Chapter 3: The Kennel
August 18, 1982
05:54 Hours
South London, England

I opened my eyes, as always, a few minutes before the harsh fluorescent lights above us flared to life. I was never sure what woke me, it wasn't as though there was even the slightest disturbance in the near silent room. The darkness was so complete that I couldn't even make out the steel bars of my cage that stood not two feet before my nose. The windowless room was black as sin, and the only sounds that reached my twitching ears were those of my brothers and sisters slumbering nearby in cages of their own.

Sitting up, I could feel the tips of my ears brush the bars above me. There was only just enough room in the cage to be able to curl up for sleep, and stand on all fours in order to get in and out. Heavy, unpainted steel bars, thick as my wrist, made up everything around me but the floor. That was made of cold, hard, long scarred concrete. They didn't give us anything to put on the ground beneath us. That made it easier to clean up the blood and urine.

I was never quite sure if I was the only one awake, as I was too afraid to speak. Such was against regulation while the lights were off. I never heard a sound from anyone else.

I'd been waking up like this for as long as I could remember. The floor may be cool beneath me, but I had my pelt, and, more importantly, I was home. I was where I should be, at the Kennel. The slight warmth of my brother beside me kept me at ease.

The overhead lights flicked on a moment later without a sound. Beside me, I could see my brothers and sisters jerk as they were suddenly awakened from their slumber.

As one, they all sat up in a single spastic motion, eyes opening but unfocused, sitting at attention. The position I was already in.

Their bodies moved, but their minds had not yet woken up. They were little more than automatons, following their program for the beginning of the day, as they did every day. Every single day that any of us could remember.

We were Police Dogs in training. That's what we did, that's what we were. That's what we had been bred to be.

A heavy key turned in the steel door of the room, the only entrance. It took a few moments to unlatch. I never could understand why they had such a reinforced lock and door. We were already in cages, and it wasn't as if the Handlers had even the slightest to fear from ones such as us.

Any Dog who showed even the merest hint of aggression towards a Handler, even a touch of insubordination, was immediately disposed of. I, like all of us, had seen many a Dog escorted away for disposal, but not one of them had been for assaulting a Handler. We would sooner slit our own throats than ever lay so much as a claw on any of them.

They were second only to the Government in our chain of respect.

At long last the door swung open, booming back on its hinges and banishing any remaining sleep from the last of the Dogs around me.

The Handler who walked in was the same man we had every Monday, Wednesday and Thursday. Handler Llyal. He was a short, heavy set fellow who regarded us from behind thick, droopy black eyebrows.

He was quite possibly my favourite Handler. While hardly a light touch, he was far from the most violent of our trainers. That position was reserved for Handler Proust. Proust enjoyed sending Dogs to disposal more than any man I had ever met. Not that I had yet met all that many.

"All right, you lot. Time to get moving, it's a 'nother wonderful day in London." He walked down the cages, peering into each of our eyes to make sure we had made it through the night intact and sane. Unlike some Handlers, he didn't drag his baton across the cage bars with a 'clink-clink-clink' sound. That always set my nerves on edge and sent me shivering.

Standing at the far end of the row, he pulled a large set of keys from his belt and unlocked the first cage. The Dog's name was Sixty-Eight. My brother averted his eyes from the Handler as the man reached down to pull the door open.

Upon leaving the cage Sixty-Eight bowed his head to Handler Llyal and let his tail drop to lie on the floor, accepting the Handler's dominance. It was an old ritual that we went through every day, it hardly meant anything to us anymore. Hardly.

Handler Llyal looked him up and down, checking for any wounds that may have festered overnight, peering in his eyes to make sure he was fully aware and cognizant.

"Very good, Sixty-Eight. Go wait for us in the mess hall." The Dog turned and scampered off out the door without pause or a glance back.

Handler Llyal worked his way down the line of cages, opening each in turn to inspect the Dog that sat motionless within before sending them on. He, however, skipped mine, leaving it until last.

There were only the two of us alone in the room now. Llyal had waited for the last dog to scamper away through the door and out of sight before coming to stand before me. I could hear his hushed footsteps on the concrete floor of the hall.

Handler Llyal stood for a long moment in front of my cage, inspecting me through the bars before opening the door.

"And how are we doing today, Forty-Two?" His voice was gruff and gravelly, having been ravaged by untold packs of cigarettes through the decades. It wasn't uncommon to see him smoking when off-duty, but never in here with us.

It always made me uncomfortable when he asked me questions in private. I was never able to grasp which were rhetorical and which I should answer.

I played it safe. There was less of a punishment for speaking out of turn than for ignoring a Handler. And in any event, Llyal, unlike the other Handlers, rarely reprimanded me for showing initiative.

"Quite well, Sir." I spoke softly as I crawled out of the cage to stand upright before him. His head only made it halfway up my chest.

He inspected me much the same way he had all the other Dogs, but far more exacting, more in-depth.

And he touched me.

It was neither rough and forceful as some of the Handlers are want to do, nor fearful and fleeting, but simple and matter of fact. Efficient and familiar.

He took each of my hands in turn, inspecting both sides, paying special attention to the thick joints of my fingers and wrists, and my polished black claws. He ran a callused thumb over the pads of my fingers and palms, checking for any scratches or infections.

The inspection continued as he lifted my arms, legs, pulled my mussel down to his height so he could peer into my eyes and ears, even going so far as lifting my lips so he could see my teeth.

He even walked behind me to lift my tail. An action that not only sent me teetering off balance, but also left me feeling slightly embarrassed. That was despite the fact that I didn't have any clothes, and nothing to hide in any event.

At long last he was done. A smile broke his lips as he returned to stand casually in front of me, showing at least a half dozen gold teeth.

"Excellent, my good boy, Forty-Two. You look fit and trim for the day, you always do." His grin widened, "Your last set of tests came back, a ninety-nine point seven score. That's the highest we've ever seen. And it pulls your average up, too. You keep doing that, my boy, and you'll graduate with just shy of a perfect final score!"

I wanted to smile, but I knew it was improper. I simply nodded my head. A single quick, sharp bob.

"You're the best we've ever had come out of the Kennel, boy. Keep it up. There's a bright future for you, I know it." He gave me a smack on the rear and sent me off to join my brothers and sisters in the mess hall for breakfast.

---

The meal proceeded as it always did, quick, silent, and consisting of nothing but the all but inedible kibble. It was the same kibble that we were always fed. It did little for the taste buds, but it filled the empty space in our bellies all the same. And that was good, it was the only thing we'd ever eaten since being weened. Well, other than some grass and dirt out on the sports field.

The bowls had already been set out before us, long before the first of us had ever arrived, but they sat untouched.

I sat down in my normal spot, between Forty-One and Forty-Three. Without turning my head I glanced over at each of them in turn. They glanced back, the slightest of nods ruffling their fur.

It wasn't until Handler Llyal entered the room behind me and barked out the order to 'Eat' that we dug in.

We each had a large bowl of dry kibble and a jug of water to wash it down. They were both quickly emptied, licked clean in barely over five minutes as though we were afraid they would be stolen by our neighbours if we didn't eat fast enough.

One by one, in numerical order, we took our now empty bowls and pitchers to the front counter of the spartan mess hall to wash, then refilled them with kibble and water to place back on the simple metal tables where we had sat – ready for the next group of Dogs to come through.

No one was quite sure what our next stop would be as we lined up next to the mess hall door. Our daily routine of classes seemed to be near random, dictated by what amenities were available and whatever it was deemed we were the weakest in. I was never the weakest in anything.

---

Today it was chosen that we were to be sent off for hand-to-hand combat training.

This was always one of my favourite classes, it was one of the few places where we were able to work off our aggression through combat. The only other class we could do anything similar in was the physical training gym, but it always felt better to have someone to fight, not just an iron weight to push around over and over. You never learned anything from pumping iron.

Not that we tried to actually hurt each other of course. We had all long ago attained the top rank in karate, jujitsu, and ken-do, and we knew just how deadly a slip up could be. To either damage another Dog, or to allow ourselves to be damaged would be dealt with harshly. The government had invested far too much money in our bodies to allow us to break them unnecessarily.

I sat patiently on the edge of the mat with my brothers and sisters, waiting my turn as we observed each other fight, working our way, one-by-one, through a tournament ladder to decide who was the best. Our rankings would, of course, become part of our daily averages.

It wasn't long before I was called upon the mat to fight my first round. I was pitted against Forty-Seven. We had fought many times before. The other Dog was talented, one of the best, but not good enough.

She was female, my sister, but in the same class as I. As far as the police were concerned the only difference between a male and female Police Dog was that you needed one of each for breeding. That was it. In all other ways we were treated identically. Including in combat.

We were both naked, as per normal. We were only provided with clothing when situations warranted, and combat practise didn't. Not unless we were training in how to fight in uniform.

Handler Llyal didn't even bother to tell us when to begin, that was left up to us. All he did was watch. Watch and score us.

We started at opposing ends of the mat, walking forward towards the center. I matched her every stride, as she did mine. Anyone stumbling into the room would have assumed that we were to do nothing but pass as two strangers. They would be mistaken.

I let her make the first move. I always let my opponent strike first. It gives them a chance, no matter how slim it may be.

She didn't disappoint me. In the blink of an eye her stance had fallen from a casual walk to almost laying flat on the ground. One leg shot out towards me as she balanced on the other, arms and tail spread wide to steady her weight.

A classic first strike straight out of any of the text books they had taught us from. The stance she found herself in would have been difficult if not impossible for a human, low and balancing on a lone leg. The inhuman shapes of our limbs, however, made it easy for our kind. Not to mention the counterbalance of our tails allowing us to stay upright.

Her foot moved almost too fast to track, slicing through the air, claws leading. Unfortunately for her, it never connected.

The classic textbook response to this attack was simply to step back, out of range. It had been drilled into us for years, that's what any one of us would do. Pull back out of range, then counter attack.

I leapt.

I'd been expecting the move, there were only a couple dozen opening attacks that filled the pages of our books, and this was one of the more common. Sweep your opponent's legs, then fall upon them as they lay prone and defenceless on the ground.

I always was one for poetic justice.

The toned muscles in my legs threw me more than two meters in the air, a clean arc through the high ceilinged room that was not intended to merely protect me from the attack. I landed atop her before she'd even had the chance to finish her kick.

Her one legged balance had been precarious to begin with. We were all trained in how to cope with the shock of our blow landing, and even with contact of the more common of blocks, but never on how to respond to an assault from above.

My weight came down squarely on the tip of her upturned nose as she stared dumbly up at me, not even trying to escape from my devouring shadow as I fell upon her. She'd never been trained in what to do now, so she did nothing.

I weighed only a stone more than she did, but she would have been crushed under me if I had allowed myself to make full contact. Her backbone, no matter how strong and trained, would have folded as I came down upon her.

I made contact, of that there was no doubt, but I shot out an arm to the mat as I fell, diverting my weight from her and rolling to the side before any serious harm could be done.

In no more than a single attack and counter, Forty-Seven lay in a heap on the mat beside me as I pulled myself quickly back to my feet in a single fluid motion. Watching, I let out an unhurried breath as I waited for any sign that she might return to the fight.

I glanced down to my elbow, where I had made contact with her face, it was smeared with blood from the slight nose bleed I had just given her. I wiped it away offhandedly. It was a minor wound, she would heal. It was nothing to be concerned with.

After a count to five it was obvious that Forty-Seven would not be continuing the fight. I lowered my guard and walked forward, offering my hand to her limp body.

There was no bowing or symbolic gestures. Such were inefficient and served no useful purpose.

She looked up at me weakly from the mat, her brown eyes slowly coming back to focus. She nodded slightly to me, formally ceding the spar, then took my hand.

I helped her back to her seat on the edge of the ring, then returned to my own. During the entire battle not a single word had been said. There was no reason to, we'd been through it a hundred times before. Every time we repeated them the battles became a touch more experienced, ever so slightly more efficient, but little else changed.

Passively, I watched the spars until my second round came. There was little to note. No new tactics, no surprise moves. Nothing changed from the last time we had been in this room.

The only minor note of entertainment came from Sixty. He was the next best combatant. After myself, of course. He would always be second best. He used the same move I had, the one I had invented for myself just moments ago.

My second spar was little different from the first, other than the fact I allowed my opponent a few more attacks before I concluded it. Forty-One, my brother who slept in the cage to the left of me, was one of the weakest hand-to-hand combatants in the group. I let him have some additional practise.

His blows were loose and sloppy, hardly better than what a human could manage, but still better than they had been when I had first decided to allow him more time to attack me, months ago. He was improving, slowly, but he was improving. That was good. He was too close to the bottom of the ladder for my comfort. I could feel the warmth of his body through the cage wall when we slept at night. I didn't want to see him go to disposal.

I ended the match with a light blow to his shoulder, sending him off balance and spinning to the mat where I placed a single claw gently to his throat. I finished as softly as I could, he was weak and prone to bruising. I always felt bad when I hurt him.

Forty-One didn't bother nodding to me to cede the bout. We all knew who had won without question when I touched his unprotected throat. He walked back to his place, less steady than Forty-Seven despite the softer spar.

In due course I came to spar against Sixty. That was as it always was. If we didn't meet each other earlier on the ladder, then we met at the top. The spars weren't random, they were called out by Handler Llyal, and we rarely met at anything other than the final bout.

Sixty could have very well been a mirror image of me, like all the other male Dogs. We were the same weight, same build, and same brown and black German Shepherd fur. The only thing that set us apart were the colour of our eyes. Mine were blue and his were ocean green. They marked us as competing strains.

My strain was line 'C', his was 'A'. That simply meant that his line was the most conservative for the year of our berth and mine was the most aggressive and experimental use of breeding and genetic manipulation. Most of the members of our group were 'B'.

He was the only one who had a realistic chance of beating me, and we both knew it.

Standing at the edges of the mat, the silent signal passed between us and the bout was on. I estimated him as having a thirty five percent chance of success.

I could feel my lips pull up ever so slightly at the edges, exposing my teeth. A challenge.

He began walking towards me, but I refused to follow the timeworn routine. I simply fell into an easy, relaxed stance, never taking a single step forward. His odds had just dropped to ten percent.

He nearly fell flat, tripping over his own toes as he gawked at me, unable to understand why I had refused to meet him in the center of the mat. It wasn't normal procedure to stop dead before meeting your opponent. Even Handler Llyal looked up now. I had piqued the human's interest.

Sixty didn't know how to respond, this was unprecedented. We always met at the center of the mat. Always. He couldn't understand what to do now that I would not meet him there.

And that was why he would lose.

Sixty was a talented combative, perhaps even more so than I, but he could only repeat and emulate. He, like so many Dogs, could not think for himself.

He looked over to me, wide eyed, almost seeming ready to cry, silently begging me to walk forward, to act as I always did. To fulfil the contract he expected of me. I steadied my gaze and motioned for him to come to me instead.

I never struck first, and now I would not meet him in the center of the mat either.

Sixty looked over at Handler Llyal, imploring the human to instruct him what to do. The Handler didn't respond, refused to intercede at all. All he did was watch and write quick notes on the paper before him.

In the end, after a long pause, Sixty took a single, tentative step forward. Then another. His nervousness increased with every motion, every stride further he moved from his well practised and understood routines.

He didn't even notice as he came within range of my strike.

I shot a single fist out, connecting cleanly with his wet black nose. His head snapped back with a satisfying wet crunch as blood flowed free to splatter across the mat between us. He fell flat on his tail, staring up at me.

I had yet to so much as take a single step.

He sat there for a moment, eyes narrowing as a hand rose to his face to staunch the flow of blood. I could just make out the glimmer of one of his canines as his lips rose.

Slowly, he returned to his feet, making sure to keep out of range. The hesitation was gone from his motions. He may have not noticed that I struck first, but he was capable enough to know now that the fight was now truly on.

Circling me, he was careful to keep his feet on the mat, any step off would disqualify him. I never so much as moved my head when he walked behind me.

It wasn't in his nature to attack my undefended back. He'd never been taught to do so.

Instead, the assault came as soon as he returned to sight. A simple and inelegant leap through the air at my middle.

All I did was to smoothly step aside.

I didn't move more than a single stride, but he went flying past me, very nearly landing outside the mat before scrambling to remain in play.

A snarl tore from his lips now, deep and foreboding. Its companion rose from my own throat. Our eyes danced, but not in anger. He loved losing to me, even more so than winning. I could expect to see each and every one of my new moves reflected next time he was on the mat. He would be unbeatable. Against everyone but me.

He came at me again, arms held high and sweeping down. For a moment I almost thought I saw a glimpse of creativity as he charged. Before, that is, he fell into the feint attack that I had debuted two weeks ago on this very mat. His hands were nothing more than a distraction. It was his shoulder that came crashing into my gut, threatening to drive the wind from me.

And that was the reason I never demonstrated a new attack without first concocting its defence.

I fell. Simple as that. I pulled my legs up and dodged beneath the brunt of his assault. He still connected with me, leaving me gasping for breath, but his momentum carried him over and above me as I followed in a slower arc below.

I never even gave him the time to land from his leap before I pushed my now compressed legs beneath me and sprang up to follow him through the air.

I landed upon his exposed and undefended back. Having twisted in my flight, I was now upon him. Hands, and more importantly claws, gripped loosely around his throat.

I couldn't see his face, but I could feel his head jerk as he ceded to my dominance.

From the corner of my eye I could just see Handler Llyal hastily scribble something in his black leather bound notebook.

It took me long moments to remove my hands from Sixty's throat. I could feel the beat of his racing heart under my fingers, only millimetres from my sharp claws.

I let him go as I stood up. Turning a moment later, I reached down and offered him my hand. He took it without comment, never making eye contact.

If I could keep this up I would be selected as breeder for sure.

I could feel yet another grin split my lips. It was less aggressive this time, but no less feral.