We called home that night, as we now did every night.
Theo usually answered our calls, from the vid screen in the utopia’s isolation clinic. I had been afraid that the clinic would be overwhelmed with sufferers, but this plague killed too fast — the numbers of dead kept pace with those who had sickened and those few who recovered did so quickly too. There never seemed to be more than two or three at any time who needed nursing.
Tonight Theo answered without his isolation suit. He smiled at us — a very Theo smile, tired and just a little self-mocking.
‘My day off,’ he said. ‘Elaine insisted.’
I could see why. The shadows were dark around his eyes. When he lifted a hand to brush the hair from his face, it trembled.
‘You’re okay?’ asked Neil.
‘I’m okay. Elaine’s okay. No cases from here yet.’ The smile grew deeper. ‘That little girl from The Temple? Elaine says she’ll make it.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ I said, and meant it.
‘Humanity is a tough old species,’ said Theo. ‘Throw what you like at it, some of you will survive.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘I was thinking last night, when would be the perfect time to die? At the height of your happiness? But then you might miss the last good bit. Or just after the worst of times, when you had hope?’
I had no answer. I looked at Neil. Neil smiled at the screen. ‘Get some sleep, old man,’ he said gently.
‘I will. You know, I’ve been watching her through the iso screen. Elaine. I’ve been lucky. You know that? So very lucky.’ He was half drunk with weariness, I realised.
‘Keep being lucky,’ I said. ‘Get some rest.’
‘All right,’ said Theo. The screen went blank.
I turned to Neil. ‘Do you think he’s okay?’
‘Just tired,’ said Neil shortly. He looked tired too. ‘He always pushes himself till the job’s done.’ Like his foster son, I thought, but didn’t say anything. ‘What do you want for dinner?’
He always asked, just like he had at home, even though here it didn’t matter. ‘Whatever you feel like,’ I said. After all, I could pulse it into something else without him knowing.
‘Omelette?’
‘Fine.’
I followed him to the kitchen — or my Virtual self followed him to the kitchen. He reached for the eggs, put the pan on the ultrawave, slapped in some butter.
I sniffed. ‘Something’s wrong with my receiver. I can’t smell anything.’
Neil grinned wearily. ‘Probably because this isn’t in Virtual. I ordered up some Realfood.’
‘Well, great,’ I said, a bit miffed we wouldn’t be sharing the same meal. We shared so little now.
‘Don’t worry. I’m making enough for two. The Greeter will bring it through to you.’
‘Oh.’ I sat and watched him. The long calloused hands with their sprinkling of blond hair, the intent look he gave to everything — cooking, grafting apples, making love.
‘I miss you,’ he said suddenly.
‘I’m still here.’
‘You know what I mean.’
I did too. Somehow Virtual was not real enough, not good enough, in a way I’d never fully understood before.
I wanted to say, ‘It’ll soon be over,’ because it would be, one way or the other: one of us might be infected, or both, or neither. Please, please I thought, whatever happens, let it happen to both of us.
‘Shut your eyes,’ said Neil.
I did; a few seconds later I heard the plate land on the table.
I opened my eyes and there it was: buttery and yellow with flecks of parsley and chives.
‘Outland eggs,’ said Neil. ‘I checked. The chooks that laid these ate real grass.’
I took a bite and almost burst into tears again. ‘It tastes like home,’ I said.
‘Good,’ said Neil. He smiled at me, and even though it seemed to come from a great distance, not the apparent metre in Virtual, I felt closer to him than I had for days.
Later we watched a vid together, sitting on the sofa, his hand touching mine. It felt good. And for the first time I understood when he turned the Virtual off before we went to sleep.