Chapter Eleven

"Victus," Dagen said, catching his son's attention. “Don't worry. I'll make sure you have enough. Lucas will be safe."

Dagan nodded and smiled reassuringly as he closed the connection, forgetting for a moment that his son could not see him. Only after the green activity light had extinguished itself did he allow his shoulders to slump, though not at the seeming impossibility of the task, for warriors in the Kenzine order accomplished the impossible on a routine basis. His was the weariness of a man who was about to take the first steps of a brutally exhausting journey.

Glancing at the clock and doing the time conversion in his head, Dagan knew that on Earth it was early evening and the abbot would be deep into his evening studies. As much as he needed to talk to his friend, Dagan refused to disturb this treasured time for tranquility in the man’s otherwise hectic day.

Blowing out a breath, he scrubbed his hands through his already disheveled hair and looked again at the clock. Three in the morning. Now that his course of action had been decided, he was glad Victus had awoken him at such an early hour. He normally rose with the sun, but today he was glad to have an extra few hours to prepare for what lay ahead.

Pulling a pad and a stylus toward him, he began making his list. One, call the abbot. Two, sell Victus’ bike. Three, call Sam, to alert his friend to the situation. Four... four... He tapped the stylus against his lip. Four would be decided in due time. For now, he would start the wheels in motion by calling Sam.

His childhood friend picked up on the third ring. After so many years, introductory dialog between the men was not necessary. “I need your help.”

“You always need my help,” Sam grumbled. He rolled his eyes dramatically, then dropped the grumpy  façade. “So what’s up?”

Dagan quickly brought his friend up to speed on the latest events in Victus’s life, then asked, “How would you suggest that I sell his speeder?”

Sam’s end of the line went silent for a long moment. “How much did you say he needs?” Dagan repeated the amount. “His bike’s a good one, but it won’t bring that much on the open market. The faster you have to sell it, the less you’re going to get. You’ve gotta dump it?”

“Yes,” Dagan confirmed, regretfully. “He loves that bike. Ever since he got it, it’s been his only real indulgence. As much as I complain about the blasted thing, it’s been good for him.”

“Tell you what,” Sam’s voice was gruff, but Dagen knew that his friend considered them to be family, and would have moved heaven and earth to help either of them. “Let me front you the money, with the bike as collateral.”

Dagan was sorely tempted by the offer. Unfortunately, self-sufficiency was a trait that Victus had learned all too well to be subverted. “That’s a generous offer, my friend,” Dagan said, warmly, “but Victus would see it as an act of charity. He’d never allow it.”

“Hmm.” Sam grumbled. “You raised him to be a little too much like his father.” He shrugged. “If you change your mind, the offer’s open. In the meantime, let me look around and see what I can do. I’ll call you back.”

And with no further conversation, Dagan was left holding a disconnected comm handset. He chuckled softly as he hit the ‘end’ key. Sam never had been one to waste time on social pleasantries. It was just as well, Dagan realized, for he himself had no time to waste. As complicated as this situation already was, he doubted that his son had any clue precisely how convoluted it was destined to become.

Even though Victus had been trained to see life several moves ahead, Dagan’s own world view was broader still, and he knew that after his son purchased Lucas, the resulting chain of events would almost inevitably bring them back to Earth. And without Victus on Galise, there would be little reason for Dagen to remain there. Without further delay, he pulled a box out of his storage closet and moved to his bookcase. Sorting books by their author or subject would have made sense to most people, but Dagan preferred to sort them by their date of acquisition. Into the boxes he packed them all, starting with the ones most recently purchased and working his way toward dustier tomes.

As he packed them neatly away, he remembered the circumstances under which he’d acquired each one. The thick book on botanical healing methods had come to him as a present from a colleague on a distant world. The slender volume of Zen poetry had been a purchase from the gift store of a monastery many light years away.

All of them received the same gentle care, until he finally reached the last one. “A Thousand and One Ways to Cook Rabbit.” Although it was the first book he’d acquired on Galise, he’d never actually read it. The sole reason he kept the book was because at the ripe age of seven, Victus had brought it to him, thinking that he might like it. When they’d met on that first day, Dagan hadn’t had a clue in which direction life was taking him. Two weeks later he realized that he couldn’t live without having the varius child in his life, and nearly two decades later that was still very much the case.

Dagan fervently hoped that his son had some idea what he was doing. He had no doubt that freeing Lucas was the right thing to do, but he had a thousand worries over what would happen to the two varii once that task was accomplished. He could see a half-dozen different ways in which Mal could exact his revenge, and a dozen more in which the other landholders could take offense. To say that Galisean house politics were convoluted was an understatement, and his boy was preparing to throw himself in the middle of that seething pit of vipers.

It was Dagan’s job, both as a father and as a fellow Kenzine, to make sure that both Victus and Lucas had the tools they needed to survive that mess. It was a rather imposing task, one which could not be administered from a million miles away. He’d stayed on this ball of rock for Victus’ sake, and now that his boy would be moving on it made little sense for him or Caroline to stay. His loving wife would certainly not object to the move. Catholicism had spread its wings and flown throughout the stars. There would be a place for her to serve her order no matter where they ended up.

Number four on his list, he decided, was to follow his own advice. Sufficient time had elapsed that he felt comfortable calling the Earth abbey. Surely his friend must be finished with his studies by now. Four rings of the comm later, his mentor’s face filled the screen.

“Dagan!” the elder man called out with joyful enthusiasm. “What brings your somber countenance to my screen?”

“I’m afraid we have a bad connection,” Dagan replied, his dark mood not improved by the fact that Abbot Wesley’s image was upside down.

“Nonsense,” the abbot chuckled. “You caught me in the middle of yoga position twelve. It doesn’t work if you’re right side up.”

“Perhaps I should call you back at a better time?” Dagan suggested, as he reached for the comm’s disconnect switch.

“I’m perfectly capable of carrying on a conversation while I stretch,” the abbot replied, as he released his headstand and smoothly assumed position thirteen. “In fact, a spirited conversation might increase blood flow to my head.” The camera tracked his face as he moved. “What’s on your mind?”

“There is a high probability that Victus will soon be leaving Galise, and once he is no longer here I see no reason why I should remain.”

“Mmmm...” the abbot hummed noncommittally. Dagan wondered whether the noise was commentary or just the sound of his friend’s relaxation. A moment later he added, “His leaving is inevitable, I suppose. As is your return to Earth.”

“You sound almost disappointed,” Dagan said, wryly.

“Not disappointed,” the abbot pursed his lips and blew out the long, slow breath he’d drawn. “Inevitable or not, this is going to cause a huge uproar.”

“You see it too?”

“How could I not see it?” the abbot scoffed. “When a bull elephant tromps through your garden, it’s rather difficult not to notice.”

“Is the council ready to accept a varius into their ranks?”

“No.” The most revered leader of the Kenzine order lowered himself easily into a split, his legs splayed to either side. “Leave it to me to worry about the council. You’ll have your hands full, preparing Victus for what he must face.”

Stretching his arms to either side, he slowly lowered his body to the ground until he was face-down, leaving the camera to focus on the mottled skin and thinning hair topping his aged head. “He still has at least a decade to go before he’s ready anyway, longer if he stays on that wretched little ball of rock. Longer still, if you’re not here to mentor him.”

Dagan chuckled. “Does that mean that you will approve my transfer back to Earth?”

The abbot lifted his head and looked directly into the camera lens. “Why are you just sitting there? Shouldn’t you be packing?”

***

“You can’t just leave!” Negin Mal sounded as close to panic as Victus had ever heard him. “You’re under contract!”

“My contract stipulates that I serve at the abbot’s pleasure,” Victus explained, patiently, “and he has requested my return to Earth. I will be gone for less than a day, and Lucas will still be here to guard you in my absence.”

“I ordered the man into the fighting ring!” Mal shrieked. “He’s not exactly biased in my favor!”

Victus looked at him coolly. “Perhaps that was the folly of ordering one of your elite guard to fight for your pleasure.” The Kenzine did not need to be a master strategist to know that Mal would never again feel comfortable under Lucas’ guard after him to suffer the indignity of the pits. No matter what Mal said or how loudly he said it, Lucas’ future held nothing but a permanent return to the fighting ring. It was the safest option available to Mal short of outright killing the varius, which, even to someone with the resources of a negin, would have been a monumental waste. “Lucas can remain in our room if you wish, and Max can control the door lock,” Victus allowed, hoping desperately that Mal would not object further, as he was out of options.

“What if he gets out?” the negin whined, his tone of voice entirely at odds with his age.

“In spite of how you treat him, he is not your enemy," Victus said, feeling as if he were trying to reason with a child. "If he had any desire to kill you he would have done so by now. You still have the collar control to ensure his obedience, do you not?

The corpulent man snatched the remote control and fondled it as if it were a fetish, a talisman standing between himself and certain doom. His pudgy, pink fingers played over the control surfaces with obvious anxiety.

“Do be careful with that,” Victus advised, wryly. “If you accidentally blow his head off you won’t have anyone to fight for you.”

The negin dropped the control as if it were scalding hot, letting it swing free from the gold chain that kept it around his neck. “You’ve got twenty-four hours before the ship leaves,” he spat, petulantly. “Make the most of them.”

Victus checked his chron. “Actually, I have twenty-two.” He bowed. “By your leave.” Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked toward the shuttle bay.

As soon as he was out of the negin’s sight, Victus picked up his pace. His timeline was tight, and his resources were limited. Although the Kenzine order commanded considerable power as an institution, he was but a small cog in that massive machine. He had no illusions that the shuttle would wait for him a second longer than it would for any other passenger.

He was just rounding the corner to the elevator when Julian’s voice called from behind him. “Mister Entrades!”

Gods damn it! “Yes,” he said calmly, turning politely to face the concierge.

As if sensing his rush, Julian spoke quickly. “Abbot Wesley contacted me and asked me to give you this, with explicit instructions to bring it to him at the abbey.” He handed Victus a small, rectangular box. A little smaller than a shoebox, it was heavier than its size suggested and was sealed with a red cloth ribbon and the blood-red wax of the Kenzine order. There was no lock - only honor and the authority of the recipient prevented the courier from opening the box and taking a look at what was inside. That simple wax seal had kept that from happening on all but the most rare of occasions.

Victus took the box with a bow of thanks and a tired sigh, suspecting that it would feel far heavier by the time he finally delivered it.

***

Nine hours later, after two connecting flights and three delays, Victus stepped foot into the Katmandu terminus on Earth. He was looking for the bus depot when two large sapiens men in white robes caught his eye. They were not holding a sign with his name on it, but there was little doubt that they had come to meet him at the port. The abbot stood serenely in his vermilion cassock, flanked by the two large adepts. His presence came as a surprise to Victus, who had expected to see the man in passing, if at all.

“There you are, my boy!” the man cried, springing forward to greet Victus. Caught off guard, his bodyguards scrambled to keep up with him. “We’ve been anticipating your visit!” His hand suddenly flew up from his side, and the abbot pumped Victus’ arm with the enthusiasm of a parched man pumping a well handle.

“My visit?” Victus was surprised. “I’m sorry,” he said, disengaging from the abbot before the man dislocated his arm, “I’m only here for long enough to withdraw funds from my account. And,” he said, thankful to finally hand off his ten-kilo parcel, “to deliver this to you.”

“Aah, yes,” the abbot said, taking the sealed box and handing it carefully to one of his guards before completely putting it out of his mind. “Thank you. Now... where were we?”

Victus quirked his head to one side. This man who had seemed peculiar on the vid seemed even more so in person. “I believe we had yet to start,” the varius said, diplomatically.

“Oh, yes, yes,” the man’s head bobbed up and down. “Silly of me, of course.” He looked at Victus closely. “My, how you’ve grown!” He turned and directed them toward their car. “Your father is a dear friend of mine, you know,” he said nostalgically, as they walked. “I last saw him in person years ago, just after he accepted his post on Galise. You were just a little boy back then,” he said, looking fondly up at Victus. “Just a confused ball of fluff who needed very much to have someone to love.”

Victus was not often unsettled, but this man was managing to do it, and quite effectively. The act of ducking into the car and settling in gave him a welcome few moments to collect his thoughts. “I know you speak to Master Dagen on a regular basis, but I did not realize that you were close.”

“We Kenzine do tend to keep our closest relationships segregated,” the abbot said, thoughtfully. “It’s a survival behavior, but not one that I’m convinced is in our best interests.” He looked at Victus with eyes that, despite their age, were still tack-sharp. “He asked me to come find you, to see that your needs were met.”

The abbot’s hand came up to rest on Victus’ shoulder in much the same way Master Dagen’s would have. In fact, the pressure, the ever-so-slight rub of the thumb, were such familiar gestures that, if he’d closed his eyes, Victus might have thought it was his father in the car with him at that moment. “Thank you, Abbot,” the lupine said, “I appreciate your taking the time to come and meet me. I know a man in your position must be busy.”

The abbot chuckled and withdrew his hand. “I’m sure you’ve spent enough time in the abbey to realize that the more important you are, the less you have to do.” He raised a playful eyebrow. “We allow the acolytes to do all the real work, while we elders sit around all day long and contemplate our navels.” He chuckled quietly. “Your arrival is a welcome diversion in a day otherwise filled with insubstantial wisdom.”

Victus laughed out loud at that. “You’re not what I expected, Abbot.”

The abbot smiled. “I’ve learned long ago to refrain from asking the questions to which I do not wish to hear honest answers, so I will refrain from asking what you expected.” The quiet smile and head nod was a signal that the social portion of their meeting had ended. “So!” he clapped his hands on his knees. “Our time is short. What breaks you away from your duties?”

Victus felt his back straighten in response. “I am here to make a withdrawal from my personal account,” he answered, a bit puzzled. He had just told the abbot the purpose of his visit, why he was asking again?

“What breaks you away from your duties?” the abbot asked again after a moment, not changing his inflection in the slightest.

Victus was silent for a moment, considering the question more carefully. He’d fallen out of the habit of answering the true question. Underneath him, synthetic leather of the car’s seats squeaked as he adjusted his tail. His next answer had fewer words but more truth. “I have fallen in love.”

The abbot indicated his satisfaction with Victus’ answer with a soft grunt. “You carry much responsibility on your shoulders at this point in your life. You are never in one spot for more than a short time, our political system is in chaos, and you never know where you’ll next be assigned. Is a relationship the right thing for you right now?”

“Yes,” Victus answered, without hesitation.

The abbot waited patiently, watching for Victus to say more, but nothing was offered. “That was a rapid answer for such a complex issue,” he said, finally.

“It is one I have long considered, my Abbot.” Victus chuckled sadly and shook his head. “It is indeed complex, and one over which I have spent many hours in contemplation.”

The older man was silent for a moment, digesting Victus’ answer. “I hope I am not breaking a confidence in telling you this, but your father has shared information with me about your situation, as both his friend and his mentor.”

Victus looked at the other man, but said nothing. He had spent much of the previous week airing his concerns and intentions first with Lucas, then with his father. He had never intended for his words to go any further than those four, trusted ears; but apparently they had.

“Your father loves you very much,” the abbot offered.

This elicited a wistful sigh from Victus. “And I love him.” The lupine nodded slowly. “He’s been wonderful to me.” The cool air wafting out of the car’s vents was ever-so-faintly scented of sandalwood.

“Do you feel guilty about Lucas taking his place in your life?”

The question came out of left field, taking Victus quite by surprise. “I have not considered that,” he said, after a moment’s thought.

“You may wish to make it your object of meditation,” Abbot Wesley advised. “Love has many effects that we do not consider,” he cautioned, “and not all of them are pleasant.”

After a moment, he smiled again. “It takes great courage to open yourself to love, once you realize the chaos it will inevitably bring to your life.” He shifted in his seat to face his junior. “Be open to that chaos, Victus.” He chuckled. “The end result is the same, but embracing the inevitable is far less stressful than attempting to resist.”

***

Once their car had set down in the abbey’s parking lot, the two made their way through hallways which, despite being made of stone, felt open and airy. The scents that came to Victus were familiar and comforting: incense and ink, buckwheat hulls and talc and clean sapiens sweat. He was beginning to lose himself in his reverie when yet another adept, this one a young female with long auburn hair, presented herself to him. She handed him a piece of folded red paper, gave a bow of the proper depth to show respect to a visiting dignitary, then silently continued on her way.

Per protocol, Victus accepted the envelope without speaking and returned her bow with one of his own, accompanying it with a subtle inclination of his head to imply his gratitude. Without being opened, the envelope was added to the dozen others which were causing a bulge to form in his robe.

He was confused beyond measure. The giving of small gifts like this was not unusual in Kenzine halls. He had done it many times himself, when a colleague passed some milestone in their life, or when a treasured teacher had returned from a sabbatical. He enjoyed giving the gifts to others, but it made him distinctly uncomfortable to be the object of such attention.

Victus had no idea what the envelopes contained. In the past, He himself had folded the stiff, colored paper around a poem or a written remembrance, or sometimes a small object of beauty like a small shell or a leaf. He would not know what these envelopes contained until he was alone, and he hoped that what they contained would provide illumination into why so many people in this abbey seemed intent upon giving one to him.

The abbot’s office was a warm and inviting space, looking almost cluttered compared to Master Dagen’s sparsely decorated office. “Please, Victus,” Abbot Wesley requested, “Will you take a few moments to exchange your traveling cloak for a set of robes?”

“Certainly,” Victus replied. Uniformity of dress was a fact of life in Kenzine halls, and the offer was a welcome courtesy. The abbot opened a small closet in the back corner of his study and pushed hangers back and forth before pulling out a clean set of garments. “I’m afraid all I have to offer you is teacher’s robes,” he apologized, handing them to the other man. “You can change in the anteroom while I make us tea.”

Victus closed the door behind him and wasted no time escaping from the stale clothing he’d been wearing for over twenty-four hours. The vermillion teacher’s cassock was elegantly simple, emphasizing function over form yet still managing to get both right. He took a moment to examine himself in the room’s mirror, and was pleased to see that the abbot had chosen well - the garment was a perfect fit. There was but one shelf in the room, and Victus placed his folded clothing there, awaiting his departure.

Exiting the small chamber, he walked to the abbot’s front door, where he placed his sword in an ancient-looking wooden holder. The abbot’s own weapon was already there, and to his surprise Victus noticed that it was strikingly similar to his own. Kenzine swords were all different, unique to their owners and expressive of their individual style and personality.

The faint arc of the blade of Abbot Wesley’s weapon was identical to his own but the blade was slightly shorter, appropriate for the man’s smaller stature. Both bore identical Damascus patterning in the metal and the same simple stitching on the handle’s leather covering, and Victus knew without question that they had been crafted in the same forge. He did not have time today for a protracted conversation involving the origin of his sword, but he filed this tidbit of information away as a subject for discussion at a later time.

When Victus returned to Abbot Wesley’s study the man was bent over a small tea service, performing the ritual in precisely the same way it had been done twice a day, every day, for the past two-thousand years. The protector sat and watched as his abbot crushed the tea leaves, swirled hot water over them, and stirred the tea in each small cup with a bamboo brush. “What bothers you, Victus?”

Victus stopped his leg from its all-but-invisible twitching. “I’ve been gone for almost ten hours,” he said, “I am becoming concerned that I might not make it back in time. And,” he admitted, “this chair is soft.”

The abbot favored him with a fatherly smile. “By all means, my son, let’s move to the cushions.”

Leading Victus to a low table in the back of the room, the abbot motioned for him to sit. The two assumed the lotus position with the ease of men accustomed to spending hours in meditation. “Before we begin,” the abbot said, “I should ask why you wish to leave the order?”

Victus felt his ears flame in shame. He had roughed out his exit strategy with his family, but now those plans seemed ill-considered. He'd fervently hoped that his words would forever remain between his father and himself, but such was apparently not to be the case. “Please, my Lord Abbot, my words were hasty, and may even have been ill-considered.”

“What did you tell Master Dagan?”

Victus sighed. Now that he was airing his concerns outside the protected enclave of his family, to a man generations his elder who had risen to the pinnacle of their order, they seemed petty and insubstantial. “I am uncomfortable protecting that which I do not understand. What greater meaning am I to take from protecting the lives of others when I’ve never lived one of my own?”

“This is what you believe?” The abbot scrutinized him with eyes that had grown flinty and analytic. “Truly?”

“Yes.” Victus nodded his head, gaining confidence. “After much consideration I find it a contradiction to devote myself to the protection of something about which I know nothing. How am I to know if it is even worth protecting?”

“And you came to this conclusion all by yourself?” Without perceptibly changing his inflection, the abbot’s tone still hinted at disapproval.

“Someone did point it out to me,” Victus admitted, “but I believe it to be true.”

“Your young man, I expect? Lucas?” The doddering old fool who had met Victus at the skyport had vanished. The man sitting across from him now was, Victus thought, the very definition of lucidity.

“He may have pointed it out to me, but it is what I believe.” Victus sighed. “I only wish I had thought of it myself…and sooner.”

Sphynx-like, the abbot held his tongue. Smoothly and quickly, he placed the cups of tea on the table. There was no wasted movement, no hesitation or second guessing in anything the man did. He barely looked when ladling the tea into the pot, yet spilled nothing. His focus was impressive, and Victus considered that a man with the abbot’s steadfast concentration would make an imposing warrior.

He poured tea first into Victus’ cup, then his own. Examining his young companion, the man’s eyes seemed to glow for a brief moment before he spoke. “If you truly believe this, Victus, the Kenzine way will be of no more help to you.” His voice held a tone of finality about it, of choices made and paths decided.

The look he gave the varius, however, held none of the animosity Victus had expected. “You may, though, be able to help others behind these walls. When your service with Negan Mal has concluded, would you consider returning to us? To teach?”

Victus blinked in surprise. "Teach?" He thought about this for a moment and asked, quite seriously, "Are you mad?"

The abbot laughed merrily. "No, Victus, no..." He sipped his tea. “Many within our order do not share your enthusiasm for treading new ground, and it is far past time to change that." He sighed tiredly, suddenly looking as if he'd aged a decade. "I have followed your progress with great interest and, like your father, I believe that you have gone as far as you can as a student of the Kenzine discipline. There is much to learn in the realms of order and logic, but past a point it offers no reward.” He smiled up at his pupil. “You seem to be at that point. Now it is your season to embrace chaos. Now it is your turn to become a teacher."

This certainly was not what Victus had thought to hear when he announced his resignation. Was this another sort of bizarre test? For some reason, he thought not. "I am honored," he said, sipping his tea, "and I will consider the suggestion." The quiet ticking of a clock in a corner of the abbot’s study was a constant reminder of time’s inexorable passage.

"That is all I ask," the abbot returned. "Would you like a biscuit?"

Amidst his confusion, Victus was growing exasperated. "Abbot, the ship my mate is on is going to leave me behind if I am late." He did not want to insult the leader of his order, but this constant string of delays was befuddling. "May I please access my account and be on my way?"

"Do you see the box you carried all this way?" the abbot asked, as if Victus had not spoken.

"Yes!" Victus said, reining in his impatience. "It sits on your desk."

"Will you bring it to me, please?"

In spite of his best efforts, Victus walked a little faster than usual to pick up the parcel. Placing it on the low table, he stood and looked at the abbot expectantly.

Unperturbed, the older man broke the seal, opened the box, and pulled out a cylindrical hunk of machinery. Setting it gently on the table in front of him, he picked up the cellophane-wrapped box of cookies and pulled one out for himself. "You really must," he said, pulling a second one out for Victus and setting it on his plate.

"What is that?" Victus asked, torn between curiosity and urgency. It looked like something that could have fallen out of his speeder.

"It's your ship's..." Abbot Wesley closed his eyes, trying to remember the unfamiliar term. "Drive coil exciter. Yes, that's it." He looked at Victus playfully. "They aren't going anywhere without you, my boy. You can bring it back to them when you return."

Stunned, Victus sat back down on his cushion. "You crippled an entire cruise ship full of people so I'd have time to eat a biscuit?"

Utterly unconcerned, the abbot shrugged his bony shoulders. "They're good biscuits."

A polite rapping on the frame of the door drew their attention to the large simian varius who entered. The briefcase the man carried would not have appeared unusual had he been wearing business attire, but the street clothes he wore made it stand out like a sore thumb. Oddest of all, Victus thought, was the length of cotton cloth hanging out of the man’s back pocket, as if he might be a window-washer.

"Aah, yes!" The abbot climbed to his feet, somewhat stiffly after a half-hour in the full lotus. "It's wonderful to see you again, my friend!"

"And you, Abbot," the varius said, smiling and bowing respectfully, "It's been too long."

Victus was afraid he was about to have to sit through a long social interaction, but the other varius wasted no time presenting the briefcase to the order's leader. "As you requested, my Lord Abbot. Totally untraceable, and in small bills." The voice reminded Victus very much of his father’s friend Sam, but it was difficult to be certain. No matter how sophisticated the comm set, vid signals degraded with distance, and Galise was about as far away as one was likely to get in this universe. And even if the signal had been pristine, an image carried none of the sense information that identified one varius to another. The way his father’s friend walked, his size, and most importantly, his scent, were all unknown to Victus.

"Well done," the abbot beamed, "well done indeed!" He smiled fondly at the gorilla. "Thank you. We'll have tea, soon." Popping the briefcase clasps, Abbot Wesley opened the case and inspected the contents before carefully re-sealing it.

The gorilla turned to go, but stopped as if he’d forgotten to do something important. Turning, he approached Victus and examined him. It only took a moment, but his gaze carried such intensity that the Protector almost expected his eyes to glow like a fellow Kenzine. For an instant Victus thought that this man was his father’s friend, but this man had walked with an almost debilitating limp, and Victus could not remember his father ever mentioning something like that. And as the only varius Kenzine in the universe there was no mistaking Victus’ identity, yet this man had shown no signs of recognizing him.

Confusing Victus even more thoroughly, the man reached into his back pocket and pulled out an all-too-familiar yet somewhat different-looking parcel of folded red paper. After handing it to Victus with a substantial amount of care, the simian bowed deeply, received Victus’ bow in return, then walked out the door without speaking a word.

This envelope, Victus saw, although similar to the others, was also obviously different. Each of the others had been folded with the obsessive care that one takes with origami, with perfect ninety-degree angles and creases so crisp that one might shave with them. This one, though it had been folded with not one iota less care, was less perfect, more organic, as if the man folding it was performing an unfamiliar yet very important task. Somehow its imperfection made Victus value it more highly than the others, and he felt compelled to bow a second time, more deeply, towards the door the gorilla had exited through.

The abbot interrupted his confused reverie by pushing the briefcase and the machine part into his handpaws. “It’s time for you to go, my boy. You don’t want to miss your ship.”

“Indeed,” Victus said, confounded by the sudden change in Abbot Wesley’s urgency. Sixty seconds earlier the abbot could not be rushed, and now he was practically pushing him out the door. “But...whom do I give this to?”

“A man will be waiting for it, I’m sure.”

“But what of my robes?”

“There is a car to take you back to the port,” the abbot remarked, patting Victus’ chest. ”Perhaps they will be in there,” he suggested, airily, “where your sword certainly awaits.” Gently but firmly, Abbot Wesley handed him off to the same pair of musclebound adepts who had accompanied them in. “Goodbye, dear Victus!” he called, waving as the wolf was steadily ushered down the stairs and along the path toward the waiting car.

The Kenzine had opened the door and was ready to enter the car when someone calling his name behind him made him turn around to see Abbot Wesley hanging half-out of his chamber window, cupping his hands over his mouth to amplify his voice. He had to swivel his ears to better hear what the man was saying, but even then the words made no sense. He was fairly certain he had heard correctly, but he had no idea why the abbot would go to such lengths to tell him, “Be sure to get sprinkles!”

Perhaps the others are right, Victus thought. Perhaps the man is mad.

***