Linchpin

Chapter One: The Festivities

One word.

That’s all it would take.

One word to destroy me. One word to kill my brothers. One word to unravel society. One word to vanquish all hope for this nation.

Revolution. Rebellion. Uprising. It takes many forms, but it all signifies the same thing: change. This is what the government feared; this is what they sought to destroy. Being that as it was, the Presidential Estate of 55 Wall Street is the last place a revolutionist would want to find themselves. This is the building where every movement was tracked, every breath and twitch recorded, and the very building I grew up in. In fact, it was the very building I found myself in now.

 That one word has been pressed against my lips for three years, and for three years I have feared that even my dreams would incriminate me. Tonight, that fear could become a reality, because tonight I was to become engaged to Jonah Taylor.

I could only hope Jonah wouldn’t propose to me once he remembered that I wasn’t pretty. We hadn’t seen each other since our graduation from New York Technological Institute the month prior, so maybe he forgot that I haven’t altered nature’s harsh reality that is my body. It’s legal to undergo augmentation starting at the age of sixteen. I’ve had six years and still haven’t taken the opportunity—a rare thing in 2153.

Everyone believed Jonah was perfect. His blonde hair sculpted across his forehead in a mesmerizing swoop. His cheekbones were etched deeply in his face, and the sharp, downward slope of his nose lent to girlish fantasies. But even though half my graduating class would jump at the chance to marry Jonah Taylor, I couldn’t.

Not only did I not love him, but I was trying to bring down the government to which he belonged. Jonah Taylor was the Vice President’s son.

I stepped off the elevator and quickly whisked my TeleCommunications Chip embedded within my left thumb in front of the TC Scanner outside the ballroom.

    “Adalira Whittington: approved,” the automated voice announced. I lifted up the skirt of my red, layered Victorian and distasteful ball gown and walked past the Sentinel agents to the landing.

The marble flooring of 55 Wall Street gleamed in the ashen glow of the crystal chandeliers hanging from the domed ceiling. I stepped out, leaned against the mezzanine railing and searched the crowd for my older brother, Eitan; but not before reaching out to a passing server and grabbing my first glass of champagne for the evening. That was one thing you could always count on at these political events—liquor.

I sipped and savored the bubbles that trickled down my throat. I was fully committed to spending every wretched second of the evening at least partially inebriated while avoiding Jonah. I slowly descended the quarter spiral staircase, still looking for Eitan, my only ally in the entire room.

I glanced up to the crown molding, and eyed the Feed: an intricate surveillance system located in every room of 55. It transmitted a constant stream of data to the security offices on Ground Level. It was impossible to go unseen. As a member of the resistance, it was a constant reminder of the only thing that would keep me alive: silence.

I fiddled with the Changers on my wrist that altered my skin’s pigmentation to a silky white: I refused to undergo permanent augmentation, even at my Aunt’s persistence. My tan skin had never been considered traditionally beautiful.

My eyes scanned the crowds hovered before the ivory curtains stretching across the stained glass windows. The tables below were organized in a semicircle, covered in fine white linen littered with half emptied crystal glasses.

When my uncle announced to us that he’d be running for President, the only one excited was my sister, Idris. The last time we were at 55 was when our father was killed, and for Eitan and me, it only brought back the memories of his death.