Free Moon (Glimpsing Stars, 1.5) by S.K. Falls Page A

at me, a tight-lipped thing that barely moves her mouth. “We just
received uniforms at the factory that must be dyed purple. We mix the blue and
red to do it. It’s fascinating to watch the colors merge to create the right
shade.”
    Mother
makes a noise halfway between a snort and a sigh. “Dyeing uniforms—a ridiculous
occupation. If you’d been smart enough to apply for a job at BoTA, like I told
you, you’d actually be doing something useful with your life now.”
    For
unknown reasons, Neptune rejected the idea of working at the Bureau of
Transregional Affairs—commonly called BoTA—outright when Mother suggested it
last year. Mother never did forgive her. She says Neptune’s job at the factory
is demeaning, a job for people with little to no intelligence.
    I
myself cannot understand why Neptune would choose to work in a place with no
windows, where the din of machines must make it impossible to speak to another
living person.  
    Neptune
darts a look at her. Her voice dripping venom, she says, “Perhaps there is more
to a person than what they do for a job. Have you ever considered that?”
    Mother
glares, her hands clutching her tin cup tight. I wonder if she will leave
fingerprints in the metal. “ Is there more to you, then, Neptune? Do you
do things our government doesn’t know about?”
    They
stare at each other across the table. I know what Mother is thinking. She believes
Neptune is likely a dissident, that she purposely chose a job where the
government would have no reason to keep close account of her activities. Mother’s
become more and more convinced of this in the last year, after Neptune moved
into her own apartment. I do not agree with her speculations. I think Neptune
is simply tired—very tired—of following rules. But you never know. That’s the most
important thing I’ve learned in school. People often aren’t who you think they
are. Everyone wears masks.
    Once,
not too long after she began work at the factory, Neptune came over to keep me
company when Mother was working a night shift. We sat on the sofa, speaking of
nothing much, until she turned to me with a suppressed shine in her dark eyes.
    “Can
I ask you a question?” she’d asked, her hands folded tightly together.
    That
shine and her energy made me nervous. Neptune’s questions were always difficult
to answer and even harder to consider, verging as they almost always did on Rad
territory. But I was curious, so I nodded.
    “Do
you believe the regime really is feminist? That they really do work for the good
of every female in New Amana?”
    In
spite of expecting something outrageous, I was startled to even be asked such a
question—I couldn’t formulate a response. I opened my mouth and closed it again.
I was afraid someone would walk past the apartment and hear us; I was afraid
the Escorts would come bursting in, sensing the disobedient thoughts hovering
over our building. They’d drag us off to the gas chamber, snuff our terrorist
lives out without a thought. Or perhaps just as bad, what if Mother came home and
overheard?
    Finally,
I said, “Of course. Of course I do.”
    Neptune
leaned back and lit a cigarette, a relic from years long past. She got them
from le marché noir, the black market, and smoked whenever Mother wasn’t home.
It was another thing Mother would point to as evidence of Neptune’s Radical
leanings. “I’ve been hearing things from the other workers at the factory. Some
of the women there say there was a time when true feminism was about
asking questions, about challenging the people in power when they undermined
women’s freedoms.” She blew out blue smoke, obscuring her face for a moment.
“There was a time when a woman’s worth wasn’t dependent on the children she
produced.”
    I
shook my head slowly. “But...but the rules are made for our benefit. The regime
would never ask us to follow an order that might hamper New Amana’s progress.
Healthy children are how we’ll repopulate our