Boundaries, boundaries, boundaries… Victus thought, as he scanned the surrounding terrain with his ocular magnifiers.  The child is always pushing boundaries…  He’d arrived at his client’s manor three months earlier as an honored guest, the pomp and circumstance surrounding his arrival sufficient to cow his charge into submission - temporarily.  The boy pushed against his limits each and every day, expanding the scope of his misbehavior until it became impossible to effectively guard him.

Regardless of his faith in Abbot Wesley, Victus didn’t feel that this was the correct assignment for him. After graduating the Kenzine Academy with full marks five years prior, he’d had the distinction of being the most active protector in that sector of the galaxy.  Although he had started his career as an elite bodyguard by pulling the most mundane of duties, his impressive performance soon led to the most demanding assignments - those requiring diplomacy and tact in addition to strength and intellect.  He had been responsible for thwarting the assassination of King Ponce of Daruvian III, and had captured the man who was trying to steal Queen Esmerelda’s jewels on Syrax.  He had steadily built a reputation as a short-term agent who got the job done, whatever “the job” entailed, and he enjoyed the fact that his handlers were beginning to think of him as a trusted resource to be relied upon rather than a burden to be endured.

This assignment confused him. The notification had arrived as had all the rest, in a simple manilla folder. Only this time the single sheet of paper inside the folder was nearly blank, having written on it nothing more than, “Keep Edgar Blankenship’s son alive,” and a computer link to the family’s dossier.  After his previous assignments, Victus was well aware that the motivations for sending a Protector on any particular assignment were as obtuse and convoluted as everything else the Kenzine Council did.  Sometimes one of their order was sent because the client had great need.  At other times, a protector was assigned simply because the abbot felt that the world would be a better place if a man with impeccable morals and good judgment was looking over a particular person’s shoulder for a given time.  Abbot Wesley wholeheartedly believed that if the right man was in the right circumstance at the right time, pivotal history might unroll in a more benign fashion.

On occasion, protection was provided at absolutely no cost to the client. Wesley had no problem whatsoever sending one of his cadre out on a two-year mission, for free, to protect someone who seemingly did not need or even desire it.  Almost nobody refused his largesse, for those who did often fell dead. Abbot Wesley was disquietingly good at predicting conflict.

Most times, however, the cost of incurring the dedicated protection of a Kenzine was staggeringly expensive, and the assignment of a Kenzine to Edgar Blankenship and his son was not charity.  Victus had no idea exactly how much money had been transferred from Blankenship’s bank into the Kenzines’ coffers, but he felt confident that it was a substantial sum.

Until ten minutes ago Victus had thought he was doing a more-than-respectable job at keeping the Blankenship family healthy, if  not happy.  He’d even begun to feel an emotional bond developing between himself and the junior Blankenship. The wolf had hoped that the young man might even open up to him and and deal with his troubling feelings of loss and abandonment before they reached critical mass and exploded, sending the boy's life into a tailspin and taking his father and everyone around him along for the ride.

Victus had felt a kind of kinship with the boy at first, imagining how lonely it would be to be the only begotten son of a hyper-rich businessman, budding politician and widow who had far better things to do with his day than attend to the needs of his child.  But with each passing incident those sympathetic feelings had lessened until they were nothing but memories.  The boy ached inside for his father, wanting nothing more in life than to feel as if he mattered to the most important person in his world.  He wanted what every thinking being wants; to be noticed; to be valued; to be loved.

In the time-honored tradition of ignored children across the galaxy, Todd Blankenship had discovered that acting out in self-destructive ways garnered him the attention he craved. After tantrums ceased to be effective, he began abusing chemical substances.  When drug use ceased to be effective, he gambled.  At last the boy’s behavior had escalated to the point where outside intervention was required.

The most practical solution would have been to send the child to an off-world academy and let them deal with him, but the upcoming election nipped that idea in the bud.  Edgar's political opponent was a staunch family man, and even though warehousing Todd in a military academy a hundred light years away would remove his disturbing behavior from the estate, it would send the wrong message to his future constituents and, more importantly, prevent him from using the boy as a media prop.  

Victus had been at the Blankenship estate for exactly eighty-seven days and had worked diligently to stabilize the environment.  An hour ago, the accord that he had so carefully knit between father and son had unraveled. Two couriers had pulled through the estate's front gates; one in a standard, flight-capable car, and the other straddling a noisy, two-wheeled, ground-bound motorcycle. As soon as they were parked, the rider joined the driver in the car and they flew away, leaving behind one antique motorcycle and one huge problem.

Victus had examined the machine carefully to make certain there were no hidden explosives or malicious alterations and had come away impressed. The craftsmanship of the vehicle appeared beyond reproach.  But where had it come from?  The master of the estate had not struck Victus as the sort who would be interested in riding such a raw and dangerous machine, and at fourteen years old, the son was nowhere near old enough to command such a raucous steed.

The education provided by the Kenzine academy was without equal, but unfortunately had not provided him with knowledge about antique motorcycles. He checked the ignition in the hopes of moving the mechanical beast away from the house, but the key was missing.

The varius pulled out his comm and started making calls, the first to the courier company who had delivered the bike. Their identity had been logged in the house’s security computer the instant they drove through the front gate and they were not difficult to locate.  While Victus navigated the courier's bureaucracy, Todd had emerged from his self-imposed isolation and had crawled all over the strange machine.  His loud vroom! vroom! noises encouraged the Protector to put a handpaw over his free ear, and put a bit of distance between them.  

He had been no more than a dozen paces away when the engine had barked to life, replacing Todd’s puerile make-believe noises with mechanically-induced thunder.  The instant the sound reached his ears, another of Master Uhlu’s unwelcome aphorisms had popped into his head: Just because you don’t know something doesn’t mean everyone else is similarly ignorant.  Victus might not have known where the key was hidden, but Todd had.  Before Victus could reach him the boy roared away, a spray of pea gravel and a hydrocarbon haze in his wake.

And now, Todd Blankenship was roaring around the streets surrounding his father’s estate.  No man of Blankenship's standing would consider building his family's residence on anything less than five acres, so the houses in their neighborhood were anything but crowded.  Street traffic was almost non-existent, and aside from the possibility of mowing down the rare pedestrian, Todd Blankenship's greatest threat was to himself.

“What the fuck is all that noise?”

Earnest Blankenship’s harsh voice was jarring, but Victus didn’t let it interrupt his concentration. “Your son has apparently acquired an antique motorcycle and is riding it around the neighborhood at a high velocity.”

“How the hell did he get ahold of a motorcycle?” Edgar demanded. “You're supposed to be watching him. How could you let this happen?”

The anger in Edgar Blankenship’s voice mirrored the accusing tone of the voice inside Victus’ head. How had he been so stupid?  He sighed and corralled his self-recrimination before it could further cloud his judgment.  “As soon as I find out how he started that thing, Mr. Blankenship, you’ll be the second person to know.“  He continued to scan the streets below them, trying to discern a pattern in the boy’s path.  The mansion was elevated among its peers, and between what he could see through his field glasses and hear with his canine ears, it wasn’t difficult to track the boy as he raced through the streets.

“Since you’re not going to do anything about getting him back here, I guess I’d better,” the man announced, turning toward his aircar.  

Victus put a restraining hand on his arm.  “You’ve got bigger problems than getting him back on the estate,” he said, handing his employer the magnifiers and pointing toward a light-colored vehicle parked just outside the perimeter of the estate.  “Look down there.”

Blankenship snatched the glasses from Victus’ hand and held them up to his eyes, taking a moment to locate what his naked eyes had seen.  “Oh, fuck the queen,” he said, despondently.  “Who the hell would have called a news crew?”

“Your son,” Victus replied, blandly.  “If you try to chase him, it’ll be all over tonight’s news.”

“And if I don’t chase him…” Blankenship’s voice trailed off

“It will still be all over tonight's news.” Victus finished for him. “Only, if you stay where you are you won’t look like a fool chasing your son around the neighborhood.”

“No, I’ll just look like a father who doesn’t give a damn about his son’s well-being.” Blankenship fumed as he searched for a glimpse of his son through the protector’s glasses.  To his dismay he caught a flash of light as the sun reflected off of the glass of a recording lens floating near the news crew.  His humiliation was being captured in vivid detail for all the world to see. “He’s really fucked me over this time.”

Victus said nothing and congratulated himself for holding his tongue.  The man could not conceive the degree to which he’d contributed to his own downfall, and nothing a hired employee could say was likely to enlighten him.

“He’s coming closer,” Blankenship said, excitedly.  “Should we block the road?”

“It’s too easy for him to ride around you,” Victus said, as calmly as he could.  “You would look weak and ineffective.  Better to stay where you are and let him come back after he’s had his fun.”  He looked carefully at the elder Blankenship. “Perhaps you should go inside?” he suggested.  “Your presence is not likely to encourage his return.”

“Fuck him,” the man said, obstinately.  “He can break his fucking neck before he chases me inside my own house.”

Todd appeared around a corner and made a slow circle around his father’s estate, waving genially at the camera crew as he passed.  Taking his hands off the controls made him weave drunkenly and he was quick to return them.  Even at that distance his insane cackle of a laugh was loud enough to reach Victus’ ears.  He wrenched the throttle, racing past the estate’s entrance at breakneck speed.

Blankenship shoved Victus’ shoulder, hard.  “Do something!” he bellowed.  

Victus absorbed the force of the push with barely a wobble. “Remember that everything you do is being recorded by that news crew down there,” he reminded.  

Blankenship immediately turned in the direction of the distant camera and reached his hand out to the Kenzine. “I’m sorry, my friend,” he said, moving his mouth a little more than usual to ensure that his lips could be read,  “I’m just so worried about my son.”

Victus gave a polite bow, more for the news crew than for his employer.  “Any good father would feel the same way,” he said, then turned so the camera could not see his mouth.  “Stay here. I will go to the entrance gates.  I think he might stop to talk to me if he thinks it will taunt you into action.”  He stared into Blankenship’s eyes.  “Do not come down,” he warned.  “This will not work if you give in to his desires.” Unable to think of any better plan, Blankenship nodded his grudging agreement and Victus walked toward the entrance, looking no more concerned than if he were going to check the mail.

As he neared the bottom of the driveway, the news crew descended upon him. His foot had no more than crossed the entryway when a woman reporter pointed a microphone in his face like a rude foam finger.  “Why is Mister Blankenship allowing his son to ride such a dangerous machine?” she demanded, a look of authentic concern applied to her face with the same care as her makeup. “Where did it come from?” she asked, before Victus had a chance to answer her first question. “Was it a gift?  Or did Mister Blankenship leave his motorcycle where his son could get at it?”

Since answering her first question would have been uncomfortable, Victus pounced on the second one. “I’m certain young Todd has saved his birthday and end-of-year money that generous relatives have given him, in much the same way you did when you were young, did you not?”  Mindful of his media training, he took great care to keep his teeth covered as he smiled at her.  

“You strike me as the responsible sort,” he prattled on, not allowing her to gain traction. “I’m sure you spent your hard-earned money on a regrettable purchase or two when you were his age. I think we all did. It’s a part of growing up, isn’t it?” he nodded his head, sagely, “I imagine that this is the sort of thing he will ride a half-dozen times, then sell to the next person who wants to experience the thrill of the wind blowing through his hair…” he continued spouting irrelevancies without pausing for breath until her eyes began to glaze over.

What the Kenzine was saying made an odd sort of sense to the woman, leaving her to wonder why she herself hadn’t bought a motorcycle long ago.  By the time she realized that she had never wanted a motorcycle and didn’t truly want one now, the strange wolf-hybrid had moved away and was standing in the middle of the street. She was about to chase after him when the fossil-fueled cacophony grew louder.  Hoping for the beast-man to do something newsworthy, she signaled her cameraman and stood ready.

Todd Blankenship’s motorcycle appeared around a bend, its wobbling path a testimony to the rider’s inexperience.   As he got closer, Victus stilled himself, then jammed his hands into the pockets of his robe to appear as non-threatening as possible. It had the desired effect, for as Todd drew near he began to slow.

But when he had nearly stopped, his lumbering bear of a father jumped out from behind the thick fieldstone gates where he’d concealed himself while Victus was busy with the reporter. “Come here, you little son-of-a-bitch!” he yelled, oblivious to the impression he was giving to the thousands, if not millions, of potential voters around the globe.  He grabbed at whatever came within reach in a futile attempt to pull his son back under control.

Laughing maniacally, the young man evaded his father with a jerk of the handlebars.  His goal was to spray his father with gravel and dirt as he rode triumphantly into the sunset.   As with many things in life, however,  what he desired was not at all what happened.  He made the first sweeping curve at the end of their block by the skin of his teeth, but wasn't so fortunate on the next one.  He over-corrected, and in his panicked confusion he yanked on the throttle by mistake.   He had built up too much speed to successfully navigate the tight curve, and headed straight for the culvert. The motorcycle’s front wheel hit the ditch, wedged in the concrete drain pipe and launched him over the handlebars in a jarring crash.

The instant Edgar had appeared, Victus knew that disaster was imminent. Fearing a crash and having nothing to lose by trying to reach the boy, he sprinted after Todd. The wreck came as no surprise, but neither had he expected that it would be so spectacular.  By the time Todd hit his distant neighbor’s wrought-iron fence, Victus was fifty steps ahead of Edgar. By the time he reached the boy’s motionless body the father was nowhere to be seen.

On the outside Victus might have appeared calm, but inside his mind raced.  The heavy emphasis of the Kenzine academy on trauma management had seemed excessive while Victus was studying it, but today its value was patently obvious. Mindful not to make a bad situation worse, Victus gently pressed his palms against the boy’s arms to establish the physical contact he needed to assess Todd’s condition.

Years of training in the healing arts made connecting with the boy's energy second nature. Tracing the invisible trails of life-force back to Todd’s energy center was no different than tracing the thousands of weeds he'd pulled at the monastery back to their roots.  Life was life, he had learned, and it all behaved similarly.  In this case, he found the threads to be weakening. Concentrating on those streams, he dove deeper.  Winding his way through the maze, he perceived a drain somewhere in the boy’s lower body.

Pausing for a moment to explore the neck and spine, Victus found them and the surrounding tissues to be undamaged.  Judging there to be little risk in moving the boy, Victus rolled him onto his back to better see his wound.  He was losing blood at such a sickening pace that Victus could only assume that the jagged end of bone protruding from his upper thigh had sliced through the femoral artery on its way out.   

He pressed his palms around the protruding spire of bone to stanch the flow of blood, but it seemed to be doing little good.  Surely one of the news crew had witnessed the accident and summoned an ambulance; where were they?  Victus closed his eyes and followed the weakening streams of energy back into the boy’s body, trying his best to remain calm.  As Victus merged their energies, the boy’s heartbeat slowed and the flow of blood reduced to a level where the pressure of varius handpaws could restrain it.   

By the time Edgar Blankenship wheezed his way up to where his son lay, the flow of blood had stilled.  The amount covering the boy’s body looked truly horrific, but most of it was still inside and doing its job. Physical strain had already elevated the man's blood pressure, and one look at the gory mess was all that was necessary to make Edgar turn away and vomit into a nearby bush.

“Is an ambulance on its way?” Victus called to him during a lull in the retching.

“I… I don’t know,” the man said, sitting back on his haunches.  Cold sweat poured down his clammy, pale skin.  

“Call them now,” Victus said, the intensity of his voice punching through the father’s shock. “Better to have several people call than none.”

Edgar nodded weakly and patted his pockets, searching for his comm.  Victus turned his attention back to the boy and once again submerged his consciousness into the energy. Keeping his own heart rate and respiration under control were simple things, but Victus could not quiet the racing of his mind.  His own lack of attention, Edgar's counterproductive attempts to control his son and young Todd's foolish rebellion all angered him. Worse, they served as distractions, distractions which Victus could ill afford.  

Combined with the after-effects of adrenalin coursing through his bloodstream, the mental discord pulled Victus back into his own mind.  Disgruntled, he consciously calmed himself and tried again, but again encountered resistance.  This surprised him; he'd couldn't remember ever having trouble stilling his mind and tracing the flows.   

He tried a third time and was similarly rebuffed.  The wetness of fresh blood between his fingerpads was an unnecessary reminder of the consequences of failure.  Penetrating his growing desperation, one of his father's favorite sayings sprang to mind.  “When confronted by an unexpectedly thorny challenge”, Dagen was often heard to say, "Drop back twenty and punt."  Victus wasn't sure of the phrase's origin, but he knew that it signalled the need to withdraw and attack the problem from a new direction.

His instructors had all been quite clear - entry into another being's energy must be passive.  It was the floating of a balloon through the air; a leaf upon the water. This situation called for something novel.  Victus reached out with his mind and made an active attempt to push into the flow.  He could tell it was there, but the energy stream would not combine with his, flowing around his consciousness without permitting it access.  It was like jumping into a river but remaining bone dry.

Remembering Dagen's advice to "see" without using his eyes, Victus attempted to "feel" without using his hands.  Using this paradigm, the energy stream felt rubbery to him, smooth and flexible, yet still very tough.  But...between the textured areas there seemed to be smoother nodes.  

Victus applied mental pressure to one of these areas and discovered that ever since he'd first traced that first weed back to the source of its life twenty years ago, he'd been doing it wrong.  Experimentally, Victus reached out with his mind and traced his way through every system of the boy’s anatomy from the inside out.  

Victus sought out the frayed ends of vein which had been severed by the broken bone and accelerated the healing process, knitting the ends of the vessel shut to stem the flow.  It was primitive and would have to be un-done by a doctor once they were in a hospital, but Victus thought that seemed a vastly preferable alternative to bleeding to death.

He felt the air flowing in and out of the sapiens lungs. He sensed the flow of blood and the transfer of energy.  The low-level thrum of life that hummed through the boy resonated with the Kenzine like a plucked guitar string. Cautiously, he opened his own energy flow and allowed it to drain into his young charge.

The effect was immediate.  Todd’s back arched, and in spite of the fact that he was still unconscious, his eyes flew open, then rolled back in his head.  Victus throttled the flow of energy, and was back to merely holding pressure on the wound when strong hands on his shoulders threw him away from the boy.

Victus was in action before he hit the dirt.  In a single, smooth motion he rolled, regained his footing and had turned his head to see what threat had separated him from the boy whose life he was trying to save.  He quelled his inborn impulse to send a snap kick to the tender, exposed back of his attacker's skull. Years of training had programmed his body and mind to work in tandem, however, overwriting the instinctive reaction to think fast with the better option of thinking smart.

In milliseconds, Victus ran through the drill.  See. Analyze. Act.  Edgar Blankenship was bent over his son’s inert body, bare hands pressed against the spot where the Kenzine’s own handpaws had been seconds earlier, and Victus felt a surprising flash of respect for the man.  Edgar must have seen Todd’s physical reaction to Victus’ energy flow and misinterpreted the cause.  In fear for his son’s safety, he’d overcome his reaction to the gore, thrown the antagonist off his boy and taken over.  Although incorrect it had also been quite noble, and Victus suddenly felt a surge of admiration for this man.  

His spirits fell faster than they’d risen when Victus noticed that the news crew, partially hidden by shrubbery less than ten meters away, had cameras trained on Edgar Blankenship as he “struggled valiantly” to save the life of his only son, seconds after throwing away the person who'd really done the healing.

Chastising himself for his sense of self-importance, Victus reconsidered what had happened.  The most likely explanation was that he had misread the situation.  The boy had not been as badly injured as he’d first thought, and Victus had foolishly misattributed Todd’s quick improvement to something he'd done.  But it had certainly felt like authentic improvement…

Disgusted, Victus sat back and watched as Edgar played the part of hero.  The most important thing was that Todd was out of immediate danger. As long as his father didn’t do anything to damage him accidentally, he’d survive.   Victus knew that the boy would be in a tremendous amount of pain had he come back to consciousness, but still he almost wished the boy would awaken. That way he could see his father caring for him, even if it was just an act, and some good could come of this miserable day.

***

“He’s fine,” Victus told his father, for the fifth time.  “He’s going to come out of this with a few nasty scars, though.”

“Perhaps they will serve him as a reminder to think more carefully in the future,” Dagen said.  His sympathy for the boy was not what it should have been.  Regardless of the young man’s situation, he had brought great turmoil to his son’s life, and it would be a while before Dagen could feel any degree of compassion for him.  “Where is he now?  Still in the hospital?”

“Yes,” Victus said, his voice quietly formal.  “He was still sedated when the nurses ejected me, and they assure me he will sleep until at least mid-afternoon tomorrow to allow the reconstructive surgery to firm up.”  

Dagen leaned closer to the monitor on his end of the connection.  “You said they ejected you.  What about his father?”

Victus sighed and shook his head.  “Making media appearances.  ‘Damage control,’ he called it. The reporters are eating this up, and he couldn’t be more pleased.”

“Pleased?” Dagen was stunned. “How out-of-control do things have to get before he won’t try to use them to his advantage?”

“I don’t know,” Victus said, “I don’t think they’ve ever gotten so bad that he couldn’t squeeze at least a little political advantage out of them.”  Contemplative silence hung between the two men as each thought about what had happened in his own way. It was Victus who spoke first, and his voice was hesitant. “Father?”

“Yes, my boy?”

Uncertain how to ask his question, or whether he should ask it at all, Victus paused and then threw caution to the wind.  If he could not trust his father, who could he trust? “When I used my energies to help the boy, it felt different than it did in training.  Slowing his heartbeat and calming his systems felt like I expected them to, but that felt like the tip of a very large iceberg.  When I tried a little harder, I found the damaged blood vessels and it felt like I was knitting the largest ones shut so he wouldn’t bleed to death.“  Looking into his father’s eyes, he saw nothing but concern and interest, so he continued, “Nobody has mentioned anything like that in my training,  Was it even real, or did I just imagine I was doing it?”

Dagen sat back, his distant gaze telling Victus that he was searching his memory for anything that might be of help.  “Some of the things I read about in the archives seemed very out of place at the time, but if you were really able to do what you think you did, then they make a lot more sense.”

“Like what?”

“The old records are somewhat spotty and there were a few instances where it seemed like parts of the story had been lost.  There are so many of them that they don't usually stand out when they occur.  Still...I remember one battle diary I was reading where the writer recorded suffering a grievous wound. Two entries later, he was up and fighting again. It seemed so odd that I went back and matched up the timecodes to see if a chunk of data had been lost, or they’d stopped writing for a few weeks, but they hadn’t. It was all sequential.  And if I recall correctly, back in those days, each of the companies had at least one varius member.”

Victus realized that he was so entranced by what his father was saying that he was leaning forward.  He corrected his posture, wishing very much that he was sitting face to face with Dagen rather than getting this information across such a vast distance. “Do you think it’s possible?  That I helped to heal that boy’s leg?”

Dagen sighed.  “What I think is that we need to get Abbot Wesley involved in this. He knows far more than I do about this.” He checked his chron. “He’s going to be occupied for the rest of the day, but maybe tonight we can get him to authorize a three-way call and we can get this figured out. “

They signed off, and Victus made his rounds of the estate.  Todd was still off-limits in the hospital in a secured ward, so Victus used the free time to patch holes in his knowledge.  He viewed condensed news reports on world affairs that might affect the household he was guarding, then finished researching where the motorcycle had come from.  

As it turned out, the hypothesis he'd shared with the newswoman had been fairly accurate.  The shipping documents traced back to a local consignment lot that specialized in older, out-of-date models.  The bike's vintage hovered in that uncomfortable no-man's land between too old to be modern and too recently-made to be antique, and its price had reflected that ambiguity.  A side-trip to Todd's savings account revealed a large withdrawal, sufficient to pay for the motorcycle, the delivery charges, and a few incidentals like fuel and taxes.

The consignment lot had not yet removed the advertisement for the motorcycle.  Posed as it was, sun glinting off freshly-washed chrome and rubber, Victus could understand the appeal of owning such a machine. Its powerful looks promised freedom and adventure. In spite of the appeal, something seemed off to Victus; the price of the bike Todd had purchased didn't seem to be in line with the other simlarly aged machines, and this made him suspicious.

A quick search of the interwebs revealed several reasons for the bike's low price. The manufacturer had been small but well respected, and the bike itself was well-regarded, as long as durability was not part of the equation.  Family tragedy forced the company out of business a decade earlier, and after their demise, repair parts had become irrationally expensive.  The cost of maintaining one handily eclipsed the initial purchase price, and they had quickly fallen into disfavor.

In learning about the one motorcycle, he gathered knowledge about the entire breed. They remained fascinatingly mechanical conveyances in a world of solid-state flying cars and hoverbikes. The controls were simple enough, and he mentally slapped his forehead when he learned that he hadn’t been able to roll the machine into the garage and out of Todd’s hands because of something called a ‘clutch.’  Now that he thought about it, it made perfect sense that the machine would have some mechanism to de-couple the engine from the wheels.

He became immersed in his research, only emerging for air when his chron beeped to remind him of his afternoon duties.  He checked on Todd, and after learning that it would be several hours before he was discharged, walked the estate grounds again.   As he crossed the front of the house he gazed down the hill, wondering what had happened to Todd’s new toy. Deciding that he had time to kill, he jogged down the long driveway and out the gates.

A few minute’s casual run brought him to the bike’s remains. It had probably been a good thing that everyone in the neighborhood had seen Todd Blankenship riding the machine back and forth.  Knowing who the owner was had kept pilferers from stealing what they could from the bike and selling the parts for money to buy whatever they were addicted to.  It seemed a pity to leave such a finely made machine to be pillaged by thieves.

It took Victus a good ten minutes to work the machine free from where it had jammed itself, and at least another five to find ‘neutral’ on the transmission and roll it out of the ditch.  At that point it was relatively easy to push the bike down the level road. The front tire was flat and the forks were badly bent, but at walking speeds it was easy enough to maneuver.  

At the foot of the driveway, Victus encountered the first obstacle which could not be surmounted by intellect - gravity.  Getting the bike up the steep hill would have been simple, had the engine run. Since it did not, the only way to move it was by strength alone.  After two attempts at muscling the machine up the steep incline of the driveway had ended with the motorcycle nearly on top of him, Victus parked the bike as carefully as he could at the estate’s entrance and hoped that would be sufficient to discourage theft.

An hour later he had cleaned himself and was refreshing his Tai Chi skills when his comm rang.  The obstreperous voice of the elder Blankenship emerged and immediately issued orders. “Come pick me up at my office, then we’ll go get the boy.” Their tranquility, it seemed, was at an end.

Victus and the driver sat outside Edgar’s office long enough for it to appear as if the man had been working on something important, then drove at maximum speed to the hospital, where the man wasted more time giving a group interview about the well-being of his son. Ending the recording session with an insincere plea for the media to respect their privacy, Edgar signed his son’s discharge papers and helped him into the back seat of the car; his every move and remark overflowing with tender parental concern.

The stream of nourishing dialog was cut off like water from a tap the instant the door shut behind Todd’s father and they were alone in the car.  He didn’t rant at the boy nor even regard him. He merely opened his briefcase and shuffled through the papers there until he found something that caught his interest, then read to himself in stony silence until they approached the manor. “Come in on the ground,” he instructed the driver. “There’s no place for them to hide in the air.”

His instructions puzzled Victus, until he realized that Edgar had no interest whatsoever in maintaining their privacy.  If there were a camera within five miles, Edgar wanted it pointed at them. “Come in from the north,” he said, touching up his hair in the vanity mirror.  The pilot obligingly did as he was told,  and as they turned the corner to the estate, the motorcycle Victus had parked at the gates came into view.

Edgar stiffened in his seat the instant he saw the bike, but he said nothing. “Pull in very slowly,” he instructed the driver as their little-used tires hit the street. A push of Edgar’s oversized thumb lowered all of their windows so that any hidden cameras might have a better view.  Victus thought that the politician’s ego was getting the better of him, but revised his thinking when he noticed camera optics protruding from of several of the neighbor’s bushes.

“Slowly, now…” Edgar reminded the driver, when they were a few meters from the gate.  “Very slowly.”  As they approached the motorcycle, Edgar reached over and jerked the steering wheel out of the driver’s hands, crushing the corner of their expensive sedan into the it, tipping it over onto its side with a clattering crunch. “Whoops.”

Tired as he was, Todd couldn’t muster the energy to protest.  He slumped back in his seat, temporarily resigned to his fate.  Victus noticed that as they passed the hulk of broken machinery, the boy didn’t even turn his head to look.

***

“So what do you think?” Dagen said, after Victus had given Abbot Wesley the blow-by-blow account of what he’d experienced.  “Do you think what Victus felt was real, or was it just a figment of his imagination?”

Wesley was quiet for so long that had it not been for the visible rising and falling of the man’s chest, and his occasional sip of tea from his porcelain cup, Dagen would have thought that his terminal had frozen, .  “I do not believe that this is an imaginary development,” he said, finally.  “Other Kenzine have approached this level of awareness, but none at such a young age and with such a lack of experience.  I can think of several extraordinary acts of healing that have occurred in the presence of other varii, but they happened long ago and are widely regarded as apocryphal.  Considering his other abilities, I must admit that it comes as no great surprise when you suggest that Victus could achieve something like this.”

“But what becomes of him now?” Dagen asked.  “Does he stay where he is?  Do we bring him back to the monastery for formal training?”  He held his hands wide.  “What?”

Although Dagen had asked the question, the abbot directed his words at Victus, sending the message that Abbot Wesley  considered him to be out from under his tutor's wing.  “What you have done is quite remarkable, Victus, and we’d be foolish to squander your abilities on regular protector duties. But your job at the Blankenship estate is not yet complete, thus, you stay where you are.  But after your contract expires, my boy,” he said, pointedly, “I’m bringing you back to Earth to study under the best healer we can connect you with.”

***

The younger Blankenship’s injuries were such that his doctor had little issue in prescribing tranquilizing medication to speed his recovery.  His father took full advantage of this by keeping his son in a near-catatonic state.  In the interests of a speedy recovery, and of keeping a quieter household, Edgar was willing to overlook the dereliction of the boy’s delicate sobriety.

Todd hovered at the edges of consciousness for several weeks, long enough for the pages of the calendar to swing past the date of the general election.  Even using his dead wife and troubled child to leverage the sympathy vote, Edgar Blankenship lost the election by a resounding margin.  The loss was comforting to Victus, who had seen beings more compassionate and qualified pulling plows in the field.

Victus made his daily rounds without fail and each day he saw the ill-fated motorcycle laying at the bottom of the steep driveway where it had fallen.  Todd’s father, it seemed, was more inclined to wait for someone to steal it so he could claim the insurance money than he was to find a buyer for it and recoup some of his son’s money; or worse, pay out of his own pocket to have it hauled off.  Victus thought that the man was also harvesting some perverse pleasure in the knowledge that his son could see the motorcycle from his bedroom window, but would never touch it again.  Removing the motorcycle from the premises would remove his fun, so it stayed where it was.

Miraculously, none of the local hooligans touched it.  Edgar had crowed that this was because the miscreants were afraid of him, but Victus thought that the lack of vandalism had more to do with the fact that he’d parked the bike in full view of a pair of security cameras.  Regardless, the hulk of machinery sat where it was, marking its spot with a slowly growing oil stain.

After a month, Edgar called Victus into his office.  “I’m terminating your contract a few weeks early,” he announced.  “Election’s over, and I’ve signed Todd over to a military school.  No need for you to waste any more of your time here.”  

And just like that, it was done.  Victus rocked back on his heels.  Regardless of the fact that his charge was still alive and this contract was technically a success, it still felt like a massive failure.   

“Just let the driver know where you need to go and he’ll see that you get there.”  Blankenship said absently, as if the two men had not lived under the same roof for the past few months.

“I appreciate your generosity,” Victus replied, “but the depot is only a few miles away and the weather is pleasant, so I believe I would rather walk.”

Blankenship shrugged.  “Suit yourself.  But before you go, take this.”  Rummaging around on his desk, he located a piece of paper with an impressive looking state seal on it.  He folded it in half and held it out to Victus.  “Stick this under the bike’s handlebars on your way out, will you?”

Victus unfolded the paper and scanned it quickly. “The title?”

“Yeah,” Blankenship said, returning his attention to whatever he’d been reading when Victus had walked in.  “Nobody seems willing to steal the damned thing as it is, so maybe if the title’s with it they’ll haul it off.  I don't care where it goes," he added, "as long as it goes away."

Victus stood for a moment, perplexed by his employer’s curious lack of respect.  Deciding that nothing he could say or do would change the man’s mind, the Kenzine took his leave.  He had brought little with him to the estate and was leaving with even less, so gathering his belongings took only a few seconds.  He stowed them along with his clothing in a duffel bag, said goodbye to an almost catatonic Todd, and closed the door on the whole bizarre incident.

He stopped on his way past the motorcycle and tucked the title between the seat and the gas tank.  Perhaps, he thought, the next owner will have better luck with it.  

A dozen steps later he paused, wondering if perhaps he should be the next owner.  Turning back to stare at the crippled machine, he thought of all the reasons why owning a motorcycle was a bad idea.  It was loud, it polluted the atmosphere, it was dangerous, and the sheer illogic of it would probably annoy his father.  

But it had looked like fun…

As an off-planet import made by a defunct manufacturer, parts would be all but impossible to find…

The price was certainly right…

In the end, all of the rationalization and justification boiled down to one thing: he wanted it.  He plucked the paper from the seat and stowed it in his duffel, then used its straps to affix the bag to the bike’s seat. Pushing a heavy motorcycle would certainly slow him down, but since he had nowhere to be for the next six weeks, did that really matter?