Joseph worked through more than one night, but on the evening before the team left, he finished his QGP program. It would simultaneously send instructions to three semifunctional QGPs, making them work together so they were capable of searching for people and transforming their matter into perfect energy flux waves. It was a thing of beauty. A thing of genius. A thing of infinite danger if the wrong people got ahold of it. Joseph didn’t let himself dwell on that. He had to run the program through a few simulations to make sure he’d gotten the glitches out.
The front door chimed. He didn’t even bother glancing at his bedroom wall to see whose name flashed on it. He wasn’t expecting anyone. He scanned over the preliminary results. Good . . . good. . . .
Jeth, Joseph’s father, yelled, “Sheridan is here!”
Sheridan? Joseph’s gaze flew to the time display on his computer. Sangre. It was seven fifteen. He’d told her he would meet her in the apartment’s dining hall at six thirty.
“Coming!” Joseph called back. He minimized and locked his screen. As he walked toward the front room, he heard Jeth say, “You are Sheridan, aren’t you?”
A couple of weeks ago, Taylor had dyed her hair back to its original color and pretended to be Sheridan. Now Jeth was perpetually unsure which twin he was talking to. The trick shouldn’t have bothered Joseph. He and Echo had done it often enough. It did bother him though. He knew Taylor had been testing Jeth and him to see if they could tell the difference. Joseph wondered what Taylor would have done if he hadn’t been able to recognize her.
“It’s me,” Sheridan said. “I’m not staying. I just brought Joseph some dinner.”
Jeth stood by the door, his maroon hair in an untidy ponytail. He gave an unhappy grunt at Sheridan’s announced departure and didn’t take the dinner box from her. He called over his shoulder, “Sheridan says she’s not staying!”
Joseph had reached the door by then. “Sorry,” he told her. “I didn’t realize what time it was.”
Sheridan wore a white formfitting shirt and a blue skirt with two rows of white buttons down the front. She always chose clothes that were similar to twenty-first-century styles. He liked it that way, liked that she was different. Her long auburn hair hung loosely around her shoulders, framing her fresh, beautiful face.
Joseph had expected Sheridan to be mad, to have that haughty look of superiority Taylor always got when she was angry. Instead Sheridan smiled and held out the box. “It’s all right. I know you’re busy. I didn’t want you to miss dinner though.”
Joseph took the box, then took her hand and pulled her into the room. “Sorry,” he said again. “I haven’t had much sleep and I was working on—” He didn’t finish the sentence. Sheridan didn’t know anything about programming and always assumed he was working on the rank virus. He didn’t like lying to her, though. “I meant to meet you,” he said.
Jeth retreated down the hallway to his bedroom, leaving the two alone. Santa Fe had strict chaperone rules, and whenever Jeth wanted to talk history with Sheridan, he claimed he ought to respect those rules. Joseph was glad this wasn’t one of those times.
He led Sheridan toward the couch. It was a made of green gel and had tiny air bubbles floating around in the middle. Cheap but comfortable. “Why didn’t you call me when I didn’t show up?”
“You’re getting ready for your trip tomorrow. You don’t need distractions.”
“Maybe I want to be distracted.” Still holding on to her hand, he sat down on the couch. The gel molded around him to support his weight.
Sheridan sighed, looked back at the door, and didn’t sit down. “I should go. I’ll feel terrible if something happens to you because you didn’t have time to program things right.”
Joseph motioned to the spot next to him. “I’ll feel terrible if something happens to me and I know I wasted my last night alive with a computer instead of my girlfriend.”
She sat down, sadness gleaming in her eyes. He shouldn’t have joked about this being his last night alive. Taylor routinely predicted both of their deaths, using an assortment of twenty-first-century slang: bite the dust, pushing up daisies, meet their maker, and something about being six feet under. Sheridan was soft in all the places where Taylor was hard. She couldn’t joke about him getting hurt, didn’t want to be reminded it was a possibility.
“I’ll be fine,” he told her. “I’m smart enough to do this.” To do all of it.
She leaned into the couch, shifting the gel. “Sometimes being smart isn’t the issue.”
He undid the flaps on the dinner box. “Well, this time it is. You can get around almost anything with the right knowledge.”
The box held a rice-and-bean dish, an apple, a protein twist, and two large cookies. She’d given him her dessert—something they got only once a day because they were still at refugee status. No jobs yet meant no credits yet. And the cookie was chocolate, her favorite.
She saw him looking at it. “I thought you’d want something good to eat tomorrow. Taylor says you’re only getting nasty-tasting meal squares on the trip.”
He smiled at her and then laughed.
“What?” she asked.
Joseph stood up, walked to the table, and brought her back a box. “I meant to make wrapping paper to go over it.” From his studies, he knew it was taboo in the twenty-first century to give a gift without first hiding it behind special paper. Joseph followed Sheridan’s customs as much as he could.
She looked at him curiously, then opened the box. She grinned at what was inside: five chocolate bars.
“You went without dessert five times?” she asked. “Now I feel cheap.”
“One to eat each day I’m gone. That way you won’t miss me too badly.”
“Yes, because being with you and eating chocolate are about the same in my book.”
In her book? He didn’t ask. Instead, he leaned over and kissed her. “Good. Now you won’t miss tonight’s cookie.”
Joseph took out his rice dish, not realizing how hungry he was until he started eating. Sheridan talked about her day—studying for her classes and volunteering at the stables in their district. As he listened, his mind kept drifting to the mission.
By this time next week, he would be back. Would he be a different person after killing someone? Maybe he was already becoming one. He hadn’t told Sheridan about any of it.
Once everyone knew what he’d done, how would she react? Could a girl who was made of so much softness understand killing and subterfuge? Would she love him anyway?
Without wanting to, Joseph pictured Allana, his last—well, girlfriend wasn’t the right term. She and Joseph had never been exclusive. She’d dated others, including Echo. Allana had been the last girl Joseph had cared about, though. The chairman of trade’s daughter. Beautiful, rich, influential Allana.
Allana wouldn’t have blinked at the news that Joseph had killed someone. In fact, she would have probably critiqued his methods and told him how he could improve the next attack. That was how the Dakine were. He just hadn’t realized it back then.
Joseph leaned his head against the couch and concentrated on Sheridan. His eyes lingered on the sloping curve of her neck, her hazel eyes, the way her long hair fell across her shoulder. Everything about her was gentle and innocent.
He’d been quiet for too long. Sheridan considered him for a moment, then said, “I should let you get back to your work.”
He took hold of her hand. “Don’t. Let me look at you for a few more minutes.” Right now she still loved him. There was no disapproval in her eyes, no sense of guardedness or withdrawal.
“Look at me?” she asked.
“So I’ll remember everything about you.”
Her eyebrows quirked up. “You’re not going to forget what I look like. You’ll be with my identical twin sister the whole trip.”
He ran his thumb across the back of her hand. “Taylor doesn’t have your smile.”
“Yes, she does. We have identical dimples too.”
“Your voice is softer, and Taylor tilts her chin down in an aggravated, superior way.”
“Those are mannerisms, not differences. Can you really even tell us apart?”
“Of course,” Joseph said, smiling. “Taylor’s eyes don’t glow like yours do.”
Sheridan tilted her chin down in an exact impersonation of Taylor. “That’s the difference? My eyeballs are shinier?”
He threaded his fingers with hers. “There are a few other differences too.” He would have added to the list, but the wall screen chimed. Taylor’s name flashed on it, announcing she was in the lobby and on her way up to the apartment.
“Taylor’s here?” he asked.
Sheridan shrugged. “She’s probably found a way to destroy the rank program, and she came to gloat.”
As it turned out, though, Taylor hadn’t come to gloat. She’d come to spit fire.