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The pattern seems obvious to her, but Astrid has learned from experience that this is not necessarily the case for the rest of the world.
“There is a sixty-eight percent chance that the perpetrator is located at the corner of Smith and West,” she says, enunciation crisp. The mathematics appear as green numerals on a black computer screen, but they exist in her mind as complex, crystalline structures, rather like snowflakes. Perfect, if perfection is a concept the human mind can ever grasp.
“Thanks, Astrid,” Agent Dunham says, as the rest of the team takes to its collective heels. Astrid does not look up from the screen, but she does nod, acknowledging the acknowledgment. It is pleasant to be recognized, though she has no idea how to express this.
The numbers glide by; for once, they have no answers.
*
“Eat.”
Astrid considers the sandwich Colonel Broyles is holding. It is mustard and synthetic cheese on rye. It is a gesture of some sort--concern? There is a ninety-eight point seven percent chance that her superior is expressing interest in her well-being.
Colonel Broyles waits for her to complete her calculations, still holding out the sandwich. “You’ve been working yourself to death over this case.”
“I am likely to live sixty years or more, barring unfortunate circumstances,” Astrid says. “Also, provided that I--” Here, she realizes the full scope of what the sandwich means. “I see your point, sir.” She accepts the sandwich and takes a bite. She does not like mustard, but the logic is inescapable.
“Now I’ve just got to convince Agent Dunham to take a break.”
“There is a ninety-nine point three percent chance that Agent Dunham will refuse to cooperate, sir.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she can see the smile on Colonel Broyles’s face as he laughs. “Was that a joke, Agent Farnsworth?”
“I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”
*
There is something different about Agent Dunham.
Once Astrid has seen the data, the physical changes are slight but unmistakable. It takes Agent Dunham point three seconds longer to cross a room. She taps her fingers on tables at forty beats per minute rather than thirty-five. She uses a different method to retie her boots, but her hands are as sure as they have always been. For this reason, Astrid refrains from telling her superior until she has collected more data. The conclusion she draws is unsettling, like a painting hung at the wrong angle.
“Colonel Broyles, I believe that the Agent Dunham currently in Fringe Division’s employ is the Agent Dunham from the other universe.” Astrid is standing at attention, but she keeps her gaze trained just to the left of Colonel Broyles. “Her impression of our Agent Dunham appears to have convinced the others, but my calculations stand fifty-three point nine percent in favor of the hypothesis I have just proposed.” The language of science is a balm across the uncertainty she feels at voicing her suppositions. She makes every calculation with a margin of error, but this is the first time she has been so uncomfortably aware of that margin.
She can hear Colonel Broyles drawing in one long breath, then another. “He underestimated your powers of observation,” he says, but quietly enough that it takes her a few moments to process the words. It takes only another moment for the numbers to flash through her mind.
“You are already aware of this fact, sir.”
“I commend you for your dedication, Agent Farnsworth, and I request that you do not share your conclusions with anyone else.”
“Yes, sir.” Years of experience have trained her to hear a dismissal, even when it’s unspoken.
*
The other Agent Dunham is even better at her job than this universe’s version. Astrid considers this as she watches video footage of the team out on assignment. Agent Dunham does not possess her own gift for calculating the odds, but she seems to know them without mathematical proof, acting on what some would call instinct. It is an effective strategy, but Astrid suspects that it is only effective for this particular woman.
“Eighty-six point six chance of failure,” she says aloud, rewinding the footage so that she can see Agent Dunham perform a statistically improbable action once more.
“Home movies, Astrid?”
Astrid looks in the direction of Agent Dunham’s face. “I am unfamiliar with the term.” Lately, Agent Dunham has engaged in more overt displays of her otherness. Astrid admits to finding pleasure in the fact that this change has caused Agent Dunham to speak to her more frequently.
“I--Never mind. Is that me?”
“I am reviewing the footage from your last assignment. You performed adequately.”
This Agent Dunham has a more guarded laugh; it’s a low, musical sound. An A3, slightly flat, to be precise. “I’m guessing that coming from you, that’s a high compliment.”
“It’s an accurate assessment,” Astrid concedes. “Colonel Broyles would call it commendable.” That particular word is the word of choice for excellency in the field, she’s noticed.
Astrid knows that it is statistically certain that Agent Dunham is smiling at her, but she turns to see the smile for herself anyway.
*
When this universe’s Agent Dunham returns, Astrid catches herself in the act of observing her, trying to spot her for the impostor she is not. She no longer reads as the correct Agent Dunham, an error that Astrid finds herself unable to stop making. She has grown accustomed to the other agent, the one who called her Astrid and called on her to decipher the underlying patterns in cases. She continues in this function--after all, it is the entirety of her job description--but in a more subtle manner.
The members of the team rarely talk to her, but they talk around her quite often. She had not thought to notice it until the other Agent Dunham acted otherwise.
“I don’t think there’s anything we can do short of taking extreme measures,” Agent Dunham is saying, extending her arms, perhaps to emphasize her words. “Peter Bishop is not going to come quietly. It’s possible that we’ll be able to get around the other me, but we can’t just take his hand and lead him back here.”
“It is possible, but failure is ninety-five point seven percent likely,” Astrid says. The team turns to stare at her, so she immediately looks back down at her computer. “The other Agent Dunham possesses an indefinable quality that you do not. If I cannot quantify it, then you cannot replicate it.”
“And what is this quality, Agent Farnsworth?” Agent Dunham’s tone has changed, and her stance suggests aggression.
Astrid touches the snowfall of data on her screen. “Some would call it luck.”