The Rule of One (The Rule of One #1)(7)
I remember those old airline safety videos we used to watch when we were younger. We wanted to be ready in case we ever got to fly. In the event of an emergency, always put on your own mask first before helping others near you.
“You couldn’t do anything for her.” In truth, Ava should have left the scene sooner, but I decide not to press.
Ava tightens her grip on my hand, her expression both earnest and drained. She squares her shoulders and looks me straight in the eyes.
“Will you go up for dinner?” she asks.
Startled at the suggestion, I pull away, separating our linked hands. Why would she ask this of me? Especially tonight.
“My head is still pounding from the damn Scream Gun the Guard fired off to control the crowd,” Ava urges, placing her hand to her right temple. “I don’t want Father to see. He’ll make a big deal of everything like he always does.”
My fingers brush my right wrist. “Father would be furious with us. It’s your day up, and we can’t break the schedule.”
“He probably won’t even notice.” Ava reaches out again for my hand, forcing me to listen. “I don’t have the energy to play the game tonight, and I’m sick of always having to follow rules. We’re eighteen, Mira. We should be able to make our own decisions.”
“I don’t know. It’s an important dinner, and you’re the one with the microchip.” I shift in my seat. “It’s dangerous.”
“It’s not like I’m asking you to try and cross the US border,” she retorts. “It’s dinner at our own house!”
I scoff at her attempt to make her request sound simple. “Yes, but it’s who is invited for dinner that you’re failing to acknowledge here.”
“Why can’t you just help me and tag team?” She lets out a long sigh. Her voice softens. “Today was crazy, Mira.”
“Crazy is all the more reason to stick to the rules.”
Our eyes lock: Ava’s insistent, mine unwavering. “I’d do it for you,” Ava throws at me. She rises from the bed and storms up the stairs.
“Ava!” I call after her. She doesn’t respond, simply knocks twice on the wall to open the passageway. I surge to my feet on pure instinct—from the guilt of never wanting to upset her, from never wanting to disappoint.
“Fine. I’ll go up.”
Ava stops and turns. Our eyes meet, and we understand one another with just a glance.
I walk to the desk in the corner and open the bottom drawer. I take out a small box that contains strips of Ava’s fingerprints. Ava approaches and helps me carefully apply the prints to each of my fingertips. “The only part of me that you don’t have,” she says.
We smile at each other, our bond quiet and absolute.
There’s something about emerging from a bath that makes me feel like I can do anything. It’s a blank slate, a renewal. A transformation into Ava.
I softly shut the door to Ava’s bedroom, where we each sleep when it’s our turn to play the game, and stride down the hallway, gaining confidence with each step. As I descend the long staircase to the dining room, I press down on the frills and embellishments of my dress, hoping to make them disappear. Or at least make them less noticeable. Ava and I prefer comfort and simplicity, but Father expects us to wear our finest on an occasion such as this. To show respect for our guests.
We can do this.
I clasp my hands into a stiff ball and place them behind my back, so as not to focus on my microchipless wrist. Out of sight, out of mind.
The empty, useless capsule implanted beneath my skin was designed by my father to help make me feel “normal.” But it’s all just for show. After all these years venturing above ground without a real chip, I’ve grown accustomed to the unsettling sensation of feeling publicly naked and exposed. Convinced a thousand eyes are on me and know what I really am.
There’s no other way. An individual’s microchip is impossible to duplicate. And Father spent years researching ways Ava and I could trade the chip, like taking it out of her wrist and putting it into mine when it was my day to go up. But this proved equally impossible. The older Ava and I get, the more the possibility of mutations in our DNA grows, altering our identical genetic information. The microchip would detect the unregistered DNA instantly, setting off the alarm. The only way for me to have a life outside the basement is to walk around with an imitation microchip. And nerves of steel.
I make my way into the dining room and hit a wave of aromas escaping from the kitchen. My mouth waters. All-natural beef tenderloin.
Thirty years ago, the Isolation Act was imposed, banning all foreign trade, mostly in an effort to keep American-grown food in American-born mouths. It still wasn’t enough. Today, ninety-five percent of our country survives on lab-grown meat and genetically modified crops. Real beef is especially scarce and extremely expensive. By hosting a dinner party with this rare cut of meat, Father is aiming to impress.
Expansive glass walls dominate the room, affording a perfect view of Dallas in the distance. Light pollution from the vast skyline handsomely illuminates our large dining table, set formally with five-piece place settings.
“Good evening, Miss Goodwin,” Gwen greets me, folding a cloth napkin into a fan.
“The table looks beautiful,” I say as I watch her place the intricate design carefully atop a small porcelain plate. I realize five places have been set for dinner. Not four.