Passing through a Confederacy immigration control point in the Transponder line, even in full human form, is going to set off somebody’s private alarm somewhere. Sure, there’re metal detectors and stripsearches and ten kinds of security to keep weapons out of transit areas, but there are ways around those sorts of things, not limited to bribery and nepotism. Most authorities report catching high numbers of smugglers into and out of secured areas, but never as a percentage of the total number of people suspected of bringing contraband goods through a restricted-access point. The fact is, a person as high-profile as I am is going to get recognised by somebody almost anywhere he goes, whether it’s by sight, voice or ID code. Being partly responsible for the system that allows such easy recognition, it’s little wonder I had someone waiting to greet me with open arms and a double-barrel welcome mat. Not everybody appreciates becoming just another number in an international database.

I don’t even think I was tailed; my senses were jacked up high enough that the only good means of following me would’ve been using the ever-present security cameras that come as a natural function of life inside a technopolis. The best that a physical being could have hoped was to duplicate what the electronics already knew, and in so doing they’d almost certainly have set off my paranoia and whatever advantage they could’ve gained by knowing where I was would’ve been lost by my awareness that I was being traced.

My best reconstruction of the event goes something like this: I walked through the Transponder gate at the inbound immigration checkpoint. A complex series of interactions between the transceiver in the archway, the Universal Identity Transponder implanted at the base of my neck, and the nearest International Identification Registry system led to the conclusion that I was, in fact, listed in the IIR database. The computer back-ending the transceiver proudly displayed the results of its queries about my country of citizenship (Cascadia), legal adult status (yes), outstanding criminal warrants (none in any IIR member nation or Interpol database) and permission to travel within the Confederacy (seven-day transit pass, work permitted within Confederate borders). Nothing suggesting anything out of the ordinary came up, so the green light flashed and a small bell toned to pass me through the gate. At that same instant, a second signal, most likely from a trojan wired up by the gunman’s accomplice in the Monitor booth, caused the gunman’s beeper to buzz, alerting him that the target had just passed through immigration and would be clear of customs momentarily. Assuming he was stationed near the exit gate, this would’ve given him ample time to set up for the shot.

Travelling as a full human, with no visibly abnormal traits, I had carelessly assumed that I would go unrecognised by the vast majority. Purists strike me as being such luddites when it comes to certain aspects of technology that I forget how sophisticated they can really be when not dealing with areas of modern science that they think violate their religious beliefs. So, my guard was down. That gave the gunman all the opportunity he needed to fire off three connecting shots. One went straight through my abdomen, missing my spine but removing a large chunk of my liver. The second connected with my upper chest, probably rupturing both lungs and doing unpleasant things to my cardiac rhythm. The third took out my right shoulder and probably disconnected my arm from the rest of my body.

I didn’t even have time to scream before I went into shock. The part of my brain responsible for processing pain went into overdrive, then got deactivated two milliseconds later by an override circuit designed for just such an occasion; with the crosscurrent flooding out all the meaningful signals, I was literally incapable of feeling the aftereffects of the shots. Call me old-fashioned but drugs designed to prevent a patient from waking up scare the hell out of me, as does the idea of any chemical that stops me from being able to remember anything that happened under its influence. I’d rather rely on a few microamps cutting off access to the synapses and be wide awake when somebody tampers with my body than trust any surgeon, no matter how skilled, to do what I want without me being right there to point out corrections while zie works. It activates itself automatically when it detects an excessive rate of signal is coming through that area of the brain; this means I can still feel minor injuries, but anything more serious than a bad sunburn or a papercut and I’ll only notice a quick twinge and then numbness.

Falling back onto the tile in shock and confusion, I was dimly aware of difficulty breathing, more gunshots, screams and general confusion. One unfortunate side effect of the override circuit is that it tends to throw my other sensory perceptions out of whack. I saw sparkles in front of my eyes, the overhead lights started humming loudly in my ears and then hundreds of hands lifted me and started carrying me along the corridor. I felt a deep pressure in my left arm, one that I had long ago learned to identify as the prick of a needle while under the influence, and then everything faded to a uniform grey static and white noise in my ears.

When I came around, more recognizable by the fact that I knew when I blinked than anything else, I was flat on my back staring up at the ceiling. Fluorescent white strips overhead stared down at me. I saw tiny rainbows around the edges of the lights, telling me the pain inhibitor was still active.

A voice startled me out of complacent comptemplation. “Awake, I see.”

I tried to turn my head but found I had all the muscle-tone of a wet tea towel. My brain put together the commands to string together a sentence but rather than words coming out of my mouth, a synthesiser near the bed picked up on the signals approaching my vocal cords and intercepted them, translating them into speech, albeit much less emotional and flatter than my own: “Doc, is that you?”

Doctor Richard Sanford, the man who had overseen every one of my major Transitions and most of my minor ones, chuckled and leaned over into my field of vision. Light reflected off the top of his balding head and into my eyes. “Don’t bother trying to move anything below your lips; you’re on a motor-control inhibitor to stop you from pulling apart any of the innumerable stitches currently holding you together. That includes your vocal cords.”

A mechanical laugh echoed out of the speechbox. “Your mother would be proud; all those sewing lessons paid off.”

Sanford smiled, showing his almost-perfect even white teeth. “We had to grow you a liver, two lungs, several meters of small intestine, a stomach and several kilos of muscle, bone, nerve and skin to put you back the way you were when you left. You want to tell me how my handiwork got so badly damaged?”

After a moment of pondering and two false starts, I managed to get the synthesizer to say, “A man with a shotgun wanted more than a few words with me. Where am I?” The last was a question but, as usual, the confounded mechanical contraption delivered it all in a flat monologue. I might as well have been reading a grocery list.

The doctor clucked his tongue and then leaned back out of my field of vision. “Pity,” he said, ignoring my question. “I was so hoping that for once, you’d manage to not damage my artwork while showing it off to the world.”

I swore to myself that one day I was going to figure out how to tell from his voice when Sanford was being funny and when he was being serious. However, it wasn’t going to be today. “Couldn’t let that happen. Besides, human is boring.”

He laughed. “It’s familiar, though. I’ll stick to my form for now. I can embrace some areas of new technology and support others without practicing them all on myself. What were you doing in the Confederacy, anyway?”

I tried to sigh but it came out as a quiet hum on the speaker. “Private installation. Details classified.”

Sanford clucked his tongue again. “Well, I’ll leave you to recover, then. Try to stay comfortable; you’ll have plenty of time to mull over what to do from here.” I closed my eyes, reducing the world to blackness. I heard footsteps and then the quiet click of a doorlatch falling into place. Unable to do anything else, I lay back and listened to the sound of my own heartbeat and the silent hum of machines as they lulled me into oblivion.

After a week of being turned this way and that by a rotating schedule of nurses who showed all the personal interest of a blind date, Doc Sanford came in, looked me over, pronounced me fit to move under my own power and removed the motor inhibitor. It took an hour for everyone to pull out the lengths of tubing that had kept me tied into the machines that acted as life-support. The first thing I did under my own manpower was walk to the toilet; it was probably my most rewarding physical experience to date. Solid food followed closely behind, if you can call warm oatmeal solid. I was still dazed and lightheaded from the override circuit being active constantly, but ignoring that, I felt as good as I did before the “incident.”

The incident. After attending to all my relevant bodily functions, I found a terminal and started scanning for news reports from the Confederacy. It wasn’t hard. The network returned several reports published over a span of hours, from two minutes after the first shot to morning-after, all accompanied by high-quality full-color-and-stereo security camera feeds of three solid impacts slamming into my chest, picking me up and flinging me gracefully in a close-to-parabolic arc, coming to rest splayed out on the tile floor, the shotgun-wielder standing over me for all of two seconds, savoring the moment.

Ignoring the bulk of the story for the moment, I focused my attention first on the video footage. Several full-speed passes through the graphic display of violence made the hair on the back of my neck rise; I felt as if I were attending my own funeral. I halted the flow of images and pulled a close-up of my assailant’s face. Smoke curling away from the barrels gave him a halo effect. He was bald but probably hadn’t shaved his head in a few days. His eyes were sunken, as were the rest of his features to some degree; he looked like someone had punched a bowl of bread dough, stuck the man’s face on the indented surface and then let it rise. He was overweight but not fat, or at least not disproportionately so. His lips were curled back in an animal’s snarl, but his eyes gleamed with sadistic pleasure. Studying him, I couldn’t help but think that he was getting some kind of twisted kick out of doing his deity’s dirty work. Zooming back out, I got a look at his clothes. His jacket and pants were an unbleached off-white and around his neck I caught the flash of polished metal, the golden stylized flame-and-world pendant showing membership in, or at least some affiliation with, the Purist movement.

I sighed and saved a few images extracted from the datastream for my personal files, then called up the associated texts. Thomas Elijah Westborough, born and raised in Jackson, Mississippi, was in custody eleven minutes and twenty-two seconds after shooting “Kolya Jensen, self-appointed architect of the Brave New World”. A few reports from more conservative news services went into wild speculation behind the reason for the co-inventor of the so-called Identity Chip to be in a place so opposed to his very existence, with claims ranging from conversion to several different One True Ways to secret meetings with subversives in government planning to make the Confederacy a puppet-signatory to the Reunified Northam talks. Those that chose not to guess why I was there did go so far as to wonder openly about it.

I had to laugh at the title bestowed upon me. It wasn’t my fault that religion couldn’t keep pace with technology; that particular race had been lost so many times on so many tracks over the years that it hardly seemed worth the effort to run it again. The right to die, the origin of life, the rising of the sun, and the shape of the earth—to pick a select few choice contests—had all come under attack as being against the whims or wishes of some Invisible Pink Unicorn or Magical Sky-Daddy over the years. All of them had eventually forced the devout and the devoted to come to grips with the fact that, a few glitches in quantum physics aside, the universe didn’t really care what they wanted to be true.

It also wasn’t my fault that Transponder technology had had become so ubiquitous. Transition technology had made almost every form of physical identification useless; given a month and enough money, you could become anyone or anything, within certain limits. Want to be an elephant for your kid’s jungle-themed birthday this fall? Two months and fifty-grand, give or take two weeks of physical therapy. Want to look like Chartreuse or Rocco Carboni? Twenty-thousand and two weeks. Sure, people have died in the tanks, but have died on surgical tables for as long as we’ve been lifting people out of the dirt to keep their incision sites clean, and I don’t hear a lot of clamoring for going back to the leeches-and-emetics theory of medicine. So, even if most people still operate under the very comforting delusion that they still look like their old Northam Identicards, the truth is that you couldn’t trust them to match, assuming they were still valid.

It wasn’t even my fault that Transponder technology existed. Officially, the Cascadia government owned all rights to the technology when it was developed, and they chose to release the technical specs into the field. I happened to be on the team that developed it, and yes I was the geek that put forward the technical design that became the framework for the UIT network, but I wasn’t any of the hundreds of people who recognized the need for identity confirmation that existed outside of physical constraints, allocated resources to solve the problem, hired my company as a research partner, and then pushed for results. I certainly wasn’t the millions of people who voted those politicians into office because of a facejacking operation that exposed three celebrities as criminals and put seven people in jail for conspiracy to commit murder. I was one person who happened to be at the right place at the right time to serve as a capstone on a much larger effort.

Getting in front of a camera at the Portland Techxpo and bragging about having made possible the Mark of the Beast… okay, yes, that was my fault. It certainly didn’t endear me to a bunch of religious psychotics like Brother William Washburn’s Purist Movement, but it was so hard to take them seriously. Their press releases read like half a dozen holy books and a double fistful of dollar bills with kook rants written on them passed through a Markov chain generator, and their policy statements showed they collectively had a creative—to be generous—understanding of both religious scripture and the scientific method. They had some two-dozen “official” factions, all split from the main group based on some minor nitpick involving just how many angels could dance on what sized pin, but on peeling back all the social niceties and hairsplitting, they were a bunch of people who’d decided that the best way to deal with the pace of technology was to ban anything that made them feel icky inside. They couldn’t get most of their members elected in either Tejas or the Confederacy because they were too conservative, and if that didn’t put them squarely beyond the realm of reason, nothing would.

I shut down the newsfeed and stared blankly at the terminal for about a minute, putting my thoughts in some semblance of order. Then I shook my head and punched in the callcode for my office. Three buzzes later, the speaker popped, heralding the audio pickup on the other side. “Identicorp Portland.”

I recognised the voice. Breathing a sigh of relief, I punched a request for video. “Trace, it’s Kolya.”

I counted off three seconds subvocally before Trace Morgan, my nominal vice-president and one of my closest friends, sent back a denial for my video request and a request for authentication. “Identify on secure channel, please.”

“Oh, for the love of…” I bit my tongue, then chuckled at my response. The override circuit must be affecting me, I thought. The terminal was an Astra 320, not exactly cutting-edge but still equipped with a UIT transceiver as part of its stardard peripheral list. I put my hand over the receiver and waited for the thing to beep at me and tell me it had read my transponder. When it did, I spoke back into the terminal. “Authentification on its way. And send your own while you’re at it.”

“Already in progress. Stand by.” I fidgeted in my chair while my terminal and his talked to each other, then the IIR database, finally transmitting a little message backing my claims to Trace. A request for video pickup came through on my end, which I quickly accepted. A few seconds later, a window on the terminal opened up, Trace’s muzzle staring out of it at me. He’d Transitioned shortly after I did, partially to help prove that the UIT could replace any conventional form of identification, partially to indulge himself. He looked like a labrat, a six-foot-two white rat, right down to the tip of his pink tail. His figure was still mostly human-proportioned, but the fur and skull
were unmistakabily rodentine.

His black eyes blinked at the screen. “Kolya?” His voice registered surprise.

I grimaced. “Hi.”

“You look…” He paused, not directly look into the pickup.

“The word is ‘bad’, Trace.”

“I’ll go with that,” he agreed quickly, trying to fill the previous gap. “I heard the news. Sanford putting you back together alright?”

I made a face at the screen. “I itch.”

Trace chuckled, a high-pitched chitter that sounded like it should be coming from a cartoon chipmunk. “Just don’t gouge yourself this time.” I rolled my eyes at his comment. I’d had the override circuit installed at the same time as my first major Transition: leopard, with a heavy emphasis on the animal traits. When I woke up, of course I didn’t feel any pain because of the neural block, but I did itch from all the fur. I wasn’t used to my body and I’d forgotten about my claws, so I managed to carve four good-sized slices in my chest before the slick feel of blood on my pawpads made me hit the panic button. It took nearly twice as long to recover as it should have. Needless to say, most of the office found this hilarious.

I rolled my shoulders in a shrug. “Have I missed anything important?”

Trace gave a non-committal shrug. “We’ve had Confederacy officials on the phone off and on for the past nine days alternatively demanding to know if we want to press charges and meekly asking if you’re alive and wanting to know if-slash-when someone will be coming back. There’ve also been roughly half a dozen messages left, all in different synthesised voices, taking credit for your death and proclaiming you to be the first to fall. There’ve been over two-dozen additional calls we presume from the same sources, but they’ve been hang-ups, possibly automated. Tracking the calls led to public phone booths in Cascadia, Tejas and the Confederacy. All calls were purchased with anonymous cashcards. Cascadia police and Interpol have both been notified.” He paused a moment, looked around the edge of the pickup. “That seems to be everything.”

I nodded. “Sounds like the shop’s under control, then. I should be out of here in a week and on my way back to Atlanta in ten days.”

Trace stared into the video pickup, tapping his front teeth with a claw; it was a nervous gesture me made when he was thinking. Then he leaned back and shook his head once. “This place can run for a month without you in a pinch and the Confederates can wait. I’d suggest Transitioning. Something new and different.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Maybe I missed something somewhere. I thought we were out to prove to them that Transponders could defeat any conventional disguise tactic. Perhaps I’m mistaken somewhere?”

The rat clicked his tongue and let out a high-pitched squeaking sigh. “The Confederacy has assured me that no report of your survival has yet hit their news wire, and also that they found their security leak and have patched it. Going back in the same body you took last time is just going to tell the Purists to try harder next time. Thus, I think it’s a dangerous idea, but going in another form should be safer, especially if you take along a bodyguard.” The like-I-told-you-to-do-last-time was implicit.

I thought, scratched my ear—carefully—and finally shrugged in mock defeat. “Alright, you win. I Transition before I go back.”

“And you take a bodyguard.” His pink eyes glittered with determination.

I sighed. “Alright, and I take a bodyguard. Call Dom and have her meet me here in a week; I should be coherent by then.”

Trace smirked, a feat I still found amazing giving his facial structure. “I already paged her; she should be there in the next half hour.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re a real piece of work.”

Trace’s muzzle split a little further. “That’s what Sanford said when he finished with me. Now get back in bed; Dom will be there soon and you’ll need your strength to deal with her.”

I waved a hand dismissively, even though my vision was getting blurry. “Fine, fine. See you in a month, give or take.”

Trace waved a paw at the video pickup and then the window shut itself down, the speaker crackling once to signify the end of the conversation. I hauled myself off the terminal and just about fell over my own feet getting back into bed. I sighed, realising I’d pushed myself too far for my first day under my own power. From the comfort of the mattress, I requested some classical music and lay back, eyes open but unfocused. I lost track of the time staring at the rainbows flickering around the fluorescent lights in time to Holst and Dvorak. I cut back into reality, though, when the music cut out and a voice came through the terminal speakers. “Kolya?”

It was Sanford’s receptionist, Terry Moreno, one of the only people on the staff with more skill at rebuilding computers than organics. I tilted my head and called out towards the terminal, “Yes?”

I had trouble telling if the distortions in Terry’s voice were the result of the transmission medium or just the override circuit messing with my senses again. “You’ve got a visitor.. Dom Herschell?”

I sighed and struggled to sit up in bed, regretting it as soon as I was semi-vertical. “I’m awake. Send her in.”

“On her way.” The music snapped back to life, picking up where it had been interrupted.

I canned the playback and waited. Around a minute later, the door opened and Dominique Herschell strolled into the room. She wore a tan fitted jumpsuit, far too crisp for it to have seen any real use. She was clearly between jobs; she’d obviously recently shaved her head, and the black tribal tribal tattoos on her head stood out sharply against her brown skin. She kicked the door shut with the heel of one foot, detoured by the terminal to grab the chair and dragged it over next to the bed. Rather than say anything, though, she just spun it around backward and sat facing me, her arms folded over the back.

I held her gaze for all of about thirty seconds before sighing. “What?”

Dom smirked. “I was just thinking of all the times you told me you didn’t like my line of work. Now Trace calls me and says you want to hire me. I’m just enjoying the moment.”

I snorted. “I still don’t like your line of work. Gun-for-hire never struck me as a career with good retirement options.”

Her smirk slipped into a playfully mocking sneer. “I’m a courier, not a mercenary. My combat training is for self-defense and the protection of valuables, which occasionally means people like you. And with that kind of crack, maybe I won’t take your job.”

It was my turn to grin. “Yes you will. You’ll have time to rub my nose in it all the way to the Confederacy and back.”

Dom gave me a look somewhere between incredulous and patronizing, then pulled a piece of gum out of one of her many pockets. “Confederacy?” She popped the stick in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

I sighed. “Yes, Confederacy. Okay, jokes aside, Dom. You’re the best person I know for this sort of business and one of the only ones I can probably trust to tag along. I got shot the last time I went and I have a vested interest in seeing that that doesn’t happen again. I’m a thinker, not a fighter. I had skywired senses and I still took three shotgun slugs from someone I should’ve seen five miles away.” I paused and shrugged, ignoring the discomfort from my right shoulderblade. “I need your help.”

I ran out of steam there and left the silence hanging while Dom blew bubbles. After a minute or so of consideration, she snapped her gum and nodded. “Alright. Two ground rules.”

Time to negotiate. “Number one?”

She held up a finger. “If the bullets start flying, I get hazard pay.”

I sighed but didn’t bother arguing that one. “Done. Number two?”

She grinned and raised a second. “If I say ‘duck’, you duck. When I say it, not after asking me why.”

I rolled my eyes. “Contrary to Trace’s claims, I am not the most inquisitive person on the planet and I do not have a problem with authority figures.”

She only snapped another bubble in response. When I said nothing further, she shrugged and stood, walking towards the door. “I’ll get the travel details from Trace. When do we leave?”

That reminded me. “Five weeks.”

Dom gave me that look again from the doorway. “Any reason for the delay?”

I nodded. “Trace wants me to Transition before I go. Bring a pocket scanner with you to the tube station.”

She grinned; I could just make out the wad of gum between her teeth. “What’re you going to be?”

I shrugged again, this time wincing at my shoulder. “I don’t know. I’ll have something figured out by the time Sanford starts cutting. Trace suggested ‘new and different’ so it’ll probably be anthropomorphic.”

Dom paused, one hand on the doorjamb. “Try female.”

I snickered. “That’d certainly be new and different.”

“It’ll also be something the Purists won’t consider,” she said pointedly, tapping a finger on the frame.

My eyes narrowed. “You read the news?”

Dom’s grin broadened. “I didn’t have to.”

I raised an eyebrow in puzzlement. “I don’t get it.”

A look of consternation passed over Dominique’s face, then she sighed. “Trace said he’d have my head if I told you, but he had me follow you from a discreet distance on your last trip. I couldn’t get to you in time to keep you from getting shot, but I did get you evacked back to Angeles. Trace covered the slingshot fare and I paid Medifast to keep your lungs attached to your neck while Sanford prepped an emergency suite for your arrival.” She grinned, leaning against the doorway. “Doc complained about their stitchwork.”

I sat, shocked, for what may very well have been the first time in my life. I honestly didn’t know whether to be angry or pleased that my ex-girlfriend and my best friend for the past twenty years had simultaneously conspired behind my back and saved my hide. I slumped against the head of the bed and looked back into Dom’s eyes. “Thanks.”

She brightened somewhat, a ghost of her smirk echoing on her face. “See you in five weeks. Try not to be late.” Then she exited the door while I slid back down into bed and let the Beethoven swell as I tried to decide on my next face.

Underneath his freshly-pressed shirt and the rest of his calm exterior, though, the Dalmatian was struggling not to tremble, rehearsing in his mind what he would say to his boss when she called him into the room. He’d been the one to ask for the meeting, something already out of the ordinary. Usually she was the one to summon her minions, most often to rub their noses in some mistake she’d found in their work. Arianna Harrington had exacting standards of her staff, and they were expected to meet them, if they didn’t want to find themselves looking for work.

He’d never been dragged into her office before, so he felt safe there, but it was what went unsaid from the above that really made him nervous. Harrington and Associates could demand such precision and talent from its staff because it was one of the top design companies in the city, if not the country, and it paid very well to ensure it got the best. Getting an offer was proof of talent. Keeping it was something else entirely. Allen had kept his job for four years now by throwing himself one-hundred percent into his work, and so far it had handsomely rewarded him.

This, however, was the moment of truth. In all his time at the company, he’d never raised a complaint when his annual raise showed only the cost of living increase, and while the money was good, he knew he was worth more. Just the fact that he’d lasted as long as he had under a slave-driver like Arianna Harrington for four years would be worth gold to any number of other graphics houses, and he could practically name his salary. Before he went anywhere else, though, he wanted to see if he couldn’t get his boss to acknowledge that fact.

Now he only had to survive the meeting.

The phone on the secretary’s desk buzzed suddenly in the office, startling him out of his reverie, his head popping up from the magazine. The raucous sound carried for a few seconds, then snapped back to silence, followed by a voice, distorted slightly by the staticky speaker. “Send in my two-o’clock, Linda.”

The secretary, a bright-eyed beagle with a professionally-groomed coat of tans and browns, pressed a small button on the phone with a freshly-filed clawtip and leaned forward slightly in her chair. “Yes, Ms. Harrington.” She then sat back upright and turned to Allen, nodding once. “Ms. Harrington will see you now,” She motioned toward the heavy wooden door leading from the antechamber to the inner lair, where the principle partner of Harrington and Associates sat waiting.

Allen rose, his mask of calm still intact—he hoped—and tossed the unread magazine casually back onto the stack covering the glass end-table next to the couch. He nodded back to Linda and walked towards the entrance to Ms. Harrington’s office, his paw resting a moment on the brass letters that spelled out his boss’ name. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Linda press some button on her desk, and a small chime somewhere rang merrily, a lock unlatching with an audible thunk. Thus invited, Allen swallowed heavily and pushed the door open carefully, stepping into Ms. Harrington’s office.

The office itself sat on the outside corner of the building, and smoke-tinted windows overlooking the city dominated made up two of the walls, providing him with a panoramic view of the downtown district. An overstuffed black leather sofa and a matching chair clustered around a glass-topped coffee table near the corner between the windows. His hindpaws sank into the thick cadet blue shag as he stepped within, his eyes drawn to the cityscape.

“May I help you?” The voice, from behind and to his left, caught Allen off-guard, and he jerked around to face the speaker. Against the left wall, the one not covered in glass, sat a deep cherry desk, atop which rested a computer monitor, two paper-trays, a number of pens, a black leather business folder, and a phone. Two high-backed leather chairs sat in front of it, obviously intended for guests of far more prominence than most of Ms. Harrington’s humble staff. Obviously whoever had laid out the office not only wanted the primary occupant to have the best view in the room, but also intended to keep out of sight when anyone entered, giving the element of surprise to the occupant.

Even more startling than the voice, though, was the sight that greeted Allen when he turned his head. Behind her desk sat a well-groomed vixen, her forest-green eyes fixed on him, the corners of her muzzle and her ears perked in a half-smile. She sat upright in a high-backed, black leather executive chair, leaning with her elbows against the desk, her muzzle resting lightly on her steepled forepaws. Her blouse was obviously silk, a deep green that matched her eyes and emphasized the sheen of the russet fur surrounding them. At her throat was a silver necklace, set with emeralds that sparkled out from against the white fur of her neck. She held her thickly-furred tail high, currently free of the slot at the back of her chair, the tip tied with a dark green satin ribbon that matched her top.

The vixen’s smile deepened when Allen’s eyes met hers, and he got the distinct impression of looking into the eyes of a predator, one who’d been sizing him up from the minute he walked through her office door. Before he could recover gracefully, though, she sat back slightly in her chair, motioning towards one of the chairs in front of her. “Mister Ritchie? Please, take a seat.”

Allen gave his best interview smile and pulled back the chair after a moment’s fumbling; the guest seats were heavier than they looked. “I do appreciate you taking time out of your day to see me, Ms. Harrington.”

“Please,” she cooed with disarming ease. “Call me Arianna. I took the time before you arrived to review your history with the company. Four years is an impressive lifespan at Harrington and Associates.” Her ears flicked bemusedly, apparently aware of her own morbid joke. “You do excellent work, if I say so myself.”

Allen’s ears grew warm, and he knew they had to be reddening from the unexpected praise. “I’m glad that you’re pleased with the quality of my performance. Actually,” he added quickly, “that’s why I’m here.”

“Oh?” Arianna’s eyes didn’t register the response projected in her voice, locked on his intently. “Do tell.”

It took the Dalmatian several seconds to find his tongue again, all the composure he had carefully rehearsed in the antechamber evaporating under the scrutinizing stare of his manager. “I came to ask for a raise,” he finally managed to say into the oppressive void.

Arianna’s expression didn’t change a bit from before his statement to after, but she did shift in her seat, her paws steepled in front of her muzzle, elbows balanced on the arms of her chair. “Do you believe that Harrington and Associates made a poor offer to you when you accepted your position? Do you think the annual increases were out of line with the cost of living?”

Allen shook his head quickly, hoping to avoid insulting his boss. “Not at all. Far from it, actually.”

Arianna’s smile broadened, her eyes narrowing. “Then why ask for a raise?”

In two quick ripostes, she had talked him into a corner. “Because….” Her gaze never wavered, her eyes holding his captive, the smug smile fixed on her muzzle. He took a deep breath through his muzzle and took his chance. “Frankly, I know I’m worth more than that.”

His manager leaned forward, her elbows again resting on her desk, her arms folded now in front of her. “What makes you say that?”

Allen smiled nervously himself. She hadn’t kicked him out of her office yet, so he must be doing something right. Either that or she was taking her time, playing with him before delivering the killing blow to his career. “The salary you offered me was in line with my skills of four years ago. I’ve gotten better since then, both in skill and in presentation. You yourself admitted that four years at Harrington and Associates is a long time for someone to survive under your standards. I’ve met and exceeded them consistently. With that kind of credential, I could name my price at any other shop.”

Arianna’s eyes opened wide in mock-surprise, the smug grin still fixed to her muzzle. “Is your loyalty to Harrington and Associates so low that you would just walk out the door like that, Mister Ritchie?”

The Dalmatian’s chest froze, his eartips cold. His tail tried suddenly to retreat between his legs, catching on the seat of the chair. He’d meant it as an honest evaluation of his abilities, but he’d pushed himself over the line. The threat of quitting was on the table, though, and now he had to cover for it. “No, I’d rather stay,” he said earnestly, trying to project as much regret as he could. “I really would. I just know that if I offered my skills somewhere else, they’d offer me a salary based on what I’m worth now, not what I was worth four years ago.”

Arianna nodded, leaning back into the cool leather of her seatback. “Just how much would you like to stay? Suppose I said no. Would you be ready to walk out of that door, past the receptionist, and right out the front door, only to return for your last check and your personal effects?”

The fact that her voice never wavered from its even temperament made Allen sit very still in his seat, the chill in his ears spreading down to his muzzle. His tail tried to crawl down between his legs, but the construction of his seat prevented it. He’d blown his chance, and he knew it. He’d pushed his luck too far. “I would really rather not have to do that, if I can avoid it. I just… I think I’m worth more than you’re paying me, and I think you know it too.”

The vixen chuckled quietly to herself. “Oh, I believe I know exactly what you’re worth, Mr. Ritchie, but let’s find out? I’ll make you the following deal.” She stopped, glanced towards her office door, then stabbed the speaker button on the phone. “Linda, would you please go down to the break room and bring Mister Ritchie and myself some fresh coffee, thanks,” she said quickly into the unit, releasing the button without waiting for a reply. Then she lifted her head back to Allen’s, her smile taking on a definite predatory tone. “You’ve got about ten minutes. If you can make me climax before she gets back, you’ve got your raise. If not… maybe you’ll be able to get it from one of our competitors.”

Allen’s eyes went wide, even moreso than normal. “You can’t be serious!” he shouted hoarsely. “This is harassment!”

“It’s your word against mine, Mister Ritchie,” Arianna cooed, obviously enjoying the situation. “You came asking for a raise, I told you no, you stormed out of the building, and then made up this story about sexual harassment to try to get back the job you quit. You’d better hurry; if the coffee’s already made, you’ve got less time than you think.”

Allen rose indignantly, knocking his chair backwards. His paws balled into fists, and for a brief moment he considered doing just as she said, storming out of the office and calling the police, when he realized just what a bind he really was in. At this point, he’d become just another throw-away employee, one more victim of Arianna Harrington’s exacting standards. It really was his word against hers, and she had history on her side. Any leverage he had when he’d entered was gone now. When Linda returned with his coffee, his job was gone.

Unless… no, she couldn’t be serious, he thought. His cock, though, throbbed once in anticipation, the situation appealing to his baser instincts even as his brain rejected it as absurd. He looked down at her, staring smugly back up from her seat with a knowing grin. As he watched, she parted her muzzle and let the tip of her tongue run over her lips, and he felt his body responding. She really was attractive, the cut of her blouse emphasizing and showing off her cleavage without exposing anything, and with her chair pushed away from the desk he could see the black skirt she wore, covering just enough of her thighs to follow the convention of modesty. Even in the midst of his turmoil, a part of his mind wondered what lay just out of sight.

Arianna was hot, she knew it, and she knew he knew it too.

Allen walked quickly around to stand in front of her, his paws at his neck, slipping his tie from around his throat, letting it drop to the floor. His eyes never left hers while he unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, then knelt, the solid cherry desk blocking his view of the front door to her office. His knees sank into the thick carpeting, and he leaned forward, his paws resting on Arianna’s knees, her deep red fur warm against his pads. Slowly he slid them along her thighs, ruffling the fur against the grain, still watching her for some sign of disapproval or hesitation, but her look offered only amusement and her own obvious arousal at the situation.

“You’d better hurry, Mister Ritchie,” the vixen said huskily, her voice low. “You’re already down a minute.”

The Dalmatian’s fingers slid beneath the edge of the skirt, riding it up against her legs, slowly exposing more of her well-toned legs, then the white shimmer of satin panties. He pressed his muzzle against them, burying himself in her scent, his own cock twitching in its sheath as he engrossed himself in her arousal. He parted his jaws, his tongue darting out to lick over the sheer fabric, tasting her musk, dampening the material that covered her sex.

Arianna’s paws clenched against the armrests of her chair, her muzzle half-open in an expression of eager anticipation, breathing heavily now as Allen nuzzled into her crotch. Her juices started to soak the satin as well as her saliva, her scent deepening, thickening as he caressed her through the delicate fabric. A soft whine escape her as she lifted herself briefly, letting the skirt gather behind her, beneath her tail, allowing her to expose more of herself to his questing muzzle.

Allen’s tongue poked into the fabric, denting it as he explored her cleft through the satin, learning the flavor of her musk, savoring the tastes of her arousal as he encouraged her, licking hungrily against the white satin. His paws slid up to her waist, clawtips hooking into the waistband of her panties and sliding them down, exposing her sex. The fur there was white, short and already darkened and slick from her juices and his licking. Her labia were already a bit swollen from arousal, parted slightly to expose the tender inner lips, the entrance to her tunnel visible just behind them.

He let the panties drop around her ankles and put his paws back on her knees, parting them firmly, forcing Arianna to slide forward on her chair to open herself up to him. He pressed his muzzle into her snatch, tongue caressing her outer lips, then darting between them to tease the inner ones, coaxing a series of moans out of her as he licked her. Her fingers moved from the arms of the chair to the back of his head, holding him against her crotch.

Arianna panted, her eyes closed now, muzzle open as she panted, each touch of his tongue to her netherlips bringing a fresh gasp out of her as he lapped at her, exploring her sex. She felt him press himself further between her legs, and then she squealed as he curled his tongue up into her tunnel, fucking her with his muzzle, thrusting that wet organ over and over into her. She shuddered, tensing against him, gripping the fur on the back of his head tightly as she neared her release.

Allen withdrew from her canal slowly, his tongue slipping free of its gentle grip, but then he drew it up between her lips without breaking contact with the skin, her moan shifting into a high-pitched keen. His paws moved between her legs now, fingerpads to either side of her netherlips, gently pulling them apart, exposing her swollen pearl, the hood withdrawn to bare her nubbin. He caressed it with his tongue, sending another shiver through her body, her fingers moving from just holding his head to cupping his ears, guiding him to her secret spot, urging him onwards, and he obeyed, tongue slowly swirling around her clit and then dragging slowly across it, teasing her sensitive flesh, pushing her towards climax.

Arianna began to shake, biting her lip now as Allen lapped directly at her button, her body quivering beneath his touch. She tensed, tailtip quivering, her body nearing the release she demanded, her breath coming in short, heaving gasps. Her black claws entwined into the short white fur on the back of Allen’s head as he drove her onwards, nearing the point of inevitability. She inhaled sharply, eyes closed, so close to release. His tongue lapped eagerly at her clit, caressing it directly, and she responded, her body tightening and then suddenly spasming as she climaxed, crying out from the strength of her orgasm. Her body shook, spasms running through it as she rode out the wave of her release, grinding herself against Allen’s muzzle.

Allen continued to lick at her nubbin until the last aftershocks passed from her body, then pulled himself away from her, her grip on his head gone slack in her release. The fur of his muzzle was soaked in her juices, and he licked at himself, savoring her taste. He withdrew from her crotch, rising from the floor after retrieving his tie. “So, do I keep my job?” he asked with a smirk of his own.

Arianna nodded weakly, then motioned towards the far end of the room. “Washroom, on this wall.”

Allen nodded and walked to the far side of the office, noticing the door set flush with the wall near the panoramic window. Inside was a small bathroom complete with shower and sink, decorated in the same cadet blue as the office beyond, trimmed in silver. He looked at himself in the mirror, then set about scrubbing the traces of his sins from his fur. He gave a quick blowdry to his wet fur, then retied his tie and checked himself again with a grimace. The scent of her sex still lingered in his nostrils, and everyone he passed would probably suspect what he’d been doing, but at least didn’t quite look the part now.

When he came back, Arianna was sitting at her desk, chatting happily away with her secretary, three mugs of coffee on a cafeteria tray nearby. Her secretary was occupying one of the chairs across from her, taking notes. The vixen looked over at him and motioned him over with a grin, a genuinely friendly smile. “Allen! Please, have a seat. I was just discussing your promotion with Linda, working out the details to have her pass them to HR.”

Allen’s ears shot upwards, his eyes going wide again. “Promotion?”

Arianna nodded, a hint of her mischevious smirk crossing her muzzle. “As we discussed? Personal project lead. I need someone who from time to time can handle special assignments from me that I just can’t trust to someone of lesser standards and skill, and I think you’ve amply demonstrated your ability to handle the position in your time here.” She winked when she finished her statement, her ears flicking in amusement.

Allen laughed. “I think I can handle the job. I’m flattered that you’d trust me with such a high-profile position.”

“Oh, believe me, you’ve earned it.” Arianna responded as Allen made a grab for his coffee. “I think you’ve got quite a future ahead of you at Harrington and Associates.”