Prologue

The street sign read “Madison Lane”, and the man below leaned a gloved hand against a parked car while he rested. The other arm of the sign indicated he stood on Trafalgar Street – a grandiose name for the main street of an uninspiring town.

Drifts of dead leaves and rubbish lay banked up against the car's tyres, for it had not moved in a long time. The desolation implied in that small detail seeped through the man's practised defences, and the dreaded loneliness threatened to engulf him.

But then the rumble of heavy machinery broke the eerie silence, and the man turned towards the hard granite mountains to the North. There's work to be done, he thought to himself as one of his robotic tunnelling machines lumbered out of the distant slope to dump another load of crushed rock.

The sound faded as the machine vanished underground once more. The man turned back to the street, and the plastic fabric of his biohazard suit crinkled in the silence. The suit was his world; sounds from beyond its membrane were muted, while his own breathing sounded loud and ragged inside the confining mask. It contained him. Was that other world beyond the visor real, or just a horrible dream from which he could never wake?

He straightened his back, drips of sweat trickling between his shoulder blades. Awkward fingers grasped the handle of the small cart beside him as he raised a weary foot to continue his journey. But before he could take a step, a faint whimpering penetrated through his head covering. He turned towards the sound, and followed it down Madison Lane until he reached the gate of a house.

Flies buzzed in the warmth of the afternoon, and through the open front door he could make out the shape of a long-dead corpse. The suit filtered the worst of the stench, but traces of the cloying smell still made the man gag.

But it was not the sight of death that caught his attention, for he had already seen it everywhere. Rather, it was the huge male Saint Bernard lying on the porch which caused his heart to quicken with excitement. For although the dog was emaciated and dishevelled, he was still able to sit up at the sight of the stranger, and his tail thumped several times despite the man’s unusual white suit.

“Poor boy!” murmured the man in soothing tones. “Still guarding your master’s house. I'm sorry, but we can't do anything for them now.”

The man in the suit reached out carefully and stroked the big dog’s ears, and the tail thumped again. “Would you like to come with me?” He fished a small treat from his pocket and dropped it in front of the dog’s nose. The dog devoured it, and looked to him for more. He dropped another one, and this time he slipped a leash onto the dog’s collar.

A fine dog, thought the man in the suit. He’ll be magnificent once he’s restored to full health. The man could provide a safe home and good food for any dogs he found, now that their owners were all gone. In return the dogs gave him something of great value: their DNA.

“Come on!” The white-suited man kept his words gentle and encouraging as he patted the thick plastic covering his knee. “Come for a walk. No point staying here!”

The Saint Bernard tottered to his feet, his tail giving another wag despite his weakness. He followed the man in the suit down the steps and back to the cart. However, he stopped there and looked towards the house.

“It’s no good, they’re all dead. I wish they weren’t, but they are. I’ve looked everywhere.” He sighed. “Now look at me, talking to dogs.”

But the big dog whined again, and now the man noticed that he looked not at the house, but at the fence to one side. Curious, he let the dog lead him. The dog scratched at the gate, and the man looked over the top.

On the far side, chained to a kennel, lay a tan and black German Shepherd. He was even more emaciated than the Saint Bernard. For a moment the man thought he was dead, but then the dog’s head moved, and his paws scrabbled at the ground as he tried to get up.

“Easy, boy!” said the man in the suit. He opened the gate and fetched his cart. The Saint Bernard limped up to the other dog, and began to lick his face. The man smiled a rare smile behind his plastic mask. “I’m glad you didn’t let me leave without your friend!” he told the Saint as he eased the Shepherd on to the cart. The smaller dog stirred and managed a feeble wag. “I think you’ll be okay if we can get you back to the lab.”

The man in the biohazard suit turned and began the long walk up the winding road towards his research laboratory. The Shepherd lay on the cart, and the Saint Bernard limped alongside.

---

Chapter 1

Kibble Trouble

Paws scrabbling on slick stone, he ran through the darkness. A babble of voices called to him from either side: Come back! There's nothing out there! But instinct drove him on, and his legs were beyond his control. A glow of light appeared ahead of him and grew stronger. Vague shapes swirled, just out of sight. The dark slope beneath his feet grew steeper, but his excitement lent fresh energy to his steps as he scrambled up. Nearly there! Elation surged through him as he finally burst out into the light, for he knew that it contained something wonderful –

Weskar sat up with a start, and wiped the drool from his muzzle. Falling asleep at my desk, eh. He glanced around the office, but his colleague at the other desk had rushed off for some last-minute filing, and other than the dusty portrait of Reginald Whitespot III (Deputy Director, Accounting Division), nobody had seen him nod off.

The dream was always the same, and he usually woke up just as he reached the light. Perhaps it indicated a subconscious rebellion at being assigned to the Accountancy section. He sighed as he looked down at the neat rows of figures in front of him. Why did it have to be Accounting? He wondered whether the Career Assignment Office had mixed up his aptitude test.

Total Kibble Consumed (Last Month): 16.5 Tonnes

Weskar stared at the summary he'd written at the foot of the page. That’s a lot of Kibble, he thought. Was his addition correct? The desk clock read 4:55. He'd have to work through the figures again tomorrow. He couldn't consign an incorrect ledger to the archives, after all – that would be sacrilege!

He glanced out his small window to the street below. A few canines hurried past on last-minute errands as the work day drew to a close. His gaze traced the outer wall of New Hope City as it curved away into the distance. It rose above the faux-gothic ornamentation of the buildings until it vanished in the gloom beyond the powerful overhead lights. The roof of the great cavern hung unseen somewhere far above.

Finally, the small clock sounded its hourly chime. Weskar swept the big accounting journal closed, dropped his pen in the desk drawer, and stood up.

He stretched his slender arms and eased the tension of the day from his back. His thick tan and black fur and large pointed ears showed his German Shepherd ancestry. His sensitive nose detected the odour of old paper in the small office, but he would much rather follow it on an adventure. In accordance with the fashion of the time, he wore knee-length trousers and a light coat, both of soft silver fabric.

The fake wood panelling of the hallway was meant to lend an air of timeless grandeur to the building, but centuries of use gave it true antiquity. The tread of thousands of paws had worn the stairs smooth, and authentic creaking accompanied Weskar as he trotted down to the lobby.

The street filled as canines left work and departed for their apartments, or perhaps one of the small cafés where they could meet friends for a quiet drink – only one, mind you, for city rules did not allow excess. A quick but vigorous shake rid Weskar's fur of Accounting Office dust as he stepped out the door, and then he set off at a jog towards the West End.

The canines of New Hope frowned upon undue haste, but Weskar ignored that convention. He loved to feel the wind in his fur, and running stirred a hidden magic deep inside his soul. But the magic would always slip away from his grasp, just like the elusive light in his dreams.

Past a block of apartments and down a hill, Weskar arrived at the maintenance section. A row of squat warehouses cast angular shadows in the evening light. He poked his head around the door of Workshop 3A, then jerked back when the brilliant white light of an arc welder flooded the shop. When the flickering stopped, he peered around the door again.

A big shaggy Saint Bernard in a leather apron and gloves raised his welding mask and inspected the glowing metal in front of him. He had several inches over Weskar in height, and his solid frame dwarfed the slender Shepherd. The welder seemed a flimsy toy in his big paws, but his bulk disguised a surprising talent for detailed and meticulous work.

“Hi, Sam!” Weskar began a cheerful greeting which became a squeak of alarm when he saw a curl of smoke from his friend’s back. “Look out - you’re on fire!” He grabbed a bucket of water that stood by the door and aimed the contents at the Saint Bernard, who was turning in a circle as he tried to locate the source of the smoke.

Sam’s face registered a look of horror as he caught site of the bucket. “NO!....” His shout was cut short by a sizzle and a POP, and Weskar saw the Saint jerk in pain and drop the welding torch. “For the love of the Prefect’s curly whiskers! I was holding a live welder, Weskar!” Sam patted some water out of his sodden fur.

Good natured optimism and slowness to anger were among Sam’s notable traits, and his attempt at a reproachful glare proved unsuccessful. Instead, he prised open a panel and peered into the welder's innards. “Luckily, you blew a fuse!”

The dogs had known each other since they were small pups, and Sam had put up with many minor disasters in that time. Weskar grinned as he recalled the time he convinced the Saint to try for a triple-pot-plant tandem skateboard jump off the porch, and they both cartwheeled into a hedge. They'd ended up laughing then, too.

Sam wrestled his broad head and shoulders out of the welding apron and helmet and threw them over a hook on the wall.

“I'm done anyway, so let’s get out of here! But first, hold this.”

He handed his shirt to Weskar and padded out into the alley, leaving a trail of puddles in his wake. Showers of water caught the evening light and splashed against the nearby buildings as he shook. When Sam wanted to make a mess, he did it properly.

The big Saint's musk wafted up to Weskar's nose from the damp fabric of the shirt. His eyes traced over the bigger dog's muscular torso. I could run my paws over that body, slide them down, ease the clasp of those pants undone and... He shook his head, and looked away before Sam could catch him staring. The strange feelings vanished, and the Saint Bernard was just his big, dependable friend again.

A sharp twist of Sam's ropey arms teased the last drops of water out of his shirt before he buttoned it back over his thick white fur. He always looked untidy, his hair sticking up in different directions and his clothes never quite fitting properly. By contrast, his young Shepherd friend could maintain his dapper appearance with little effort.

The two dogs set off for the food hall, anticipating an early dinner. After that, the Friday night entertainment of New Hope City awaited them. The city had a central park with a stage where the city leaders gave Motivating Speeches, and troupes of canines performed Diversionary Entertainments – moralistic plays or satirical comedies. Weskar would dutifully attend such theatrical offerings, having been rigorously schooled in New Hope City tradition as a puppy. Sam showed less enthusiasm, instead offering grumbled complaints about their predictability. Thought-provoking scripts were not common fare in the city, for nobody wanted to draw undue attention from the authorities. The citizens prided themselves on a carefully maintained sense of order.

The marble-lined plaza of the food hall provided a place for canines to gather, socialise and eat their food rations. Tables and chairs nestled between columns swathed in fake ivy. Fresh water splashed from a fountain and flowed down through a series of tiered bowls, providing both refreshment and ambiance.

The seating area formed a wide half-circle around the Kibble Dispenser. The gleaming nozzle of this large machine gave out healthy and nutritious food, and many canines endowed it with divine status. The dispenser formed a part of the back wall of the plaza, which in turn formed the outer wall of New Hope City. Nobody knew where the food actually came from, and its mysterious origins lent weight to the mythos of the Dispenser.

They found the plaza nearly deserted, for the hour was still early. A neat stack of clean bowls stood ready on a trolley, and Weskar pondered whether he preferred Kitchen Duty to Accounting. It was debatable.

Sam slid his bowl under the nozzle, and Weskar saw him lick his lips in anticipation. He fished a blue plastic disk from his pocket and held it in front of the machine. This action elicited a musical chime, and a green light blinked to acknowledge the evening Kibble ration – carefully tailored to meet each canine's needs.

Once activated, the allocated amount of Kibble (quite a lot, in Sam’s case) rattled out of the nozzle and into the bowl. Sam lifted his bowl and inspected the contents with the eye of a connoisseur, then put it to his nose and took a big sniff. “Hmm, not bad!”

“You’d eat it no matter how it tasted!” Weskar grinned as he placed his own bowl under the nozzle. He waved his disk in front of the Dispenser and received the usual chime and green light, but then something went badly wrong. A few bites of Kibble dropped into the bowl, then it stopped with an ominous grinding noise.

Weskar frowned at the machine and rapped the nozzle with his paw. Nothing happened. “That's odd!” He swiped his disk in front of the machine again, but this time it emitted a sulky Bloop! and the light turned red to indicate that his ration had already been dispensed. Its entire demeanour seemed to chastise Weskar for testing the divine generosity with his excessive greed.

“But... my dinner!” Weskar did not quite share Sam's fondness for Kibble, but a dog still needed his dinner and Kibble was the only food in the city.

Sam looked from his own bowl to the near-empty one in Weskar's paws. “You can... um... share mine...” It was a generous offer from the Saint, given how much he liked his dinner. “Come on, let’s sit down.”

The two dogs threaded their way through the tables to their favourite spot in one corner, and the chair creaked in protest as Sam floomped into it. The Saint squinted in concentration as he tipped Kibble into Weskar's bowl, until the Shepherd made him stop at about one third of the amount.

Sam put his nose in the bowl and took a mouthful. “Hmmm, Actually, it tastes a bit strange today. Kind of smoky.” The big Saint’s ration was soon gone despite his complaint, while Weskar ate his more slowly. The pressed chunks of dry food had a pleasant crunch to them, but the bland flavour seldom varied. Sam was right – the evening meal did have a faint burnt flavour.

Sam leaned back in his chair and contemplated his empty bowl. “You know, we should have a closer look at that machine. There’s definitely something up with the Kibble, and I’m still hungry.”

“You’re always hungry!” Weskar collected their bowls and stacked them on the ‘Dirty Dishes’ trolley. “But I'd like to know where my dinner went, too.”

They stopped at the fountain to wash the Kibble dust from their paws and noses and lap up some cool water, then Sam inspected the Dispenser again. “Have you ever wondered how this thing works? I’ve never heard anyone talk about it.”

“Well,” intoned Weskar, “it’s a Divine Mechanism of the Protectors, generously provided to help us survive.”

Sam gave a derisive laugh. “Don’t quote the Structions to me! I know them as well as anyone, but it’s still a machine. Looks like it can still go wrong. You don’t really think it’s ‘divine’, do you?”

Weskar pondered. He'd learned all about the Protectors as a pup – they all had. He'd always believed in them. Or had he?

“I suppose I've never really thought much about it. We were taught to believe in the Protectors, and it’s worked OK so far...” He glanced around furtively, for open talk about the Protectors and their Divine Machinery was dangerous. Fortunately, the food hall was empty.

“Believe what you like!” Sam's tone said exactly the opposite. “It’s a machine, and I'm going to get the rest of my dinner out of it. Or your dinner, I should say. I’m training as a Tech, after all. That's got to be useful for something other than fixing pot handles.” He turned and strode out the door.

“Where are you going?” Weskar hurried to catch up. Sam had turned right, following a narrow alley which led down beside the food hall to the outer wall.

The smooth plastered concrete curved slightly inwards as it rose above the buildings. After some distance the plastering ended, leaving the uneven surface of the solid granite from which the city of New Hope was hewn. Massive arches rose at intervals around the perimeter, supports for an unseen roof. Floodlights bathed the city in artificial daylight during each day period, but the realm above them remained in perpetual darkness. Built by the ancient “Protectors”, the great cavern was a feat of engineering well beyond the understanding of the inhabitants.

Every young canine learned about the invisible but ever-present Protectors who watched over the city. The “Structions” contained many exhortations to obey their will. The origin of this holy book had suitable religious mystique, for the Protectors were supposed to have dictated it directly to a canine named Wilkes. They appeared to Wilkes after the Holy Fire of Enlightenment destroyed the Library Computer, a powerful oracle of confusion in earlier times. Wilkes brought order to the city, and his descendants had interpreted the will of the Protectors and served as Prefects ever since.

Sam stopped at the end of the alley, under the low branches of a sagging plastic tree. Weskar had never seen a real tree, for only moss grew under the artificial lights of the city. Legends told of a place without walls where fantastic things such as real trees and live animals could be found, but few of the canines believed these old stories. As far as Weskar knew, only endless rock lay beyond the walls. His parents had always taught him as much, and he could still hear their words. “The Protectors have favoured us greatly, and provided everything for us. Without them, there would be no city, only rock and darkness!”

Sam got down on his knees and peered behind the tree, running his paws along the wall. “What are you doing?” enquired Weskar, wondering if his friend could be delusional from malnutrition.

“It’s a complex machine, Wesk-a-dog, and there must be a maintenance door somewhere. It’s not on the other side of the food hall – there’s a nice little coffee shop there – so it should be here... a-ha!” Sam straightened up and eyed the wall. “Help me move this plant!”

He grabbed the base of the tree, and with Weskar pushing they managed to drag it to one side of the alley. Now Weskar could also see a narrow split in the smooth concrete, outlining the shape of a door. He reached out a tentative paw and pushed, but the door merely rattled against the lock. “That’s not much use!” he said, turning to Sam.

To his surprise, he found Sam bent over, intent on a detailed inspection of the tree. His eyes travelled down the trunk to the base. He knelt beside it as if to get a closer look, then felt around just above the fake roots. There was a Click! and a panel popped open, revealing a chamber from which Sam removed a small rusty key. “The spare key!” he announced, holding it up and giving a triumphant wag.

Weskar watched agape as Sam slid the key into the keyhole and turned it. A creaking of rusty hinges and a shower of dust issued from the door as it swung inwards. Sam looked at Weskar, winked, and ducked inside the low entrance. Weskar hesitated on the doorstep, then followed.

Anything for a little adventure!