You try delivering a rat to TV's biggest news program. They saved hundreds of animals from the dissecting knife by delivering white rats in tartan bows to all the VIPs in town. Dawn in a dump… They staked out the city dump to catch contractors dumping truckloads of plastics instead of delivering them to recycling plants. 'It's a paper mill right.  So we don't use paper.  We use email, webpages, demonstrations…It's a paperless war…' Now Tess is planning their biggest fight yet. She aims to stop a billion dollar paper mill setting up in town - and pumping dioxin, an incredibly toxic pollutant, into the air. And all she has to help her are the three Green Guerrillas, a stubborn kid sister and one dark-eyed karate kicking photographer who won't take 'no' for an answer.

Chapter 1

(Wednesday 27 March. Geelong, Tess' city home with Kate and Michael and Laura. School holidays)

You try delivering a rat to the city's top-rating current affairs program.

I took a deep breath, marched across half a hectare of chrome and carpet and placed the brightly wrapped box right in the middle of the receptionist's desk.

'This is a present for Amanda Brinkley,' I told her. Amanda Brinkley, the anchorwoman of the show, claimed to be an avid champion of animal rights. Well, rats were animals weren't they? Just as much as rare Bengal tigers and pandas that looked oh-so perfect on TV.

The only problem was getting the rat past the receptionists, secretaries and about twenty other people who guarded the portals of the powerful.

'And who are you dear?' The receptionist was wary.

'I'm a friend of Amanda's daughter,' I told her, trying to sound as though I hung out at their place every second day. That morning I'd got up almost before the birds to put a double dose of 'Russet Red' through my hair and cake on enough make-up to qualify as a Miss World candidate. Add knee-high boots and a nose ring made from an old clip-on earring and I had to look at least nineteen. I hoped.

'I see.' She relaxed about one millimetre.

'It's Amanda's birthday next week.'

'Oh? I didn't know that.'

Two weeks ago, I hadn't known that either. But the Who's Who in our local library listed all the important stuff like that: date of birth, university degrees, number of times married, dates of children's birth, even their names. According to my maths, Amanda Brinkley's birthday was exactly six days from now. Her daughter – named Tania – was just a few years older than me.

'Tania told me.' I let the name drop carelessly.

From inside the green and gold box, a small scuffling sound came. The receptionist suddenly smiled.

'Oh, is it a kitten? How lovely.' She leant closer to the largest air hole and looked in.

A small pink eye peered back. A few whiskers twitched in the air.

'Oh …' She drew back a little. 'It's er … sweet.' Encouraged, the rat poked the rest of its head through the hole. White fur gleamed in the lights and a bright tartan ribbon showed around its neck. I'm not sure if rats could smile, but this one gave a pretty good imitation.

Tentatively the woman put a finger to the hole. The white rat sniffed it and gave the very tip of her nail a delicate nibble. It had been born and raised in the back rooms of a biology lab. It liked humans. It didn't know that in a few weeks' time those same humans were planning kill it and stake it out on a dissecting board so that some ignorant first-year university student could hack it open and prod around in its insides. This rat was safe now. But back at the university five hundred of its friends, family and fellow rodents were trapped in their cages with the date of their death already set. The information was all there, hidden inside a birthday card. Amanda Brinkley was known to take risks with her stories — and rats sure were a risk. But if this one could score a segment on her show then five hundred other rats might have a chance to see sunlight for once in their life — and live.

'You will make sure Ms Brinkley gets it right away?' I asked. The nose ring was beginning to slip, making me want to sneeze. Time to get out fast.

'Of course. But are you sure this is the right …?' She looked up at me, not wanting to offend. 'You do know don't you … that this is a … er … rat?'

But I was already heading for the door. There were four other rats needing homes yet.

'We think of it more as a mouse,' I said to her, 'with just a bit of a weight problem.'

*      *     *     *     *

I knew Jacob had delivered the second rat because I was listening to Neil Persimmon's talk -back hour on my Walkman. I'd ditched the nose ring and was heading for a seat and some shade under the huge old oaks in the local park.

'… that was the classic title track from the Michael Jackson album History. Along with a gift from a fan in a large box. Holy shi…vers!' He tried to cover himself, but I bet the phones were ringing with complaints before he'd even taken another breath. 'Sorry about that ladies and gentlefolk. But a large white rat has just arrived in the studio and … er … it's wearing a ribbon around its neck.'

The production assistant must have been on the ball. They cut to an ad break immediately while Neil checked out his newest form of fan mail. We got to hear a lot about dental floss and even more about nine out of ten dentist's private personal hygiene before we got back to the live action.

'I don't expect to hear swearing on my radio. Not from you Neil.' The lady on the other end of the telephone with the croaky voice and the school-teacher manner was obviously a regular on the show. Neil knew her voice and name immediately.

'Shirley, so sorry. But it's not every day you find a large rat on your desk.' He was back to honeyed voice and urbane calm again.

'Well, that's not the point. I think it's extremely …'

'It came from the university you know.' Neil was a pro. He switched subjects on her easily. 'Don't think the garden vermin species. Think more of a pet rat, white with a small brown patch over one eye. And quivering whiskers … Rather endearing really.'

'I thought rats were brown.'

'This is a pet rat. They breed them you know, for laboratory experiments.' In a single ad break he'd read the card on the box, figured out which angle was best to take and made friends with his rat. He'd done well.

'Experiments? You mean like running mazes …?' Shirley was following his lead.

'Not always. This one and others like it will be used solely for dissection. In other words, they are bred to die. Do you know Shirley, that over five hundred white rats like this are cut up by our university students every year?' Neil was good, very, very good. No one would ever have known he was reading straight from page three of our card. 'And what for Shirley? That's what I'd like to know. There are CD ROMs around that show the same thing. Only one rat has to die and students can watch the CD and learn just as much. So why butcher five hundred rats every year?'

'That's terrible,' said Shirley.

'It is,' said Neil. 'We might take some calls on this. If you're out there and want to talk about Rodents and Their Right to Life, listeners, here's our number …'

 *      *     *     *     *

'Tess, you're a genius!' It was Colin on the mobile phone. 'And Jacob is brilliant. I rang the station but the switchboard is totally jammed with calls!'

'Great.' I leant back contentedly on my park bench and grinned up at the trees. All going according to plan. 'And you? How did your drop go?' Colin's job was to deliver his rat to Archie Wolinski, the editor of our local weekly newspaper. Of all the VIPs we'd targeted, Archie was the least guarded and the most curious. All the same, Colin had gone out to the newspaper offices that weekend, checking out doors and windows and public transport. He'd scouted out at least five different escape routes.

'Oh, it's done,' said Colin, trying to sound casual. 'I dressed like a courier — navy shirt and cap, lots of chewing gum, the lot. Archie never even looked at me. He was reading the card and reaching for the phone before I was even out the door.'

'Good one.' The card on the box included the names of all five VIPs we'd targeted. Archie Wolinski was renowned for doing his homework well. He would ring the other four people, check they had got a rat and then ask each of them what they were planning to do. To send the rats back to the university would be a death sentence, so they certainly couldn't do that. But if they had to admit to Archie they were doing nothing, it would sound incredibly lame. That's exactly what we were counting on. Not wanting to look foolish or uncaring, every person on the list would have to promise some action. Then, when Archie printed their words in the paper, the whole city would know of their promise — and they would have to carry it through.

'But I was thinking Tess, maybe I should have worn gloves,' said Colin. 'My fingerprints are all over the box …' Cautious Colin was his nickname. It suited him. Often.

I shook my head; pointless really because he couldn't see. 'Col, the notes carry the signature of the Green Guerrillas.'

The Green Guerrillas were us. A grand sounding name for four kids hanging out at school who met occasionally at each other's place, kicking around ideas and sometimes actually putting them into action in the hope of making the world just a fraction better to live in. Toni had come up with the name. Once we'd been the usual friends at school, grouching about the same teachers and heading to the same movies or beach on weekends. Then someone had started bitching about the cliffs at the top of Whale Bay. Erosion was turning them into a desert and huge hunks of cliff face were falling into the sea. For some reason that none of us could explain even now, we decided to do something about it. We got some teachers onside and some money from the school and then we'd planted three hundred trees and bushes on the top of the cliff to halt the erosion. There had been a grand opening ceremony, with lots of teachers and parents telling us how wonderful we were, and that should have been the finish of it really — except for the sudden heat wave and drought that followed. We'd ended up lugging buckets of water over the cliff top every Sunday and hand watering every plant just to keep them all alive.

Afterwards, as we sat under the one tree that gave shade, trying to get the kinks out of our backs and waiting for the sweat to dry, it seemed easy to plan other stuff too. We'd gone out at night to stick posters on the windows of pharmacies urging people not to buy cosmetics tested on animals and then we'd painted 'Get Drastic about Plastic' on the huge glass doors at the local shopping centre every weekend. Small stuff really, and for a while we'd been able to keep our identity a secret. But not after the Comcor tower disaster a couple of months ago. No, don't ask.

'Colin, every kid at school and half the town knows you're a member of the Green Guerrillas now,' I told him.

'Oh yeah,' said Colin. He was remembering the Comcor mess too. There was a pause. 'Tess,' he said at last, 'are you sure that giving someone a pet rat is legal?'

 *      *     *     *     *

Toni rang because she was bored.

'Doesn't this vice-chancellor guy ever eat? Or go to the bathroom even?' she complained.

'Toni, where exactly are you?' I kept my voice down in case someone at her end could hear.

'At the uni. – where else? Where I've been for the last three hours, sitting on a patch of lawn with prickles, outside a window watching this guy scratch his nose, rub his neck and shuffle papers around.'

We'd picked Toni to give the university back one of its own rats, because with her long dark hair, even longer legs and kick-arse attitude, she looked the most like a uni student. She needed the blend in look because she had to hang around the garden outside the vice -chancellor's office until he went to lunch. Also, thanks to six hours of dance a week, Toni was also the most agile of us all – a necessary skill because she had to enter the vice -chancellor's office through a window over a metre and a half off the ground. Easy really, except she'd be carrying a large box and a confused rat in her arms.

'I should have brought a book,' said Toni. 'Like the Encyclopaedia Britannica or something. This is such a yawn.'

'Hang in there,' I said. The vice-chancellor was the one who made all the big decisions at the university. He was the one with the power to stop the dissections — if he wanted to. The media, in the shape of Amanda Brinkley and Archie and the honey-voiced Neil Persimmon might put pressure on him, but the VC was the main player. That was why we had made the rats look as cute as possible — and the card really shocking.

I've lived in the university all my life.

I'll die there too.

Horribly.

Turn the page and there was the picture. A white rat, all four legs splayed on a board, with its stomach slit wide open, and intestines and organs spilling out over the board for all the world to see. Gruesome. Sad. And a stupid, senseless waste.

'The guy doesn't do anything but sign stuff,' complained Toni. 'You could probably just fake an order telling the biology department to stop using live rats and shove it in his pile of paper and he sign it without … Hang on! He's standing up. He's walking out. Yes! At last!'

She was on her feet, I could hear it over the phone.

'Wait!' I cried. 'He might just be going to the toilet.' Toni's style was all Charlie's Angels - act first and fast and ask questions like is-the-water-deep-enough-to-dive-in a lot later.

'Who cares?' said Toni. 'See you!'

There was a clunk as she dropped the phone into her pocket. She hadn't even turned it off. I hung on the other end but all I could hear was major rustling as she ran across the lawn with the phone lurching around in her pocket. Then there was a pause, a grunt. Was she climbing up through the window? Or maybe she had dropped the box … I pressed the earpiece closer. Thud. Big mistake. Definitely the sound of a phone being clanked hard against a wall or window. The movement stopped, she must be in the room now for sure. A small rustling came and then Toni's voice.

'There you are little one.' She was talking to the rat. 'Good luck.'

'Who's there?' It was another voice, a woman's calling faintly in the distance. The VC's secretary!

'Dio mio!' Toni's voice — some swear word in Italian probably — and then clunk, thud, a squeal and bump as she landed on the lawn and started running.

All I could hear was frantic panting and her heart pounding. Or was that my own? Then the movement sounds slowed down and her breath changed to just loud puffing and finally everything was still.

'Toni?' I said. And then more loudly. 'TONI!'

There was giggling now as she hauled the phone out of her pocket.

'Are you still there Tess?' She sounded surprised.

'Where else would I be?! You didn't turn off the damn phone. I've aged about five years — and nearly been deafened as well.'

'Mission accomplished!' I could almost see the grin on her face. Faintly in the background I could hear a strange noise building up. 'Listen to that.' The noise sounded louder now, a thin wailing, growing to a full-blooded scream. Plus more giggling from Toni. 'That was the vice -chancellor's secretary,' she said. 'I think she just smelt a rat.'

 *      *     *     *     *

Four rats down, one to go. The easiest one, which was Laura's task.

Laura was my half-sister. Think ten years old, with huge eyes that watched constantly and like one of those small birds in a nest alone. But then add bands of muscles across her stomach, her back and right down her legs. For over half her life, Laura had been a trampoline champion and she was weirdly tough — especially when she didn't get her own way.

'No way,' I told her firmly when she demanded to be part of the action. 'This isn't some sort of kindergarten. You're too young.' I sounded like her mother. Not that Kate, her real mother — and my stepmother — ever really said that. 'Besides,' I added irritably, 'you're not even a member of the Green Guerrillas.'

'But Tess, it was me who found the rats!' Ten year old kid sisters are so literal. And stubborn. OK, so it had been Laura who had wandered into the breeding rooms in the biology labs while hanging around the university waiting for Kate to finish work. It was Laura who asked to cuddle the rats, who started asking questions — and who had learnt they were bred especially to be hacked up by biology students who didn't know a lung from a liver. Laura had somehow smuggled five of the rats out in a box and had come home demanding that I save the rest. Which is what I was doing.

'It's my plan,' I countered, 'and it doesn't include using child labour.'

My sister had a habit of standing rock still in the middle of a room and making you feel she would never move again until you agreed with her terms.

'Let her do something,' Jacob had said. 'She could type out the cards or tie on the ribbons or something.'

Laura was still looking at me, unmoved. Even as a toddler you couldn't fob her off.

'Oh, tie on ribbons.' Laura shrugged. 'Now, there's a challenge. Not.'

'OK, maybe you can come with me when I deliver Maureen her rat.' Maureen was the local mayor and also a friend of the family. Both of my families. She often came to dinner at Dad and Kate's, but somehow she'd managed to stay friendly with Mum too.

Laura was back to doing her rock imitation, waiting …

I had a bowl that Kate had asked me to return to Maureen. The plan was to deliver the bowl and pretend to discover the box and the rat just outside the office door.

'So you sneak the box up to the door with me. We make polite chat for a minute or two with Maureen. Then we leave.'

Laura's eyes glittered, green and guilt-making, but I swear she didn't even blink.

'OK, damn you. Do it all then.' If anything went wrong, Maureen would cover for her. Maybe.

'Terrific!' Now she was all smiles and movement, dancing around the room. I even got a hug. 'It'll be easy.'

Easy. Yeah right. Sometimes that word really sucks.

Click here to order your copy of Shadow Seeker.