Dagen looked mightily confused. “But… It’s your birthday!  Didn’t they celebrate your birthday in the home?”

Victus shrugged.  “It’s not important.”

Although he was determined not to let it show on his face, Dagen felt frustration settling into his bones.  Victus had been living with him for over two months, and while their path had not been without its twists, for the most part their journey had been a smooth one.  The boy’s lackluster reaction to the mention of his birthday did not agree at all with how Rob and Sam had acted.  They got excited over the occasion, so Dagen was confident that Vic’s lack of interest wasn’t cultural in nature. “But why?” he asked.  “Why is it not important?”

Victus shrugged again.  By the longing look he was giving his textbooks, Dagen knew that his boy wanted to go back to his studies, but was too polite to turn back to his books while Dagen was talking to him.  “They gave us underwear,” he finally said, his voice flat, “and a few things out of the toy closet.  But everything in there already had someone else’s name on it, so it was never really ours.”

Dagen was taken aback by the home’s lackadaisical attitude toward events that should have been special to a young child. “Did they at least make you a cake?”

Again the boy shrugged, but when he spoke this time, his voice was colored with resentment.  “One year they got us some Little Snackers, you know - those little snack cakes with the creamy middles?  They stuck a candle in one of those.”  He sighed, making visible efforts to push back his disappointment.  “Sister Caroline said it was all she could afford, so that was okay.”  He twisted his fingers together, guiltily.  “That one was okay, I guess.”

Dagen had been conscious of his urge to shower Victus with everything life had denied him, and had valiantly fought to restrain himself.   This, he knew, was a losing battle.  “I’m not telling you what you should feel,” he said, carefully, “but I get excited when my birthday is coming up.  It’s not about the things someone might give me,” he said, leaning back against the couch and pulling Victus against him, then rubbing the top of the boy’s headfur with his knuckles.  “Everyone’s just so happy that I was born that it sort of rubs off on me. I was hoping you’d feel that way, too. I want you to be happy like that.”

Victus pretended to struggle, and Dagen pretended to restrain him.  Dagen had sparred with his son enough times to know the boy’s strength.  If he’d truly wanted to escape he could be free, but for now he enjoyed the attention. 

“I am happy,” Victus said.  “I don’t need a special day to be happy.  Besides,” he said,  his voice adopting a haughty tone, “it’s not logical to get excited about something over which you have no control.”

“Great,” Dagen said, rolling his eyes.  “The only time you quote Master Uhlu is when you’re teasing me.  You should listen to him more.”

“I do listen to  him,” Victus protested.  “I have hundreds on all my papers!”

“I know you do,” Dagen acknowledged.  “You work very hard, which is why you deserve to have a nice birthday.”  He rolled Victus off him and trotted into the bedroom they shared.  “You might not celebrate your birthday,” he said, his voice somewhat muffled by the distance, “but I’m going to!”  He emerged holding something behind his back.  “Taa daa!” he said, sounding very happy with himself as he held something out to Victus.

Victus’ tail stopped wagging when he realized what it was.  “It’s underwear.”

“It’s not just any underwear,” Dagen announced, brightly. “It’s YOUR underwear!”  He tossed them to Victus. “I know you like them - they’re your favorite pair.” 

Victus groaned at his father’s bizarre sense of humor.  “You’re giving me my own underwear as a gift?”

Dagen made the silly face that never failed to make Victus smile. “I’m just kidding!”  He reached into his robes and pulled out a small square of folded red paper.  “This is your real present.”

Victus reached for it, but Dagen held it just out of his grasp.  “Not yet,” he said, giving Victus a teasing look, “Like most things that we do, there’s a method to this.”

Victus groaned and put his handpaws over his face.  “Not another method!”  It seemed like everything they did, from folding their clothes to washing dishes, was to be done in a certain way.

“Yes, another method,” Dagen said, getting down to business.  “And like most of our outwardly bizarre practices, there’s a reason we do it this way.”

“There’s going to be a lesson in this, isn’t there?” Victus moaned, looking up at Dagen through split fingers.

“Of course there is!” Dagen said, his good mood not put off in the slightest by Vic’s noisy grumblings.  “I’m going to give you this now,” he said, handing Victus the red square, “but don’t open it just yet.  If you can, wait until your contemplation time after dinner.  You can put it in your pocket, or you can leave it somewhere safe until you return tonight.”

“I want to open it now,” Victus said, more curious than he was annoyed. “Why do I have to wait?”

“I know it seems odd, but if you carry it with you all day long, every time your hands brush against it you’ll be reminded that someone loves you.”

Vic’s tail wagged back and forth for a few beats, before he consciously stopped its motion in an attempt at lupine dignity. “I’ll carry it with me, then,” he said, carefully slipping the square into his own robe.  “Thank you, father.”  The hug he gave Dagen threatened to squeeze the man’s stuffing out.

Dagen hoped that the novelty of hearing Victus call him “father” would never wear off.  “Others may give you more envelopes,” he said.  “If it is another student or a close friend, give them a bow of thanks.  If it is a teacher, give them a bow of respect.  Don’t exchange words, just honor them with a bow.  Will you remember that?”

“Of course,” Vic said, “I always remember.”

“You do always remember,” Dagen confirmed. “I always had trouble remembering the rituals when I was a boy, so I probably remind you more than is necessary, but you’re very good about that.  Since these are offerings,” he continued, “they are private, just for you.  Treat them with great respect, and don’t open them in front of anyone else.”

Thinking back to other children’s birthday parties, which had always been more elaborate than his own, Victus thought that sounded odd, and he said so.

“The idea is that a gift is only truly a gift when nothing is expected in return,” Dagen said, as he combed his hair in the mirror next to their front door.  “Are you ready for school?”

“Yeah!” Victus said, hopping off the couch.  He stuffed his school books into his backpack, taking great care not to wrinkle his carefully-completed homework assignment. 

As the lupine boy gathered his materials, Dagen added, “Just so you know what to expect, there’s no rhyme or reason behind what those envelopes contain.  I once got one with a worm smashed inside.”

Victus gave him a look. “Really?”

“Really,” Dagen confirmed, as he shepherded his son out the door.  “Someone must have done it as a joke, or something.  Usually they’ll just have something personal written inside, or maybe a picture of something the giver thinks you might find beautiful.  My hope is that you will spend a few minutes contemplating what each of them contains before moving on to the next.”

“How do I keep track of who gave me what?” Victus asked. “How do I thank them?”

Dagen’s smile was private, meant for nobody but himself.  Victus was always so intent on making sure that everyone else was happy that this response had been completely predictable. “You can’t, my boy, and that’s the point.  Ooh!” he said, in an excited whisper which cued Victus that action would soon be required. “What’s this?”

One of the more elderly Kenzine masters had stopped in the hallway and was looking at Victus expectantly.   The boy’s ears went back into a respectful position, and he bowed smoothly in a motion which had become as automatic to him as breathing.  Out of deference to this man’s almost total lack of hearing, he raised his voice. “May I assist you, Master Pelonius?”

In silent response, the master handed Victus a folded red square which was the identical twin to the one Dagen had given him just minutes earlier.  Victus fought off the urge to thank him, watching as the ancient man gave him a creaky bow of the proper depth to suggest... family ties!  Victus returned the bow with a shade more depth than was strictly necessary for respect, and the man tottered off.

Dagen smoothly continued his lesson as if nothing had happened, all but ignoring the interchange.  “Not knowing who gave you what is a form of gift as well.  It allows you to be grateful to the entire monastery instead of only being thankful to a few people.”

Victus nodded his head and put the square in his inner pocket, but not before giving it a surreptitious pinch to make sure there wasn’t a worm hidden inside.  

By that evening the inner pocket of Victus’ robes was heavy with envelopes, a weight which lightened his spirit in equal measure.  Not everyone he saw that day handed him an envelope, but more did than he might have expected.  Some of the children whom Victus saw as friends made no mention of the practice, and It didn’t take Victus long to realize that the custom seemed limited to those who lived at the monastery. 

The students who were at the school solely for its educational benefit were seemingly unaware of the tradition, and none who knew of it seemed inclined to enlighten them. Those of his teachers who had handed him an envelope had been conspicuously discreet when making the transfer, and although he had spent the last few years of his life in cultural isolation, the ability to keep a secret was as baked into Victus as it was with any other varius, and he took great care to use similar discretion when receiving the envelopes.

“It’s time for dinner,” Dagen reminded Victus.  “Are you ready to go?” After noticing the unusual bulk concealed by his son’s robes, he added, “Would you like to leave them here?”

Victus thought about the suggestion, and although it sounded like an eminently logical one, he enjoyed the warm feeling brought on by having the offerings close at hand more than he enjoyed being logical. “I would like to keep them with me,” he said, decisively. 

Dagen nodded agreeably and, after plucking a folding cloth bag from the umbrella stand, ushered Victus out the door.  “Tonight’s dinner will be special,” he said, conversationally.  “We don’t want to make the others wait by being late.”

Victus went silent as his young mind went into overdrive.  What could the others be planning? he asked himself.  A feast?  A huge birthday dinner, with cake and presents?  The bruises his ego had suffered by having his special days neglected were well on their way to fading after a day as overwhelmingly positive as this one had been, and his thoughts were becoming similar to what any other healthy, happy, eight-year-old varius might produce. Or maybe a surprise party!  That must be why Dagen had picked up the bag!  he thought, To carry home all the presents! 

The dining hall was almost full by the time they arrived, but the tables were conspicuously empty of food.  Okay, Vic thought to himself, no feast…    He moved to take a seat in their usual spot, but was stopped by a gentle hand on his shoulder.  “Come on,” Dagen said, with a nod of his head toward the kitchen, “It’s time for another special gift.” 

They passed through the swinging double doors into the inner sanctum from which Victus had been summarily ejected every time he’d previously tried to enter.  The kitchen was Master Franchesca’s domain, and it was fiercely defended from invasion.  Today, however, in a surprise move, she did not expel them!  Instead, with a small bow of gratitude, she handed each of them a serving spoon and turned over control of a large, wheeled cart containing three steaming food trays.  Without a word, she removed her apron, hung it on a peg, and wafted out the double doors and into the dining room. 

Victus eyed the large spoon dubiously.  “This is her gift?”

“It is!” Dagen said, looking quite pleased with the situation. “Come on,” he said, pushing the cart toward the door. “I’ll explain as we go.  Whoops!” he exclaimed, as they reached the doors, “Almost forgot!”  He pulled out the canvas bag and flipped it open. “Put your envelopes in here, so their weight doesn’t drag your sleeves through the food.”  Victus made the transfer quickly, and watched as Dagen took great care in putting the bag on a shelf where it was safe.

They continued out the door, and when they reached the first table Dagen said, “Watch what I do.”  He put a hand on the first man’s back to alert him to their presence, and asked, in a distinctly polite manner, “What can I get for you, Brother?”

With equally solemn politeness, the other man asked, “What do you have to offer?”

Dagen opened his mouth to answer then rolled his eyes at his own lack of attention.  “I suppose it would help if I looked first, wouldn’t it?”  He pulled the covers off the pans, recited the contents with sufficient volume that the night’s menu was heard by all in the room save Master Pelonius, and looked to Victus for confirmation that he understood the drill.

After Victus had successfully served half of the first table, Dagen continued delivering knowledge in the casual way which suggested that he and Victus were the only people in the room. “The ability to serve others is a huge gift, Vic.  Many people in the world have so little that there is nothing left to give.”  Seeing that some of the water glasses on the table were running low, he moved to fill them as he spoke.  “Everyone in this room is your family now, and serving them is more than a duty. It’s an honor.”

Had he been performing this task in the orphanage Victus would hardly have considered it an honor, but doing it for people who smiled their thanks and quietly pressed red envelopes into his handpaw felt markedly different.  They waited for his attention with patient grace, and as he served each of them, he realized that Dagen was not his only parent.  Each of the people in this small dining hall cared about him and wanted him to succeed, and for the first time in his experience Victus felt truly humble.

As he repeated the motions of transferring food from tray to plate he became more adept, and by the time everyone had been served he almost felt competent.   He and Dagen were taking their own places when motion in the doorway drew their eyes to an unexpected figure entering the room.

“Sister Caroline!”  Victus cried, wantonly abandoning all dignity to fly across the room into her arms.  Or rather, he would have flown into her arms, had she not been carrying a large box in both hands.   Instead, he had to content himself with hugging her torso.  “I’m so glad to see you!”

“I’m glad to see you as well, Victus!” she said, feeling highly conspicuous under the friendly scrutiny of three dozen sets of Kenzine eyes.  “Is there a place I can put this so I can give you a hug?”

“What is it?” Victus asked, not answering her question in his excitement.

“Over here, Caroline,” Dagen called, motioning to a small side table near where they were sitting. 

“Thanks, Max,” she said, putting the box down and giving the man a hug.  From where Victus stood, it looked like she might have held the hug a tiny bit longer than necessary, and...had she pressed her cheek against his as she was letting go?

Now free of encumbrance, she turned her attention back to Victus.  “Now, let me give you a proper hug!”  She wrapped her arms around the enthusiastic young boy, and for a moment Victus was back at the orphanage again.  Only this time, the memories his mind conjured weren’t hurtful ones.   He remembered the sister swinging next to him on the swingset, helping to find him clothes that fit properly, and helping cheer him up whenever he’d had a rough day.

Looking around at their dining companions, she asked, “Is there enough left over to feed a sister from a fellow order?”

Recognizing a call to service, Victus virtually leapt from his seat and rushed to the kitchen to find his friend a plate.  She had barely been seated by the time he returned and the eager boy wasted no time in loading her plate with the same assortment of raw and cooked vegetables that the rest were eating.  In his excitement he didn’t remember to ask her what she wanted, and he probably overloaded her plate, but he didn’t think she would mind.

“Thank you, Victus,” she said appreciatively when he delivered her plate.  “This is indeed… a bountiful portion!”

The young lupine looked embarrassed by his own enthusiasm. “You don’t have to eat it all now,” he told her. “We have boxes in the back we can put your leftovers in.”  He glanced at the conspicuous white box sitting on the nearby table. “What’s that?”

She carefully cleared her mouth of the delightfully spiced lentils she was chewing before answering.  To date, no one had seen half-chewed food in her mouth, and they wouldn’t today.  “It’s not a Little Snacker with a candle in it, that’s for sure,” she said, with an air of great satisfaction.  She turned to Dagen.  “I know your order doesn’t usually eat meat, but I certainly hope they’ll eat cake.  I brought enough for everyone.”

Victus was aghast.  He knew that Sister Caroline didn’t have a lot of money, and to buy a cake that big must have cost a frightful amount!  His ears folded back in shame that she’d done something like that just for him. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice small with anxiety.  “that must have been really expensive.”

Her expression softened.  Remembering how Dagen had handled Victus in the past, she reached out and put her hand on his arm, stroking the exposed fur. “Honey, it’s all right!” she reassured him. “I made it myself.   I would have made one for you like that every year, but whatever I did for you I’d have to do for every other boy at the home and I just didn’t have it in me to make so many of them.”

She moved her hand up and rubbed his shoulder through the stiff material of his student robes.  “Back then you were one of twenty-eight boys under my care, but now you’re my friend.”  Her spine went rigid with authority and her voice regained its starchy tone.  “If I want to bake my friend a cake on his birthday, I’m going to bake that cake, and nobody is going to stop me!”  She lost some of her vinegar and looked at him hopefully.  “I hope that’s all right?”

Looking relieved, Victus nodded and dug into his meal while, for the first time in recent memory, feeling surrounded by people who loved him.

***

That night, Victus’ evening contemplations weren’t the same as usual.  On most nights he and Dagen sat next to each other on their mats, Victus trying his best to emulate Dagen’s meditations.  His father had made it quite clear that at his age he was not required, or even expected, to sit silently for so long, so after a few minutes practicing his breathing exercises he moved a few feet away and spent the rest of the hour exploring one of the many texts in the monastery’s extensive library.

Tonight, Dagen had considerately moved himself out of their room and closed the door between them, giving Victus time to open his red envelopes in privacy and think about what they contained.   One by one, Victus unfolded the red paper squares and examined their contents.  Some of them contained nothing, their message carried by the paper itself.  Others held pretty pictures of interesting things. And one person was perceptive enough to fold their red sheet around a square of absorptive paper which had been soaked in a truly amazing smell. 

All of them, Victus touched to his nose.  He wasn’t sure whether what he was doing was cheating, but he did it anyway.  By their scent alone he could determine the origins of each packet, and that knowledge brought added meaning to each gift.  Miss Mennoly, the woman who kept the monastery building spotlessly clean, had put the dry, almost weightless body of a brilliant butterfly in her packet.  When had she found time to discover something of such natural beauty? 

Sister Caroline’s envelope, which had been folded with far less precision than the Kenzines’ but with not a shade less care, had contained a small holo of him and Dagen on their way out the gates on their first authorized visit, walking hand in hand.   Several others had contained short poems, some had only a single word.  “Fortune”, and “Strength”.  As his father had instructed, Victus examined each one for a time, then put it aside.

The last one he opened was the first one he’d been given.  He’d been teasing himself all day long by running his fingers over its outline, tracing a claw around the flap when nobody was around to see.  As always, Dagen had been right.  Being reminded of the man’s love for him for an entire day had made him feel more wonderful than anything the envelope might possibly contain.  He had a family again, and his life had been restored.

Running a claw under the flap, he pulled it loose with a gentle tug.  Like the others (except for Sister Caroline’s) it used no glue to hold it in place, relying instead upon a clever folding of the paper to keep it closed.   Inside was a small square of paper, upon which was written a few words in Dagen’s obsessively neat script.  Victus tried to read them, but to his tired eyes they made no sense.  He rubbed his eyes clear and tried again, but still the letters refused to form words.  

Perplexed, Victus scratched his head.  He knew Dagen was fond of puzzles, so perhaps that’s what this was. The writing was clear, but the fact that it was in script helped to obscure its meaning.   Letter for letter, he meticulously copied the nonsense words onto the notepad that Dagen kept next to his sleeping mat.  What if I rearranged the letters? he asked himself.   He’d heard of puzzles like that.

One by one, he sussed out the meaning of each word. “Look...behind..the...selwot?”  He backed up and tried again.  “Towels!” he said, triumphantly.  Getting up, he padded into the bathroom as quietly as he could.   His father was still meditating, and he didn’t want to disturb him.

The cabinet door opened on silent hinges, and Victus carefully pulled out the contents.  Along with them came a piece of paper which fluttered to the floor.  PIcking it up, Victus read words which, although each was clear, made no more sense than the puzzle had.  “Do not touch it unless I am in the room with you.” 

Was this right?  Did Dagen make a mistake and put the wrong piece of paper in the cabinet?  Puzzled, he walked back into their bedroom and sat on his sleeping mat.   For the first time that evening it occurred to him to look around their room and when he finally did, his eyes settled on something that looked so appropriate, so inherently right, that until now it had escaped his notice. 

Like so many of its kind, the stand for Dagen’s sword had been made to hold two blades, one long and one short.  Dagen’s had always held a single weapon, the second spot occupied by his umbrella. Tonight, however… Vic’s mouth fell open.  Tonight, it held two. 

Walking closer,  he saw something he feared had been lost.  Since their first meeting, he and Dagen had continued to visit the Chinese shop in the bazaar.  Each time they passed through the shop doors, Victus greeted the shopkeeper, then made a beeline to the wall of swords, where he lost himself in their beauty until his father dragged him away. He had a special place in his heart for the simple sword that Dagen had shown him that first day, and his heart sank when one day it was no longer there.  Using Dagen as an interpreter, the shopkeeper had told him that a very powerful warrior from a far-distant planet had purchased the katana. Victus had attempted to soothe his inner distress with the thought that even though he would never see it again, at least its new owner might properly appreciate it.

That had been over a month ago, and Victus had felt certain that never again would he see such a fine blade.  But today, impossibly, it was back!  Mindful of Dagen’s instruction not to touch, Victus leaned forward and smelled the stained silk braid covering the sword’s handle with the caution one uses to catch a floating soap bubble.  Positive identification made, Victus abandoned whatever propriety he possessed.

Dagen’s meditation period had not quite ended, but he thought it a good time to get up and stretch his legs when the excited whoop emerged from their bedroom.

***

“It was a lovely present,” the abbot allowed, “I’m not saying it isn’t.  But where on earth did she dig up a picture of the two of you?”

Dagen smiled at the memory.  “She snapped it with her comm as we were leaving, to show the police if I didn’t bring him back.”

Wesley’s eyes widened.  “She really didn’t trust you, did she?”

“Not a bit,” Dagen said, “and I completely agree.  In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever been trustworthy.”

Wesley rolled his eyes.  “Yes, Master Dagen, you are highly suspect.”  He paused for a moment.  “She certainly seems to trust you now.”  His tone was suggestive. “She’s visited the monastery several times since the adoption.  Someone keeps inviting her back.”

“I choose to ignore your implications,” Dagen said, piously.  “She’s a very interesting woman, and Victus and I enjoy her company very much.”

“She’s already married,” the abbot warned, “to God!”

“Pff…” Dagen waved the warning away. “She can stay married to the old coot for all I care.  She’s got a thousand good points, and it would be foolish for me to focus on her physical charms anyway.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t close off the possibility,” the abbot said, growing serious. “Our order has no proscription against marriage.”

“Hers does,” Dagen said, “and I’m not about to ask her to renounce her faith just so I can bind her in a marriage contract.”

“What does she say about her faith?”  Wesley asked, growing curious.

Dagen opened his mouth to reply, but had to stop and think for a moment.  “You know,” he said, after giving the question careful consideration, “I don’t believe we’ve actually discussed it.”

“I thought her mission in life was to spread the good news of our lord and savior?” the abbot said.  “What kind of nun forgets to do that?”

“A damned good one,” Dagen said, immediately.  “The care with which she treats those children is the embodiment of her faith.  Who needs to go around flapping their lips in a vain effort to convert everyone around them with words when their deeds speak so loudly on their own?”

“Well put,” Wesley agreed.  “She does seem like quite a remarkable lady.” He sipped his tea. “She helps with Victus?”

“The only way she could be of more help would be to strap on running shoes and lead him on a five mile run through the woods.” He patted his shrinking belly. “He’s taken to getting up at five with me to join me on my morning run.  If nothing else, keeping up with him has me in the best shape I’ve been in for years.”

“Energetic, is he?” the abbot smirked. “Sam warned us about that.”

“He said he’d be wild, but I had no idea what that meant!” Dagen admitted.  “The boy has so much energy that I looked up his genetic imperatives in the progenitor database, to see if anything was amiss.”

“Those files are encrypted,” Wesley said, warningly.  “You’re not supposed to be looking through them.”

“Pish,” Dagen dismissed his friend’s concern.  “You wouldn’t have stopped at single-level encryption if you’d really wanted me to keep out.”

Wesley looked exasperated, but listened as Dagen continued.  “It’s like they were trying to formulate the perfect recipe for an intractable child, or something.  Physical stamina, precocious intellect, inquisitive, stubborn to a fault…”

“But also tremendously loyal, physically robust, and with a great deal of psychic potential,” the abbot finished for him.

“You read it, too?” Dagen asked, unsurprised. 

“Of course,” his friend snorted.  “You didn’t think I’d let you have a child without doing my homework, did you?”

Dagen’s mouth quirked, but in reality he was unsurprised. “I suppose not.” Very little got past his friend, mostly because, despite outer appearances, he was the most thorough man Dagen had ever encountered.  “Since you already know of my sin, I suppose it won’t do further damage to my credibility to ask about that psychic potential you mentioned.”

“Has he showed signs?”

“Several,” Dagen said, “and really, that’s why I was poking around in the database in the first place.”  He looked at his friend suspiciously.  “Is there something you want to tell me about that?  Or rather,” he clarified, “is there something you don’t want to tell me, that might be helpful for me to know?”

Wesley looked injured.  “You know me well enough to know that with something like this, I’ll tell you everything I possibly can.  I’m not going to bandy semantics with something this important.”

“Okay, fine,” Dagen said, without apology.  “Is there something I should know?”

Now Wesley looked annoyed.  “The database isn’t a cookbook, Max.  Those traits are targets; goals for the geneticists who assembled his DNA.  especially with something as volatile as mental abilities…” he shrugged, helplessly, “Who knows?”  

The abbot leaned forward.  “Actually, since you’ve got him within arm’s reach, you should know better than anyone.   You’ve got the most potential of any sapiens I’ve ever trained.”  He sighed, suddenly looking quite tired.  “I’m sorry, Dagen, but I do suppose I have to say this.” He paused to organize his words, and when again he spoke, his words had steel in them. “Master Dagen, I am speaking to you as the head of the Kenzine order.”

Dagen stiffened in his chair.   Wesley had not adopted this tone with him in years, and it took him aback.  After so many long, casual conversations it was easy to forget that this man who was his good friend was also the head of one of the the most influential organizations humanity had ever seen, but these words brought back that truth with startling clarity.  “I hear you,” he replied, with equal gravity.

Looking somber, Wesley punched the buttons that encrypted their conversation.  Both men were silent until lights on both end shown green.  “Is there anyone who might overhear our conversation?”  he asked, his enunciation informing Dagen that this part of their conversation was formal, and was going to be added to the Kenzine’s historical archives.

"Yes,”  Dagen replied, with equal clarity.  “Victus is in the other room. He is currently asleep, but if you speak loudly enough he might overhear us.”

“He is involved, so his knowledge of this conversation is not forbidden,” the abbot allowed.  “I say this because there must be no misinterpretation, Master Dagen.  You are to discover the extent of Victus’ mental abilities, and you are to develop and implement a training regimen which will bring them to fruition. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Dagen answered, formally.  This merely authorized him to do what he was going to do anyway.

Over their connection, Dagen heard his friend and mentor tapping out commands on his keypad as he spoke.  “You are cleared to view any and all classified documentation possessed by the Kenzine Order regarding the creation and development of the varius race.  Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Dagen said, although he still did not understand why he was being given this authorization.

“You are not authorized to share this information with Victus without clearing it through me, personally.  Do you understand?”

“Yes.”  Whatever was in those files, Dagen thought, it must be potentially explosive.

“Master Dagen, I refer you to section four bravo in the Kenzine charter for clarification.  Do you understand?”

Dagen paused for the briefest of moments.  The Kenzine charter was an open document, subject to analysis by anyone who cared to look it up.  This made its inclusion in the abbot’s official mandate seemed very odd, indeed.  “Yes.”

Upon receiving this last confirmation Wesley held a hand up, a friendly reminder for Dagen to remain silent while he closed out the official mandate.  Once that had completed Dagen had expected the green encryption lights to go out, but they remained illuminated. Clearly, his abbot considered their conversation sensitive.  “I apologize,” Wesley said, finally, “for what I have just done to you.”

Dagen felt a chill through him.  “What have you done?”  he asked, soberly.

“No matter what I say, you are going to help Victus achieve his potential,” he said.  “By making that your official responsibility and by removing your restrictions, you now have access to information which will make that job easier, better and more effective, but it also puts you square in the cross-hairs, should there be trouble down the line.”

“Trouble?” Dagen asked. He felt the flickers of old curiosities licking at him. “What sort of trouble?” 

The abbot looked lost.  “I have no idea, my friend. I’m sending you out blind on this.  If you do a good job training Victus up, there may be no issue at all, This could very well end up as a boon to your career with no downsides at all.  But if he ends up being mentally unstable after he’s been trained, I guarantee you that the world is going to beat a path to your door, and they’re going to be holding pitchforks when they arrive.”

“And if they do, the Kenzine order is going to sit back and watch as they burn me at the stake?” Dagen asked, disbelievingly.  “I can’t believe you’d throw me to the wolves like that.”

“Believe it,” Abbot Wesley snapped.  “Those files were encrypted for a reason.  For over a century, our order has been the only thing protecting humanity from its own stupidity.  If you happen to cock this up without having the proper safeguards in place, you could potentially be responsible for the enslavement of an entire race and the destruction of another.”

“That’s a bit melodramatic, don’t you think?”  Dagen’s voice was droll, but inside he was shaking with uncertainty.

”No, Master Dagen,” the abbot said, coldly, “I do not.”  He rolled his head around, stretching muscles in his neck, which had grown tight in his agitation.  Making a conscious effort to lighten his tone, he continued.  “This is an argument we do not need to be having, old friend.   I have every confidence that you’re going to be an excellent father, Victus is going to be an excellent son and a star pupil, and everything is going to be fine.  But I could not keep you ignorant of the consequences of your actions, could I?”

“No,” Dagen said, trying to still his own emotional upheaval, “I suppose you couldn’t.  I do appreciate your being honest with me,” he said, “and I appreciate your confidence in my abilities.”

The abbot was eager for their conversation to return to its usual well-tempered path, but there were still a few matters which needed clarification. “You mentioned that he’s shown signs of psychic development.  Talk about that.” 

Under the weight of his mentor’s scrutiny, Dagen’s observations suddenly seemed suspect. “In someone so young, it’s often not so clear cut,” he started, but was cut off by the same hissing noise Wesley used when one of his students was being lazy.

“Have you forgotten how to make a report?” the abbot asked, looking particularly sour. “Tell me what you observed, and allow me to interpret.  Try again.”

Dagen took a breath and centered himself.  “During our meditations, I have been reaching out to sense his level of distraction.  During one of these interactions, I felt a…” he searched for the right word, but nothing seemed to fit.  “A soft spot, perhaps?” He looked dissatisfied.  “I know that’s not the right term, but...you know when you’re squeezing melons at the market, and your finger unexpectedly hits a spot that’s so soft you almost push through the skin? “

“Like when you rub a baby’s head and you hit the soft spot?” the abbot suggested.

“Exactly!” Dagen agreed.

“Don’t do that,” the abbot commanded. “You’re trying to train him, not kill him.”

“How do I know?” Dagen yelped, before catching himself and lowering his voice.  “I’ve never done this before!”

The abbot put his face in his hands and shook his head.  From where Dagen was sitting, the man could have either been laughing or crying.  “Dagen, Dagen, Dagen…” he said, “Why do you think certain files are encrypted?”   He looked up and stared at his friend’s image, and even across the vast emptiness of intergalactic space, Dagen felt the directness of the man’s gaze stabbing into him. “I didn’t want you messing around with things about which you know nothing!”

Dagen had the good sense to look contrite. “I’m sorry, abbot.  I just wanted a clue that could help me understand him more.”

Abbot Wesley barked a short laugh. “By the time all is said and done, you’re going to understand him better than you want to.”  He gave his tea a delicate sip.  “And on that note, since educating your son in the mental disciplines will require skills that you do not yet possess, and since acquiring those skills will require more of your time than you can spare, I’m removing you from your regular classroom duties.” 

The abbot might as well have punched Dagen in the gut.  “What?” Dagen exclaimed. “You can’t do that!  I just took them on,” he sputtered, “We can’t bounce them back and forth between instructors like that!”

“Oh, you’ll still be teaching them,” the abbot assured him, “only now you’re going to be doing it from a cushion instead of a chair.”

Dagen’s mouth dropped open.  “No,” he said, horror building in his heart the impact of what his abbot was saying hit home. “No, no no!”

“Oh, but why not?” the abbot almost purred.  “You can’t teach your son the fine art of mental control until you learn it yourself,” he said, “and you know what they say; the best way to learn a new thing yourself is to teach it to others.”

***

Leaving Victus to sleep in their quarters, Dagen had fumed, stomped and cursed all the way to the archives.  Putting him in charge of mental development and discipline was a huge mistake. Dagen knew for a fact that he was singularly unsuited to the task.  Hell, he couldn’t even stay awake through a single hour of seated meditation, and now he was going to have to sit on a mat for six hours a day? In front of a class? Ludicrous!

He felt less uncharitable toward his friend after reading a few papers from the previously forbidden databases.  After a few more, he felt like the world’s biggest fool for questioning his friend. By the time his chron went off, alerting him that it was time to rouse Victus for school, he was scared witless by the magnitude of the shitstorm he’d inadvertently brought upon them all.