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Description
California, Federation Province 204
0702 Hours

"Hello, June."
I'm standing in the hallway in my pajamas, my messy reddish hair tied in an even messier knot at the start of my neck.
Breathe, I have to tell myself, but it doesn't happen.
Sitting at the dining table with my mom is the seductively handsome Federation officer from yesterday. Maybe I should recap.
I was walking home from school yesterday with my best friend Hannah Morgan, when the exact same guy with the exact same charismatic grin approached us. Hannah didn't seem fazed; she barely heard a word he said. But I had.
"I was just telling your mother here about our program," says the officer. This time he isn't wearing his uniform; the customary black, stiff uniform with a red collar with gold trimming and buttons, but hanging from his shoulders is an inviting blue-colored, buttoned shirt with the cuffs pressed and buttoned.
"Mr. Amador says his school would really suit your talents, Junie," offers Mom, a hesitant look about her, her eyes wide and childlike.
I turn on my heels. "Not interested."
"Wait, Miss Sommers!" He stands up, ready to stop me. Mom flinches like a child about ready to get yelled at. He composes himself as I glance at him over my shoulder. He gives my mom a masked smile. "I've been instructed not to leave without your company. I am from the Federation Historical Art Institute. As you know, our Chancellor is very interested in keeping Earth's beautiful works of art safe, and to encourage a new generation of artists. We believe you could be the next Rembrandt."
Yeah, right. Sure. I look to Mom. Is she seriously buying this?
She's stuck on the same words I am. I've been instructed not to leave without your company. That's what they said when they took Justin—but it was more forceful that time.
I have loved to draw and paint since I was little, and many people said I had a real talent for it, but that isn't why Officer Amador is here. He isn't a member of any art society.
"I'm not interested," I say again. I wonder if I can outrun a Federation officer? Unlikely. Hand-eye coordination is my thing, not foot-eye.
"Please reconsider, Miss Sommers," presses the officer. "The Federation requires your abilities."
The man's charm may have worked on Mom, but it won't work on me. His handsome features mask a snake-like quality about him. This man lives, thinks, and breathes Federation.
Don't get me wrong—the Federation isn't at all a bad thing. It keeps us all safe and makes it so we can go about living normal lives. The means of our protection come from huge, five-story tall pilot-driven humanoid metal giants, called suits. They have bodies plated with gleaming metal, protecting innards of wire mazes, artificial joints, and an atomic core. Piloted by humans and wielding huge guns and steel-alloyed swords that have yet to find something they cannot cut through, the suits revolutionized warfare forty years ago. They've only gotten more advanced through the years, and more dangerous.
Though I owe my relatively quiet life to the Federation, that doesn't mean I'm about to fight for them. My father fought for them. He's dead now. My brother . . .
I stalk back into the hallway and head from my room. What I wouldn't give to have a lock on my door. Again I contemplate having an action-movie moment and escaping via my window. Where could I escape to? Hannah's? No, they would look for me there—
My thoughts are interrupted by a knocking on my door.
"Get out of my house!" I scream at the door.
"June, it's Mom."
I suck in a breath and steel myself. She can't believe this art school story. I'm not about to become the next experiment. She has become almost childlike since Justin was taken. She's messed up inside, but that can't mean she's fallen for the officer's lies!
I open the door. I begin to say something, but my mouth shuts tight when I see her expression. She knows. I should have known better. She's seen too much of the Federation to know when they're lying to her. Her grave expression is the one she received news from Dad with. It's the most serious expression I've seen on her face in a while.
"Junie . . ." her eyes are filling with tears, "you have to go with him."
My eyebrows shoot up. "What? No, Mom—"
"June," she puts a hand up to stop me mid-rant, "we don't have a choice."
I frown. "No, Mom. I'm not going. Dad sacrificed. They took Justin—"
The mere mention of Justin has Mom cut up. The tears spill over and immediately I feel guilty. I would be a regular Federation patriot if I hadn't listened to my mom crying herself to sleep for the past six years. Six years ago, a husband. Two, a son. The Federation did this to her.
"We don't have a choice," she repeats, putting her trembling hand to her face. "I-if you don't go willingly, they will . . ." I know what they will do. They demanded Justin go willingly. He fought. He nearly got away too. But then they sedated him and dragged him into the street to a black government car and sped away. The next time I saw my big brother was in a coffin a year later.
Mr. Officer out there is probably loading whatever he needs to sedate me. He'll justify it with noncompliance. Mom's right. We don't have a choice. My shoulders sag and I grab a large duffel bag from my closet.
Mom shuffles out of my room and leaves me alone while I pack with hot, angry tears in my eyes. Hasn't my Mom sacrificed enough? A husband and a son . . . now a daughter. I straighten and look at the ceiling, trying to stave the tears. No, she won't lose me. I'll make it through their training—I'll make it through this war they have us in but don't like to talk about. I'll put in the required time then I'll apply for discharge. One tour. I'll make it.
I change clothes and put on a pair of shoes. I run my brush through my hair and then retie it into a knot.
When I walk back into the dining room, Mr. Officer stands and smiles. I can't describe it as happy, more . . . triumphant. I'm surprised a pronged tongue doesn't slither out between his teeth.
"I'm so glad you changed your mind, Miss Sommers. The Art Institute will be so pleased." Mom and I have the same expression. Does he really have to keep up the pretenses? We both know where I'm going.
The three of us head to the door. I guess Mom is going to be allowed to see me off to the transport. Mr. Officer pulls open the door and gives me another one of those fake smiles.
"Your father would be very proud, Miss Sommers."
I slap him across his face.

Description
California, Federation Province 204
0702 Hours

"Hello, June."
I'm standing in the hallway in my pajamas, my messy reddish hair tied in an even messier knot at the start of my neck.
Breathe, I have to tell myself, but it doesn't happen.
Sitting at the dining table with my mom is the seductively handsome Federation officer from yesterday. Maybe I should recap.
I was walking home from school yesterday with my best friend Hannah Morgan, when the exact same guy with the exact same charismatic grin approached us. Hannah didn't seem fazed; she barely heard a word he said. But I had.
"I was just telling your mother here about our program," says the officer. This time he isn't wearing his uniform; the customary black, stiff uniform with a red collar with gold trimming and buttons, but hanging from his shoulders is an inviting blue-colored, buttoned shirt with the cuffs pressed and buttoned.
"Mr. Amador says his school would really suit your talents, Junie," offers Mom, a hesitant look about her, her eyes wide and childlike.
I turn on my heels. "Not interested."
"Wait, Miss Sommers!" He stands up, ready to stop me. Mom flinches like a child about ready to get yelled at. He composes himself as I glance at him over my shoulder. He gives my mom a masked smile. "I've been instructed not to leave without your company. I am from the Federation Historical Art Institute. As you know, our Chancellor is very interested in keeping Earth's beautiful works of art safe, and to encourage a new generation of artists. We believe you could be the next Rembrandt."
Yeah, right. Sure. I look to Mom. Is she seriously buying this?
She's stuck on the same words I am. I've been instructed not to leave without your company. That's what they said when they took Justin—but it was more forceful that time.
I have loved to draw and paint since I was little, and many people said I had a real talent for it, but that isn't why Officer Amador is here. He isn't a member of any art society.
"I'm not interested," I say again. I wonder if I can outrun a Federation officer? Unlikely. Hand-eye coordination is my thing, not foot-eye.
"Please reconsider, Miss Sommers," presses the officer. "The Federation requires your abilities."
The man's charm may have worked on Mom, but it won't work on me. His handsome features mask a snake-like quality about him. This man lives, thinks, and breathes Federation.
Don't get me wrong—the Federation isn't at all a bad thing. It keeps us all safe and makes it so we can go about living normal lives. The means of our protection come from huge, five-story tall pilot-driven humanoid metal giants, called suits. They have bodies plated with gleaming metal, protecting innards of wire mazes, artificial joints, and an atomic core. Piloted by humans and wielding huge guns and steel-alloyed swords that have yet to find something they cannot cut through, the suits revolutionized warfare forty years ago. They've only gotten more advanced through the years, and more dangerous.
Though I owe my relatively quiet life to the Federation, that doesn't mean I'm about to fight for them. My father fought for them. He's dead now. My brother . . .
I stalk back into the hallway and head from my room. What I wouldn't give to have a lock on my door. Again I contemplate having an action-movie moment and escaping via my window. Where could I escape to? Hannah's? No, they would look for me there—
My thoughts are interrupted by a knocking on my door.
"Get out of my house!" I scream at the door.
"June, it's Mom."
I suck in a breath and steel myself. She can't believe this art school story. I'm not about to become the next experiment. She has become almost childlike since Justin was taken. She's messed up inside, but that can't mean she's fallen for the officer's lies!
I open the door. I begin to say something, but my mouth shuts tight when I see her expression. She knows. I should have known better. She's seen too much of the Federation to know when they're lying to her. Her grave expression is the one she received news from Dad with. It's the most serious expression I've seen on her face in a while.
"Junie . . ." her eyes are filling with tears, "you have to go with him."
My eyebrows shoot up. "What? No, Mom—"
"June," she puts a hand up to stop me mid-rant, "we don't have a choice."
I frown. "No, Mom. I'm not going. Dad sacrificed. They took Justin—"
The mere mention of Justin has Mom cut up. The tears spill over and immediately I feel guilty. I would be a regular Federation patriot if I hadn't listened to my mom crying herself to sleep for the past six years. Six years ago, a husband. Two, a son. The Federation did this to her.
"We don't have a choice," she repeats, putting her trembling hand to her face. "I-if you don't go willingly, they will . . ." I know what they will do. They demanded Justin go willingly. He fought. He nearly got away too. But then they sedated him and dragged him into the street to a black government car and sped away. The next time I saw my big brother was in a coffin a year later.
Mr. Officer out there is probably loading whatever he needs to sedate me. He'll justify it with noncompliance. Mom's right. We don't have a choice. My shoulders sag and I grab a large duffel bag from my closet.
Mom shuffles out of my room and leaves me alone while I pack with hot, angry tears in my eyes. Hasn't my Mom sacrificed enough? A husband and a son . . . now a daughter. I straighten and look at the ceiling, trying to stave the tears. No, she won't lose me. I'll make it through their training—I'll make it through this war they have us in but don't like to talk about. I'll put in the required time then I'll apply for discharge. One tour. I'll make it.
I change clothes and put on a pair of shoes. I run my brush through my hair and then retie it into a knot.
When I walk back into the dining room, Mr. Officer stands and smiles. I can't describe it as happy, more . . . triumphant. I'm surprised a pronged tongue doesn't slither out between his teeth.
"I'm so glad you changed your mind, Miss Sommers. The Art Institute will be so pleased." Mom and I have the same expression. Does he really have to keep up the pretenses? We both know where I'm going.
The three of us head to the door. I guess Mom is going to be allowed to see me off to the transport. Mr. Officer pulls open the door and gives me another one of those fake smiles.
"Your father would be very proud, Miss Sommers."
I slap him across his face.