Coming to Terms
by Christina Kamnikar
copyright 1999
The shrieking of an arc welder greeted Oliver Sampson as he stepped through the open window onto the roof adjoining Sydney's loft. The ubiquitous neon sign was blinking on and off in the gathering gloom, and the steam rising from the vents momentarily obscured the wielder from sight. Then the wind changed, and Duncan was visible on the edge of the roof, sparks flying from the torch he aimed at a twisted spiral of steel. Oliver slowly stalked over the tiles to him, much more wary now than he would have been two days ago.
Duncan shut off the torch as Sampson approached, and flipped up the protective face shield. Traffic sounds drifted up to the roof from far below, muted and diffuse, now audible in the sudden absence of tortured metal screams. Duncan's expression was cautious, nearly as cautious as his own probably was. He jerked his chin at Oliver, blue eyes guarded. "Hey."
"Hello yourself. May I come up?"
"Sure." The other man shrugged, his gaze drifting back to his sculpture as if he was merely distracted, and not trying to conceal anything from his guest. Before today he would have taken the Committee's assessment of Sydney's friend at face value, believed that they'd seen all there was to see in the amiable face that Duncan showed the world. He knew better, now, than to trust that information.
Sampson climbed up the metal ladder to the small upper level of the roof where Duncan's tent, telephone booth, and worldly possessions resided, and then walked the perimeter, studying it. A chair from the sixties here, a tree of lightbulbs lending light to this corner there; a refrigerator, stocked with a variety of strange items and many, many takeout cartons; the sculpture and the attendant equipment. Nothing unnecessary; nothing you would expect. He paused next to the sculpture in progress, studying the curves and sudden twists. "Interesting."
"I was trying for a representation of Excalibur to modern man, but I'm not sure it came off." Duncan tilted his head, furrowing his brow in concentration as he examined his work. "The relationship between the weapon and the sheath, it's a little too obvious for me. Maybe I should've used more aluminum in the base."
"Oh, I don't know." Oliver smiled slightly and strolled over to the edge of the roof. "Some would say that the theme is a classic. Such things need very little re-interpretation." Duncan rolled his shoulders in a half-distracted shrug, his eyes still on the steel frame in front of him. Sampson hesitated, then slowly said, "I had a conversation with the doctors at the Dowling Hospital before I came here."
"Yeah? About what?" Duncan reached for a metal-cutter, his attention solely devoted to the sculpture.
"Sydney seems to be coming out of her coma." He watched Duncan narrowly, noted how his hand stilled on the shears. "But then you knew that already. Didn't you?"
Duncan put the cutters back down, and Sampson could see his throat move as he swallowed. But his voice was calm when he responded to the question. "Yeah. Do you want something to drink?"
"No."
"Well, I need something." He took off his protective gloves and lifted off the face mask, then swung his legs over the parapet and slouched over to the refrigerator, opening the door and staring at its contents for several moments before he casually asked, "What tipped you off?"
"You didn't ask me about Sydney's condition when I arrived, for one. And one of the nurses mentioned that you called her. That you insisted on reading poetry to Sydney over the phone for a few minutes, then hung up."
Oliver watched Duncan carefully as the other man took a bottle of orange juice out of the refrigerator and shut the door, wandering over to the metal-and-canvas chair and collapsing into it. It was ridiculous to be irritated with Duncan, to be annoyed that he'd apparently succeeded in reviving Sydney where Oliver had failed. But the way in which he'd done it lead down paths where even more danger could lie, especially for the woman in that hospital bed. "What did you say to her?"
"Nothing special." Duncan twisted off the top of the bottle, fiddling with the bottlecap for a moment before flipping it into a nearby trash can. He took a long sip of his drink, then finally met Sampson's eyes. "That I missed her. And that it wasn't time to give up."
"Was that all?"
"No." He leaned back in the chair, watching Oliver with an unreadable expression. "You can get Dr. Bloom's notebook for her, right?"
Shock went through him, shock and a realization that he'd expected this. Disturbing. He forced himself to relax before he spoke, searching for some clue that his suspicions were correct in Duncan's expression. But the younger man's face remained opaque. "I believe so."
"She's going to want it when she wakes up."
Nearly an admission of what he'd done: and a definite confirmation of Sampson's worst fears. Duncan had done more than just say a few encouraging words in Sydney's ear. Which put him at as much risk as Sydney, if anyone found out.
"What are you trying so very hard not to say, Duncan?"
Duncan took another sip of the orange juice, then chugged the whole bottle. He stood up and threw the bottle into the recycle bin, then drifted back over to the sculpture. "Did you know that the world's most important scientific breakthroughs were all made by mistake?"
"I've heard something to that effect, yes."
"I mean, Syd's the computer expert. But the first time she did VR, it was because her landlord was yelling at her and she got too nervous to hang up the phone right. She put the receiver down in the wrong cradle, and boom! VR.5."
"Really."
"Yeah. Freaked her out completely." Duncan put his gloves back on, and took the metal cutters and began scraping at the edges of one of his last welds. "And she's the only one that can do it. The only one," he repeated flatly, remembering his last trip, less than an hour ago. "The Committee put her through hell so they could try to duplicate it scientifically. Get the magic formula. Find the Philosopher's Stone." He stopped scraping for a moment, and looked back over at Sampson. "I don't think they're going to find it that way."
He stared at the metal, and his voice dropped. "It's a good thing that they don't have anyone else to experiment on, so they could compare what they found out about Syd to that other person. I mean, they'd probably put the poor schmoe through the same wringer, wouldn't they? And then start in on Syd again...."
"A fairly basic assumption." Sampson regarded him narrowly. "If such a person existed, one would assume that they wouldn't take any risks that might lead to discovery." His gaze drifted off over the cityscape, his expression bored, but his tone became more acerbic . "One might also ask what would lead them to put themselves in that kind of danger."
"Oh, that's easy." Duncan reached for a can of liquid solvent, and brushed a strand of hair that had gotten loose from the rubberband out of his face.
"Is it?"
"Sure. People risk their lives for friends all the time. Especially if there's no one else to save them."
"Friends?"
Duncan raised his eyes from the sculpture, meeting Sampson's inquiring gaze steadily. "Friends. Just ask Syd. She'll say the same thing."
"I don't think I'll ask." Sydney's protector/guardian/contact/spy looked away, then quietly said, "You do realize I could say a great many things to them that would endanger you?"
"You won't."
"How do you know that?" Oliver turned back to him, then his eyes hardened as he saw the expression of mild guilt and stubbornness on Duncan's face. "I see. That one-second phone call at the nurse's station. I'd wondered if..." His voice trailed off, his face tightening in distaste.
"You know, I've never been wild about the whole Thought Police idea. A man's subconscious is his playground, in my book. Whatever goes on in it shouldn't be open to legislation. Or even interpretation."
Sampson's mouth twitched, and the lines around his eyes relaxed. "What a reassuring attitude. Although it does make me question what could possibly lead you to trust me so."
"Let's just say I know whose side you're really on." Duncan returned Oliver's questioning stare impassively. Sampson had shot at other Committee members in VR, to protect Sydney. Had that been real? Or just a projection? Had he done it for the sake of that other woman in his memory, the one lying on the hospital bed? Or did his feelings for Syd go past protectiveness into something else?
There was a really easy way to find out the answer. But Duncan wasn't even tempted to try. He was pretty sure he didn't want to know.
"I see." Sampson slowly walked over to the ladder, then turned, his hands on the railings. "I'll call here as soon as Sydney's completely awake. I know she'll want to see you."
"Cool."
Sampson climbed down the ladder, then paused at the edge of one of the skylights, obviously struck by a thought. "And Duncan?"
"Hmmm?" He picked up the arc welder again, and started adjusting the settings.
"Thank you. For whatever you did."
"I didn't do it for you. Or the Committee," Duncan replied calmly, without heat.
"I know. But I'm still... grateful." Sampson sketched a nod to him, then turned away. Duncan watched the agent exit through Sydney's window, the same way he came in, then he turned back to the sculpture.
"Excalibur...." Images of knights in armor and an almost familiar bit of poetry--- something about webs and mirrors and curses-- came to mind suddenly. He stared at the abstract sword, wondering whose thoughts he'd gotten them from, his or Oliver's. Or Syd's, maybe. No. Syd never read poetry.
Pushing aside the tantalizing fragments of memory , he put the face shield back on and pulled on the gloves, preparing for battle with the metal again.
...End...?