Chapter Twelve

The doors to the shuttle were barely open wide enough for passage before Victus forced his way past them onto the deck of the cruise ship.  Since he had been on a commercial shuttle and not on one of the cruise line’s sightseeing tours, he could at least bypass the time-consuming security check to get back on board.  The only person who was waiting for him on the unloading dock was an engineer in coveralls, and that man’s interest in Victus ended the instant the varius handed over the drive coil exciter.  

No sooner was the part out of his hands than the wolf had his comm out. “Leland!” he called, barely waiting for a response. “Where are you?”  

“I’m in shuttle bay three,” Leland replied, impatiently. “I’m trying to get out for a few hours while the negin is otherwise occupied.”

“I’m in bay one,” the Kenzine said, breaking into a run.  “Do you have with you what you need to verify funds?”

“Always,” the man said, sounding first puzzled, then suspicious. “Why?”

Suspicion was the Majordomo’s natural condition, and Victus paid it no mind.  He was doing nothing wrong, so he had nothing to fear. “Do not let that shuttle leave without me.”

“Take your time,” Leland sounded grumpier than usual.  “We’re waiting on some sort of big-wig to show up.  They won’t even shut the doors so we can turn on the damnable air conditioning until he arrives.”

Victus wasted no more breath on conversation.  Running with measured strides, he made good time to shuttle bay three, where a team of smiling yet impatient-looking pursers waved him into the shuttle.

“Finally,” he heard muttered, behind him.  He turned to look, but found the door shut in his face.  Moving into the shuttle, he was the object of scrutiny for a half-hundred sets of angry eyes, eyes which tempered their ire once they saw that their shuttle had been delayed by a man wearing the unmistakable vermilion of a Kenzine teacher’s robes.  They would still be late, but at least they’d have a good story to tell their friends at dinner that night. Victus ignored the curious buzz caused by his entry, focusing instead on the small man sitting at the back of the shuttle.  

If Leland was surprised that Victus was the bigwig for whom they had been waiting, it did not show on his face. "Those are new." He examined Victus' robes with a sour lack of humor bordering on contempt. “Did we do a little shopping while we were out?”

“I need you to count this and verify its authenticity,” he said without preamble, handing the satchel to Leland.

“I’m not a bank teller, Victus.  Some measure of respect would be appreciated.”  He all but glared at the case Victus carried with him.  “Is that the negin’s wager?”

“No, it is a personal transaction between the negin and me.”

Leland sighed impatiently. “Can this wait?”

“No,” Victus said, as calmly as he could.  “It’s very important.”

With grudging acceptance, Leland took the case, broke the Kenzine wax seal with nary a second glance and opened it. His shoulders slumped minutely.  “Small bills?” he glared up at Victus in undisguised exasperation. “Really?”

“Really.”  His tone softened.  “I’m sorry, Leland.  I know you don’t have a lot of free time, but this truly is important.”

The man pursed his lips, concentrating as he looked at the denominations, counted the bundles, and came up with a rough estimate.  His gaze shot to Victus. “I’m not stupid, you know. I know Lucas’ buyout.”

Victus was instantly wary, but he allowed Leland to make his decision before taking action.  What Victus was doing, although completely legal, would embarrass Mal and, by association, bring shame to the house. Leland was nothing if not loyal to House Mal, and it was entirely possible that he would refuse to validate the funds. According to the terms of Lucas’s contract, the house had up to a full solar day to process his payment.

If Leland did as Victus requested, both men would have to face the negin’s wrath.  The difference was, in a week’s time Victus would be light years away with Lucas by his side, but Leland would still be trapped in this pit of snakes.  Finally, Victus dropped his guard.  “Please.”

The two men stared at each other for a few heartbeats before Leland broke. “Fine.” He looked disgusted as he checked his chron with a dissatisfied huff of air. “The match starts in an hour, so we’ve got about thirty minutes before they begin moving him into the ring.” He pursed his lips in grudging concession. “Might as well get started.”  

Discreetly, Leland arranged himself so that the satchel’s contents would not be visible to the other passengers.  People of this class were not likely to rob them, but it was never judicious to take chances.  Victus took a position where he could see everyone around him yet remain inconspicuous, and waited with every scrap of patience he could bring to bear.

“You know that my loyalty is to the house,” Leland offered quietly, “and that supersedes any feelings I might have about Rudex.” His counting slowed somewhat as he spoke.  “That man is a taint on the reputation and honor of our house.  For the past two decades he has been doing his best to bleed the estate dry, and-”

“Leland?” Victus interrupted, causing the other man to pause what he was doing and look up. “I am sorry, but you know that I must remain above whatever is going on between you and Negin Mal."

The mousey man raised an inquisitive eyebrow at Victus. "Are you sure you don't want to know what’s happening inside the house?" Victus would almost have called the look on the man’s face lewd. "Sometimes when you know how the sausage is made, you learn about more than just sausage."

"I am going in there for one reason and one reason only," Victus said, struggling to keep impatience from his voice. "I want to get Lucas out of that filthy pit, and that is all." His gaze was cool. "I prefer to leave sausage making - and the house intrigue - to those better suited to the task."

Leland shrugged and went back to his counting, dismissing the Kenzine’s concern with a raised eyebrow. "Lack of imagination will be your undoing," he muttered.

***

Lucas held his head in his hands, not from despair but in frustration. Victus had promised him that he would return in time to escort him into the ring, but there had been no sign of him.  A half-dozen armed guards had formed a protective circle around Lucas on the way down to the moon's surface, ostensibly as an honor guard, but in reality to prevent him from bolting. As if there were any place to run, Lucas thought, sourly.  And now, sitting in this cold, isolated holding cell that stank of sweat and piss and fear, all he could hope was that his mate was all right.

Lucas knew the fight was not going to be easy, but he had little fear for himself. He'd proven his fighting ability a dozen times before in the pits, and if Percy was representative of what he was going to face tonight, he was in little danger.  But being forced to participate in this barbaric sport, to maim someone or even kill them for the pleasure of others, galled him to no end. To have his autonomy stripped away so cavalierly was utterly emasculating.

The clattering of keys in the lock of his cell broke him out of his stupor. "Come, Slave Lucas!” Mal said, enthusiastically. “It’s time to prove your worth to your house!"

Looking up, Lucas noted with chagrin that the negin was wearing the fifteen-hundred-credit Centurion’s outfit he’d commissioned especially for tonight's event. The brass breastplate made his torso look as if it possessed muscles that it did not, and if the brace of medals on his chest weren’t gaudy enough, the red horsehair crest adorning his helmet ensured that he was utterly impossible to miss.   Apparently, being escorted to the slave pits was not humiliating enough - Lucas would have to endure being escorted there by a buffoon.

"You sound excited, Mal," Lucas drawled as he got to his feet. "Is it for the spectacle you're about to witness, or the obscene amount of money I’m about to win for you?"

"Money isn't everything, Lucas, " the negin chuckled, then turned serious. “Believe it or not,  putting you in this position was not a whimsical decision, nor was it a frivolous one. This is about fortune far less than it is fame. He cocked an ear, listening to the distant roar of the crowd working its way through the labyrinthine corridors. He looked at the varius significantly and lowered his voice. "The man who can assist me in that is to be rewarded, Lucas. Remember that."

He sounded sincere, Lucas thought, which was how he knew Mal was lying. The negin kept promising him great reward, but Lucas was under no illusions that he would be returned to his duties once this was all over. Mal was the textbook definition of “paranoid”, and would hardly entrust his safety to a man he'd thrown into a life-or-death prize fight.  No, Lucas knew, after this he would either be sold off to another house or put to work in the mines, torn away from the man he loved without a second thought.

"Thank you, Negin," Lucas replied, then added, emphatically, "I will remember."  His thanks were every bit as false as Rudex Mal’s promises, but for the rest of his life, however long that might be, Lucas would indeed remember what the negin had done to him.

Without further comment he allowed himself to be led out of the small cell and down a long corridor. Lucas could feel the negin’s eyes boring twin holes through the back of his skull as they walked, and he could almost feel the man’s warm, soft fingers caressing the controller box that could, with a single touch, separate his head from his shoulders.  

Behind him, he could hear the fat man flicking the remote’s safety cover open and shut...open and shut...open and shut... The repetitive sound used to bother Lucas, but at this point it was just one more in a host of annoyances, like the flies that relentlessly buzzed around his head.  This had to be the only building in the universe, Lucas thought, where they had imported both atmosphere and horse-flies.

Lucas had a fair degree of confidence that the negin wouldn’t intentionally blow his head off right now.  Not only would the explosive death relieve Mal of his last trained fighter, it would sling gore all over his pretty costume.  Fifty meters from their final destination the hall widened into a room holding nothing more than a primitive table and a lone double-door which was guarded by sentries.  “Why have we stopped?” the negin demanded.

Lucas sighed. “You’ve sent  dozens of men to their deaths in the ring, and you still have no idea what’s going on?” At the negin’s blank stare, he repeated, “None?”

“I’m down here to encourage you,” he said, brightly, “and learn something new while I do.” Mal looked artificially cheerful.

“Bullshit,” the canine said. crossing his arms defiantly. ”Why are you really here?”

“Jesus,” Mal said, wiping his exasperated face with the fingers of one sweaty hand.  “Fine!” Seeing that the only way to move Lucas was to give him what he wanted, he lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Every householder on Galise is either here in person or watching this on their vid screen. This fight is going to show on pay-per-view on a hundred planets, and it looks better if I have personal involvement in the process. This one fight is going to cement my reputation as a powerhouse in the guild. A man to be reckoned with." His eyes had unfocused slightly as they beheld the majesty of his ambition.

“Finally!” Lucas shook his head in disgust. “Does it always have to be so hard to get a straight answer out of you?”

Mal looked insulted and strode to the door of the checkpoint, only to have the sentries slam their swords across each other, blocking the door.  He turned to Lucas. “What is this?” he blustered.    

Lucas pointed to a small wooden table at the center of the room.  “Your tech,” he answered, impatiently, “leave it there.”

“You’ve got to be out of your fucking mind!” the negin wailed.  “This comm does everything! It’s my lifeline to the world, for Gods’ sake!"

"They’ve followed this tradition for over two-thousand years, Mal. They're not going to make an exception for you, no matter how loudly you scream at them." He shot the corpulent man a devilish look. "But if you piss them off, they might cut out your tongue to shut you up."  The horrified look that replaced the surly pout on the negin's face was gratifying. “They can do that, you know.”

"Fine," Rudex spat. Turning to the crude table, the negin pulled one of the woven baskets towards him and ripped back the cloth covering.  He jammed everything that was not part of his costume into the basket and tied it shut. "There," he glared malevolently at the guards. "Satisfied?"

The two muscular men did not sheath their swords.

"What now?" he moaned. "Holy mother of God, all I want to do is sit down and have something to drink.”

"They don't allow weapons inside the perimeter, Mal." Lucas explained, with exaggerated patience. "You're going to have to leave your sword."

The look on Mal's face was pure confusion. "My what?" Then he remembered. His costume.  "Oh, for fucks sake, its a prop!"

Pulling it free of its sheath, he took only a single step in the direction of the guards before being stopped by Lucas' frantic, "Wait!"

The varius groaned at his automatic action. Why the hell had he stopped him? If he had just kept his muzzle shut... He couldn't keep from glaring at the horrible man whose life he'd inadvertently saved. "Handle-first!" His voice revealed his exasperation.

It took a few heartbeats for Mal to decipher what Lucas was saying, and once he did, he visibly blanched. "Oh." Turning the dummy sword in his hand so the guards could not perceive it as a threat, he relinquished it.  

The guard who accepted it barely glanced at it before laughing openly in Mal's face. "A toy?" He looked at his partner, whose face wore a demeaning smirk. "A full-grown man comes to the fighting ring wearing a toy sword?" He slapped the sword against Mal's chest with enough force to drive the man back a step.  "You do dishonor to all of us with this," he barked, with honest anger in his voice.

For the first time the second guard spoke, and his voice sneered. "I hope your fighter is more authentic than your costume, or this is going to be a humiliation." He had intended to glance at Lucas with derisive brevity, but something about the way the varius was looking back at him, something about the unwavering stare, changed his mind on the spot. "I'm sorry," he offered, with a brief nod.

Lucas understood that the apology was for more than the guard’s unthinking insult.  For a seasoned fighter to be escorted to the fighting ring by the court jester like this was unimaginably vulgar. "It's all right," Lucas said, wearily. "I'm used to it by now."

Once more the negin moved toward the guards, and this time they allowed his approach. The larger one held out an antique metal box, featureless except for a hole in the side which was shaped to receive the negin’s slave remote.   After staring at it stupidly for too long, Mal had the remote unceremoniously yanked from his hand by the shorter man.  He plugged the device into the box, waiting for a tone to sound before removing it.  The guard pulled it from the slot and held it, swinging from one beefy fist in front of Mal’s face.

“What did you do to it?” Mal asked, his voice wavering slightly with uncertainty and fear. “Give it back.”

He tossed the remote in Mal’s general direction without looking, not caring if the man caught it or not.  “The detonator has been disabled for as long as you’re in the arena.  The discipline function has not been altered.”  He resumed his station next to the iron-clad door.

The guard crossed his arms across his thick, sweaty chest, staring at Mal malevolently. “The only way a slave will truly perform is through devotion and loyalty.” He sneered at the man in front of him. “Only a fool tries to control through pain & fear.”

“Get out.” The guard’s voice was devoid of emotion, his cold dispassion reinforcing the man’s control over the situation.  He cared nothing about the negin other than that he obeyed. It had been years since the negin had been treated with such blatant disrespect, and longer still since he’d been under personal threat of bodily harm.  As the corpulent man walked between the guards into the bowels of the arena, he found that underneath his studded leather battle skirt, he had an erection.

***

Victus knew that any attempt to rush Leland along would be sheer madness.  He could not win this hand without the man’s cooperation, and to rush him would only cause more delay. Never in his life had Victus felt so helpless.  The few minutes it had taken them to move their operation to a nearby coffee house after they landed felt like an eternity of wasted time.

Leland was nothing if not thorough, counting each stack at least twice to verify the number of bills, and doing it a third time if the first two did not match. Most maddening of all, he even took the time to make certain that all the bills were facing the same direction.   Leland didn’t talk as he worked, but he did pause periodically to check his chron.  As Victus watched him count a stack a third time, he wondered if the pressures of time were slowing the man down rather than speeding him up.  

At last, it was done.  Leland keyed the amount into his chron and showed Victus the tally.  “Confirm?”

The Kenzine looked at the amount displayed at the bottom of the screen, in bold numbers which were slightly larger than the rest, and the dropping of his jaw matched the feeling in the pit of his stomach.  He blinked and looked again, but the numbers had not changed. “It...” he stammered, “that’s not right, is it?  It’s not enough!” Panic rose in his gorge like bile.

Leland looked distinctly annoyed. “I do know how to count, thank you very much.  I’m actually rather good at it.”

“But...”  Victus reached into his pocket and pulled out the receipt Abbot Wesley had handed him along with the briefcase.  A half-dozen of the red envelopes were pulled out along with it, and he scrambled to push them back into the pocket as he unfolded the receipt for Leland to see.  “It says so right here,” he said, pointing a claw to the bottom-line figure.

It only took a glance to where Victus was pointing for Leland to understand what was happening. “He can read minds and blow out a candle from ten paces, but he can’t read a simple bank statement,” he told the air.  “That’s the interrogative amount,” he said, as if lecturing a small child. “That’s the total amount you were looking for.  This,” he pointed to a number three lines up, “is the total amount you had in liquid assets, which is now in this case.  This,” he pointed at the next two lines, “represents the amount of money your institution is willing to lend you to make up the difference, and the amalgamated fees, fines and penalties that money will cost you.

He handed the sheet of paper back to a stunned Victus. “It’s not enough.”

“Don’t worry,” Master Dagan had assured him.  “I’ll make sure you’ll have enough.  Lucas will be safe.” But there wasn’t enough!  Master Dagan had always come through for him. Always!  For it not to happen now, when it mattered so much, was utterly unimaginable.  

And yet, he must imagine it.

The nauseating silence was broken by one of the stray envelopes falling out of his pocket and hitting the stone pavement.  Victus sighed dispiritedly.  To allow a gift of thanks to touch the floor, much less the street, was disrespectful and Victus bent quickly to pick it up before it could become soiled.  The moment his fingers touched the red paper, he allowed himself the conceit of hope.  Maybe...

He pushed a claw under the flap and unsealed the envelope, mindless that he was in the presence of others who would see the contents.   It was...money!  It was not a lot, to be sure, only a couple of small, worn bills that had been carefully pressed flat to make them more presentable, but it was still hard currency. “Count this,” he said, placing the cash on the table in front of Leland.  

Victus emptied his pockets of the red squares, pulling them open as fast as he could and stripping them of the small notes that they should not have contained. It was as unexpected as finding baby birds in a box which was supposed to contain rice, but he did not stop to question his good luck.  But even though Victus was not adept at financial matters, he could tell that the notes were not adding up as quickly as the stack of envelopes were being reduced. Kenzine or not, priests were priests, and were rarely rich enough to give much money away. Unless a miracle occurred, he still would not have enough.

The last envelope, in a pocket by itself, was the one given to him by the unusual simian varius, the one which had not been folded as neatly as all the rest because the man had not been Kenzine. Victus held his breath for an interminable instant while he thanked the man, wondered at his generosity, and prayed that whatever the envelope contained would somehow be enough.

The wad of cash he pulled out - and there was no other word that would really apply, it was a wad - was unexpected, but in a day full of so many other unexpected things, Victus could do nothing other than throw his mental hands up in the air and say, “whatever.”  Trying to apply logic or reason to the day’s events only made his head hurt.

Leaning forward, Leland almost snatched the bills from Victus’ handpaw and began counting.  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he cursed, muttering under his breath, “we don’t have time for the God-damned foreign currency conversion...”  This took a few more taps of his fingers, but soon enough he had his total. This time, he did not waste time showing it to Victus.  “Verified.”  

Leland closed the case and latched it shut, applying his comm to the locking mechanism with quick motions.  Now, no one but the negin of the house could unlock the case.  As a secondary vouchsafe, simultaneously as Leland worked, Victus re-wound the Kenzine ribbon through the handle and applied his own comm to the blob of wax, re-melting it into a cohesive seal.  “Where are they now?” Victus asked, as they finished.

Leland checked his chron, as he’d been doing periodically for the past half-hour. “Mal should have picked up Lucas by now.  We’ll have to hurry.”  He crossed quickly to the cafe’s front door. “This way.”

***

The walk to the processing desk was mercifully short.  Stalls lined the dank room, holding areas for preliminary contestants. As befitting a headline contestant, Lucas’ chamber would be somewhat larger, but still would be far from luxurious, or even comfortable.  After he’d been checked in, Mal would, no doubt, leave the varius in the care of the arena’s handlers while he retired to his expensive suite to gorge himself on wine and cheese.

Peering through the dark shadows, Lucas recognized more than a few combatants from his previous matches.  A quick upturn of the chin was as much greeting as anyone ever gave in this circumstance, cool recognition of a fellow fighter’s skill.  Most of the pit slaves Lucas recognized afforded him the respect.  A few of the more perceptive ones seemed curious why he was going back into the ring.

Motion at the end of the pen drew his attention to a companion cell of similar size to his own.  One look inside turned Lucas’ bowels to ice.  Percy, he thought, should be thankful to already be dead.  This fighter, the man he would have to kill if he ever wanted to see Victus again, had reached the top-tier of his profession, and had probably killed dozens by now in the name of entertainment.  His pale skin was utterly devoid of hair, and was so white that it appeared luminous in the darkness.  There was a lot of it to glow. His avalanche of muscles made Percy’s bulk look puny in comparison.

The leering smile he threw at Lucas was anything but friendly, wrapped as it was around a mouth full of canine teeth that were cruelly alien in his sapiens mouth.  Given that they didn’t match his species, Lucas could only assume that they were implants. The bullet-shape of his head was emphasized by the fact that the sides of his head had no protrusions.  If his ears had not been surgically removed, they had been ripped off.

Lucas knew he was fast and packed a good punch, but against someone as massively built as this man, any blow he could land would likely have little effect.  And judging by the amount of alteration to the rest of the giant’s body, there was a fair chance that his vulnerable parts had either been augmented.  It was not, Lucas knew, uncommon for a fighter like this to have had his testicles removed, and for chitinous plates to be installed over his windpipe to prevent it from being crushed.  His estimation of his likelihood of walking away from this match alive took a nosedive.

None of Lucas’ trepidation was on display, but on the inside he felt shaken.  He already knew that Mal was a shit-eating capitalist who would not hesitate to fuck over his best friend to make a fast credit, but it had never entered Lucas’ mind that his employer might increase the stakes on his wager by entering his fighter a class or two above where he belonged.  As the odds increased, Lucas knew, so did the payout.

If he lived, he would make Rudex Mal a very rich man, indeed.

Deep inside, where he couldn’t even truly see it yet, Lucas felt a pattern forming, as if he was on the brink of understanding something.  But...what?  A hundred individual bits of data were floating around in his head like  random pieces to a puzzle whose picture had been hidden from him. The size difference between Percy and this Goliath; the bandages on Percy’s hand a few months ago; Percy’s suspiciously lucky knockout punch during their sparring match, all nagged at him. It was obvious now that Mal was betting heavily on a longshot win.  But why?  He was already filthy rich, wasn’t he?  Why would he need more wealth?  The more effort Lucas put into figuring out Mal’s bizarre motivations, the less comprehensible they became.

As they approached the final portal, the one leading to the one-way gate that could only exit into the combat ring, the gatekeeper cried out the traditional call for all to hear. “Colosseum Lunae recognizes the house of Mal! ” It was not merely a formal greeting, it was a way to alert the remote camera operators that it was time to start shooting usable footage.  Red lights winked on as a half-hundred electronic eyes swiveled to record their slightest whisper. “Where is your champion?”

This much, at least, the negin had practiced. “House Mal will be represented by Slave Lucas MacKenzie!“ he called out, confidently pointing his good side toward the cameras and lifting his chin slightly to camouflage the fat under his neck.

“Slave Lucas MacKenzie of the House Mal,” the gatekeeper shouted so the recorders could all hear, “Do you fight of your own free will?”

This question, Lucas knew from experience, was purely pro-forma.  Any answer other than ‘yes’ would result in his being beaten until the answer became ‘yes.’  He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath, prepared to accept the inevitable.

***

As they ran through the maze of corridors, Victus could smell traces of his mate’s pheromones in the midst of the stink  They had encountered a half-dozen checkpoints in their mad dash, but Leland had been waved through them all.  When they entered a small anteroom guarded by two muscular, loin-clothed sapiens, the smaller man pushed Victus ahead of him. “This one is yours, Kenzine.”

The guards flanking the iron clad door immediately crossed swords when they heard the two enter.  “Who are you here for?”  the taller one challenged.

“Lucas Mackenzie,” Victus replied, urgently.  

“Leave all weapons behind,” the taller one intoned.

Victus’ sword was such a constant feature in his life that he had come to view it as an extension of his body.  It was the emblem of all that he was, his most cherished possession and his most deadly weapon...and he tossed it on the table between two covered baskets without a second thought.

The two men withdrew from the door as quickly as if they’d already known he would do this.  Victus was puzzled by the entire situation but he wasn’t about to question his good fortune.  On his way past the guards, he thought he detected the hint of a smirk on the shorter one’s slash of a mouth.

A dozen steps later, they turned the corner to the final checkpoint, to hear the voice of the gatekeeper resounding throughout the room. “Do you fight of your own free will?”

“HOLD!”

The herd of camera lenses turned as one, cold witness to a rather bedraggled looking lupine varius in red Kenzine robes shooting into the chamber, stumbling slightly as if he’d been pushed from behind.

“It is too late for supplication and too early for last rites, priest,” the gatekeeper called out, sounding unexpectedly angry.  “You are out of place!”

“I am here under authority,” the Kenzine replied, with confidence he did not feel. “I have just cause.”

“Fucking hell!” The gatekeeper was not amused.  “This is going to cause a delay of game.  Can it not wait until after the match?”

“No,” Victus replied, calmly, “it cannot.”  Without further pause he held the sealed case out to Mal and almost shouted the words he’d spent the previous twelve hours crafting.  “Under the terms of the contract under which this competition operates, I hereby purchase Slave Lucas MacKenzie.”

“I reject your offer of purchase,” Mal spat, defiantly.

“It is not an offer,” Victus said, “This is a legal claim.  I have your signed contract, if you’d like to examine it.”

Mal looked at his protector piteously.  “You’re out of your depth, Kenzine.  It’s too late - he’s going to the ring.  There is no way to transfer the credits until after the match, anyway.”  His smile was smarmy.  “Sorry, Vic.  Chew Toy’s going to fight.”

“These are cash notes, Mal,” It was an effort for Victus to keep his voice calm.  “Legal tender.  You don’t need to weigh them, you don’t need to authorize them, and they’re good anywhere in the galaxy. You can’t turn them down.”

Cash notes were a rarity on Galese and rampant counterfeiting made hard currency unstable at best. “They still need to be checked for forgery and counterfeit,” Mal countered.

“These are Solar notes. The amount has been verified and the case has been sealed,” Victus was more nervous than he’d ever been before, but he refused to whine.  “Not only has it been sealed with Kenzine wax, it has been authorized.”

“By whom?” Mal sneered.

“By me.”  

The second man to emerge from the corridor was entirely unexpected, and his appearance put a slight quaver of uncertainty into Mal’s voice  “What are you doing here, Leland?”

“I am here as the duly appointed representative of the House of Mal,” the butler drawled, sounding bored. "I have checked the contract and counted the notes." he said. "All is in order."

"You can't own a slave! the negin protested. Kenzines aren’t permitted!"

Victus’ voice was even. “You are correct, but we are not prohibited from purchasing them.”  

“You once asked me to warn you if you were about to throw your credits down a rathole,” Lucas said, wryly. “You’re welcome.”

Victus turned to Lucas, and was unable to effectively maintain his stony façade.  “I know you have become rather used to being a servant, but it seems I have no alternative but to free you.”  He shook his head as if in regret. “Sorry about that.”

“I think I’ll survive.” His expression unreadable, Lucas wedged one finger underneath the discipline collar and worked at the fur beneath as if it itched.  

In the excitement of the moment the Kenzine had all but forgotten about the deadly collar. Now that the dust was settling, he saw it as a hateful blemish on his otherwise beautiful mate.  Moving so quickly that Mal wasn’t able to track the motion, Victus reached forward and snatched the slave remote away from his stunned employer.

Electronic key now in hand, Victus moved towards Lucas. “Let me get that-”  He cut himself off in surprise when a quick twist of Lucas’ paw had the collar unlocked and in his hands.

Victus was more than a little annoyed. “All this time you could have gotten yourself free of that damned thing, and you didn’t? Why the hell not?”

Lucas looked at him as if the answer were obvious.  “It’s not like I could go anywhere. You’re stuck here, too.”

The gatekeeper coughed loudly, quite intentionally breaking the moment.  “House of Mal!” he intoned.  “Where is your champion?”

Mal looked behind him as if there might be a spare fighting slave hiding back there, then hung his head in angry humiliation. “I have none,” he said, after a moment.  And then, resignedly, “I forfeit.”

The gatekeeper laughed deep in his throat.  “Forfeiture is not accepted in this arena, Negin Mal.  Who will be your champion?”

Negin Rudex Mal cursed under his breath.  The whole reason he’d come here was to gain status in the eyes of his peers, and now he was going to have to beg one of the other slaveholders for assistance.  Beg!  Now, his status would go down instead of up, and he’d leave here owing another house-holder a huge debt of gratitude. Not to mention the sizeable fortune he would have to pay another landholder for the loss of their slave.

Raising his eyes, he quickly scanned the room for a friendly face.  Seeing none, he once again looked around him for a sympathetic eye, but none looked back.

Actively worried now, Mal intently stared into the face of each and every fellow Galesian land-holder and watched as, one by one, witnessed by billions of people all over the galaxy, they literally turned their backs on him.

Mal blanched and pointed at Victus. “He will fight for me!”

Victus stepped back. “I respectfully decline.”

“You are my bodyguard!” the negin howled in rage.  “Protect me!”

“Kenzine protectors are not permitted,” Victus reminded him, dryly echoing Mal’s own words.  “We may not fight in competition.”

Mal looked around for Leland, his last-ditch chance to escape the ring, but the man had already disappeared past the door, like the cockroach he was.  “Leland! Get back here!” Mal roared.  Unbidden, Victus’ words from Mal’s own ascension ceremony floated back to him. The man with no friends dies alone.   

“You!” he pointed a single, pudgy finger between Victus’ eyes, convinced that he was finally seeing the truth. “You did this to me!  This is all your fault!” His lunge towards Victus was blocked by a brace of sweaty guardsmen so bulky that they virtually blocked all sight of the man.

Lucas chuckled as he tossed the collar and remote onto the gatekeeper’s desk.  “These may prove useful to you, should one of your prisoners become unruly.”

Appreciating a skillfully-played endgame, the gatekeeper hefted the collar in his hand and nodded his head.  “They might, indeed.”  He glanced at the guards who held Mal at the entrance to the ring. “Hold him still.”

“This shouldn’t take a moment.” As he fitted the collar around the neck of the struggling Mal, the gatekeeper remarked, “Good, you’re already armed and in battle dress.  That will save time.”

“It’s a fucking costume!” Mal screamed, his face twisted in fury.

Victus grabbed Lucas’ arm. “What’s he talking about?”

“Hmm...”  The gatekeeper examined the remote control for a moment, then pushed the yellow jewel. He and billions of others watched in unalloyed amusement as Mal shrieked and dropped to the ground, fingers scrabbling at the collar locked securely around his neck.

“You can’t do this!” the negin choked out between agonized gasps.

“Of course I can,” the gatekeeper said, offhandedly.  “It’s in your contract.”

Victus was moving to intervene when Lucas grabbed him by the arm. “He’s right, Vic. This is all legit.  Now, let’s get out of here before they find some way to keep us.”

“I have a duty to protect him!” Victus protested. "I can't allow him to come to harm!"

“You’re not responsible if he kills himself!“  Lucas took his arm, with a bit more force. "I need you to trust me on this, okay?  This is my world," he emphasized, his voice darkening with anxiety. "and I really, really need you to trust me right now."

Victus nodded silently and allowed his mate to take the lead, guiding them both to the exit door on the far side of the room.  Although he was still conflicted, he was more than happy that the door closing behind them was effective at muffling the sound of the Negin’s wails.  This sudden change of events had his head spinning. “What are they doing?”

Lucas answered him, but did not slow his pace.  “If the House of Mal doesn’t have a champion, he has to go into the ring himself.”  He checked to be sure Victus was still right behind him.  “It’s part of the standard contract, but nobody’s had to use that clause in a decade, at least.” He glanced over his shoulder to make certain no one was following them. “There’s got to be a half-dozen ways to get out of it, but he’s fucked over so many people that nobody’s going to help him now.”

Victus was not about to argue that they should go back and save Mal, but he still had the sinking suspicion that he and Lucas were pawns in a much more involved game.  

Exiting the colosseum, Lucas made a quick right turn in the direction of the ticket booths. Victus strode with purpose back the way he’d come.  “Hey!” Lucas shouted at his mate’s retreating back, “Don’t you want to watch?”

The Kenzine turned and speared him with a glare.  “No,” he said flatly, “I do not.”

His tone stopped Lucas in his tracks.  The younger varius canted his head to one side in confusion  “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” Victus sputtered, failing to keep his temper under control.  “Everything’s wrong!  The man I’m supposed to be protecting is about to be killed, and I’m responsible!”

“He’s a piece of shit that isn’t worth protecting,” Lucas argued, his voice picking up some heat of its own.  “And just in case you don’t remember, he was about to send me into the ring!  Why are you yelling at me, anyway,” he added, anger draining from his voice as quickly as it had come. “If you’re going to be pissed off at someone, it should be Mal.  Or better yet, Leland.”

“Leland?”  Surprise drained the heat from Victus’ voice  “Why would he have anything to do with this?”

Lucas shook his head.  “He knew exactly what would happen when you purchased my contract.  Who do you think approves the contracts for Mal to sign, anyway?” he chuckled humorlessly. “Why do you think he practically ran out of the room as soon as his job was done?  He knew there was a chance Mal could pull him in to fight for him if he didn’t.”

“The contracts?” Victus almost whispered, his mind whirling as it put together a dozen different elements.  “He knew we were together.  He knew you’d have to replace Percy if something happened to him...and that...Mal would have to replace you.”  He didn’t know whether to cry in despair or applaud the man’s brilliance.  

Suddenly there was absolutely no point in rushing to get back to the shuttle.  Victus sat down on a nearby park bench.  Rather than sit beside him, Lucas moved behind the bench and put his hands on Victus’ shoulders, rubbing tension from them in slow, firm strokes.  

“We’ve been played, Luke,” he admitted.  “I think Leland was even trying to tell me, but I wouldn’t listen.” He groaned in satisfaction as Lucas’ thumbs moved higher, rubbing tight muscles at the back of his neck.  “He completely outfoxed me.” He bent his head lower so his mate had a better angle at which to work.  “He wrote all the contracts to favor something like this.  When the time was right, all he had to do to get the ball rolling was to get rid of Percy.”

“I think you’re giving him too much credit,” Lucas said, moving his paws up to massage his mate’s scalp.  “He might have known about Percy, but there was no way he could have known you were going to buy me out.”

“He knew,” Victus chuckled.  “He handles all of the house financials, so he had my account information to deposit my payment to the abbey.  He didn’t print your contract for me until after he knew I was committed to you, and I’ll bet if you checked his comm records, you’d find that someone made a call to the abbey, informing them how much money I was going to need.”

“That’s all well and good,” Lucas admitted, “but the contract on this fight was signed before you or I were hired.”

“True,” Victus allowed. “My being here wouldn’t matter much since I couldn’t have fought for Mal in the ring anyway.  Leland would have just waited to kill Percy until Mal was inside the holding area.  But when you came along, it gave Mal a backup.” He closed his eyes and groaned quietly.  “That’s why Leland’s always been such an ass where you’re concerned,” he said, “He was planning on killing Percy all along, so that Mal would have to fight. You were a wrench thrown into his plans. He knew that as long as you were around, Mal would just put you in Percy’s place.”

‘Which is probably why Mal agreed to purchase my contract in the first place,” Lucas guessed. “As insurance.”

“It also explains why Leland was already on the shuttle before I got there.  If I didn’t make it back in time, he had to make sure you were dead.” Thinking back to the shuttle ride, Victus felt more and more like applauding the majordomo’s sense of strategy.  “I was wondering why he was checking his chron every few minutes.  I thought he was just impatient to be finished so he could do a little sightseeing, but he had everything planned down to the second. He had to wait long enough for Mal to get past the point of no return, but not so long that you were committed to the ring.”

Lucas exhaled. “Okay, I’m convinced. The man’s a criminal genius.”

“Mmmm...” Victus allowed himself to drift in the pleasant sensations manufactured by the canine’s strong thumbs.  

“So...” Lucas said, quietly, “what do we do now?”

Victus warred with himself. He felt that he should probably be humiliated at losing a client like this, or ashamed that he’d let Mal be drawn into even so thorny a tangle as this, or worried about what the Kenzine council would think of his actions, but his soul felt only peace. He smiled.  “We enjoy the sunshine.”

Lucas spied a colorful sign hanging over a store across the street from them, and he was suddenly ravenous.  “Mmmmm,” he hummed, hungrily. “Brain Freeze...”

Victus looked at the sign which had caught his mate’s attention. In addition to the establishment’s name, it bore a picture of an unnaturally pink ice cream scoop sitting on a pointed waffle cone. “You and your stomach. Ice cream is full of unhealthy fats and processed sugars.”

Lucas’s smiled innocently, but his eyes had turned decidedly lustful.  “There are things I want more than ice cream, but eating fudge ripple in public won’t get us arrested.”

Victus reached over and scratched his mate behind the ear. “I’m sorry, but I just spent all our money.”

“Oh,” Lucas said, chagrined. “It occurs to me that we’re both suddenly unemployed. You’re resigning from the order and there isn’t much of a market for unemployed slaves, these days, so what are we going to do?”

“Oh,” Victus looked at his mate, embarrassed. “News flash. They wouldn’t let me resign.” He gave a shy grin. “In fact, the abbot asked me to come back to Earth to teach. I didn’t really have a chance to tell you about that.  We’ve been sort of busy.”

Lucas’ uncomfortable expression made Victus’ grin fade.  “What’s wrong? I thought you’d be happy.  Don’t you have family on Earth?”

Lucas shrugged. “Yeah, well... Let’s just say that not everyone goes into the army because they’re hungry for adventure. I wanted to get away from my family, and Earth can be a pretty small planet.“  Looking over at Victus, he spotted a small square of brilliant red sticking out of the chest pocket of his inner shirt. “What’s that?”

Victus looked puzzled for a moment, but broke into a smile when he saw the small square of folded red paper the abbot had patted into the small inner pocket of his lapel, where one might keep a pen or two or, in this case, a folded envelope.  Trapped as it was between layers of fabric, he’d missed it during his earlier frantic search for cash.  “It’s a gift from the abbot.”

“What is it?”  Lucas’s tail unconsciously brushed slowly back and forth behind him in curiosity.

“I have no idea,” Victus said, pulling it free.  He spoke as he unfolded the paper. “This is supposed to be opened in private, but I guess it’s all right if you’re here.” Unlike the other envelopes, this one did not contain banknotes.  Inside was a small slip of paper, a coupon. No, Victus corrected himself, it was a certificate, good for-

His laugh erupted from his belly, pealing out until his sides hurt and his eyes ran wild with joyful tears.  

***

Victus licked his single scoop of vanilla ice cream in a methodical, orderly fashion, so that no part of the cone got sticky with dripped, dried ice cream, and none got in his fur. He glanced at Lucas in time to see his partner swipe his broad, pink and black tongue across the topmost of the three balls of ice cream balancing on his cone, denuding it of the pink candy sprinkles he’d lavished upon it.  

One lick too many pushed the top ball off-balance and sent it falling toward the ground, but Lucas caught it before it hit.  Victus sighed to himself as he watched the other man enthusiastically chew and suck the half-melted ice cream from between his fingerpads. His fur was going to be sticky for a month.

Victus shrugged, uncertain of what to say, but more confident than ever that his investment had been wise.