That doesn’t absolve Ed Porter from his job; one of Passionet’s best editors, he is based in Honolulu to handle the Pacific traffic, and even though he can’t get anything from the rest of the world, there is plenty happening right here on Oahu. He turned down the offer of evacuation because he figured that up here, above the city in Dowsett Highlands, is probably about as safe as anywhere they’re evacuating people to.
Right now there are just two people wired to transmit to Passionet on Oahu, which would normally mean Porter would be assembling a pretty thin documentary for eventual distribution. But Candy and Bill are a special
case if ever there was one, and another example, Ed thinks, that Doug Llewellyn knows what he’s doing.
Much as Ed hates to admit it, because working on “Dream Honeymoon” has been one royal pain in the ass.
Bill and Candy are unmodified; Candy’s breasts and buttocks are the ones that grew naturally, Bill’s muscles are not the least bit enhanced, and neither of them has been given any training in maintaining an untransmitted persona.
The gimmick was a promotion, originally—let us wire you three months before the wedding, and you get a year’s luxury honeymoon on us. There was a certain discreet kind of rigging in the contest, too, not in the selection but in carefully making sure that most of the entrants would be like Bill and Candy, solid-citizen young Heartlanders who dressed a little behind the fashions and believed in doing everything the old-fashioned way.
Candy’s hairstyle is about five years behind what’s currently flat and a bit overdone, her cosmetics are ten years behind and way overdone, and her favorite topics of conversation are how much they spend at each place on the way and what there is to eat. Bill dresses like what he is—an assistant manager of data patterning for a bank, and complains about the food in a good-natured way—he’d live on steak, pizza, and tacos if he could, because he hates “foreign food.” He is always a bit disgruntled to discover that yet another foreign place is nothing like Sylvania, Ohio.
Ed Porter thinks that they are the two most boring people he’s ever taken signal from, but “Dream Honeymoon” is selling like nothing before or since, and this special recording can be dropped into the regular news, thus boosting sales still further.
Right now Bill and Candy are still in the Royal Hawaiian Hotel, the last people left there except for a couple of managers who are closing the place down preparatory to running for the hills. Ed figures that the Royal Hawaiian has managed to survive a long time, even located right down on the beach at Waikiki, and thus probably Bill and Candy are safe … and of course, if they’re
not
—Porter banishes the thought. Of course they are.
But if they aren’t, Passionet will have the monster hit wedge of the decade.
Right now they’re standing by their pricey window, facing the beach. Ed had suggested they dress in clothes they could run away in, if it came to that, but of course neither of them has the hiking clothes that would be appropriate, and besides, he’s persuaded Bill it’s pretty safe, so Candy is in one of those little look-at-my-body nighties made of cheap, shiny fabric that have been de rigueur for newlyweds since the 1970s. She’s got jeans, sneakers, underwear, and a tight little knit top that may not be practical but
is at least informal stacked by the door, presumably so that if the hotel begins to fall down she can change clothes before running out of it.
Bill has his own pile of pants, shirt, shorts, socks, and shoes next to hers. He’s standing there in his bikini briefs, and Ed finds himself chuckling. Not only does Candy figure she’ll have time to dress to flee, Bill figures he’d better change his undies, too.
Porter clicks into signal and feels …
… Bill is more afraid than he wants Candy to know, and even though everyone at Passionet has been really nice to them for these first few weeks, he has to admit that he doesn’t have anyone in the company he feels is a friend. (Fuzz that into general anxiety, Porter thinks.) Bill wonders how the hell he got into this.
Not that he wouldn’t have been here anyway—everyone in his family since his grandparents has always done a Hawaiian honeymoon, it’s what you
do
if you’re in the Sylvania Country Club and go to U of Toledo and come back to take over the family business, like being Presbyterian or Methodist, like voting Republican, like having season tickets to lots of things at your old schools.
This is not an easy process for Bill to think his way through. He’d have been here anyway, but without Passionet … well, maybe they’d only have stayed a night or two at the Royal Hawaiian. Probably not even that. The truth is that he’s not sure what you really get for the inflated tab, the food doesn’t eat that much better than home, the beds are a little too firm, everything feels like a museum, and the outside of the building looks like the kind of pink concrete castle that they have at malls for toy stores. There’re lots of more modern places that aren’t far off the beach that would have suited him just fine.
Candy’s trembling and it’s not because she’s cold.
Why did he let that Porter guy, who always seems to be laughing at some damn thing or other that isn’t funny, talk them into staying here? Porter’s way to hell and gone up in the hills and now Bill’s down here with his wife …
My wife
, Bill thinks, and pulls Candy closer. That was probably it, he figured. You couldn’t go and look scared in front of her. She was counting on you to be the one that wasn’t scared. If he’d been talking to Porter by himself he might have managed to win the argument and get them on that bus out of town, up into the mountains, but in front of Candy … oh well, spilt milk and so on. He holds her closer and tries not to notice that he’s finding her presence very comforting.
Porter fuzzes out the specifics again; damn it, Bill is having all kinds of great feelings, notably a bare veneer of control over stark terror, and a sort of wanting to curl up on a woman’s lap and hide thing that’s got a tasty bit
of Oedipal kink to it, but he keeps fixating on how they happen to be there, and Passionet has to be kept in the background—the experiencers don’t like to be reminded that the stars are wired, or that someone wired them and is standing between star and experiencer.
Flip over to Candy. Oh, now this is nice. She’s scared out of her mind and beginning to think that Bill is a complete fool, but she’s also feeling very much like a little girl and wanting him to be Daddy.
Through her eyes he watches the big waves—nothing like the storm surges, they’re on the other side of the island from Clem, but just the echoes and stirrings of the surges are enough to produce record surf—rotting up into the lights along the beach out of the black ocean, coated with foam on all sides. Her breath catches as one rolls up farther than before and slaps a load of foam up onto Kalakaua Avenue, and it seems to her that through the thick carpet under her feet she can feel the building groan.
She snuggles closer to Bill and tries to think positively; all her life that’s been the one thing she can always do. This is a great adventure and maybe there’s something in the contract or somewhere that they get more money for getting through something like this. This will be something for Bill and her to tell the kids about forever. This will all be over by dawn, and when they get up late they’ll find the hotel employees are already back at their posts and there’s a nice big breakfast—for Bill, of course.
Porter snickers. Bill certainly eats and he’s going to be built like a side of beef, but Candy’s not that far behind him; her trim little tummy is soft and flabby, her breasts are high and perky only because they’re new, and in five years she’ll be subsiding into a soggy Midwestern lard meringue like her mother and sisters. He enjoys the snicker a lot—it makes him feel better, and relieves some of the fear that’s been leaking through from Candy. One problem with editing, especially when you’re getting signal off an untrained mind, is that like it or not, you end up sympathizing. And Porter doesn’t like it at all.
He pops back to Bill and discovers the poor dumb bastard has screwed up some courage from somewhere and is managing to keep the tremble out of his arms and voice as he whispers to Candy that it’s going to be okay, really it is, and won’t they have something to tell the relatives about.
It seems to put some heart in her, for she turns back to him and smiles. “We can’t tell them, honey, they’ve already been there and been us.”
Bill snorts. “Guess you’re right at that. Well, at least we’ll really have something to
be
for them.”
She snuggles back against him, and his hand strokes the slick fabric that covers the small of her back; the little spaghetti straps on her shoulders tighten, and her breasts rise just a fraction. God, it couldn’t get more perfect … these kids have such limited imaginations that with a little luck they are
really going to—“And you know,” she says, “it’s just common sense that we’re perfectly safe here anyway, hon. They aren’t going to lose all they’ve invested in us.”
Nitwit bitch
, Porter thinks. Have to fill in there with footage of the monster waves rolling in, and maybe get an actor to overdub some kind of fear onto it, and it still won’t work.
Bill grins. “On top of everything else, you really have guts, honey. I’m so glad we got married and had the chance to do this. Even if it does mean …” He grins, feeling mischief rising, his fear sinking away, and looking into Bill’s mind, Porter laughs with elation.
Yes! We are going to get the full effect—right out of
From Here to Eternity.
Pity I can’t figure out a way to make him take her down to the beach and hose her where there’s a chance of them being swept out to sea.
All those blonde curls and that overdone makeup swirl in a little pose that Porter figures she must have learned from experiencing Synthi Venture—though, god knows, this one could never be one percent of the pro Synthi is. But then, not being a pro is the point of this whole stupid exercise in bucolic sentimentality … .
“Now what does that mean?” she says, pouting just a little and unconsciously tugging her nightie down a bit, so that she pops out of it a little more. Porter concedes that the little cow does have a nice set of udders.
“Oh, just … well, I sure wasn’t the only guy who was ever interested in you, and now if they want to know … uh, what it’s tike—”
She giggles. “Oh, god, Bill, you know all they get to find out is what I’m like with you. I’d never be that hot with anyone else, lover, and you know it.”
“Maybe,” he murmurs, letting his hand slide up her thigh.
The window thumps as if a body had been thrown against it, but it doesn’t break; an instant later they hear a screaming crash and the howl of the gust breaks on them from the eaves. Both jump and their terror returns instantly.
Shit
, Porter thinks, that was one great spike of fear but he’d really like to have some more sex in the mix … .
“Sounds like they lost a gutter into the parking lot,” Bill says, making himself sound a lot more casual than he’s feeling. “Glad our rental’s insured.” His heart is halfway up his throat but he can tell Candy needs him to be calm and he’s going to be.
Zap, let’s get the Candy view—wow, Unfuckingreal. The poor bimbo is going for it
. Porter plugs straight on in and gets the full load. Candy is looking at this big, square, back-slapping halfwit who’s never had a thought in his life, with his fake good-sport qualities and his unformed good looks shortly to
vanish under wattles of fat, and somehow she’s seeing Superman. This bovine lump looks like a hero to her … .
Candy has never seen Bill like this before. She can hear the strength and calm in his voice, and now she really does know it’s perfectly safe. She’s sorry she jumped like that, considering that he was probably working his way around to some loving and she could really use that just now. So she winks and says, “Well, at least since everyone else has run off, we don’t have to pull any shades if I want to show you something … .”
“Show me what?” he asks. Porter hops back and finds that, as sometimes happens, playing brave has gotten rid of Bill’s fear.
They are going to. Wow,
this couldn’t get more perfect. Passionet is going to ship billions.
She shows him, pulling her nightie shyly high enough to reveal her tidy, carefully shaped patch of pubic hair. Porter makes sure both sides are recording—they’ll want a men’s and a women’s version of this part—and feels the surge of Bill’s erection answering.
Bill is unexpectedly rough with her, which is just fine from Porter’s standpoint—less need to amp the sensations, which always adds so much distortion—and for some odd reason she likes it this time. Probably because he seems like more of a big strong man when he’s grabbing her by the breasts, surprisingly soft and baggy to the touch, and pushing her back against the wall. He jabs his penis, so stiff it trembles, forward between her thighs, misses, grunts with the pain of bending it a bit against a plump buttock, and she reaches down and guides it into her completely relaxed and sopping wet vagina. He thrusts his penis in and out of her furiously, gasping with the speed and exertion.
Porter, editing together a Bill track, a Candy track, and a both-together track on the fly for three different editions, is far too busy, but this is hot even for him, with all his experience of experiencing. He doesn’t have a hand free to help himself but he still comes when Candy has her first explosive orgasm.