Dr. Grace took Angie and Allison for lunch, not to explain some very relevant medical information about Allison’s journey but to coax Angie into a medical job, and some medical education. The new information on Allison’s journey simply came about because Dr. Grace couldn’t escape her old university professor tormenting her over the lunch; an old professor who was fully sure Allison was ready to know the details of the endpoint of her path.

Now, with Angie preparing both herself and the people in the medical faculty for this new job, and training, she’s being given, Allison is left all on her own. It’s the first time she’ll be left to her own devices since she became Allison. And she has a whole station to discover, in a brand new way.

---

It had been a strange day for Allison despite having barely started. Not least because of the delivery she’d received from Dr. Grace: Allison’s very own, brand new, ‘toys.’

With the revelation at lunch the day before that Allison could have a vagina, if she wished, the former Dr. Grace — casually chatting over lunch — had turned back into the professional ‘Doctor’ Grace, at least for a few minutes. She’d explained to Allison Allison had to ‘explore her body.’ Whether that was with Robert, or any man — or as Talia pointed out, “any woman, if you prefer. Or both at the same time,” and then she started counting, for some reason, and absent-mindedly recollecting her time in university — or whether Allison utilised her new toys was all up to her but she needed to find out what she enjoyed, and wanted, before Dr. Grace would let her make any nigh-on irrevocable decisions.

Angie didn’t even say or do anything cheeky while she explained the various devices that had been delivered to Allison overnight; instead reminding her how Dr. Grace said Allison — given her particular personal circumstances — might benefit from them.

Angie was quite sincere, in fact. It could very well have been that Angie was nervous herself. She was to be spending the day at Talia’s university helping Talia and her professor friends figure out what would be necessary for, and for teaching, creating even, the new role — a job, a medical job — lobbied for because of Angie’s helping of Allison in her sort-of-new-life.

The day of meetings with the geniuses of the station was what Angie departed to from Allison’s apartment, rather quickly, not wanting to be late. That left Allison to stare at some quite realistic imitations of various male body parts. And some rather stylistic takes of similar functional aspects of a male anatomy — and some of them not — all depending on circumstance being correct. And in all cases the circumstance seemed to involve a little gentle encouragement from Allison. And Allison, after some encouragement of what in the end turned out to be the extremely realistic toys, and some twisting and contortions of her own, realised she could thoroughly enjoy her exploration.

But maybe help from someone else being in control of the things helping with her explorations would be useful. Or someone else entirely, instead of the toys? Which was the thought running through Allison’s mind when the full value of the toys was made apparent.

Those thoughts, however, quickly left her mind once she’d collected herself — which took a little while, as well as a long, slow shower — and had fully left, or so she believed, once she’d stepped onto a busy floor to make her way to breakfast. And although the thoughts had left her she was still very much feeling the physical effects of exactly what it was she did to herself, or rather what the toys did to her. She felt like she was walking on air while parts of her body were experiencing the world in a whole new way; a far from terrible way. And in many ways she wanted to repeat and expand on those new feelings.

Allison was standing waiting in line at a breakfast buffet thinking she’d need to name her new friends — if there was any justice and love in the world they deserved to be named, she already knew one was definitely called Freckles — when it occurred to her everyone was staring at her.

Did they all know what she’d gotten up to in her apartment, all by herself? Did they know what she did!?! Had someone beamed her activities to the various advertising hoardings around the station, or could they simply tell from looking at her? Did they see her sweaty and glistening, red-faced and— She pushed the thought from her mind. The apartments were private. And sound-proofed! No-one saw what she did! She couldn’t bear thinking about people seeing her! But it was just paranoia. No-one would ever see that! Well... Not unless they were taking part.

And when a man asked her if she’d like to join him for breakfast she found herself blushing, and more, as she thought of him replacing one of her machines — although never Freckles.

Allison was occupied by thoughts of this man, smiling at her, being an active participant in her exploration, and his own exploration, and her a willing victim. In fact as soon he’d left her standing motionless, dreaming, she realised she’d mumbled the words, “I’d Yes To!” Which explained why he made such a speedy departure. At least she thought she said it. She wasn’t quite sure what was happening.

She’d sat herself at a nearby table to collect herself and it was only when a woman in her fifties — a restaurant worker — dropped her down a croissant and sugary coffee did she realise she was fully scattered.

Allison took a quick sip of the coffee and shook her head out, almost in a refusal to accept the world around her. It wasn’t that she was rejecting the world, or herself, she wasn’t rejecting anything, she just couldn’t quite believe any of it; how fortunate she was; to be gifted what she’d received. How amazing this was and how surprised she was it was so amazing.

Allison blinked hard and was going for another sip of her coffee when the woman who brought it to her was standing before her with a tray, and a man next to her. He was sweet looking, a little distracted, but Allison could see that was from nerves.

The woman set the tray down, and said, “This gentleman would like to join you for breakfast.” Then she leaned into Allison and whispered, “He’s unleashed, like you. If he was a woman I think he’d be entitled to wear white.” Then she patted Allison on the arm and smiled.

“Please. Do join me,” Allison said, and she smiled at the man. Then she gave a different smile to the woman who introduced him; the woman who wanted to make friends.

The man did sit, placing his own tray down, with his own coffee, a water, and some of the high energy, extremely nutritious cereal in a bowl. The tray in front of Allison had some fruit and pastries.

“It’s strange, isn’t it? Being out on your own. You recognise everything, obviously, but it’s just so new. So unfamiliar once you...” He trailed off.

Allison laughed — she hoped he understood — and nodded affirmation. “That’s it. Exactly it.” He might only have been twenty or twenty-one, and Allison was twenty-four, but he nailed the feeling, if a little simplified.

It had obviously taken a lot for him to say all that. Allison could see the relief on his face once he did get most of it out. And the worry he wasn’t fully explaining himself leave when she responded.

“What do you miss most?” he asked. “From a few months ago, I guess? A year ago?”

Allison picked a nice looking strawberry from the bowl and took a bite, chewing while she thought. Her answer was obvious but she’d never just talked about it. Not in a normal way. Not simply chatting as part of conversation and without a need from her to figure out a solution, and urgently.

“The quiet, I suppose. Things were slower,” she said. “You’re meant to be learning things, when you’re younger, but there’s only so much you can, without experience. Then a big change happens and everything’s a lot faster. You’re not really prepared for it.”

The man nodded and placed his spoon back in his cereal bowl. “You couldn’t have learned enough. I don’t think anything can prepare you.” He wiped his lips with a napkin. “I was so looking forward to it. I wanted to be unleashed so much, I couldn’t wait. Now it’s happened and I wish I could take my time a little more.”

“How would you do that?” Allison asked, wondering if it was possible. Wondering how she’d do it.

The man laughed, almost shocked at himself. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t know if it could be slower. You’re always learning. You have to just jump in.” He paused for a few seconds. “It’s difficult. I don’t know that it’s wrong. It must work out in the end, and be worth it.”

Allison sipped her coffee while the man continued to eat his cereal, and she watched him; thoughts obviously happening for him. She enjoyed watching his thoughts play out on his face.

“Have you figured out your job, yet?” Allison asked, after a few minutes of observing.

He shook his head. “Still on rotation. Which is fine. In the men’s classes, when you’re a teen, they tell you to stay on rotation for as long as you need. That when you find what suits you’ll know.”

“That makes sense,” Allison said, not admitting she’d had those very same ‘men’s classes.’

“The thing is just as I’m settling into a new role, and feeling like I might enjoy it, I’m moved onto a new position. There’s no time to really know what you think about something, or to meet people; to get to know them.”

Allison looked over to the buffet counter to see if she could spot the woman who introduced this wonderful person. He was so considered, and patient, especially for having just been unleashed. Allison did spot her, but the woman didn’t seem to be paying attention to the people she’d just put together.

“I have some good friends,” Allison said. “It just takes a while for people to open up. To be real.” It hadn’t taken long for this man to be real, though, Allison saw.

The man nodded and pushed his tray forward. Allison lifted it and set it to the side of the table placing the strawberry bowl between them, and then said, offering, “These are really good. I’d guess they haven’t been stored, at all. Fresh as anything.”

“Bee is good to me,” the man said. “I think I remind her of someone.”

“I think she thinks you’re cute,” Allison said.

“Do you?” the man asked, taking a bite of a strawberry. There was no push in his question.

“Yes,” Allison said, and she felt a feeling she’d never felt before. It was quite amazing. “What’s your name? I can’t tell my friends about a cute man with no name who brought me breakfast. They wouldn’t believe me. I’m not really good with men but you’re—”

“Lem,” the man said, beaming.

“Allison.”

Allison placed a pastry next to the strawberry bowl. Without any prompting Lem began to eat it along with her, them both taking little strips from it. Allison wanted to touch his fingers. She wanted him to touch her fingers.

“You know what I miss most, from being a teenager,” Lem said.

“I couldn’t even guess” Allison said, feeling a longing inside her. “But I’d like to know.”

“This. Now. Sort of. When you could have a meal in an apartment with whatever family you were in. If you had brothers or sisters at that point, whoever they might be; the food being delivered, after arguments about what to get. And then sharing the meal. And it being comfortable and simple.” He wiped his face with the napkin, again.

“Was this easy?” Allison asked.

Lem stood and brushed some crumbs from his lap. “Yes, thanks, Allison. You’ve settled me, a little.” He shook his head just as how Allison had rejected her fortune in the world thirty or forty minutes before. “A lot.” He blinked, slowly. Twice.

Allison stood, too. “Are you going to ask for my ID?”

Lem looked a little perturbed. “Would you give it to me? Do you want to see me again?”

“If we could have a quiet breakfast — and slow, you and me — then yes. Yes, I’d love to.”

Allison took her conn out of her purse and held it out to confirm the exchange. Which Lem confirmed as well, still wearing his beautiful smile, and with soft eyes.

She didn’t intend to but she reached over to Lem to take him in a big hug, and she definitely didn’t intend to give him a kiss on the cheek, slowly, but when she did, and when she felt him squeeze her tighter, really tight, like he needed her, she felt her entire body swell in his grip. Like she was the size of the station, or a moon, or even an entire solar system. And he was something even greater than her. And she was tiny too. She was something else again when he squeezed her tighter more. Both massive and miniscule. They were everything. She was everything. Everything it was possible to be. She was the air you breathed, and she was breathing herself. She was life to Lem. And she was nothing, and both.

“We’ll do this again,” Allison said, as the hug ended, feeling like she wanted to scream. It hurt how big her smile was. Her chest. She hurt everywhere, and she embraced it. It had been so easy, just being her around Lem. She felt realer than she’d ever been.

“Yeah,” Lem said, and his beam somehow got bigger even than Allison’s, and he looked embarrassed about it, or shy. And if Allison felt like she was walking on air after she’d enjoyed her toys Lem walked away looking like he was actually floating.

Allison kept standing, watching him leave until she noticed her table being cleared away. “Thank you, Bee,” she said to the woman who’d made the decision to introduce her new friend.

“He’s sweet, isn’t he?” Bee said.

“Yeah...” Allison said, thinking.

“Reminds me of someone I knew,” Bee said. “Now go! Have fun! You’ve had a good breakfast.”

So Allison did ‘go.’ Specifically to a part of the station she wasn’t quite sure of, that Des had sent her to in his letter. Which had been her plan all along for the day.

The level Des was sending her to was a little strange in that it wasn’t a citizen level or a voter level, it wasn’t indicated on its guide. There was little information on it. Usually those levels were functional, and often contained businesses dedicated to niche areas that didn’t need a lot of passing trade, or various offices and working facilities of the station which weren’t industrial, and so didn't demand restricted access.

She’d taken a circuitous route to elevator, window shopping as she went, and daydreaming. There was no rush with Angie being away and everyone else working. There was no press on her time.

As she strolled she thought about what conversations she could have with Lem. She was thinking about Robert. Thinking about Adam, and Angie, Des, One, Sandra and Sandy, thinking about everything. It was all so easy.

She didn’t even notice no man had bothered her as she walked, a little dazed, wandering all over the level until she somehow made it to the indicated elevator section.

After Allison stepped off her elevator, along with a few minutes of searching around Des’s floor, having been taken to the general vicinity of the store she needed, she realised there was no real pattern to the people here, no true essence to them. There were more voters than citizens, at least based on how they dressed and carried themselves. There were a lot of people in uniforms. There were what appeared to be a few shops but it wasn’t obvious what they were for, especially as many of them only had lobby areas at the front.

Allison spent twenty minutes searching for the business Des had sent her to, and finally found it wedged between a closed down, shuttered storefront and another business with a grubby looking reception area; battered furniture seating quite severe looking, impatiently waiting people; given how their feet tapped urgently on the floor.

When she walked inside Des’s store she found a table at the front with three people sitting around it showing each other what looked to be historic conns, almost antiques. The two women and one man all seemed to be voters, and all drank coffees. The three turned to look at Allison as she walked in before turning back to their show-and-tell, which appeared to be as important as judging people who somehow found their way to this shop.

Past them were various computers set up on plinths, with illumination around them. The computers ranged from new styles, insanely expensive, to old styles and more expensive again, and some that seemed to be entirely mechanical, like metal versions of children’s toys; they had no screen attached. These didn’t even have a price listed. There were only a few of the mechanical ones, and they were worn, the few of them protected by glass casing like in a museum; except there was no screen showing information like there would be in a real museum. Allison supposed it was assumed if you knew you knew. And if you didn’t know you didn’t want to faint from how much they’d cost.

Walking around the shop — wondering how a place that charged this much could even tolerate a person like her, it was obviously for voters — Allison thought she should leave again. She didn’t want to, though. Over the past few days whenever she felt things were going too fast she thought about it for a few seconds, then reminded herself she could, and would, at some point, make some time for herself and write Des a letter. He’d been so open with her, so supportive, especially in just allowing her to take what she wanted from his letter, simply and generously explaining and nudging, that she was certain he hadn’t gotten the shop’s name wrong, despite its name just being a jumble of letters and numbers, and not a person’s name. Nor did she doubt he’d appreciate a letter back from her; the first letter she’d ever send. And the last if it felt wrong, but she needed to at least thank him.

Allison was cautiously edging her way past what looked like a stone desk, afraid to touch it despite it being stone, for fear she’d spend her life paying off any damage she might do to it, when a man wearing beige approached her. His whole outfit was beige, and there was a drip down the front of his beige check shirt that looked almost like blood.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“A friend sent me here,” Allison said. “He said I’d be able to buy some supplies here.”

The man smiled. “Supplies? What type of supplies? As you can see we’re mostly computers, not run of the mill. And desks, we have a few chairs. There’s some old personal devices. We have typewriters too but at your age I doubt you even know what those are. Of course we have programs for all our computers. Supplies aren’t repairs, so you’re not here for that.”

“I want to send him a letter,” Allison said, knowing this man was almost certainly playing with her; almost certainly.

“And have you received a letter?”

Allison nodded.

“What’s your friend’s name?”

Now Allison was fully certain this man played as many games as One and Des played on each other. “Des,” she said.

“I know a few people named Des, does he have an ID? It should be on the letter he sent to you; if you’re planning on sending him one back.”

“I have it in my purse, let me look. I can say he didn’t wear shoes. And liked beer. And laughing. And insulting people.”

The man laughed at Allison’s statement and rested his hand on hers as it dug into her purse. “And his feet were clean and not smelly. Des cleared his fungus away decades ago. A very loyal customer, that Des. Come with me.”

The man lead Allison towards the back of the store, past more computers, slightly cheaper, and then down some three or four steps, beneath a low doorway that was placed with no seeming design intention, at a random spot within the room — almost ripped out of the wall.

Down the steps was a room filled with tilted shelves built into the walls, with clear plastic rails on them, holding papers, envelopes, various storage and filing devices, devices Allison didn’t know the purpose of, pens, of every colour, cases for the pens, rulers. It was like a junior school supply closet but this stuff was fancier. And almost certainly not free given the price of everything here.

“When did you last write?” the man asked.

“School,” Allison said.

“Which hand do you write with?”

Allison lifted her right hand.

“That makes it easier, no smudging. Or it gives you a few more options. Do you have an idea of what you want, or do you want..? You tell me what you’d like.”

Allison took a breath. “I would very much appreciate your help and advice,” she said, remembering what Sandra and Sandy said to her about why they do the work they do, and appreciating both that this man knew far more than her and equally she knew very little.

The man smiled and reached his hand out to a shelf, taking a nearby brown paper bag, with handles, but no branding on it, down from a row of them. He did this seemingly by instinct, and maybe with a little pep in his step, although Allison wasn’t sure on that. Then he walked deeper into the room to an older style business conn Allison remembered from when she was first let out in public, on trips with the parent who was mainly responsible for her at that age.

“The envelopes are pre-paid, just write the ID on them. It’ll take eighteen hours to be delivered, at most. Any Governor’s Office centre will accept them, or answer any questions you have, they’re really not frightening places. Nor the people. A little batty, maybe. But don’t worry about that.”

Allison watched him key some things into the conn and felt the stillness apparent. Then he laughed.

“The price is fine,” he said. “This entire room’s stock could be bought for less than one of the regular computers out there.” He stabbed a thumb towards where he and Allison had just come from. “Genuinely! If you’re not happy I won’t dispute it if you challenge the transaction.”

Allison realised it really wasn’t a lot of money if it was a transaction that could be challenged. Or else he was lying to her about that, which would actually be grounds for something more than a challenge; literally a court ruling if he tried anything untoward; it could mean a fine or a strike on his business license, and compensation for her.

“Do you know where I could write?” Allison asked.

“A dressing table?” the man said. “If you don’t have a desk. Young writers like you have beautiful dressing tables.”

Allison paused for a few seconds. She hadn’t even really thought about writing in private. Things just weren’t done that way. Everything you needed, apart from sleeping, and washing, and dressing, was done in public. You went out to do things; your apartment was functional. At least if you weren’t a voter, she recalled from her smoke with Des. Or she supposed if you were a parent.

“I don’t have a desk,” Allison said. “I do have a dressing table, but I mean somewhere in public. I guess I just want noise, and people to watch, and bustle, but not too much, and to be left alone. And something hot to drink; not coffee. Tea? I suppose. Not soup, or broth. Those could be OK. I don’t know.” Allison laughed at herself. “I want so little, don’t I?”

The man took up a pen and a little slip of paper. “Don’t share this except with people you know you can trust. I’ll write the area. There’s a stall near a public dining section. Dinette’s, I believe. Or Dino’s? Toni’s? Tino’s? Tina? Tinnette’s? It has hot chocolate. Some of the best I’ve had.”

“Hot chocolate!?” Allison said. “Really!? That’s almost impossible to get if you’re not a kid! Winter floors only!” She saw him draw a little map after he’d written the level, just quick layout lines, but obviously a layout.

“Quite possibly illegal,” the man said, handing her the note. “The trick is the code. They’ll say, ‘Don’t be silly, hot chocolate with marshmallows is a children’s drink. Black market, you know. Security would be all over someone selling it.’” The man winked and Allison knew security were well aware of what this stand was selling.

“And then you have to express disgust at being thought of as a marshmallows-in-your-hot-chocolate drinker. ‘An actual juvenile hot chocolate drinker? Marshmallows!!!’ you say, or similar. Be sure when you say marshmallows you say it very much like you would to someone who’s just pinched you. That you’re a mature and responsible grown-up not interested in silly childhood indulgences.”

Allison burst out into laughter. “You definitely know, Des,” she said. “You’re all insane.”

“Enjoy yourself,” the man said, as he walked Allison to the front door, all smiles.

“Totally insane!” Allison said again, not sure of herself. Whether she was actually the insane person here.

As she was leaving through the door she heard a woman say, “Is that really why you sell those? Because citizens can’t afford computers. There’s a reason for—”

And soon Allison was sitting down with her first hot chocolate in months, since her last winter floor experience, and taking her time to enjoy it, all the while telling herself to just enjoy it and not think about the letter she wanted to send Des. Still, she did think about the letter, and was soon penning it: the physical act of writing coming back to her, quickly, if not as precisely as she once could manage.

As she wrote the dining area got quiet, and then at times the noise would pick up. After a while she noticed this wasn’t due to the actual noise, it was her own mood ebbing and flowing. It was peace when she was focused and noise when something took her out of the writing. The noise wasn’t even bothersome, nor was being brought out of the writing, it was for a reason. She needed to think about something, or just needed to rest her hand; which meant she needed to think about something.

Allison didn’t know how long later it was but she was finally happy with what she’d written; what she’d explained. She folded the pages over and placed them inside the envelope, writing Des’s ID on the front. She was just getting ready to stand when the women sitting at the table next to her, on the same bench said, “Can I interrupt? I’m sorry, I just didn’t know what you were doing.”

Allison looked at the woman. It was obvious she was giant. She was rake thin, but tall and gangly; arms and legs folded and bent at joints to fit at the table. And she was staring wide eyed at Allison, but it was all curiosity. And Allison hadn’t even noticed until she was finished writing. She wouldn’t have noticed unless the woman had introduced herself.

“Do you want to go for coffee?” Allison asked.

“I’d love to!” the woman said, looking delighted. And excited. “Will you tell me what it was you were doing? I was fascinated. I’ll show you... Well, you’ll see.”

The woman extracted herself from beneath, and even above the table, and grasped onto Allison’s hand.

“I’ve had good success with meeting people today,” Allison said. “It’s nice.”

“I know just where I can take you,” the woman said. “I want you to see something. I know I can trust you! With what you were doing. I think you’re kind of... I’ll explain.”

Then Allison and what she could only assume was a second — third? — new friend of the day walked further into the centre of the level. The woman who Allison couldn’t help but smile over as she was almost skipping with excitement at also making a new friend. At meeting Allison.

As they walked Allison explained what she was doing, with this new person, called Clara, seemingly fascinated — nearly tripping on her heels at a few points so active was her listening, and so active was she when she talked — when Allison noticed they were pretty near the Governor’s office centre.

“Do you mind if we take a detour to Governor’s centre so I can send my letter?” Allison asked.

“I hate those places,” Clara said. “But I might get some answers to my questions as well, about my art. Don’t abandon me there! I’ll hunt you down if you do!”

Allison laughed and they were soon joining a small queue for the general enquiries desk in the Governor’s office centre, after passing two stations of security.

After about two minutes a woman beckoned them over, Allison clinging onto her letter with one hand and Clara clinging onto her other hand.

The woman indicated for them to sit in the seats and when they did she said, “How may I help you, ladies?” The Governor’s office usual opening gambit in setting people up to fail.

Allison swallowed. “I’d like to send this letter,” she said, holding out the letter.

The woman looked at it, nodded, and said, “Anything else?”

“How do you mean?” Allison asked.

“Do you want delivery confirmation? Do you want updates on its status?”

“Sorry?”

The woman puffed out her cheeks. “First letter?” Allison nodded. “Are you in trouble?”

Allison leaned back and quickly shook her head for fear this woman would find trouble to put her in. “No. It’s a message to a friend. He helped me with something and I want to thank him. And explain my thoughts, I suppose.”

“Male friend?” the woman asked, slyly. Clara couldn’t help but giggle, shocked at herself.

“Not the way you’re thinking!” Allison said. And the woman chuckled.

“Shoot!” she said. “No-one ever tells us their gossip here. They think we’re all monsters.” She cleared her throat, but it wasn’t in the typical, ‘this is the punctuation to announcing you’re being fined,’ style of way.

“Sometimes when it’s an official letter, a response to something, someone wants updates on how far along the letter is. Or confirmation when it’s delivered. Proof it’s delivered. If you look at the little icon printed in the corner it registers payment, and can be tracked, for another fee. If it’s just to talk to a friend there’s no need. There’s no real need anyway, apart from peace of mind, we don’t lose things. Especially not letters.”

“Can you send things other than letters?” Clara asked, dropping her grip on Allison’s hand.

“Of course, any parcel can be dealt with. You know the parcel senders, don’t you? Or if you want furniture moved?”

“I mean like an envelope.” Clara began to dig in her absolutely massive purse. “But not...”

Allison noticed a small light had come on above the woman’s desk as she felt her stomach tighten.

After a few moments of digging, and now with what looked to be a supervisor in a uniform standing next to the enquiries desk, Clara found a piece of paper and held it out the woman. “If I drew on that, art, you know, could I send it through the mail without putting it in an envelope?”

The woman looked to her supervisor, who nodded. “Weight and size,” the supervisor said. “And Governor’s office centre payment, not at retail. Give me a minute or two.”

The supervisor walked away, with a purpose — Allison assured herself nothing was wrong but didn’t quite believe it — and the woman behind the desk, said, again with a smile, “What my supervisor helpfully reminded me of,” then she laughed. “Is that it’d come under sending any letter, which only has a nominal charge so it’s registered in your conn. You couldn’t buy it at normal retail store, those sell the envelopes with the marks so you can just walk in here, or to a parcel centre, and drop them off to enter the system. To send something not-marked you’d have to come in here, or another centre, so we can manually mark them for mail. There are weight and size concerns, which decides whether it’s for us or a parcel centre — mostly — but a regular piece of stiff card that size wouldn’t be an issue. Not unless there were oils on it, maybe. I do like an oil painting, myself.”

The woman handed back Clara’s card and Clara seemed to sink into herself; but not out of worry, or relief, rather thinking.

“Anything else, ladies?” the woman said.

“Actually,” Allison said. “About work?” The woman nodded, and smiled an even bigger smile. This wasn’t a ‘can I help you’ smile, this was a ‘this is going to be good!’ smile. “A male friend—”

“You have lots of male friends, don’t you?” the woman said, chuckling.

Allison couldn’t help but chuckle too, out of exasperation. This was not how interactions with the Governor’s office were supposed to go. “I mean he’s just been unleashed and is finding his rotation difficult. He says he doesn’t have enough time in each position to really settle into it. To understand it.” Allison held back on Lem’s statement about getting to know people. “Is this a question for the rotations department in the centre? Or can you...” Allison ran out of steam in talking and realised she hadn’t fully explained everything.

“It is, but I can answer you. Tell him to talk to his rotation’s liaison. It’s no issue. If he’s scared about talking to his liaison tell him to come into me. You can see I don’t eat people, right? I’ve spent time as a rotation officer, it’s all correct, what I said.”

Allison nodded. “It’s really not an issue?”

“Definitely not!” the woman said, haughtily. “Rotation isn’t about telling people what to do it’s about them finding out what they want to do. If someone thinks a different style of rotation will work for them they should talk to our liaisons!” She sighed. “Why does the Governor’s office have such a bad reputation? I wish the old bores in central came in here a bit more and saw how people tightened up as soon as they walked in! We spend longer explaining we’re not out to hurt people than we do helping people.”

“You are very helpful,” Clara said, with a big smile on her face, now clutching a wrap of the cards she was planning on drawing on, and painting on, and sending to people.

However the Governor’s office supervisor, in the uniform, was back down, and handing something to Clara, who wasn’t quite sure what it was, or what the series of numbers and rectangles printed on the thick piece of cardboard meant.

“That’ll help you work out costs, and weights,” he said. “Any parcel centre is happy to weigh things for you. If you want you can buy a sturdier, non-card version of this. Anyone who sends a lot of post has them. If you want even more resources you can buy a scales to weigh things; to ensure they’re not over the limit. A general guideline is about the limit of four times, or so, that piece of card. It might make things easier for you; if you get used to the dimensions and have an idea of weights”

“Thank you!” Clara said.

“Jin,” the woman said. “If this woman was to get her art-cards pre-marked by us could she give them to people to just send automatically. They just drop them to parcel or here?”

“Hrrm...” the supervisor, Jin, mumbled, one eye half closed. “It wouldn’t be added to any account, or registered on a conn, who the mark belongs to... Well, it would... It’d be registered to the person who got the mark made.”

The woman shook her head as though this didn’t matter. “The mark is just for peace of mind, like registering the mail. It’s for the customer not for us. A transaction shown. We know we don’t lose things. If it’s just an open piece of card, with a drawing on it, or some writing, privacy isn’t a concern so it can’t be anything really important.”

Jin nodded a few times, looking like he was processing a few things. “That makes sense. I don’t see why it’d be an issue. Get some pre-marked and give them to her friends to send? Send them between them? A nice little hobby. Write it up, will you? Central report.”

The woman nodded. “And your letter is being processed as we speak, Miss. Anything else?”

“No,” Allison said, shocked at how helpful all this had been.

“Thank you so much!” Clara said, saying it like she could burst.

The woman had a big smile on her face, sitting back in her chair, as Allison and Clara left.

Clara and Allison walked towards where Clara was originally taking them, after exchanging IDs so Clara could eventually send Allison one of her painted cards. The first she’d make specifically for posting.

They were loudly debating whether Clara would call them art-cards or post-cards, unknowingly frightening men away with their wild, enthusiastic gesticulations, when the two found their way to a café called Francesca’s.

It was all bright and bold colours, a mish-mash of extremely comfortable sofas and couches, with sturdy low tables between them. Some areas were brightly illuminated, some were darker and more intimate. The walls seemed freshly painted in a thick, warm colour, like roasted earth that still held life. Chalkboard menus were hung at various intervals for the men who wanted to buy — or buy women — café food. It appeared the café even had a specific women’s menu of allowed nibbles and quick bites, which was quite rare.

Clara lead them to the counter where a woman brightened up on seeing her.

“Yes, fine, OK. There’s no need to convince me this time,” Clara said. “I will have a soup and sandwich. I’ve had a busy day. I have so much to tell you, Fran! This is Allison, by the way, she told me so much I have to tell you. I’ll be able to mail people art! For cheap! You’ll love it, Francesca! I love it! But please, please, only a half soup and a half sandwich. Please!”

“Of course, Clara. Whatever you want. How about you, Allison, half soup and sandwich? Clara’s usual is a turkey and cheese, and the soup today is potato and leek.”

Allison’s peered at this woman, Francesca, from behind a glare. There was something not quite right about this place. “That’s not on the women’s menu,” Allison said.

“It’s not. However I’ve asked for permission to provide my artist customers with food in return for them providing me with art to decorate the place with. I find it more satisfying than picking out of a catalogue.”

Allison looked around and saw a few drawings and paintings, framed, and hung around the walls at strange intervals. “And I can have a half soup and sandwich?”

“You can,” Francesca said. “Whatever sandwich you want.”

Clara dropped her grip on Allison’s hand and pointed at Francesca. “Please, Fran, please! Just a half a soup and half a sandwich for me. If Allison’s hungry that’s fine, but I’m not!”

Francesca was shaking in dismissal at Clara’s outrage. “Allison? You see Clara is skin and bone, and you know I’m only looking out for her in providing her something to eat.”

Allison laughed. “I think whether she gets half, or double, Clara only has to eat however much she wants.”

“A woman with a brain!” Francesca said.

“Because Clara provides you with art?” Allison said.

The woman looked a little disappointed. “We make most of our money when we close and give the place over to private parties. Unfortunately the parties get a little rambunctious. Entirely without respect or discipline these people with money to hire a café. My art is constantly getting destroyed. I’d stop doing it but it’s how the business survives, and how Clara here doesn’t disappear entirely from lack of nutrition!

“Speaking of which, Clara, the last party, insane! Loads of stuff destroyed. Wine everywhere! Broken bottles I made sure they paid for. And they paid without even looking at the bill. Corks popping and everything. I even had to repaint. Would you take a walk around and see if you have any ideas for what could fill the spots? The offer is out to a few people.”

Clara shook her head, annoyed at this party of assholes, although it seemed to Allison she was used to it. “Of course, Frannie, and a coffee?”

“I’ll drop it down to you,” Francesca said. “Go look, will you?” Francesca urged Clara to take a wander about, which she did. “How about you, Allison? Coffee? Soft drink?”

“Private parties? And the art gets destroyed?” Allison said, doubt forming more solidly.

The woman looked crestfallen. “I’m most sorry for Clara, that she doesn’t get to see her art hung any more. I really quite liked these ones.”

“Where is her money going?” Allison asked, raising her shoulders up.

Francesca looked taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“The art gets destroyed? You’re selling it! Where is the money going? Does Clara have her own business account, filled with credits? Or are you pocketing it all?”

Francesca looked annoyed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, girl!” she said, but there wasn’t any actual annoyance to the tone she spoke in. Nor was there a threat.

“Don’t do that to me,” Allison said. “I work myself. I’ve talked to enough older women who know, and explained. I’ve figured some of it out, more than you think I have. I know where I can buy my own food, and alcohol. Please don’t do this to me. Don’t do it to Clara. I like her...”

Francesca sighed, and nodded. And Allison saw the sigh wasn't at being found out, or to cope with a difficult situation, it was relief.

“I like Clara, too. And she has enough credits for a studio. All in a separate business account. I take a 10% cut, as a seller. She’s popular. Not because she’s amazing but because she has the potential to be, maybe. Buyers see her as a future star, a real star. Many want her to have a studio now, so she can produce more, and bigger. I don’t think she’s ready. She needs to find her style a bit more. And she doesn’t need the pressure. The demands.

“I find her studio time with some working artist friends if she needs it, or can benefit from talking to an established artist, you can ask her yourself. She doesn’t need and cannot disappear off to some invisible part of the station to her own studio. Not yet. She’s too young. She needs to be out, experiencing the world. And making friends. Friends like you, it seems.”

Allison processed all this for a few moments. “I know people who can investigate this, to find out if you’re telling the truth,” she said, bluffing.

“All above board.” Francesca tapped a few things into the business conn then held up her scanner, which Allison tapped back, wondering what this was about. “You have an invite to our next show. Come to it. Bring a friend. Bring one of your friends who investigates things. Come back here a few more times and you’ll spot people coming to look at the art, and not for our wonderful food, the idiots.

“The food is good, simple, maybe, but good. My husband is our main chef. Please don’t tell, Clara. She doesn’t need the pressure, you’ve spoken with her. You judge how she’d take it. Talk to people at the show, there’ll be artists there I, or other people, have done the exact same thing for. And people who do it for other young artists.”

“OK. For now,” Allison said. “I won’t tell her. I don’t think so...”

“Thank you,” Francesca said. “You’re good for Clara, from what I can see. She rarely asks for food without prompting. She really wouldn’t eat, she’d just doodle her day away. And I guess you know if you want anything off the menu that’s not an issue, nor is it a bribe.”

Allison guffawed, lowly, just the once. It wasn’t quite a guffaw, really, more incredulous tiredness. Allison’s day on her own wasn’t just making new friends but seemed to be the same as usual. Only at least she’d had her letter to Des, and, she supposed, a hot chocolate. Francesca spotted her guffaw, though, and she’d smiled too. Seemingly proud of Clara, maybe for bringing Allison to her.

“You should talk to Clara,” Allison said. “She might have a new business idea.”

Francesca nodded.

As Allison looked at Francesca she wondered if she really was bluffing when she said she had friends who could find out the truth of what Francesca was doing. Some of the people she’d met... How much she was finding out in just the few days since she’d become Allison...

Allison could already begin to feel the central theme of a new letter to Des beginning to form, even before Des responded to her.

“Turkey and cheese?” Allison said.

“With or without salad. Of course you’ll get some crisps. On the side. Drink?”