The shower head pulsates, massages as it runs, with a half-dozen different rhythms. I could spend my two weeks standing in that one spot.

Collette is laughing at a chart she is showing me:

MEDEX// CODEX292VOORST// CIRCADIAN RHYTHM

INTERNAL DESYNCH= -2.7

Not at the chart, it turns out, only at the first peak on the red-orange line.

I ask her what it means. She says, “I’ll show you in a minute.”

I am laughing, too—was I asleep again? Werhner wouldn’t believe this. Collette is my luck, she is what’s so pleasant here. I tell her that the smoothness of this ship is uncanny, that speed compresses otherwise undetectable forces to make a kind of weather, a series of fronts, turbulent, there’s always pitch and yaw. A smoothness here, as if traveling some other way. I can feel our motion only as a slight vibration, see it in the concentric rings on the surface of my coffee.

“Can you feel it… here?” she asks as she takes my right hand and guides it toward her heart, releases my hand at her breast, her nipple stiff under satin.

“Very sexy,” I say. “But all I feel is, ummm, a pounding heart.”

“Mmmm,” she giggles, “that’s what it does. That orange line signals an early peak in your hormone level. I can’t get over it, you turn me on. What a luxury.”

Beneath her robe, Collette has the odor of strawberries; the sweet, piquant taste of strawberries is on her shoulder. She slides alongside me—satin on satin sheets. I stroke her lower back, send my hand flat over the firm swell of her bottom. I can feel her muscles tighten and move beneath my hands, her tongue sliding warm on my lips.