"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 Specially." 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 seconds 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.