A short, rotund man with hair the color of winter zoya sat in a booth in Angora Deli on Commonwealth, finishing the last of his dill pickle chips. What remained on his plate were the crumbs from a pastrami and swiss on rye, light on the mustard. He glanced at it, debating on whether or not to order dessert before Aaron Loeb arrived.
His conflict did not last long, as his confidante showed up soon after that. Tall and muscular, a darker version of his brother Mitchell, Aaron's expression was glum.
"We've been compromised," Aaron announced bluntly. "Locksmith is dead, and the feds have the nanites."
When his companion didn't answer, Aaron asked, "Ted?"
"I heard you," the larger man said pleasantly. "I'm just trying to make a decision."
"Well, the way I see it is, we need to ask our contacts to send more. We have no choice."
"That wasn't the decision I'm talking about, Aaron. Should I order a wedge of cherry pie and a cup of coffee, even though I'm full?"
Aaron sighed. It was times like these that he truly resented Mitchell for getting himself captured and leaving him to deal with fools like these. "Ted," he said soft, tense voice, "perhaps there are more important things to worry about than a damn dessert."
Ted's flicked his eyes up to his companion and smiled, the folds of fat under his eyes nearly covering them. "Indeed. But perhaps my predicament is our predicament in a microcosm. Perhaps we should be content with what we have instead of asking for more.
"If we contact our friends across the water for more nanites, they will be less than pleased. So why not take back what we already have? Dr. Bishop now owns Massive Dynamic, and you know that he's too smart to allow it to stay in Boston. All we need to do is infiltrate his lab and take it."
"Oh, that's all?" Aaron asked with skepticism.
"Yes, it is. No place is air-tight. We just need to find the right entrance."
Olivia was breaking land speed records on route 295 when Broyles called.
"Dunham," Olivia's superior greeted her flatly. "Where are you? It's been hours since you've reported."
"Sorry, sir. I'm on my way to D.C. right now. I'm following a lead." Olivia paused, trying to decide if she wanted to confess her relationship with the man they were investigating. "Sir, there's something I need to tell you-"
"Before you do that, Dr. Bishop has news about the nanites." Broyles looked up from the large conference table that he, Nina, Dr. Avila, Peter, and Walter were gathered around in the Massive Dynamic lab. "Go ahead, Dr. Bishop."
"Very well. Olivia? Can you hear me, dear? I'm on speakerphone."
"Loud and clear, Walter," Olivia replied with a slight roll of her eyes.
"Good. Now as you all know, the grey goo that killed Mr. Locksmith is comprised of millions of nanites, which appear to have been tailored to replicate in organic matter only. It's obvious that these nanites were originally designed for medical purposes, for accelerated healing and regeneration that is simply not possible through the body's natural defenses."
"But these specific nanites appear to have been corrupted," Peter added. "They attack healthy tissue without stopping the replication."
"But, we do have a way of identifying them!" Walter announced hopefully. "I was able to isolate one of the nanites and magnify its surface area. They are imprinted with some sort of manufacturer's logo."
"I'm sending the image to your phone," Broyles told Olivia. "You'll receive it shortly."
"We had Astrid search the databases for any matches to the logo, but so far we haven't had any luck," Nina said.
Olivia had just left the highway and was stopped at a red light when the image downloaded to her phone. One look at the orange and blue triangles brought the memories flooding back.
"You won't find them in any of our databases," Olivia told them.
"Why is that?" Broyles asked.
"Because these nanites come from the other side. That's the logo for the Accu-Panacea Corporation. They contract exclusively with the government over there." Olivia stared blankly at the green glow of the traffic light, until an irritated commuter behind her blew his horn and her foot automatically smashed against the accelerator.
She was thinking of Lincoln Lee and the third degree burns which had ravaged his body. He had suffered unimaginable pain and disfigurement, thanks to Sally Clark's unstable pyrokinesis. Had he lived on their side, he probably would have been dead by now, or seriously crippled. But other there, Lincoln healed at an astonishing rate and was back on duty within days. It disturbed Olivia: not the innovative technology, but rather the fact that she still cared for the man, and for others on the alternate Fringe team.
"Olivia?" Nina's voice cut through the agent's passing thoughts. "What can you tell us about the nanotechnology they use?"
"Well, it's…controlled. They administer it in small doses, over time. I don't know the exact mechanics of it, but one of the agents over there who had gotten seriously injured was put in some sort of chamber for a certain period of time, and the doses were rigorously scheduled."
"That's it!" Walter practically shouted, causing Olivia to flinch. "The nanites have no self-destruction mechanism, so the chambers must send out an electromagnetic pulse that obliterates them once they perform their given purpose and prevent mass replication."
"So the question remains, how did these nanites get over to our side, and how is Harold Locksmith tied to them?" Broyles asked.
Olivia felt her chest tighten in anxiety, but she managed to say, "It looks like he had ties to ZFT, in particular…John Scott."
Broyles traded surprised glances with Walter and Peter. "How do you know this, Dunham?"
"When I went to speak with his ex-wife, I found a picture of the two of them together. Gail Locksmith told me that she'd never met John, and that Harry never mentioned him. John never mentioned him to me when we were together either."
"The information we were able to obtain from Scott and from his files never mentioned a Harold Locksmith." Peter asked. He noticed that Walter looked deep in thought, yet uncomfortable, biting his nails in dread. The younger man glanced at him suspiciously, but said nothing.
"He could have been a trafficker in items from the other side that became weapons over here," Peter continued. "Those nanites are volatile. This Locksmith guy mishandled the goods, and paid the price."
"Or maybe he and John were both trying to bring ZFT down, and someone stopped him," Olivia argued.
"Olivia, he was in the air force, he has ties to John Scott, and his wife clearly didn't know what he was doing," Peter retorted. "We just don't know."
"That's right, we don't," Olivia shot back. "So before you start accusing people, maybe you should get your facts straight."
Olivia regretted her words even before she finished saying them. Yes, it was true: she was felt hurt and betrayed by Peter, but it had been unprofessional for her to attack him like that. In spite of everything that had – or hadn't – happened between them, they still needed to work together for the greater good.
The tension in the conference room was so thick it could be cut with a knife. Peter's face flushed pink with anger and frustration, and it was clear from Olivia's tone that she probably looked very much the same.
For a moment, Broyles felt as if they were listening in on a private conversation. He took control of the situation immediately. "Let's not start making hypotheses until we have something to hypothesize with. Dunham, where are you headed?"
"The Library of Congress. Gail Locksmith said her ex-husband worked there for a while; maybe someone there remembers him."
"Fine, but I want you back in Boston by the end of the day, no excuses. You understand me?" Broyles demanded.
"Absolutely, sir," Olivia said with a smile. Broyles came off sounding like a hardass, but she knew that it was because he was worried about her. She hung up with him and continued on to 1st street, to the Library of Congress building.
"It seems that the threat is well-contained at the moment. The quarantine around Harold Locksmith's house is still in effect. We have the nanites secure," Nina observed.
"Unless there are more," Dr. Avila said softly. Up until this point the swarthy young doctor hadn't uttered a word from his seat in the far corner. The others turned promptly to look at him.
"Do you think there are more, Doctor?" Broyles asked.
"Well, if we were to think of the nanites as a plague with global potential, it wouldn't make sense to have only one point of origin," Dr. Avila pointed out. "We don't know their limitations. If they can't be carried by air and water vectors, then the nanites are limited to a single land area."
"I see! And you believe that whoever killed Mr. Locksmith will attempt to do the same in other places." Nina stated.
"It's possible."
"But we have no way to figuring out where other origin points might be," Peter pointed out. "How do we find them?"
"We may not be able to find them, but we can be ready to combat them if necessary," Walter told them. "On the other side, they control the nanites with electro-magnetic pulses. It should be possible to modify a weapon to neutralize them in a field setting."
"Very well. Our labs will be able to assist you with anything you may need, Walter," Nina said.
"Thank you, dear, but I need to go back to my lab in Harvard if I'm going to be truly effective. The lab here is elegant, but it's not home. I need my equipment, my lab assistant…and my chair with a groove made exclusively by, and for, my ass."
Broyles and Nina exchanged looks of mutual bemusement at Walter's remark. Dr. Avila cut through the awkwardness of the moment by saying, "I'll get some of the nanites ready for transport, Dr. Bishop. While you work on a weapon, I'll stay here and continue studying them."
Thanking Dr. Avila for his assistance, Walter left the conference room, jogging lightly to meet up with Peter, who was already preparing to head back to Boston.
"Son, I hope you weren't too hurt by Olivia's outburst," Walter told Peter as they walked together. "She's just angry for the terrible mistake you made."
"Thanks, Walter. I hadn't been sure up until now, but you've made it all clear to me."
Walter stopped in his tracks and put his hands on Peter's shoulders. "Peter…it's very important that you and Agent Dunham repair your relationship. Even though it seems irreparable. Your lives are intertwined in ways you can't begin to imagine."
Peter smiled sadly. "You don't need to tell me this," he told the older man. "I'm trying. I really am. I'm not giving up." He turned and walked away.
Walter watched his son in despair. "You're not the one I'm worried about," he muttered to himself.
"You're certainly forcing me to use my old research skills today, Agent Dunham," Karen Carmichael, a HR representative at the Library of Congress, told Olivia as they walked through the administrative offices. "I had to dig to find your man."
"So, Mr. Locksmith did work here at some point," Olivia asked, having to practically sprint to keep up with perky Ms. Carmichael and her springy, stillettoed legs.
Ms. Carmichael suddenly stopped dead at a desk, Olivia nearly crashing into her. The librarian lithely turned into the seat at the desk and grabbed a file from the bottom cabinet. "Yes. But from what I understand, only for two weeks." She handed the manila file to Olivia. "He just came in one day, said it wasn't right for him, did his exit interview, and left."
Olivia looked at the woman, shocked for a moment. Then she took the file and looked at it. There were Harry's forms – his application, his benefits package, his W-4, his Maryland Tax Withholding. His handwriting was clean, block, and square – the handwriting of a military man. It reminded Olivia of her father's style.
Olivia flipped through the pages, one by one. Each page held a little bit of Harry that she could hold on to. But her face fell when she came to the last page – the emergency contact form.
There, in royal blue ink under the field "Name of Emergency Contact," Harry had written the name Mitchell Loeb.
Karen Carmichael stared in confusion at the FBI agent. "Ms. Dunham? Is something wrong?"
Olivia brought the file down to the desktop with a thud. "Excuse me. I need to call my office." She promptly turned and began to walk away, pulling her cell phone out of her pocket.
"Ms. Dunham? Agent Dunham!" Ms. Carmichael scampered after Olivia in her spindly heels. "The reception quality is poor in here. You'll need to go outside."
Olivia gave the librarian the barest of nods before she stalked out of the administrative offices. Her heart racing, she tried to wrap her mind around what she had seen. Not only did Harry know John Scott, he knew Mitchell Loeb too. So well, in fact, that the man was his emergency contact. Harry was a ZFT agent – there was no other explanation. And at one time, Harry was in good graces with Mitchell Loeb. But what had he done to deserve a horrible death from a nanite infection?
Perhaps he had been working undercover, like John. Maybe they discovered his identity and decided to shut him up. But surely there had to be a less conspicuous way than through using the nanites.
She just didn't know. Olivia clutched the sides of her head as she walked through the building's hallways, her eyes burning from fatigue and the mounting horrors of the day. People shuffled briskly past her, some having confused looks at her shaken state.
Olivia always had an excellent sense of direction, but she felt like she was getting deeper into the building and feeling more lost as she tried to make her way out. Finally, finding herself walking between endless shelves of books, she stopped and sighed in frustration.
She looked up to the very top of the stacks, several feet in the air. She was like a little girl again, engulfed by the hugeness of the world around her. She desperately wanted someone to hold onto, she wanted a strong back and shoulders to wrap her arms around. She wanted a stubbled cheek to press against hers. For a moment, she wished for Peter.
"He's not yours," Olivia whispered to herself, trying not to feel the despair again.
She took a deep breath, and smelled brut and tobacco. Instantly she thought of Harry. She turned to her left, and inhaled again. It was stronger on the right.
She followed the aroma to a dark corridor. Cautiously she walked through it, and it almost seemed like she was back in O'Leery's bar again, looking for Harry in the back hallway. She stood in the darkness for a moment, not knowing what to do.
Then, she saw it, albeit faintly. A thin veil of smoke, gently drifting past her and down the corridor. She followed the smoke's line through the hallway, until she came to another line of bookshelves.
The smell of the green cologne and the tobacco lingered in this spot. Boldly Olivia approached the bookshelf, scanning the spines of the books that lined the metal platform. Finally, she stopped at a book with a title that had to be more than a coincidence: Salman Rushdie's Shalimar the Clown.
Gingerly she pulled it from the shelf, pulling it open with the creaky sound of the binding splitting open. Olivia flipped through the pages quickly, scanning the lines of text. Finally she stopped in the very middle of the book. Squinting, she turned the book on its side to read something someone had written in the juncture of the pages in silvery ink. Pressing the pages apart, Olivia murmured the words to herself: Love's just hard to paint.
Olivia sighed as she read it. "What are you trying to tell me, Harry?"
She had no sooner finished speaking those words than she noticed the words written in the book seemed to be moving away from the spine, as if they were melting like ice cream. Shocked, Olivia held the book away, then dropped it on the ground. But it was too late. She looked at her fingers. The tips were covered in the same shiny gray material.
"The na-the na- oh God!" Olivia cried hoarsely, as the grey goo began to quickly move up her arm. She could feel in burrowing into her flesh, seeping into the marrow of her bones, scurrying through her hair and her scalp. She tried to run, but her legs failed her and she dropped to the ground. She could feel the nanites in her lungs and her heart. They raced through her blood. She could taste them in the back of her throat. She looked up at the ceiling, stretching her eyes as wide as they could go, and the fluorescent blubs seemed tinted in gray.
She tried to cry for help, but her vocal cords and stopped working. The nanites had engulfed her completely. Everything went black.