Page 1 of The Pleasure Contract

1

Lois

Inever thought I’d ever get sick of ABBA – ‘Dancing Queen’ to be specific. It’s a classic. The pinnacle of ‘feel-good pop music’.

But when my personal floating comm orb suddenly lights up my gloriously dark and quiet room, that loud intro cascade of piano notes shaking me from my sleep as gently as a wrecking ball caresses a building, you tend to go off a song.

Well, I do, at least. Especially since it’s been my alarm noise every day ever since Vel set it up for me.

What’s worse is that the damn thing doesn’t shut off with a verbal command – oh, no, that would be too easy. I have to actually fall out of this giant-ass-alien-bed to chase the floating orb around the room to catch it, turning the dulcet tones of Agnetha, Anni-Frid, Benny, and Björn off with the touch of my hand.

And I swear, this floating ball is getting better at escaping capture – like it wants to at least get to the second chorus before admitting defeat and letting me silence it.

But here I am; head still fogged up with the deepest of sleeps, nerves like a cat in a tambourine factory, and hair that looks like I’ve been fist-fighting it all night… and lost. It’s when the glowing orb is going for a record fourth lap around the darkened room, blaring out that part where ABBA confidently informs me that I am having the time of my life – despite all available evidence to the contrary – that I realize I’ve been stomping around the room with half my sleep-shorts up my ass, and one tit hanging out of my camisole top.

“Come here, you Dancing-Queen-annoying-little-shit,” I bite out, launching for the singing ball of light as it whizzes past me again.

The comm orb flies to the other side of the giant, alien-sized bed, hovering in mid-air; and I swear, it’s like the comms unit is alive, watching me to see what I do next. As I move left, it moves right. If I start going right, the damn thing goes left. The whole scene reminds me of playing tag with the neighborhood kids when we were hopped up on sugar and Red Dye 40.

I make a dash for the orb again, only for it to evade me by launching higher into the air.

Standing there with my hands on my hips, I stare up at the misbehaving comm orb, only just managing not to shout up at it like a parent scolding a naughty child.

And I put my tit back away in my top.

“Alright, alright,” I say, admitting defeat. “Come back down here, and we can listen to the whole song if you like it that much.” After a moment or two of the glowing ball seeming to be skeptical about my change of heart, I seat myself on the floor criss-cross-apple-sauce, as if that would put the thing’s mind at ease that I’m no longer in chase mode.

Tentatively, the orb starts to float downward.

“Come on,” I urge, “we can have a nice sit-down, and you can play the whole-”

As soon as the orb is within reach, I grab it with both hands, holding it to my chest, silencing the song with my touch. I breathe a sigh of relief now that my nice, quiet room is exactly that again. The tech inside the ball vibrates and whirs against my chest. Is that a sad kind of whirr? Is there such a thing as a sad kind of whirr?

Great, now I’m just about cuckoo enough to feel guilty for tricking a little flying computer.

I let the thing go from my arms and watch it bob slowly on the spot, the warm-white light it emits moving across its surface like ripples of water.

Except, then the light turns red.

Shit.

That’s always what happens when the evil robots rise up and turn murderous in the movies.

Maybe I should have just let her listen to his ABBA.

“Look,” I start, thinking maybe I can reason with it. “That song is great and all. It’s just not the best song to be woken up by,” I say, gesturing to my gigantic bed filled with mussed blankets and the softest pillows you ever laid your head on. “I’m sure at Vel’s next meeting, we can ask her to source some more music from Earth, and you can explore so many different songs; you’ll be like my own personal DJ.”

Blessedly, the angry red light vanishes. I watch it for a moment or two as it floats gently beside me, bobbing like a buoy on calm waters. Such a strange little thing. Niska and Jaya have one each, too. But neither of theirs acts… like this. Almost too receptive to be mindless tech. Theirs act like a souped-up, flying cell phone or something, but mine-

I eye the thing as it projects a running list of reminders it took the liberty to set up for me, all written out in green, glowing letters floating in the air. The list is long, and at the bottom it seems to type out, ‘Request full catalog of Earth Music, excluding John Plimpkinson’.

I squint at the new floating text. “John Plimpkinson? Who’s that?”

My extensive list of reminders disappears, and in its stead, there’s now a short excerpt that reads:

‘John Plimpkinson, 29, is an amateur singer-songwriter who has already amassed a large back catalog of original pieces featuring unusual melodies and lyrics, all entirely penned and performed in his mother’s basement. His songs can be found across various online platforms and tend to center around the women he has encountered in his life. With titles such as: ‘Why Did You Have To Do That, Amanda?’, ‘Rachel Stood Me Up’, ‘Loving Stephanie From Afar’, and his most recent piece, ‘But That’s How They Did It In Porn’. John Plimpkinson is yet to receive any commercial interest or widespread public support. He has 2 dedicated fans, both named Kyle.’

I cringe at the orb. “Agreed. No John Plimpkinson.” Standing, I dust off imaginary dirt from my butt. The orb rises to my head height with me. “But how do you even know about him?”