It's where he was scouted by Sam, who was a Church deacon and Archie's direct superior at LegaCen. It was strictly a Church thing at first; the hot sex part of their relationship didn't happen until after Archie left LegaCen. The Church didn't have any rules against deacons sleeping with congregants, but LegaCen didn't like bosses to sleep with their underlings. That's the corporate world for you.
On a day-to-day basis, Archie didn't think much about his religious affiliation. One of the things about the Church of the Evolved Lamb was it was entirely silent on the big religious issues of God and the afterlife and sin and all that happy crap. The Church's goals of fulfilling the Dwellinian prophecies were almost entirely rooted in the material universe. Even the Empathists didn't go so far as to suggest that Dwellin had communed with actual spiritual beings; N'thul was more like Santa Claus than Jesus Christ to them.
This agnosticism on eschatological matters meant that Evolved Lamb churchgoers didn't spend a great deal of their time praying or worshipping or spending Sundays singing hymns (unless they also happened to be members of a more traditional church, which was not an infrequent occurrence). As religious experiences went, it was a relaxed thing. This much was evident in the layout of the Church's meeting house, which looked more like the interior of a social club than hall of contemplation. A disco ball still hung in the corner, part of the decoration for the Church's monthly karaoke night.
But this just made the unfolding of the prophecies just that much more powerful. What Archie had seen on his computer screen in that Pentagon basement had been foretold in the fevered writing of that poor bastard Dwellin:
The Mighty will bring their powers to bear to search for the Lamb;
Into its very molecules they will seek it; but though they look
One shall bear witness and seek to keep the Lamb
From harm.
Not one of Dwelliris best prophecies, but at the time he was laid out on cough syrup and Dramamine and had another 126 prophecies to go before Hayter-Ross would sign off on another payment. So there was that excuse. And anyway, it turned out to be true, which excused its lack of style.
Whether Dwellin had foretold this incident because he was tapped into something spiritual or because the Church had been plugging away for decades at making his writings come true was immaterial to Archie. All of a sudden, he'd been whacked upside the head by the freaky details of his belief system and punted into playing a part in their workings. Archie had always classified himself as an Ironist, but this shit was turning him into an Empathist in record time.
Archie and Sam didn't waste time in the meeting room. Sam took Archie's hand and directed him down a second set of stairs and into a small, brightly lit, and sterile room with what looked like a dentist's chair in the middle. Waiting in the room was another man: Francis Hamn, the local bishop, whose day job was as "manager" of the fitness center two stories up.
"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.