Moon (Glimpsing Stars, 1.5)

by S. K. Falls

  A minute later, Neptune joins me. “Happy birthday, Mother. I’m off to the factory. We’re working extended hours today.” Her face is smooth; there is no hint of a lie there at all. If she were a Rad, she’d be a good one, I realize.

  My mother doesn’t look up from her tea. “Farewell.”

  Neptune glances at me, a message in her eyes—I’ll be back soon. And then she’s gone.

  Mother lifts her head slowly and turns to me when the door has shut behind Neptune. “Do you know where she’s going?”

  Heat flashes to my face. I am not like my sister; I am not good at lying to Mother. “Sh-she told you. She’s going to the factor—”

  “Ah.” Mother smiles. Her teeth are yellow in the morning light. “But that isn’t what I asked, is it?”

  This is what I mean when I say I am not good at lying to her. Somehow, she always sees through my words to the meaning buried under them. She chips away until it is plain to see the truth. “She didn’t tell me w-where she’s going, exactly.” At least that was the truth.

  “But she isn’t going to the factory, is she?”

  I glance down at the table, trying not to picture Neptune’s wide brown eyes as I shake my head in answer. Perhaps if I don’t look at Mother while I do it, it won’t be as big a betrayal. Perhaps.

  There is a harsh scraping sound, and then my mother is standing, her hand outstretched. “Come with me.”

  “Where?”

  “I have a feeling you’re about to witness something important. Oh yes, indeed.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her hungry, desperate eyes. Though she is speaking to me, it doesn’t seem like she sees me at all. Her eyes gaze past my shoulder, out the window that overlooks the sprawling, gray city. I wonder who she does see—is it a younger version of herself?

  When we walk outside, flecks of fallout speckle the air like a million black insects: My lungs are being damaged irrevocably with every breath I take. The acid rain stings as it pelts down on my skin, the sun gone behind a cover of smog and colorless clouds. People in New Amana don’t bother using umbrellas to protect themselves anymore. We found out quickly that any material we used only tattered under constant assault from the acid. Now the stinging of our skin is just one more thing we accept as our lot.

  Mother clutches my hand tightly in hers. She is pinching my fingers together, and I am much too old for her to hold my hand, but I don’t say anything. Because across the street, at the bus station with its cracked shelter, I see Neptune waiting. My mother must spot her at the same time; the pressure on my hand increases.

  We stay there in the alley next to our apartment building, waiting amongst the genetically-mutated, homeless Nukehead children until the bus has come, picked up its passengers, and started back down the street. Then we hurry across the street and wait in the shelter for the next bus.

  The sound of the acid rain drumming on the plastic shelter roof is incredibly loud. Mother and I do not speak. Her eyes are on the road, anticipating the arrival of the bus that will take us where Neptune’s going.

  I wonder what she is thinking as we wait. I wonder what she’s seeing as she looks down the road. I wonder what I am doing, here with her. I wonder if I should tell her no; if I should insist that we go back to our apartment. But I know she would never listen to me. Besides, I don’t have a chance to say anything. The next bus arrives, and we climb aboard.

  There aren’t many vehicles on the road; citizens aren’t allowed to drive personal vehicles. I keep silent track of every starving Nukehead we pass; their limbs like dry twigs, their stomachs bloated. Some are blind, most have grotesque mutations—ears where mouths should be, too many fingers or not nearly enough. Today all of them, even the blind ones, seem to be looking straight at me.

  As we travel on, civilization begins to peter out. The buildings we encounter, hugging cracked sidewalks, have long since been abandoned. The empty windows with their absent panes are like hungry mouths, opening wide. I hold my breath as we drive past.

  Finally, we arrive at the checkpoint. We will soon pass into the outskirts of the city of Ursa, and to do this, everyone on board must be accounted for. In line directly in front of us is Neptune’s bus.

  I glance at my mother as we take our place behind it. Her hair drips acid raindrops onto her face. She appears not to notice, her eyes trained on the bus before us like she can see past the metal to the inside where her oldest daughter sits nestled away. The water runs down her skin, streaking it a virulent red. Right now, pain is nothing; discomfort does not exist. She is in the thrill of the chase. She is almost to her prize.

  “Mother.” I have spoken without meaning to.

  She looks at me, as if she has only now remembered that I am here, and a brief smile flashes across her face. “We’re almost there,” she mutters, patting my knee. “Almost there, don’t you worry.” I wonder if she is speaking to me or herself.

  Our bus is cleared shortly after Neptune’s and we swallow mile after mile, chasing after her. Every now and then a pack of scavenging dogs, the ridges of their ribcages undulating like mountains and valleys, dart between the spindly shrubbery, glaring at our noisy intrusion.

  Ambivalence picks and tears at me; I want to tell Mother that Neptune is merely going to le marché noir. On the other hand, I know Neptune is not completely innocent; I think perhaps my mother has a point. I am losing my mind, trying to see things from both my sister’s way and the way I have been taught to view things: with suspicion.

  We trundle to our stop. When we disembark, I’m amazed Neptune doesn’t see us only a few yards away from her. But she keeps her head down, walking across the street with purpose. She disappears down a small alley that reeks of mold and urine. Going to le marché noir, just like she’d said.

  Mother clasps my hand again, crushing it in hers. “There,” she says, her voice just a hiss of pleasure. “There, it is as I thought. That alley leads to a Radical meeting place.”

  I look up at her, and I see the madness gleaming in her eyes. I try to pull my hand out of hers, but she holds on tight, refusing to let go. “That’s also the way to le marché noir,” I say in a burst of bravado. My knees are shaking with the effort of speaking to Mother this way. “Perhaps that’s where Neptune is headed.”

  My mother turns her too-bright gaze on me, an unpleasant smile twisting her mouth. “Do you dare side with a Rad instead of your mother? Shall I report both daughters instead of just one?” She lets go of my hand and moves her fingers to my chin; she pinches it tight. “You’re not too young for the gas chamber.” Her breath is vile and acrid, but I can’t turn away.

  That familiar tremble begins deep inside me. I recognize it for what it is this time: an internal earthquake. I am on dangerous ground. I can see past the madness, and there is no hint of an empty threat. She means it. My mother will report me just as easily as she’d report Neptune. I try to imagine a small chamber, noxious fumes pouring out of holes in the ground and ceiling, filling up my lungs, incinerating them. The quaking inside me gets stronger. “N-no. You’re right. Of course you’re right.”

  “Good.” Mother lets go of my chin and strokes my cheek gently, but the fire still simmers in her eyes. “Then you shall be the one to report her.”

  She watches me carefully for a reaction, so I control every muscle in my face. I make sure my expressions are locked up tight. “Yes, Mother.”

  The regime has made it nearly effortless for the common people, like me and Mother, to report a suspected Radical. And yet, it is the most difficult thing I have ever had to do.

  Back at the apartment, Mother points to the telephone on the corner table. We haven’t even taken off our boots. “Let’s do our duty,” she says. I wonder if she knows she is smiling.

  I pick up the receiver. It must weigh a thousand pounds. My hand trembles as I bring it to my ear. I watch in disbelief as my finger pushes the button that will engage the reporting line.

  The voice on the other end is mechanical, distant. “Name of
Radical.”

  I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. I glance at my mother, who stands beside me, her hand clamped on my shoulder. When she sees that I am having trouble speaking, she squeezes harder, until pain brings the world back into focus. My throat opens up again. “Neptune Stewart.”

  “Crime.”

  I glance at my mother again. “A-attending a Radical meeting.”

  “Noted. Thank you for your service to New Amana.”

  And that’s it. When I replace the receiver, Mother laughs. “You’ll always remember this moment fondly, my dear. One day it will gain you employment in BoTA. You’ll do what they denied me.” She strokes my face. “You’ll make sure the Stewart family name is something to be proud of, won’t you?”

  I nod and try to smile, but the smile stays hidden somewhere. My eyes fill with tears and suddenly, my legs cannot hold my weight any longer. I sink to the floor, a crumpled mass. I do not cry, I do not make a sound. I simply lie there, wondering how it can hurt so much when I haven’t been physically wounded.

  A shadow falls on me and then I feel the weight of Mother’s hand on my hair. “Now, now,” she mutters. “You’ve done the right thing. This is for your own good. I’d never lead you astray, dear, you know that. Don’t you?”

  “Yes, Mother.” I close my eyes and will the world away.

  For several days after, nothing happens, at least not in my corner of Ursa. The streets are quiet...unnaturally so. The Nukehead children seem to have vanished overnight, though I have not heard the Maintenance men clean them up, cart them away to be gassed. A dark gray fog hangs close to the ground, suffocating me, muffling the sound of my breath.

  My mother works and I go to school. In the evenings, we listen to the radio broadcasts and eat our tasteless dinners. She doesn’t mention what I have done; I don’t dare ask her what has happened to Neptune. Part of me is sure she’d tell me, sure she’d say if Neptune had been taken. But the other part wonders if perhaps this is exactly how she’d act after: as if she’d only ever had one daughter to begin with.

  The fever in her eyes dims.

  In my mind, the Escorts taking Neptune to the gas chamber will be preceded by something big, like an enormous acid rain shower. Or perhaps they will blare sirens throughout the city like they do every third of June, to mourn the day New Amana was destroyed in the War. Because surely my sister cannot slip away quietly, unnoticed, even if she does have some terrorist leanings. We share genetic material. Doesn’t that count for something? Surely I, the one who guided death to her doorstep, would become aware of the end of her life.

  I have absolutely done the right thing. I tell myself this daily. Neptune might not have been at a Rad meeting that day, but it was only a matter of time. With her twisted ideas of feminism and her blatant disregard for the regime, she is a walking target. If I didn’t report her, someone else would have. I have absolutely done the right thing...

  Haven’t I?

  I do not sleep at night; I am afraid of my dreams.

  Then one day there is a knock at the door. Mother is working the night shift, and I am alone. Terror strikes me to my core. Is it the Escorts, come to take me away instead? Perhaps there is no greater betrayal than betrayal of family. Or perhaps they are able to see into my mind, to see that I do not completely believe Neptune is a Radical, not the way Mother does. Perhaps we will both be gassed, just as my mother had said. I stand there, staring at the door, frozen in absolute, perfect fear, sweat beginning to collect on my brow.

  Then reason begins to trickle in. Escorts don’t knock. They come in uninvited. It is part of their appearance—their way of saying: Your life is not really yours. It has been ours from the moment you took your first breath.

  I open the door.

  Neptune stands on the other side. I wonder if she is an apparition, like they used to believe in a long time ago. I try to see if there is hate blazing in her eyes.

  But she smiles. “Can I come in or will you stand in the doorway all night?”

  Is she really here? My mind reels as I step aside and she comes striding in.

  Did they decide that my report didn’t have substance? I have never heard of the government deciding against gassing a low-level worker—erring as they always do on the side of caution—but perhaps Neptune has slipped through the cracks. Maybe, somehow, the inconceivable has happened. Maybe the government has made a mistake.

  We sit on the sofa, just like always. I continue to watch her, my mind racing with conflicting thoughts, my heart pounding, the blood roaring through my ears. I must tell her to leave. She can’t be seen here. What if they’re merely delayed in picking her up? Will they suspect me of abetting a terrorist?

  But she’s my sister. She’s here, against all odds. Should I warn her? Should I tell her what Mother and I have done? I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

  Neptune slips off her boots and tucks her legs under her, the gesture familiar and discordant with the tension I feel. She pulls a pack of cigarettes from her bag and taps one out.

  “I cannot say how much of a relief it was to get cigarettes from le marché noir. Last time I went, they didn’t have any.” She smiles as she lights it. “I know they say these things are deadly, but at least I’ll die happy.”

  I cannot laugh at her joke.

  “Oh.” She reaches back into her bag. “I bought you something as well.” She brings her hand out, fist closed. When she opens her fingers, two small round gemstones shimmer in her palm.

  One is smooth and white, and the other bigger and bright blue. They have small pins on their backs.

  “They’re called brooches,” she says when I continue to stare at them. “Women used to pin them on their clothes as adornment. We can’t do that, of course, but I thought we might keep them anyway. Maybe I’ll keep the moon and you could keep Neptune?”

  Her hand hovers there in the air, and I can’t bring myself to look away. I knew what the gemstones represented as soon as I saw them. Here is the evidence of her innocence, as if the cigarettes were not enough. And more than that—here is the evidence that my sister cares for me.

  My brain begins to scream in pure anguish. I have to tell her. I have to tell her what’s happened so that she can run. Maybe there’s time for her to escape the city like she’d meant to anyway. Maybe Neptune could leave Ursa behind once and for all. She doesn’t have to go to the gas chamber. She could simply disappear. That would be virtually the same thing, wouldn’t it?

  “N-Neptune...”

  She looks at me, completely unaware of the agony I am in, and closes her hand around the gemstones, waiting.

  “You—you said you were leaving Ursa.”

  She sighs and shakes her head, looking down at the cigarette in her free hand. “Oh, Moon. I wish you wouldn’t worry about that. I did wonder whether or not to tell you at all.” When she looks up at me, her eyes are bright and clear. “Yes, I am leaving. But I do not know when or where I am going yet. And you cannot tell anybody. Do you understand?”

  Now is the time. I have to tell her now. “You have to go. You can’t wait any longer.”

  “What do you mean?” Her eyes narrow. I wonder if knowledge is beginning to seep in, quietly but surely.

  I open my mouth.

  There is a rustling at the door, like someone trying to open it.

  Neptune swivels her head in its direction, frowning. She sets the gemstones on the table, under the educational leaflets Mother likes to browse. She steps on her burning cigarette and puts it out before pushing the butt under the sofa. “Are you expecting someone?”

  I can only stare at her, at her dark eyes, her long, thick braid. I begin to memorize her face.

  The door swings open and they march in. Escorts, in their bright white uniforms like exposed bone. I look back at Neptune. I am underwater, everything is slow, I try to breathe but I can’t.

  Neptune still looks disoriented. She stares at the Escorts as if they are apparitions, just as I’d looked at her minutes
before when she was at the door. It seems as though she’s wondering if this is a dream, just as I’m wondering if it is a nightmare.

  They seize her by the arms, pull her to her feet. They don’t even let her put on her boots. They drag her out, her bare feet scraping the floor, and all the while she stares at me. She doesn’t say a word.

  They are there. And then they are gone.

  It is only a long time later that I realize I am standing in the middle of the room, screaming her name at the closed door. I stop, put one hand on my sore, swollen throat. I walk stiffly to the sofa, let my knees buckle. The house is quiet, so quiet. Somewhere in the distance a siren squalls like a broken child. I pick up the brooches Neptune left behind. I close my fingers around them, let the pins sink into my palm.

  By the time Mother comes home early the next morning, I have thrown them away. I have begun to forget.

  City of Ursa, New Amana

  November 2078

  I sit back in my chair and watch Mercury approach. A gleeful expression dances in her black eyes; a barely-suppressed smile plays on her lips.

  “Have you heard?” she says in a hurried whisper before she has even stopped moving.

  This is how most of Mercury’s conversations begin. She is the hub of all news passed from classified environments to BoTA, where we work. I have only been here a year, but already Mercury has found me. I do not know what she saw in my face that told her I was a kindred spirit.

  Mercury and I celebrate when citizens are arrested or taken away to the Asylums. And why shouldn’t we? The fewer people we have to compete with, the higher our chance of survival. When fighting for each waking moment is a way of life, emotions such as empathy and compassion cease to matter. Those who think otherwise delude themselves. I can guarantee that their life spans are shorter than those of people like Mercury and me.

  “Who’ve they caught?” I keep my tone nonchalant, but my heart races. I need it to be her—Vika Cannon. It has to be.

  Mercury shakes her head, apparently reading my mind. After all this time, it’s no secret—at least not one I keep from her—who I’ve been hoping will stumble. “No one’s been picked up for the gas chambers yet.”