by John Scalzi
“Archie,” he said, extending his hand. “You’ve had an interesting couple of days. How are you holding up?”
Archie took his hand and shook it. “I’m a little overwhelmed, to tell you the truth, Bishop.”
Bishop Hamn smiled. “Well, isn’t that just like religion for you, Archie,” he said. “One day it’s a nice way to spend your weekends and the next you’re in the middle of a righteous theological clusterfuck. Now let’s get you outfitted, why don’t we. Have a seat.”
“I’m worried about this,” Archie said, but nevertheless took a seat. “The guy I’m doing stuff for is pretty high up in the Defense Department. If there’s even the smallest hint I’m spying, I’m going to be in deep trouble. I think I could be tried for treason.”
“Nonsense,” Bishop Hamn said. “Treason implies you’re trying to overthrow the government, and we wouldn’t condone that. You’re merely spying.”
“Which is still a capital offense,” said Sam, squeezing Archie’s hand.
“Oh,” said Archie.
“And which is also why we’ve made sure that your spying can’t be detected,” Bishop Hamn said, and held out a small bottle to Archie, who took it.
“What is this?” Archie asked.
“Your wire,” Bishop Hamn said. “In eyedrop form. Inside that liquid are millions of nanobots. Put the drops in your eyes and the nanobots migrate to your optic nerve and read and store the signals there. They’re organic in composition so scanners won’t find them. They don’t transmit unless they’re in the presence of a reader, so you won’t be leaking electrical signals. And as an extra bonus, that bottle is actually full of medicated eyedrops, so if anyone looks at it, that’s what they’ll find.”
“Where am I going to find a reader?” Archie said. “I can’t just duck out.”
“Vending machines,” Sam said. “Hayter-Ross has the vending machine contract for the Pentagon, and owns about eighty percent of the vending machines in the Washington DC area. Just go up to one, put in your credit card, and hit button ‘B4.’ That activates the scanner, which will upload the information.”
“Just so you know,” Bishop Hamn said, “the upload is sort of painful. It’s like an electrical shock to your optic nerve.”
“That’s why we always put the really good candy in slot B4. To make up for it,” Sam said.
“How often do you do this?” Archie asked, looking at his lover of four years in an entirely new light.
“We keep busy,” Bishop Hamn said. “We’ve been doing this for a long time. Which is why we know this works.”
“What happens if I leave Washington?” Archie said. “I was asked if I had a passport.”
“Just make sure you get to a vending machine before you go,” Sam said. “Also, bring me a souvenir.”
“Whatever you do, don’t be nervous,” Bishop Hamn said. “Do what you usually do. Do your job for them as well as you can. You’re not hurting us by helping them do their thing. The more you do, the more we know. Understand?”
“I understand,” Archie said.
“Good,” Bishop Hamn said. “Now lean back and try not to blink.”
“Hello.”
“Wyvern Ranch?” Creek said.
“Yeah.”
“I may be interested in purchasing some sheep from you,” Creek said.
“Can’t.”
“Pardon?” Creek said.
“No sheep,” the voice on the other end of the communicator said.
“Wyvern Ranch is a sheep ranch, correct?” Creek asked.
“Yup.”
“What happened to the sheep?” Creek asked.
“Died.”
“When?” Creek asked.
“Last night.”
“How many?” Creek asked.
“All of them,” the voice said.
“What happened?” Creek asked.
“Got sick.”
“Just like that,” Creek said.
“Appears so,” the voice said.
“I’m sorry,” Creek said.
“I’m not,” the voice said. “The flock’s insured. Now I’m rich.”
“Oh,” Creek said. “Well, then. Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” said the voice on the other end, and disconnected.
Creek glanced over to where the image of Brian stood. “More dead sheep,” he said. “We’re way behind the curve, here.”
“Don’t blame me,” Brian said. “I’m spitting them out as fast as I’m finding them. Whoever you’re up against has a head start.”
It was true. Wyvern Ranch was the fourth sheep ranch Creek had contacted, and each time the story was the same: The ranch’s entire sheep population had been killed off in the last day by a fast-moving virus. The only variation to the story was the second call Creek had made, to the Ames Ranch in Wyoming; on that call Creek had a couple of nerve-zapping moments dealing with a crazy, screaming woman before the woman’s adult son came on the line to explain that his father had gone missing in the night; they’d found his shotgun and some of his blood but not much else. And the sheep were all dead or dying.
No doubt about it, Creek was playing catch-up.
“New one for you,” Brian said.
Creek blinked; it’d been several hours since Brian had come up with the initial list of ranches. Creek wasn’t aware he was still plugging away at it. “Where?”
“Falls Church,” Brian said.
Creek blinked again; Falls Church was two towns over from where he was. “Not the usual place for a sheep ranch,” he said.
“It’s not a sheep ranch,” Brian said. “It’s a pet shop. ‘Robin’s Pets—Unmodified Pets Our Specialty.’ You’ll want the owner, Robin Baker.”
“Send the address into my communicator, please,” Creek said.
“You’re not going to call?” Brian said.
“No,” Creek said. “It’s drivable. And I want to get out of the house. All those dead sheep on the other end of the line are getting to me.”
“All right,” Brian said. “Just keep an eye out.”
“Something I should know about?” Creek asked.
“Someone’s been trying to hack into your system all day long,” Brian said. “I’ve been fending it off, but they’re pretty sophisticated attacks, and they’ve been constant. I don’t have any doubt as soon as you go out of the house they’ll be following you around. Whatever you’ve gotten us into, it’s not just about sheep DNA.”
Robin’s Pets was a modest store in a modest strip mall, nestled next to a Vietnamese restaurant and a nail boutique. On the door was a sign: “Unmodified Pets Our Specialty.” Right below it, a second, smaller, handwritten sign: “No more kittens! PLEASE!” Creek grinned at that and went in.
“I’m in the back room,” a woman’s voice said, as he came through the door and activated the bell. “Give me a second.”
“No rush,” Creek said back, and looked around the shop. It was in all respects an unremarkable local pet shop: One wall was filled with aquariums filled with various fish, while another wall held habitats for small reptiles and mammals, mostly rodents of varying degrees of furriness. In the middle of the shop was the counter island, with a cash register and various last-minute purchase items. At no place in the store was there even the hint that a sheep might be located somewhere on the premises.
“Swell,” Creek said, out loud.
The woman came out of the back with a hair elastic in her teeth and stood behind the counter. “Hi, there,” she said, through fabric. “Excuse me a second here,” she said. She grabbed her voluminous head of curly, slightly damp red hair and rather severely constricted it, slipped it through the elastic, twisted the elastic, and slipped the hair through again. “There we go,” she said. “Sorry about that. I was cleaning out one of the hamster cages and one of the boys decided to pee in my hair. Had to give it a quick rinse.”
“That’ll teach you to put hamsters in your hair,” Creek said.
“We know each other five s
econds and already you’re sassing me,” the woman said. “I think that may be a new record. I was putting the fuzzball in another Habitrail on the top shelf. It was just bad luck on my part and good aim on his. Honest. Want a hamster?”
“I don’t know,” Creek said. “I’ve been led to believe they’ve got bladder control issues.”
“Chicken,” the woman said. “All right. What can I do for you, then.”
“I’m looking for Robin Baker,” Creek said.
“That’s me,” she said.
“I was told you might have a particular variety of sheep I’ve been looking for,” Creek said. “Although now that I’m here I don’t see how.”
“Wow,” Robin said. “Yeah, we don’t carry large animals like that. No space, as you can see. What kind of sheep are you looking for?”
“It’s a breed called ‘Android’s Dream,’” Creek said.
Robin scrunched her face in, and suddenly she looked much younger than the late 20s Creek was guessing she was. “I don’t think I’ve ever even heard of that breed,” she said. “Is it genetically modified in any way?”
“I’d be guessing yes,” Creek said.
“Well, that would explain why I’ve never heard of it,” Robin said. “This shop specializes in unmodified pets and animals. If you were looking for a Faeroes or a Hebridean or even a Blackhead Persian, I might be able to point you in the direction of someone who could help you. But I wouldn’t even know where to begin for one of the genmod breeds. There are so many. And they’re all proprietary. Who told you that I would know where to find this breed?”
“A friend of mine who I would suspect should know better,” Creek said.
“Well—” Robin cut herself short as the door buzzer went off and another customer came through the door. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah,” the man said. “I need a lizard. For my kid.”
“I’ve got lizards,” Robin said. Creek turned to look at the guy. He was swarthy. “Is there any type you have in mind?”
“One of those that can run across the water,” the guy said.
“A Jesus Lizard?” Robin said. “Yeah, those have been extinct for a half a century. Something about people turning its habitat into condominiums. But I’ve got a tokay gecko your kid might like. They can stick to walls through the magic of van der Waals forces. Kids love that.”
“Fine,” the guy said.
“I’ll have to sell you a package,” Robin said. “That’s the gecko, a terrarium, some live food, and a book about geckos. That’s about sixty dollars total.”
“Okay,” the guy said, and came up to the counter with a credit card. Robin took it, glanced at Creek to let him know she hadn’t forgotten about him, and went to go collect the gecko and his toys.
“Kid likes lizards?” Creek said.
“You know kids,” the guy said, in a tone of voice that said don’t talk to me anymore. Creek took the hint.
“Here you go,” Robin said, placing a small terrarium on the counter. “You need to tell your kid that even though the gecko is really cute, it’s also a living thing. This is an unmodified animal. If it gets played with too much, it’ll get sick and die, and then you’ll have a dead animal, an upset kid, and a terrarium with nothing in it. Okay? Sign here.” She pushed the credit card slip through a pressure reader and handed the contraption to the guy; he took out a pen, signed the receipt, grabbed the terrarium, and went out the door without saying another word.
“Fun dad,” Robin said. She put the pressure reader away and then reached for something on the counter. “And look, he left his pen. Nice, too. Mine now. What were we talking about?”
“Sheep,” Creek said.
“Right,” Robin said. “I’ve never stocked large animals here. I can arrange to get a pet I don’t stock, of course, but since I only deal with unmodified animals, I only work with people who breed and sell unmods. What do you need a sheep for, anyway?”
“I need one for a ceremony.”
Robin frowned. “Like a sacrifice? Is this some sort of Old Testament thing?”
“No,” said Creek.
“And it’s not some sort of marriage thing, is it? You and the sheep.”
“Really, no.” Creek said.
“All right, good,” Robin said. “I mean, you don’t look like a freak or anything. You just never know.”
“Why do you only sell unmodified animals?” Creek asked. “I’m just curious.”
“I’ve got a PetSmart one shopping center over,” Robin said. “All their animals are genmod. I couldn’t compete. But they hardly sell unmodified pets anymore because unmodified pets die too easy. Genmod pets are designed with six-year-old boys in mind, you know.”
“I didn’t know,” Creek said.
“It’s true,” Robin said. “I think that’s kind of like defining deviancy down. You should be teaching a six-year-old that you need to respect living things, rather than making pets so they can survive a mallet attack. So, economics and morals. That’s why. People who come in here respect animals and teach their kids manners. Well, usually,” she said, signaling to the door to indicate her last customer. “You have any kids? Are you married?”
“No and no,” Creek said.
“Really,” Robin said, and glanced Creek up and down. “Tell you what—what’s your name?”
“Harry Creek,” Creek said.
“Nice to meet you, Harry,” Robin said, and pushed a piece of paper at him. “Write down the name of the breed and your comm number and I’ll make some calls. I can tell you now I probably won’t find anything, but on the off chance I do I’ll let you know. Here,” she reached over. “You can use my new pen.”
“Thanks,” Creek said.
“But don’t think you’re walking off with it,” Robin said. “I’m a small business owner. That pen’s money in my pocket.”
Harry wrote his information, said his goodbyes, and headed over to his car, which he’d parked on the side of the strip mall, next to the strip mall’s Dumpster. As he started the car, he noticed something crawling on the edge of the Dumpster. It was a gecko.
Creek turned off his car and got out and headed for the Dumpster. The gecko stood motionless as he approached. Creek got over to the Dumpster and looked in. The terrarium and book on geckos was on top a pile of trash.
“You, geek,” Rod Acuna said, pointing at Archie as he came though the door. “Is the pen sending?”
“It’s sending,” Archie said, already not liking his new “team,” which consisted of a dimwit human, a large Nagch who was spending most of his time sleeping, and this guy, his boss, who started calling Archie “geek” at their first exchange and now appeared to have forgotten he had any other name. “But your guy left just a couple of minutes after you did. The woman hasn’t done anything but sing along to the radio since. I’ll print you a transcript if you want, but you’ll have to move your big friend there,” he said, pointing to the dozing Nagch. “His feet are blocking the cabinet door to the printer.”
“Leave Takk alone,” Acuna said. “He had a big breakfast. Does this store owner know anything about the sheep?”
“Didn’t say that she did,” Archie said. “I’ve already hacked her computer connection, but she hasn’t done any searches on the sheep. All she’s done is go to a wholesaler site and order some birdseed.”
“What about Creek?” Acuna said. “Have you gotten into his system yet?”
“No,” Archie said. “I don’t know what sort of protection this guy’s got, but it’s incredible. It’s batting back everything I’m throwing at it.”
Acuna sneered. “I thought you were supposed to be good at this shit.”
“I am good,” Archie said. “But so is this guy. Really good. I’m working on it.”
“While you’re at it, find out more about this woman,” Acuna said, and then stomped off somewhere. Archie wondered, and he was sure not for the last time, what he had gotten himself into.
“What is that?” Brian asked as C
reek walked in.
“It’s a gecko,” Creek said, putting the terrarium on his kitchen table.
“That’s some good salesmanship,” Brian said.
“Can you get into the computer system for Robin’s Pets?” Creek said. “I want to check out a credit card.”
“I’m already in,” Brian said. “What are you looking for?”
“Follow up a charge that was made while I was in the store,” Creek said. “It would have been for about sixty bucks. Find out everything you can about the guy who owns the card.”
“I’m on it,” Brian said. “Aside from the reptile, how did it go?”
“Terrible,” Creek said. “Robin didn’t have the slightest clue what I was talking about.”
“What did you say to her?” Brian asked.
“I told her I was looking for some sheep,” Creek said. “What were you expecting me to say to her?”
“Oh,” Brian said. “Oh. Okay. I guess I wasn’t being clear about it.”
“What?” Creek said.
“When I told you to find Robin Baker, I didn’t mean to ask her about sheep,” Brian said. “I mean that she was the one you wanted.”
“You’re nuts,” Creek said. “She’s human.”
“She’s mostly human,” Brian said. “But her DNA has definite sheep-like tendencies.”
“I’m not following you,” Creek said.
“She must have been really pretty for you not to get what I’m saying to you,” Brian said. “Your pet shop owner is a human-sheep hybrid. The kind of sheep she was hybridized from was either in part or in whole of the Android’s Dream variety. She’s sheep, Harry.”
“You’re insane,” Creek said.
“Call me HAL and make me sing ‘Daisy, Daisy,’” Brian said. “It still doesn’t change the fact.”
“How did you find this out?” Creek said.
“Insurance companies don’t just keep livestock DNA on file, my friend,” Brian said.