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City
of Ursa, New Amana
    November
2078
    The
moon is our planet’s only natural satellite. It is why my mother chose the name
for me.
    By
the time of my birth, she was hoping for some sort of miracle. My older sister,
Neptune, was already disappointing at five years old. She was born what Mother
called a “pre-War thinker.” Neptune didn’t understand the concept of following
orders—she was always questioning things, the way people did before the 2013
War of the Nations. Her questions, defiant, inappropriate, and ceaseless, set
Mother on edge. Or so I am told. 
    When
I was born, Mother wanted something different. She wanted a child who’d be born
obedient as she had been, a child who shared her love for New Amana and
everything for which it stood.
    Mother
believes that women named after manufactured satellites are inferior. It might
sound ludicrous, but she does have a point. After all, these satellites were
put in the air by men when the world was in their charge, and look how that
turned out. She’s always said she doesn’t understand why mothers would name
their daughters after celestial objects created by the very people we now
dominate—for their own wellbeing, and ours. According to her, they were just
asking for their daughters to turn bad. A self-fulfilling prophecy of sorts.
    Perhaps
she thought naming me after Earth’s only natural satellite would make it so I’d
never be tempted by the dissidents amongst us—the Radicals—to turn on my
country. Or perhaps she hoped I’d be the one to fulfill what she’d once thought
was her destiny—working for the Bureau of Transregional Affairs. Clearly,
Neptune, even as a toddler, was not going to be what my mother had wanted. When
I was born, my path through life was already carved out. All I had to do was fit
myself into the groove and let go.
    City
of Ursa, New Amana
    August
2072
    My
mother sips her tea, her small, shrewd eyes never leaving my sister’s form.  Neptune
sits at the table with us and yet she’s apart somehow, not quite on the same
plane. Her gaze is distracted, her tea forgotten. She doesn’t notice Mother’s
attention. It seems to me her thoughts are turned inward, as if she is already
planning her escape. She has only been here thirty minutes.
    “And
what are you doing today, Neptune?” Mother asks, her spoon clinking dully
against the sides of her tin tea cup.
    “Work.”
My sister’s voice is steady, but she doesn’t meet my mother’s eye or mine. Her
fingers flutter on the tabletop as she plays a silent melody.
    This
is how Neptune always is around our mother; fidgety, restless, unaware that I
am there, too. But it doesn’t bother me much to be ignored this way. I’m used
to my mother’s burning glare as she observes my every move, waiting to see if I
will follow in Neptune’s subversive footsteps.
    I
am thirteen years old. I have five more years of this before I can move to my
own government-assigned apartment, like Neptune did last year.
    To
be honest, I prefer not to be seen at all these days. The moments when Neptune
visits, when Mother’s focus is on her and not on me, feel like a reprieve. It
is as if a tight binding around my chest has been loosened, allowing me to
finally breathe. Sometimes it makes me guilty, that I am thankful for Neptune’s
suffering. But then I remind myself that she doesn’t live here any longer. She
doesn’t have to endure the scrutiny as I do.
    “Hmm.”
Mother stops stirring, finally, and sets down her spoon. Picks up her cup.
Takes a sip. The slurping thunders against my eardrums.
    Neptune
has never been able to please my mother—not that she’s ever made it a priority.
As far back in my memory as I can remember they’ve been this way, always
repelling each other, magnets with like poles. And while they’ve tossed barbs
at each other, my mother trying to inch forward through Neptune’s defenses,
I’ve stood outside, just beyond their awareness, watching and learning.
    Neptune
smiles