Date: Thu, 10 Jul 2003 13:13:07 -0400
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: The Boys Of Aurora - Chapter 14

Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons
alive or dead is coincidental. The venue is fictional and any resemblance
to actual bases, locations, is coincidental.

This story takes place in 1976 Canada and reflects the mores, traditions,
customs, etc., of the times. I urge all of those who read this story to
remember that what is "politically correct" today, was not thought of back
then. If you are Lib-Left, politically correct and have jumped on the
bandwagons of whatever causes are the fads of the month, please do not
continue past this point. This also applies the so-called "Religious" Right
and "Moral" Majority. I respectfully remind you that the "Good Book" also
contains proscriptions, restrictions, do's and don'ts that I don't see or
hear any of you thumping bibles about. Write me, I'll be glad to give you
some excellent web sites. To all the anti-this and anti-that, Bible
Thumpers, Libertarians and the ACLU, the bankrupt and increasingly
irrelevant United Nations, please do not send me e-mails espousing whatever
cause you're touting. I have no time for claptrap.

As this work contains scenes of explicit sexual acts of a homosexual
nature, if such erotica offends you, please move on to a tamer site. If
your mainstay in life is Bible-thumping cant, please move on. If you are
not of legal age to read, possess or download writings of an erotic nature,
or if possession, reading, etc., is illegal where you live, please move on.

This story is written in an age without worry, and as such unprotected sex
is practiced exclusively. I urge all of you to NEVER engage in sexual acts
without proper protection. The life you save will be your own.

I will respond to all e-mails (except flames). Please contact me at
paradegi@rogers.com

My thanks, as always, to Peter, who edits what I write. He suggests, he
argues and then he acquiesces - with all the tenacity of a pit bull!


The Boys Of Aurora - Chapter 14


Had there been a sea battle? Was this what death felt like? The Gunner
awoke with a shattering headache. His tongue was coated and felt as if he
had been licking the Ship's cat's bottom. He raised his head and very
quickly collapsed back onto the pillows, his head spinning and his stomach
doing flip-flops. He had a hangover of biblical proportions and death would
have been a welcome release.

Groaning loudly, The Gunner crawled out of bed.  He had slept in his
clothes, something he rarely did, and his whole body felt shabby. He needed
a shave and a shower and a good swift kick in the ass. Today was Saturday,
his Investiture was only a few hours away and here he was, smelling like a
goat and looking like something that spent its nights sleeping in the
bilges!

Shuddering, The Gunner walked slowly into the bathroom where one look in
the mirror over the sink confirmed his hangover. Eyes bloodshot, face
pasty, the skin under his eyes looking like it was made of silly putty,
hair mussed and standing straight up at the back. God he was a sight! Which
was exactly what he deserved. Time and again the old Command Chief Gunnery
Instructor, his rabbi, friend and mentor, had told him: never mix grape and
grain. As the Chief had once opined, it all might taste good at the going
down of the sun, but in the morning all you had to show for it was two
little men beating the bejezus out of the inside of your skull with
sledgehammers, Delhi belly and wet farts.

Just thinking about all the booze he'd consumed made The Gunner feel
sicker. There had been drinks before dinner, wine with dinner, drinks after
dinner, and a devastating series of nightcaps with Laurence. The Gunner had
no idea how late they had sat talking but he did know that barring a minor
miracle he would hardly add éclat and brilliance to anything this day.

After stripping off his wrinkled, night soiled clothing, The Gunner steeled
himself for the next part of his morning ritual: shaving. He applied lather
to his face and with shaking hand scraped the lather and the bristles of
his beard from his face, shaving slowly as he castigated himself
mentally. He deserved every ache and pain, and the fact that he had helped
Laurence unburden himself barely made up for his discomfiture.

Having managed not to cut his throat, The Gunner showered, enjoying the hot
water rushing over his body and partially washing away his aches. Enjoying
the shower made him think about the showers at AURORA, which led him to
think about Phantom. He wondered idly what the little bugger was up to.

Phantom would more than likely be up and doing about now. Saturday was just
another workday until noon. The cadets still had to be fed so Phantom would
be in the Mess Hall. Later, with Saturday a half-holiday, The Gunner hoped
that Phantom would take some time for himself, maybe fool around with the
Twins, well, not fool around with the Twins.

The Gunner turned the water off and stepped out of the shower. As he
towelled himself dry he reconfirmed his desire to go away with Phantom for
a little while after the cadets went home. There was so much that they did
not know about each other, so much that he wanted to tell Phantom. He
wanted to bring Phantom into the Order. He wanted to understand what
Phantom wanted from their relationship. There was so much for them to talk
about and they would never have the opportunity unless they simply got away
from everything for a while. He left the bathroom and returned to his
bedroom. Almost as soon as he entered the bedroom there was a light tap on
the door and Laurence entered.

Laurence took one look at The Gunner's nude body and began to back away,
stammering his apologies. The Gunner, feeling marginally better, was not at
all embarrassed. He had spent far too many years in an all male environment
to worry about another man seeing his bits and pieces. "Oh, Laurence, do
come in.  After last night I think that I can safely say that we have no
secrets between us." He reached for his robe, which he had casually thrown
over a chair the night before. He gave Laurence an evil look. For someone
who had spent half the night guzzling cognac, Laurence looked remarkably
bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, The Gunner cradled his aching head in his
hands. Laurence, who was wearing his brass-buttoned footman rig, pulled
open the drapes, flooding the room with bright sunlight and then, chuckling
softly at The Gunner's moans and groans, he gestured and Noel entered the
bedroom. Noel was carrying a large tray, which he placed on the round table
in the middle of the room.

"I am sure that you will feel better after some coffee," Laurence said
quietly to The Gunner. "And have something to eat."

The Gunner gagged involuntarily. "Food is the last thing I want! And why
are you so damned chipper?"

Laurence and Noel exchanged a glance and a smile. They had just the
medicine The Gunner needed. "I never have a hangover," said Laurence as he
cracked a raw egg and dropped it into a large crystal glass. From the tray
he took a bottle of Tabasco Sauce and jerked a liberal portion on top of
the raw egg. Then he filled the glass with tomato juice and handed it to
The Gunner.

"What's this?" asked The Gunner suspiciously.

"I believe it is called a Prairie Oyster," deadpanned Laurence. "A
sovereign cure for those suffering the effects of the morning after."

The Gunner looked at the glass and shuddered. "If I drink this I'll just
sick it up," he warned hoarsely.

"Not if you drink it slowly," replied Laurence patiently. He began laying
out The Gunner's clothes. "Mr. Leung is waiting in the corridor with your
new suit. When you've done with him Mr. Michael expects you on the terrace
for breakfast."  The Gunner made loud choking noises as he slowly drank the
noxious mixture of raw egg and tomato juice. He gagged and made a horrible
face. "If I die from this concoction my blood will be on your hands."

"You are not like to die," returned Laurence calmly. "When you've finished
that I'll pour you a cup of coffee. Then you really must dress."

The Gunner glared at Laurence. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

Laurence returned the glare with a grin. "Of course. It's not every day I
see one of the Council in such a state."

The Gunner stood up and walked unsteadily to the table. He sat down and
Laurence poured a cup of coffee for him. "I know you think I'm whining, but
after last night I think I'm entitled."

"I am thinking nothing of the sort," replied Laurence with deliberately
exaggerated dignity. "As a boy I was always told by my Mother to look with
pity on the less fortunate, in particular those suffering the after effects
of self-inflicted wounds."

The Gunner sipped his coffee, gagged, groaned, and fixed a gimlet eye on
Laurence. "Tomorrow I will feel better," he said ominously. "I will
remember all slights and I shall repay."

Laurence laughed quietly. "As much as I would enjoy continuing our duel of
wits I am very much afraid that the day awaits.  A very busy day."

The Gunner waved his hand slowly. "I know, I know. Mr. Leung wants to
finish so he can swan off to AURORA. God help him if Chef is as hung over
as I am."

"I've laid out your clean underpants and a vest. And who, please, is Chef?"

The Gunner collected his underpants and T-shirt and walked toward the
bathroom. "Chef is a cantankerous, overweight tyrant who rules the galley
with an iron hand, a meat-cleaver and a heart of gold."

******

After Mr. Leung finished with The Gunner's new suit he left the bedroom and
returned with another suit bag. "What's that?" asked The Gunner.

"Your dress suit," replied Mr. Leung. "I apologise for it being ready made
but Mr. Michael insisted . . ." He shrugged expressively.

"Dress suit? A tuxedo?" asked The Gunner.

Laurence coughed delicately. "Tails, actually. The dress for the dinner
tonight is white tie."

"You're joking!" The Gunner with moaned loudly. "I think my headache just
got worse!"

"It was either a ready made suit of tails or the Major's Gilbert and
Sullivan outfit," returned Laurence. "And to be honest, somehow I do not
think lace and watered silk is quite your style."

After checking the hang of The Gunner's trousers Mr. Leung stood up and
nodded. "Later, if you will permit me, I would be honoured to make you a
proper suit."

"What's wrong with this one?" asked The Gunner as he began dressing in his
new rig.

"For ready made? Why nothing at all," sniffed Mr. Leung. His tone, however,
said that there was everything wrong with it.

Laurence, knowing Mr. Leung and his opinion that a gentleman always wore
tailor made suits, quickly intervened before The Gunner twigged on
Mr. Leung's obvious condescension. "Are you and your people ready to go to
AURORA?" he asked, moving behind The Gunner and smoothing the shoulders of
his suit jacket. "A very nice fit, Mr. Leung."

The Gunner, who was not as stupid as Mr. Leung thought he was, knew exactly
what Laurence was doing. "Yes, Mr. Leung, thank you. You do very fine
work."

Mr. Leung beamed. "It is always a pleasure to serve a gentleman," he
returned insincerely. "And if I may, whom shall I speak to at AURORA?"

"Since you're outfitting the stewards, you would be best to speak to the
Chief Steward, Chief Petty Officer Lascelles. He is usually hanging about
the Mess Hall," replied The Gunner. He poured himself another cup of coffee
and sat at the table.

Laurence quickly hustled Mr. Leung out and then turned to face The
Gunner. "I'm sorry about him, Steve, but he is the best bespoke tailor in
Vancouver, even if he does grate on one."

"Laurence, never apologize for the other man. If anything you should feel
pity for him."

"Whatever for?" asked Laurence.

"He is about to meet the vainest, pickiest, pernickety and downright ornery
cadets on the face of the earth." The Gunner grinned hugely. "And I would
like to be around when he pulls his act on Chef." He returned to his seat
and reached for the silver coffee pot. "Saturday morning is a work day,"
The Gunner continued. "The cadets always start out with morning exercises."
He looked at his watch. "By now Harry has flashed the Chief Physical
Training Instructor and the Peanut Gallery, Chef has lost his temper at his
Makee-Learns at least twice, and no doubt chased the Brats from the galley
once. Phantom will be nattering on at Matt, who is a good kid, about how
the breakfast tables have been set, or not set as the case may be. As for
the Twins, God only knows what they've gotten up to."

"The Twins?"

"Cory and Todd Arundel. God help Leung if he pisses them off!"

"Why, I always found them to be perfectly polite and respectful young
men. Except, of course, for the time the Major . . ." Laurence stopped
abruptly. The Major would not appreciate him telling tales out of school.

The Gunner looked at Laurence and then stood up. "You know the Arundel
Twins?" he asked as he walked toward the door.

"Um, why yes, I do in fact," began Laurence as he started to back out of
the bedroom. "Their mother is a very great lady and a good friend of
Mr. Michael's. Mrs. Arundel shares Michael's passion for roses and she and
her sons have been here several times." He eased open the door. "Well, I
really should be off. I've some things to do in the drawing room and . . ."

"Oh no you don't!" said The Gunner with a grin. He draped his arm over
Laurence's shoulder. "First you are going to tell me exactly what the Twins
did to the Major."

"Please, Sir Stephen, I . . ."

"Come on, Laurence, spill!"

******

The Morning Room was a large, square chamber that gave direct access
through huge, floor to ceiling French doors, to the rear terrace. The room
was a light and airy chamber, painted a pale yellow accented by light green
and gold window hangings. It was the only major room in the house that did
not have a chandelier hanging from the moulded plaster ceiling. Although
normally used as an informal sitting room, when there were guests and
Michael wanted to breakfast or lunch on the terrace, the room was converted
into a dining room. Down the centre was a long table covered by a
spectacular, embossed, white linen tablecloth, which protected the precious
veneer of the table. Laid out on the table were silver dishes and bowls
containing an enormous selection of breakfast dishes. There was a large
chafing dish of scrambled eggs; another dish held bacon, and yet another
sausages. There were kippers, which Laurence told The Gunner were a
favourite of Michael's. There was a large tureen of porridge, beside which
was a silver jug of farm-fresh cream.  There were freshly baked croissants
and rolls and on the side tables and, in the event that a guest might
prefer something cold, there was a huge York ham. Noel stood at the ready,
waiting to carve.

On another table a variety of fruit waited: apples, oranges, bananas,
grapes, freshly sliced pineapple, curving crescents of melon and
cantaloupe. Standing nearby was another footman, another white male The
Gunner observed, ready to pass the fruit plates and silver fruit knives and
forks.

On the terrace Michael and the Major sat at a large, round, glass-topped
table reading the morning newspapers. At each of the other six places were
place mats set with plain silver cutlery, large crystal juice glasses, and
huge coffee cups. The Gunner surveyed the cornucopia of food and the quiet
elegance of the breakfast table and while he did think that there was a lot
of food for so few people, he was not about to complain. His stomach was
still sending out signals of outraged queasiness so he took only a sweet
roll and a croissant and went out onto the terrace.

The Gunner looked toward the well-kept lawns and gardens of the
estate. While he knew that there was a large security force somewhere
about, he saw no one lurking in the bushes and the sylvan beauty of the
lawns was unmarred. As The Gunner seated himself Michael quietly folded his
newspaper and set it to the side of his plate. "Good morning, Stephen, I do
hope you slept well," he said with a warm smile.

"Well enough," replied The Gunner noncommittally as Noel poured him a cup
of coffee.

"If your room is uncomfortable, I am sure that . . ." Michael took great
pride in his hospitality and if a guest were in any way uncomfortable . . .

The Gunner waved away Michael's coming offer of new accommodation. "The
room is fine. In all honesty I stayed up late with Laurence." He grimaced
slightly. "The atmosphere was decidedly liquid," he confessed, somewhat
shamefaced.  He regarded the small collection of silver topped crystal
bowls in the centre of the table. Out of place was a small, covered china
bowl. On the lid was a tiny bee. "Jam?" The Gunner asked, indicating the
bowls.

Michael nodded. "And honey." He leaned forward. "What do you think of
Laurence?"

The Gunner thought a few moments. He answered slowly and carefully. He
considered his conversation with Laurence privileged. "He seems a fine,
intelligent young man.  I like him."

The Major's head appeared around the edge of his newspaper. "Bit wasted as
a footman, do you think?"

The Gunner nodded. "You've served with him in Malaya and Vietnam,
Major. Michael has known him for two years. It hardly seems fair for either
of you to ask me for a fair assessment of him after only two days." He
broke his croissant apart and nibbled at a small piece.

Michael cocked an eyebrow. "If you have any doubts, Stephen . . ."

The Gunner carefully laid his bit of croissant on the plate in front of him
and looked evenly at Michael. "Laurence has said nothing, and done nothing,
that would lead me to doubt him. I did not say that I had doubts. I did say
that I liked him, which has nothing to do with him being a Knight. I know
some rogues whom I like, but whom I would not trust to clean the heads."

"You would trust him then to be your Equerry?" Michael sipped his coffee,
his face blank.

"Will I need an assistant?" replied the Gunner carefully, wondering what
Michael was up to now. "And why Equerry?"

The Major's head appeared again. "Merely a term of convenience. You can
call him your assistant. Whatever you please."

"I've spoken with him. I know his history." The Gunner looked directly at
Michael, "As do you and the Major.  Laurence will make a good Knight and he
is most definitely wasted as a footman."

Michael smiled. "Which makes it all that much easier for me to tell you
that he is going to be your advance man."

"He is?"

"Unless you have any objection, yes," replied Michael with a slight
smile. "As Chancellor you will receive petitions from many people who wish
to become members of the Order. Some you will want to meet, some you will
be unable to meet. You do have a career, and I am fully aware that you
cannot just up and leave whenever you feel like it."

The Gunner leaned back in his chair. "The finest source for new recruits is
in the Service. They are young, they are enthusiastic, and they are
disciplined. In order to meet them, and to evaluate them, I have to be with
them. And you are right. I cannot just up and leave whenever I feel like it
and . . ." He shrugged almost apologetically. " . . . At the end of the
month I am back to the Fleet."

Michael understood all the implications of The Gunner returning to the
Fleet. Once back on duty he would be at sea much of the time, particularly
during the summer months, training Reservists. During the winter he would
be working almost every weekend from September until April and except for
21 days leave time, he would be very much serving at the pleasure of the
Crown.

"Laurence will meet the potential candidates that you cannot meet,"
continued Michael. "He will make an assessment, and report to you. That is,
if you agree."  After last night, and Laurence's confession, The Gunner
could give only one answer. "I agree. I would trust him to be my Equerry."

Michael nodded, pleased. "You will still have to make the final decision as
to accept or reject a candidate. Laurence might recommend, but the final
decision will be yours."

The Gunner sighed.  "An awesome responsibility."

"Again I detect a note of doubt." Michael stood up and gestured. "Come,
walk with me."

******

Arms linked they walked the length of the garden, stopping from time to
time to admire the flowering shrubs, Michael commenting on the age, origin
and difficulty of growth of each plant. For a man who was busy with his
various enterprises and interests Michael showed a remarkable knowledge of
horticulture. When The Gunner commented on this Michael smiled. "I have
watched them grow from seedlings, to young plants, to mature, flowering
bushes at the height of their beauty." He looked at The Gunner. "I am not a
reluctant gardener."

"I am," admitted The Gunner, recognizing the metaphor Michael had
used. "You have taken seedlings and as they've grown you have pruned and
trimmed them to grow in the direction you want them to grow. My seedlings
are not plants, but boys, and I cannot help wondering if some of them will
grow the way we want them to grow, or flower into the plants we think them
to be."

"When I began planting this garden, I sought the advice of experienced
gardeners, men who knew seedlings and plants." Michael stopped beside one
bush and plucked a flower from it. He handed it to The Gunner. "Before
plantings began I knew which shrub would grow here, which would not. The
flower you hold is the result of many years of nurturing."

"It's very beautiful," replied The Gunner. "I just wonder how many of the
seedlings I bring to you will grow into such beauty."

Michael straightened and they continued their walk. "Unlike my garden,
Stephen, your garden will be composed of wild flowers, young men,
impetuous, filled with life and, like so many young men, not influenced by
our pitiful attempts to trim and prune them into pale imitations of
ourselves."

"But is that not exactly what we are trying to do?"

Michael shook his head forcefully. "Certainly not! I want thinking,
cognitive, self-assured young men who will question everything, who will
not simply accept that such is so simply because you or I say it is so. I
want young men who will not accept that they are outcasts simply because
society says they are. I want young men who think and who know that they
are just as good as the next fellow. In some cases, better than the next
fellow, young men who are not afraid to stand up and tell the world to go
to Hell!"

The Gunner chuckled as they retraced their steps and returned to the
terrace and sat down again. The Major, still engrossed in his newspaper,
paid them no heed.  As he resumed his seat The Gunner expressed a further
doubt. "My biggest concern is the youth of the young men we might
recruit. I also do not want to have anything to do with anything that
smacks of brain washing." He gave Michael a searching look. "If I see the
least hint that someone is being pressured into joining the Order, I will
refuse him. I mean that, Michael. They must make up their minds on their
own hook. Many of them will have enough emotional baggage as it is."

"Which is exactly what we have been doing for seven hundred years," replied
Michael without rancour. "I understand your misgivings, Stephen. We have
all had them, but what we all seem to forget, and I think this important,
is that the average sixteen-year-old male has a very good idea of who and
what he is. He might not like what he is, he might decide to conceal his
true feelings, he might decide to act on his true feelings, but at the end
of the day he knows what he is."

Suddenly The Gunner thought of Phantom. Phantom, young, impetuous, full of
life and not about to let anyone influence him into being something he was
not. "Never be ashamed of who you are . . ." quoted The Gunner, remembering
Phantom's words to Joey and Randy on the Legislature grounds.  "
. . . Never be ashamed of what you are and never, ever, be afraid to be who
you are!"

"A profound statement, which sums up adequately what we are trying to
do. One of yours?" Michael beckoned the footman for more coffee.

The Gunner shook his head. "No, a 17-year-old boy whom I freely admit is
dear to my heart, a boy who is also stubborn and impetuous. He is gay, and
he sees nothing wrong with being gay and he is damned if he is going to
apologize or make excuses for being gay. He is also a boy whom I fear might
go in harm's way."

"Then we must do what we are sworn to do. We must show him the correct
course to steer, and where the shoals are." Michael could milk a maritime
metaphor just as well as The Gunner.

The Major's paper crackled imperceptibly and a small groan rose above the
newsprint. Being Army, he did not suffer Naval types gladly. Both The
Gunner and Michael ignored him.

"Will you be recommending that we speak to your young man?" asked Michael.

"Yes, when the time is right. There are others that I would like to be
considered."

"All cadets?"

"For the moment, yes. Not all are gay. Two, possibly three are, and there
are two others that I do not think are gay but that I think would make good
candidates. Two of the boys you know."

Michael gave the Major a quick glance and laughter danced in his eyes. "The
Arundel twins?"

The Major's paper shook perceptively and he growled low.

"Yes, Cory and Todd. I think that they are two of the finest young men that
I have ever met. Granted, they are young, and sometimes they display an
unfortunate teenage exuberance, but they are rock steady," enthused The
Gunner. He smiled wickedly at Michael as his eyes slid over to the Major
and then back to Michael. "The Arundel Twins are fine boys. They have, as
we say in the Andrew, bottom."

The Major's newspaper shook so much that The Gunner thought that the
tectonic plates beneath the house had shifted.

Michael could not help smiling, secretly pleased that his instincts had
proven correct. Stephen Winslow had come highly recommended as a keen
observer, and a good judge of character. What no one seemed to have picked
up on, which Michael had, was that Stephen Winslow had the ability to pick
up on seemingly innocuous bits and pieces of information, study them, and
come to the correct conclusion, as evidenced twice now. Last night Stephen
could not have known that Laurence was one of the anointed, and had the
support of not only the soon-to-be Grand Master, but the support of Major
Meinertzhagen. Stephen had, to put it in naval parlance, divined that the
Major was Laurence's rabbi. This morning, the Major's reactions to
innocuous and innocent comments about the Arundel boys, had led The Gunner
to think that something untoward had happened between the Major and the
Twins. He had picked up on it and, while he more than likely knew none of
the details, had decided to have a little fun at the Major's expense, and
in the doing exposed a collegial humour that Michael found refreshing.

Listening to the muted growls of outrage coming from behind the newspaper,
Michael wondered just how good an intelligence network The Gunner had
access to. There would be his friends in the navy, former term mates, and
shipmates, of course. That was to be expected. Then there would be the
cadets. Too many times adults dismissed the prattling of schoolboys as so
much nonsense, never paying attention, and never really hearing what the
boys had to say. For a brief moment Michael wondered if Stephen obtained
some of his information from pillow talk. He was fully aware that The
Gunner was in a relationship with one of the boys of AURORA, a boy who
happened to be very close to the Arundel twins who, in the innocent,
chattering way of boys, would in all likelihood have mentioned their prank
to their friend who, in the innocent, chattering way of boys, would have
mentioned it to his lover. It was a logical explanation, Michael
thought. Certainly, not a mention of the incident would fall from the
Major's lips.

Michael's eyes slid over to The Gunner, who nodded his head ever so
slightly in the Major's direction. Michael returned the nod. The Major
could be damned stuffy when he put his mind to it and Stephen was not
averse to poking the man with a large, pointed stick. Nor was Michael. He
leaned forward and, as his smile became a grin, he said, "I'm very glad
indeed that you think so highly of them. I have always found them to be
delightful boys. So very well-mannered and polite." He ignored the
strangling noise that erupted from the Major. "I was very impressed with
them the last time that they were here. So much so that I am toying with
the idea of asking them to be my Pages of the Presence."

This was too much for the Major. He stood up abruptly, noisily folded his
newspaper and slammed it under his arm. He glared at Michael and The
Gunner. "IF you will excuse me, I have some things to attend to in the
drawing room," he growled through clenched teeth.

Michael could barely contain himself. He prided himself on his ability to
keep his emotions under control. The Major's icy petulance, however, was
too much for him. "Never, my dear Stephen," he gasped between scarcely
contained gales of laughter, "underestimate the efficacy of Ex-Lax and
Kahlua!"

******

After breakfast The Gunner was left to his own devices. He went into the
library, a large, book-lined room where he settled behind the massive
writing table, a huge oak piece inlaid and veneered with rosewood
marquetry. He found some writing paper and a pen and began to list his
candidates for the Order.

Aside from The Phantom and the Twins, he considered the other cadets. First
was Tyler. The boy had great potential and from his remarks when they were
on the range at CFB Comox Tyler was, if nothing else, sympathetic. The
Gunner wrote Tyler's name, and then added a stipulation. Tyler was not to
be approached until after his settling in period at Royal Roads. He would
have enough on his plate as it was, trying to acclimatize himself to life
at the Military College as a bare-assed New Cadet.

Next came Val. Like Tyler, The Gunner doubted that Val was gay, but as
Cadet Chief Gunnery Instructor he was well liked and respected by the
cadets. More importantly, as a man, Val was respected. He had been Tyler's
roommate at school, and at AURORA. While not quite an unknown quantity, Val
could at least be sounded out and his sympathies, if any, determined. He
could be approached when he left the Sea Cadets.

Third on The Gunner's list was Harry. Rock steady Harry, huge, rude, and
totally honest Harry, a boy without guile or pretence. Harry's relationship
with Stefan alone made him a possible candidate, although The Gunner had
his doubts that Harry was truly gay.

The Gunner read his list and sighed. Six boys, three admittedly and
honestly gay. One who was at worst, bi-sexual, and two straight
arrows. There were, he thought, others. His decided that his main task
would not be determining who was gay, or straight, but who amongst the
cadets would be sympathetic and approachable. That was the key, he
thought. He could fill the rolls of the Order with a hundred gays, but if
society continued - as he expected it would - to reject them, and treat
them with contempt, then there would have to be members, sympathetic to
Michael's cause, whom society would accept. Tyler and Val were a start.

He considered some of the other boys, those who worked with The Phantom,
who loved him and respected him. There were the galley staff, and stewards,
boys who actually worked with The Phantom. The Gunner thought a moment and
wrote down Ray's name, then Sandro's. When the time was right, he would add
Randy's and Joey's name. Kevin's defence of Matt gave him a place on The
Gunner's list.

Of the boys in the Gunroom, those who lived with the Twins, he chose Chris,
Jon, Fred and Nicholas. The four boys knew that the Twins were gay and were
prepared to ignore it. They accepted the Twins for who they were and had
never expressed a bad word against them. Two Strokes, while a nice boy most
of the time, had made more than a few remarks that had led The Gunner to
believe that while he was prepared to tolerate the Twins, he did not really
approve of their homosexuality. Thumper, who was Two Strokes' friend and
confidant, while he had never voiced an opinion one way or the other, was
too much influenced by his friend and would not be approached.

That left Greg. The Gunner thought long and hard before deciding that Greg
would not be asked or approached. The cadet was smart, had a presence and,
to The Gunner's certain knowledge, had slept with Harry when the cadets
were in Victoria. The Gunner was also aware that Greg's affair with Harry
had been brief, and from all the signs, when it ended Greg had not reacted
well. No, The Gunner decided, it would be best to leave Greg be for the
present. Perhaps later . . .

Noel, who was carrying the box containing The Gunner's Chain of Office,
interrupted him. It was time for Laurence to become a Knight. The Gunner
thanked Noel and then asked him to return the Chain to his room. While
Michael had appeared after his election wearing the Grand Master's Chain of
Office, The Gunner had decided to let the thing lie in its box until later
in the day. He would don the Chain only after his Investiture.

Before he left the library The Gunner reread his list of names. He thought
a moment, smiled at happy memories of sunny days in England and a heady
night on Texada, then added two more names to the list.

******

The drawing room was huge. It was actually a double room, two exact cubes
that had once been the Great Hall of Poole Court, the vast country home of
the 8th Lord Poole of Carlisle. His untimely death in 1971, followed by the
even more untimely death of his son in 1972, had saddled the estate with
double death duties. The heirs, faced with a tax bill that they could never
hope to pay otherwise, sold the estate. Michael had purchased the Great
Hall in situ, had it dismantled and stored until it was fitted into his new
house.

The rooms, with 20-foot ceilings and four vast Venetian-glass chandeliers,
had been designed to impress and awe any who had the good fortune to see
them. The overall colour scheme of the rooms, which were separated by twin
Doric columns and a richly carved entablature, was wine red and vellum. At
one end, above a shining rosewood Steinway concert grand piano was hung a
Mortlake tapestry representing the Battle of Solebay. At the other end was
a floor to ceiling fireplace. The chimneypiece was decorated with swags and
pendants carved out of one block of limewood and had come from yet another
old house in England. The carvings, like the carvings in the dining room,
were attributed to Grinling Gibbons. Over the mantel hung Claude's
Embarkation of St. Ursula.

Both rooms were carpeted with superb antique Aubusson carpets, which, like
the furniture, reflected the overall colour scheme. The furniture, as was
the custom in all the great houses of England, had been designed to
complement the rooms in which it sat. The main suite of 12 chairs and two
sofas had come from the workshops of Thomas Chippendale the Elder. The
cabriole legs of the sofas and chairs were gilt with burnished gold, and
each piece had been upholstered in Boucher medallion tapestries from the
Gobelin looms. The second suite of four sofas and seven chairs, taken from
a design by Robert Adam, had been made by Chippendale the Younger, and was
upholstered in wine red silk.

Between the windows of each of the rooms, to give the illusion of space,
were placed matching pier tables with overhanging pier glasses. On each
table was a large silver bowl filled with the finest cut roses from
Michael's garden. Accenting the upholstered pieces were inlaid and veneered
tables of rosewood, satinwood and mahogany, gleaming masterpieces from the
workshops of Sheraton and Hepplewhite.

In front of the fireplace Michael and the Major, both formally dressed in
morning suits, waited to begin the small ceremony that would make Laurence
a Knight. The Major had all of his gongs up and Michael wore his Chain of
Office. Before them was a small wooden kneeling stand. The Major held his
court sword. On the satinwood table under one of the niches that flanked
the fireplace was an Infantry Pattern Sword, and a large, tooled-leather
portfolio containing Laurence's Letters Patent. Everything was ready.

There was the scuffle of leather on hardwood flooring and Laurence, flanked
by his sponsors, entered the room. Rick Maslen, who refused to wear the
green uniform his superiors in Ottawa had foisted on the Armed Forces if he
could avoid it, had resurrected the full dress, red serge and gold dress
uniform of a Military Police Officer, and carried his Staff of Office. The
Gunner, resplendent in his new black suit, felt decidedly drab and
colourless, what with Michael and Major Meinertzhagen in all their finery,
Rick in his red tunic, and Laurence looking like a poster boy for the Royal
Marines. Casting a frankly admiring glance at Laurence, The Gunner
regretted his decision not to wear his chain of office.

Laurence had dressed in his best Number One Dress uniform. Noel had fretted
and fussed over the single-breasted jacket with the four silver-gilt
buttons bearing the Royal Marines Globe and Laurel crest. He had pressed
the fine black serge uniform trousers until they had a sharp, knife-edged
pleat. He had polished the two pips fixed to the jacket's shoulder flaps,
and brushed and brushed the thin red stripe that ran down the outer seam of
the trousers. While Laurence appeared calm, his placid demeanour masked his
nervousness. He fully realized the importance of what he was about to do,
of what he was about to become and, although he would not admit it, he was
just a touch afraid of what the future would bring.

As they waited for the signal to proceed Laurence drummed his fingers on
the top of his white, red-banded garrison hat, stuck it under his arm,
removed it, then stuck it back under his arm.

"Stop fidgeting, Laurence," commanded The Gunner as they waited for the
signal to proceed into the drawing room.  "You're making me nervous."

"And me," said Rick.  "Really, for a Lieutenant, Royal Marines Reserve, you
are more like a schoolgirl on prom night."

Laurence smiled weakly and then ran a finger around the collar of his
stiffly starched white shirt, realigned the Windsor knot of his black tie,
and plucked at the red seam running down the side of his trousers.

Rick chuckled. "You're going to crush your hat, Laurence. Do calm down."

"I don't know why I'm so nervous," he groaned. "I don't know if I should
piss or puke."

"Whatever you do, do not do it on Michael," returned Rick.

Laurence passed his white-gloved hand across his brow, and then fiddled
with the polished brass buckle of his Sam Brown belt. "I should have worn a
sword," he muttered disconsolately. "An officer always wears a sword."

"You don't have one," reminded The Gunner. "And please stop rubbing your
forehead. You will get your gloves all sweaty."

"Ah, here we go," murmured Rick. He bobbed his head, acknowledging the
Major's hand signal for them to proceed.

With what seemed like agonizing slowness his sponsors led Laurence to the
kneeling stand where he knelt on his right knee and looked at Michael, who
smiled and winked. Michael took the sword from the Major and lightly tapped
Laurence's right shoulder, then his left, and then his right shoulder
again. He returned the sword to the Major and held out his hands, which
Laurence clasped in his gloved hands.

"I, Laurence Albert Edward Howard, do become your liege man of life and
limb . . ." he began slowly and clearly, reciting the oath from memory.  "
. . . And of earthly worship and faith and truth I will bear unto you to
live and die against all manner of folks."

Michael withdrew his hands and gestured for Laurence to rise. "Now, that
wasn't too bad, was it?" he asked as he reached out to shake the hand of
the Order's newest Knight.

******

After presenting Laurence with his new sword and Letters Patent, Michael
once again shook the man's hand, and then settled onto one of the Gobelin
sofas. Noel bustled in carrying a tray laden with glasses of champagne and
although it was not yet noon they all toasted Laurence's Knighthood.

The toasts and congratulations finished, The Gunner looked into the niches
built into the panelling on either side of the fireplace. Behind the thick
bevelled glass doors of each niche were three shelves, on each of which
rested a rosewood box containing the bejewelled collars and insignia of
what Michael called the Lost Priories. Beside each box was a silver mascot
representing each of the six priories that no longer existed.

The Gunner was drawn to the insignia for England and the mascot, a six-inch
high representation of Britannia atop a globe. As he studied the display of
collars The Gunner idly tapped his champagne flute, thinking of a tall,
redheaded, stunningly handsome Royal Navy Lieutenant with a patrician face
and well-muscled body. He also thought of that weekend so long ago in one
of the stately homes of England, and the weekends spent in the small house
in Southsea.

Michael joined The Gunner in admiring the artefacts contained in the
cases. "Behold the Lost Priories," he murmured. "The relics of our
greatness." He began pointing to the various cases and mascots. "England,
France, Germany, Spain, Austria and Italy. All gone now."

"Seven hundred years reduced to a few jewels and bits of silver," replied
The Gunner sadly.

"Seven hundred years of complacency and apathy," returned Michael, an angry
tone in his voice. "Add in Hitler and his thugs . . ." he shrugged
expressively.

"I can understand Germany and Italy, but England?"

"We were never really well-established in England," began Michael. "They
are, apart from the Germans and the Americans, the most homophobic of
peoples. Their viciousness is only surpassed by the rednecks of the
American South." They returned to the sofa and sat down. "Stephen, what
destroyed the Order in Europe was lack of leadership combined with
apathy. The European mind set is medieval when it concerns
homosexuality. Draconian laws, in England, in Germany, in all the so-called
civilized nations, only made the climate more difficult."

"Being sodomized with a red-hot poker would certainly be a deterrent,"
opined The Gunner dryly.

"Quite so," agreed Michael. "Even Royalty learned discretion. One admits
that so long as one was very, very discreet, and the Order always has been
that, one could live in relative peace. But once false step and the mob
would descend."

"Which is not all that much different from today." The Gunner shook his
head sadly. "The vast majority of gay men hardly go around wearing a pink
triangle."

Michael agreed. "Which is one reason why the Order has never had any
distinguishing robes or medals or decorations. Our watchword has always
been to never draw attention to ourselves if we could avoid it. For much of
our history we have worked in the shadows, behind the scenes. Unlike the
Templars, and the Hospitallers, we raised no great churches or
hospitals. Our priories were always small and nondescript. While the Order
did grow rich it never flaunted its wealth. The Order never courted power
and avoided the Friendship of Kings."

"Power corrupting and Kings being very fickle creatures," opined The
Gunner.

"Particularly if they owed you money, as the Templars learned much too
late." Michael grinned. "We learned that a favour for a favour worked much
better."

"Some would call that bribery," interposed The Gunner.

"Not at all," protested Michael. "Remember, from the 13th Century onward
Kings and Popes held all the power. Being Kings and Popes they were always
at war with someone or another, and always needed money. In 1155 money
brought Papal recognition of the Order and confirmation that the piece of
the True Cross the Order held was authentic."

The Gunner winced inwardly as he recalled The Phantom's disdain and mockery
when he had told the boy about the True Cross. "So, the Order purchased its
legitimacy, then?"

Michael shrugged. "Who is to say? Pope Adrian wanted to believe that the
piece of wood was a relic of the Cross. The adoration of relics is an
ancient Catholic custom, enshrined in Canon Law. And remember, the Pope is
infallible."

The Gunner snorted. "I might believe that the True Cross is real, but
really, Michael, the church's obsession with relics is too much! Would you
believe that a church in Italy claims to have the Sacred Prepuce of
Christ?"

"Twelve monasteries and churches, actually," replied Michael. "They
question, loudly, and on a regular basis, the authenticity of each other's
relic." He waved his hand dismissively. "But, no matter. The point is that
we used, and will use whatever we must use to gain our ends.  If it is
money, so be it. If we must play on the susceptibilities of religious men,
so be it. In 1187 the Knights of Outremer rode out to meet Saladin, taking
with them the largest portion of the Cross known to the Church. Saladin
beat them soundly and captured the Cross. Jerusalem was captured and
Gregory VIII preached a new Crusade, which of course the Order heeded."

"For a consideration, of course," said The Gunner dryly.

Michael grinned. "Of course. In exchange for the better part of the Order's
piece of the Cross and 50 knights, we received a Papal Bull recognizing the
Order and granting it Sovereignty from the Bishops. A donation of 50,000
marks to Richard the Lion Hearted gained us the right to establish a Priory
in England."

"Politics and money," sniffed The Gunner. "The more things change, the more
they stay the same."

Michael nodded. "Of course. It has never changed, really, and by playing on
the whims and ambitions of the powerful the Order has gained much." He held
out his right hand and showed The Gunner the large ring, set with a
stunning ruby, that he wore on his ring finger. "In 1355 Charles of
Hapsburg decided that he not only did he want to be Holy Roman Emperor, but
that the title would be vested in his family. He needed money to bribe the
Electors. The Order gave him the money."

"And gained?"

"Letters Patent creating the Order a County Palatine, and granting the
Order the right to create Knights and to grant Arms to each Knight. Which
is why, as part of your Investiture, you will receive not only a ring such
as mine, but Letters Patent of a Grant of Arms."

******

For The Gunner the balance of Saturday passed in a whirlwind of
activity. In the ballroom of the Four Seasons the utilitarian desks and
chairs had been removed, replaced by delicate, gold and white ballroom
chairs, and in this sybaritic setting and before the assembled Knights The
Gunner swore on his honour to "bear True Allegiance to my Brothers in
Knighthood. I swear that I will defend all those Our Brothers, and that I
will in all things conduct myself in a chaste manner, so that no dishonour
will I bring upon the Order; I swear also to succour the ill and destitute
of all our Brothers, and that I will henceforth dedicate my life to my duty
as a Knight. This I Swear before God and this Company and upon the Symbol
of Our Order."

After swearing his oath The Gunner touched the gold casket containing the
relic of the True Cross. He was then given a large leather portfolio, which
contained his Grant of Arms and a magnificent watercolour of his new Arms,
which were in keeping with his Naval past.

The shield was quartered with a White Ensign, the White Rose of York, a
gold fouled anchor and a trillium, centred with an escutcheon of the old
King's Colour. Two sailors, wearing gaiters, holding bayoneted .303 rifles
and dressed in the old blue rig, supported the shield. They bore a
startling resemblance to the small figurines that The Gunner had purchased
in Mr. Schoenmann's store. The knight's helm on top of the shield bore a
Naval Crown, and from the top of the helm rose a "lion passant
guardant". The shield was mantled and collared with a broad blue ribbon on
which was engraved his new motto: IN HONOUR BOUND.

The Gunner was then presented with a Naval Officer's sword, a gold rod
bearing a vermeil figure of a knight, and a superb gold ring set with a
table-cut ruby. Surrounding the ruby, in small, precise letters, was his
new motto. On one side of the ring was the Shield of the Order, on the
other side his new Arms, executed in exquisite enamel. Finely chased
martial trophies backed both shields.

Following The Gunner's Investiture, Laurence, as the newest and most junior
Knight, was presented to the assemblage. When the official presentations
were finished Michael went off with Willoughby. The Major, as usual
enigmatic, muttered something about "sticky fingers" and then asked The
Gunner about his possible candidates.

The Gunner, Major Meinertzhagen and Laurence retired to one of the side
rooms reserved for private conferences. As they seated themselves in the
comfortable armchairs The Gunner glanced at Laurence. The return look on
Laurence's face told The Gunner that he was just as much in the dark and
that the Major's remark about sticky fingers was very much a mystery to
him.

They discussed the list of possible candidates from AURORA, and the Major
nodded as The Gunner read each name on his list. The Major shuddered
slightly when The Gunner read Todd's and Cory's names. " . . . They are
young I admit, the oldest boy is only 18, but they are high spirited and I
think each of them will be receptive," concluded The Gunner.

The Major nodded and then removed a small piece of paper from his waistcoat
pocket. "What do you know of one . . ." He extended his arm its full length
(he'd forgotten his reading glasses).  " . . . Brian Venables?"

"Brian? Guard Petty Officer Venables?" The Gunner looked at the Major and
at Laurence in turn, wondering how the Major could possibly know about
Brian.

"The same." The Major cocked his head, waiting for an answer.

The Gunner thought a moment. "From what I know of him he is a sturdy young
man. The Guard respects him and the boys like him. And how do you know
about him?" he finished quickly.

Laurence looked at The Major who nodded slightly. Laurence began to speak,
his tone casual. "The young gentlemen were in town this afternoon. Most of
them took the opportunity to visit the local Laundress." He smiled
slightly. "I understand that there has been a problem with laundry?"

"Brian Venables?" asked The Gunner pointedly, ignoring Laurence's question.

"It would seem that there was an altercation between young Venables and one
of the town boys. Our correspondent in Comox tells us that Venables
acquitted himself well," interjected the Major dryly.

"What correspondent?" demanded The Gunner. Christ, did the Order have
people everywhere?

Again Laurence looked at the Major and again he nodded. "We have friends,
Stephen, and from time to time they report on young men who they feel might
bear future investigation," began Laurence.

Strangely, The Gunner found the thought of secret agents, hidden
correspondents and the like repugnant. Perhaps it was because the whole
idea smacked too much of SIU and its goons for his liking. Still, at the
end of the day he realized the necessity, how else would the Order know
what was going on?

The Major, from experience gained over the years and with his usual
prescience, sensed The Gunner's unease. "You must understand, Sir Stephen,
we must work in the shadows. We really have no choice," he explained. "I am
sure you will agree that the people we must reach out to . . ."

The Gunner held up his hand. "I understand completely." He made a wry
face. "An overreaction on my part, I think, because I tend to associate
secret agents and such like with covert investigations that usually end up
with someone being hurt."

"Not at all," assured the Major. He gave The Gunner's knee a reassuring
pat. "We have agents, men of integrity, in many places, most notably
military installations. They do spy, Sir Stephen. They observe actions and
individuals. Their primary purpose is to inform us when a serviceman or
woman is in difficulty. From time to time they happen to be in the right
place at the right time to observe a young man who, by word or deed
exhibits sympathy with our Brothers. There is nothing sinister about it."

"The man in Comox is a driver for Base Transport," continued Laurence. "He
witnessed the altercation between Venables and the town boy. Venables
refused to divulge the reason for the altercation to his Officer. He
admitted that he had thrown the first punch, and was prepared to accept
responsibility for his actions. He also refused to allow the town boy, a
disreputable character, to be blamed for what had happened. He displayed a
certain nobility of character."

"Brian is not one of us," replied The Gunner.

"He does not have to be. He is a fighter and he has character," returned
the Major. "We lose nothing by speaking with him. Unless, of course, he is
in league with this Greene person."

The Gunner shook his head. "Brian shares in the universal dislike of that
particular little man."

"A point in his favour," agreed the Major. "One of the positive things
about this odious little man named Greene is that he acts as a
catalyst. The other boys hear his rants and are immediately repelled by his
hatred. In a way they represent the large number of the people in North
America who are decent human beings and who are disgusted by the hatred
being spewed by the religious fanatics and the hate mongers. They believe
in fair play, in being non-judgemental. The boys look at the obvious gays
around them, the Arundel boys, and they know instinctively that what Greene
is saying is wrong. They are being lied to and they do not like it."

"Unlike the so-called liberals the boys have done something about Greene,"
returned The Gunner hotly. "They do not like him as a person, and they do
not like the hatred he preaches. They have acted while the vast majority of
people in this country turn a blind eye to the discrimination and hatred of
gays. The same people who get all hot and bothered if a black church is
bombed, or a swastika painted on the synagogue door, or tombstones are
defaced in a Jewish cemetery, never see the gay man being beaten to death
because, after all, he's just another dead queer!"

The depth of emotion in The Gunner's voice, and the force with which he had
delivered his words struck a chord in Laurence. He remembered Sergeant
Major Chard. "Which we must work to change," he all but whispered.

The Gunner passed his hand across his face.  "It will take years.  I hope
the young men of tomorrow will never know the horrors of the past or the
present."

"We will do what we must do!"  The Major also remembered Sergeant Major
Chard and what his defence of the Sergeant had cost him. "There will be
setbacks. But we will prevail, God willing."

"God willing," repeated The Gunner. "But God helps those who help
themselves. When I was in the drawing room at Michael's house I looked at
the collars and mascots of the Lost Priories and thought it might be good
idea to have some sort of representation in England and the United
States. Also for Germany, but I'm being selfish in that case."

"The United States?" The Major shook his head sadly. "We gave up on that
idea a long time ago. The prejudice and bigotry is so ingrained, the fear
so intense that there is no point."

"But . . ."

"There can be no buts!" snapped the Major, his voice harsh. "You said it
yourself. The Lord helps them who help themselves. Homophobia permeates
every level of American society, the Government, the Military, the Judicial
System. Every hour of every day not one but four, count them, four
investigative services do nothing but spend their time hunting for gays in
the US Military. Soldiers, sailors, airmen, and yes, marines, are
terrorized and tortured, and nobody cares. The Americans crow about their
freedoms, and shove their damned Bill of Rights down the throats of every
poor benighted heathen from Borneo to Bangladesh. But what they do NOT
mention is that writ large across the front of that same Bill of Rights is:
no blacks or Asians, no queers or faggots need apply!"

Both The Gunner and Laurence stared wide-eyed at the Major, who continued
his rant. "The Supreme Court of the United States is little more than a
rubber stamp for the prevailing government. Instead of a strict and fair
application of the Constitution and Bill of Rights the Justices "interpret"
the Constitution, interpreting it to be whatever the Government wants it to
be!  Or whatever cabal has the most clout at the moment, whether it is the
Religious Right or the so-called Liberal Left." He waved his hand,
dismissing the Supreme Court from his mind. "The Military is so hidebound
and reactionary that even after it was pointed out to them, time and again,
that World War II tactics cannot and do not work in a guerrilla war, they
stubbornly clung to their outmoded way of fighting and lost the bloody
war!"

The Gunner nodded. "And ended up killing 55,000 young American men and
women that we know of."

"And fracturing their country, and leaving the Army confused, disoriented
and demoralized," thundered the Major. His eyes flashed with anger. "In
1957 a naval officer named S.H. Crittenden wrote a report that stated
emphatically that there was no good and sufficient reason why homosexuals
could not, and should not, serve with honour in the military. Not only did
they consistently meet standards, in many cases they far exceeded the
standards. It was suppressed. Ask after it in Washington and the Pentagon
denies that it exists, that it was even written."

"So we simply write the Yanks off?" The Gunner asked calmly.

"Yes. Be damned to them for the fools they are. They won't fight, Dammit!
Let a gay serviceman be found out and his friends and colleagues run and
hide! They roll over and take the abuse and the contempt." He stared
levelly at The Gunner. "When the gay men and women of the United States
stand up on their hind legs and roar back at their abusers, then will we
help them. Until then, on their own heads be it!"

"And the English?" The Gunner was shocked at the Major's refusal to at
least give lip service to the Order's credo when it came to the Americans.

"As bad, if not worse. The ordinary, or garden variety gay does not have a
chance against the mob! I know, I was there, remember?" replied the Major.

"And so was I," said Laurence quietly. "You stood up for Sergeant Major
Chard."  Major Meinertzhagen did not fail to detect the note of deep regret
in Laurence's voice. He was not, however, going to dwell on the
past. "Stephen, Laurence, please understand," he said slowly, "The place to
start is here, in Canada, and not in England or America. The climate in
both countries is not right."

The Gunner, who liked Americans, and who did not agree with the Major's
assessments of England and America, was not about to give up. "Major, we
are building something here, laying the groundwork for what we hope will be
a strong and vibrant organization. We all know that what we are doing will
not come to fruition for years. We accept that for Canada. We may not be
able to build a viable organization in England, or in America, but we owe
it to ourselves and to the Order to at least try."

The Major glared at The Gunner. "You obviously have something in mind."

"I do," confirmed The Gunner with a curt nod. "There are two men I would
like to be approached. If necessary I will do it myself."

The colour drained from Laurence's face. He had known the Major a long time
and knew that the man did not like his decisions or opinions questioned by
anyone, for any reason.

"They are?" asked the Major coldly.

"The first is an Ensign in the US Sea Cadets named Andy Berg. At the
present time he is at AURORA, seconded to the Canadian Sea Cadets. In
September he plans to enrol in University and enlist in the US Marines
ROTC. He is a member of the Brotherhood."

"And the other?"

"Edouard Michel Louis Marie Joseph du Faience de Lotbiniere."

The Major rolled his eyes and groaned loudly. "Dear God, a Frog!"

Ignoring the Major's theatrics The Gunner continued on. "Actually, he's
Canadian born. He is more English than the Royal Family, a pain in the ass,
arrogant, anti-Semitic, and a racist."

"Sounds a charming fellow," replied the Major sarcastically.

"He can be," said The Gunner calmly, determined not to let the Major get to
him.  "The point is, however, that he is a Commander in the Royal Navy. He
is on the Staff of the Second Sea Lord, which gives him access to the
personnel files. More importantly, not only is he an Extra Equerry to the
Queen, he is a great friend of Lord Louis Mountbatten. He has friends in
high places."

"As opposed to the rest of us, who have friends in low places?" replied the
Major snidely.

The Gunner smiled thinly. "Knowing him as I do I would not be at all
surprised if had friends in low places. But that is not why I would like
him to be considered."

"Is he a member of the Brotherhood?" interjected Laurence.

"Very much so," answered The Gunner. "But very much in the closet, and very
discreet."

"He would have to be, to survive in the Royal Navy," observed the
Major. "You know him well enough to put his name forward?"

"I do," replied The Gunner with firmness. He leaned forward in his
chair. "For all his faults he is one of us and I think he'll come in with
us. He might 'fit in' with the aristocracy but he is just as happy rolling
in the muck."

"Really?" drawled the Major.

"Yes, really," replied The Gunner, not at all intimidated by the Major's
disdain. "In addition to commanding the King's Company at Whale Island, he
trained the Naval Gun Run Teams and played football with the Company
squad. When I knew him he was not afraid to get his hands dirty."

"Hardly sterling qualifications," sniffed The Major.

"In themselves, no. However, you want me to consider Brian Venables
because, to echo Laurence, the boy displayed a certain nobility of
character. I would like you to consider Edouard's character." The Gunner
sat back in his chair and smiled. "When Edouard was in Britannia Naval
College he was forced to climb the school mast. In protest he stripped
naked and flashed the Captain's wife and daughter, amongst other
people. When Unification became law he resigned from the RCN, took out
British citizenship and joined the Royal Navy."

"No doubt making full use of his connections with Broadlands and Buck
House," retorted the Major.

"And why not?" snapped The Gunner. "Edouard had sworn an oath at the Naval
College. He had earned the right to continue serving the Crown as a Naval
officer." The Gunner did not have to remind the Major that he had sworn the
same oath when he had taken the Queen's Commission. "What has he done that
you, and Michael, have not done before? Can you deny that the Order depends
on friends with influence to gain its ends? You and Michael worked for the
good of the Order. He worked for the good of himself, but where is the
difference?"

The Major was forced to agree that there was really not all that much
difference.

"Edouard Lotbiniere is a gay man who knows what will happen to him if he is
discovered," continued The Gunner. "He has influence so why not at least
make the effort to persuade him to become one of us? If he tells us to take
a hike, so be it, but at least we have made the effort and it costs us
nothing."

The Major realized that this was an argument he was not going to win, and
decided that a graceful retreat was in order. Besides, he was allowing his
personal prejudices to cloud his judgement, which was unfair to The
Gunner. "Stephen, I apologize for seeming mulish in regard to your Navy
friend. It is just that in light of what has happened, and is happening, I
do so want us to be right in our choices."

"The men I select on my watch, Major, will remain true to their Oath,"
replied The Gunner pointedly.

"Stephen, please, do not take offence! You are trusted, my friend, and I am
a cranky old man who stayed up well past his bedtime last evening."

"Then Richard, please, allow me to maintain that trust," replied The
Gunner, not unkindly. "I understand your reasoning and your reluctance to
recruit mature men. I ask you to please understand that recruiting young
men, who will be our future, does not solve the problems of the present. We
must not lose sight of the fact that even as we speak men and women are
being persecuted and prosecuted simply because they were born gay. You
complain that the Americans will not fight back, Major. I put it to you
that they cannot fight back because they have no weapons to fight with and
no one who can and will arm them!"

"Hoist on me own petard, be Gawd!"  The Major shook his head and then
smiled. "So be it, Stephen. You are quite right, of course. Not only must
we invest in the future, but we must give attention to the present." He
turned to Laurence. "Fancy a trip over 'ome?"

Laurence started. "Home, well, um, I . . ."

"Need to keep up your qualifications with the Royals," finished the
Major. "You also must know some lads who might be of interest to us."

"Well, I . . ."

"Good it's settled." The Major made to rise. The Gunner asked him to
remain.

"Do we, do you, know of anyone in Germany?" The Gunner asked.

"Germany?" The Major all but spat out the word. "Why would we want anyone
in Germany?"

The Gunner had no reason to doubt that both the Major and Laurence knew all
about his relationship with the Phantom, and saw no reason to deny that
relationship. "In two, perhaps three, months a boy who is close and dear to
the heart of my Phantom is being moved to Germany with his family. The boy
has been the victim of abuse, mentally, emotionally, and more importantly,
physically. I have taken steps, with Rick Maslen, to ensure that he is at
least half-ways safe here in Canada." The Gunner shrugged.  "But Germany
. . ."

The Major rubbed his chin reflectively. "Rick has mentioned the boy. One
would have thought that Rick could handle the boy's protection using his
own resources in Lahr."

"Rick will do what he can. But his resources are not limitless and there is
no guarantee that those resources will be available when needed," reminded
The Gunner. "These resources are, in any event, only available on the base
at Lahr.  I am hoping that the Order might have a 'correspondent' in
Germany who could keep an eye on the boy."

Major Meinertzhagen shook his head sadly. "We have no one. When the Nazis
hauled the old Master of the German Priory off to Dachau that was the end
of the Order in Germany. There was never a very great move to re-establish
it after the war."  Laurence looked thoughtful. "I know some chaps in
Baden. They might be persuaded to help."

"Persuaded?" asked the Major.

Laurence looked uncomfortable. "They are not members of the Order nor are
they, as far as I know, even part of the Brotherhood. They are my friends
to be sure, but I am very much afraid they would look upon such a service
as, um, shall we say, paid duty."

The Gunner sighed inwardly. Nothing for nothing. "I am prepared to pay all
reasonable expenses," he said quietly.

The Major looked at The Gunner and then nodded slowly. "This boy must mean
a great deal to you."

The Gunner returned the Major's look. "He means a great deal to my
Phantom. I gave my word that I would do everything I could to see that Matt
is kept safe from his parents; from his brother and from whatever lowlifes
they might set upon him. If it costs money to do that, then so be it."

The Major was about to remark that it was refreshing to finally have
somebody about who was willing to put his money where his mouth was when
Rick Maslen, a huge grin on his face, appeared in the doorway. He walked to
where the Major was sitting and bowed low from the waist. "What is this
nonsense?" snapped The Major.

Rick straightened and addressed the Major in pontifical tones. "Messers
Willoughby and Hunter have decided to resign. Simpson, assorted camp
followers and hangers-on, all chattering in their abominable German, have
decamped to more salubrious climes. I am instructed by the Grand Master to
request the Receiver of the Common Treasure pro tem to attend him."

The Major paled slightly, muttered "Fuck!" under his breath, rose, and left
the room.

******

The resignations of Willoughby and Hunter cast a pall over the formal,
grand dinner held in the hotel's ballroom. The hotel had laid on its finest
china, silver and crystal; the hotel florist had created table arrangements
of outstanding beauty. All might have been paper plates and plastic
cutlery, with weeds in the low china bowls that decorated each of the round
tables.

Michael had informed the assembled Knights of the resignations, and the
appointment of the Major as interim Receiver.  Officially Willoughby and
Hunter had resigned their positions pending an audit of the Order's
finances. Unofficially Michael was livid with tightly controlled anger.

As Michael told it to The Gunner just before the dinner, Willoughby had
been siphoning huge sums from the Order's accounts, which were held by
Hunter's bank. Willoughby's business interests and addiction to playing
fast and loose with the Stock Market had led him first to borrow money from
Simpson at usurious rates and then, as the market soured, to "borrow" more
funds from Hunter's bank, secured by the Order's deposits.

Michael's anger was directed more at himself than at the two thieves. It
did no good for Major Meinertzhagen to point out that nobody could possibly
be expected to know everything about everything. Michael would not be
appeased. He should have known!  He knew the measure of both Willoughby and
Hunter and he should have known.

The excellent service provided by the staff of the Four Seasons Hotel
during the dinner did little to dispel the overall gloom, and the 11 empty
chairs that would have occupied by Willoughby, Hunter, and their friends
left ugly gaps that seemed to scream betrayal. Which was exactly the effect
Michael wanted. The Order had been betrayed and he wanted everyone to know
exactly who had not been true to their oaths.

Mercifully, there were no speeches and only two toasts, one to the Queen,
the other to the Order. After the dinner few of the diners felt like
lingering and by 11:30 The Gunner was back in his room, deep in
conversation with Laurence as they discussed the candidates for membership
in the Order. Inevitably their conversation turned to the scandal.

"What I cannot understand, Laurence, is how they thought they could get
away with it," said The Gunner.

"It was easy enough to do," replied Laurence. "Hunter's bank fudged the
statements, which Willoughby presented to the Council. What astounds one,
though, is that they used the Order's money to bribe the other Knights into
voting against you."

"I imagine they thought that they were safe enough." The Gunner
chuckled. "Or at least safe enough until Simpson came across with the money
they needed to cover their malfeasance."

"Which he won't dare do." Laurence poured a cup of coffee for The Gunner
and himself. Wisely they had both decided that one night of debauchery was
enough. "As for the other two, I would not care to be in their position."

Laurence looked pointedly at The Gunner, who returned the look. They both
knew Michael's reputation and they both knew that it was better not to
speculate on what form Michael's retribution might take.

"I suppose our major concern is what impact this business will have on the
Order. It cannot be good," said The Gunner pragmatically.

"I would not be looking for an honorarium," replied Laurence. He noted the
strange look on The Gunner's face. "You did know about the honorarium,
didn't you?"

"No, I did not know."

"Well, it's not all that much, but it does help with the expenses," said
Laurence. "In Germany, for instance."

The Gunner held up his hand. "That is personal, Laurence and I can pay the
shot. I would never use the Order's money for personal business."

"This boy, this Matt Greene, he must be very special to you."

The Gunner thought a moment. "Matt is the type of kid you want to be your
little brother. I cannot explain why everybody loves him, they just do. It
may be that it is partly an effect of his brother as a catalyst, just as
the Major described. It may be that he is just a kind, good kid who loves
the world and everybody in it." He shrugged. "He is very special to my
Phantom and that means that he is very special to me."

Laurence glanced over The Gunner's shoulder at the small photograph that
sat on the bedside table. It was the first thing that The Gunner had taken
out of his suitcase and Laurence had a feeling that it would be the last
thing packed away when it came time for The Gunner to leave. "You must miss
him very much," Laurence said.

"I do," agreed The Gunner with a smile. "Still, I'll see him tomorrow
night."

Laurence stretched, yawned mightily and looked at his watch. "God, 0130."

Laurence's yawn was infectious. The Gunner decided to call it a night. He
wished Laurence a goodnight and then prepared for bed. He was very tired
and thankful that there was nothing to get up for in the morning. He pulled
back the covers and got into bed and, just before turning out the lights,
ran his finger across the photograph of The Phantom. He briefly wondered
what Phantom had gotten up to in his absence. Not much, he assumed, for
after all, how much trouble, really, could anyone possibly get into at
AURORA?

******

Ray dropped the sea blanket he had been carefully holding and hurried into
the heads. The pressure that had been building in his bladder had become
too much to bear. He stood at the urinal, pissing like a racehorse, his
mind reeling as he tried to make some sort of sense out what he had seen
and heard. His heart was pounding, and his palms felt sweaty. He had to
find out if Phantom was all right.  He had to.

There was a soft movement behind him and Kevin came into the heads. He
stood beside Ray, his morning woody standing proud and pink. As Ray watched
he pushed his erection down and strained, his butt cheeks
clenching. Finally his urine flowed and he sighed contentedly. Kevin leaned
over and gave Ray a quick peck on the cheek. "Did I ever tell you that you
have a beautiful dick?" he asked with a grin.

Ray returned the kiss. "About an hour ago." He finished peeing, shook his
soft dick dry and turned away. "We have to get a move on, Kevin. The
morning cooks will be coming on duty soon."

Kevin, his dick rapidly deflating, nodded absently. When he was finished he
returned to the locker room, arriving just as Ray finished neating the
place up. "Looks like somebody had a party," he chuckled. He reached out
and pulled Ray to him. He nuzzled Ray's neck and whispered softly. "Want to
have a party?"

Ray laughed quietly. "We had one, all night."

Kevin nestled his hardening penis in Ray's butt crack. "Nothing to stop us
from having another one." He kissed Ray's neck and his hands reached around
to fondle Ray's balls and cock. "You don't have to be on duty until six,
and I'm off all day."

Ray squirmed free from Kevin's embrace. He kissed Kevin gently then pushed
him away. "Randy and Joey will be on at 0400 to get the coffee going for
the Forenoon Watchmen. We still have to clean up Chef's office and take a
shower."  Kevin cursed under his breath but followed Ray from the
heads. After cleaning up Chef's office, and opening all the windows, they
showered and dressed. As they left the Mess Hall the first faint rays of
the dawning sun crept over the eastern horizon.

They kept close to the darkened barracks blocks until they reached Barracks
8, where Kevin lived. They held each other close and kissed until finally
Ray called an end to it. He promised to see Kevin later in the
day. Reluctantly, Kevin went into the barracks. Ray, consumed with
curiosity, carefully made his way toward the Wardroom.

He kept to the shadows as much as he could. He heard low voices ahead and
ducked into the breezeway flats. Val and Tyler, deep in muffled
conversation, passed him without seeing him. As he approached the Gunroom
Ray saw a slim, lithe figure circuiting the barracks. He watched quietly as
Todd walked the length of the building, bending low several times, as if
searching for something, then straighten. Apparently satisfied Todd
retraced his steps and went inside the barracks.

Ray continued on to the Wardroom and entered. The building was very quiet,
which did not surprise him, what with Dave Eddy, Kyle, No "H" and Wally
staying over at Base and Andy safely ensconced in the OOD's cabin in the
Guardhouse.

As quietly as he could Ray walked down the corridor. He stopped before the
door leading to Cabin 5 and pressed his ear against the smoothly painted
wood, listening intently. From within he could hear low, muffled
voices. Not daring to breathe Ray reached down and slowly turned the
doorknob. He cracked the door slightly and immediately heard Cory's
querulous voice.

" . . . Phantom, what are you doing?"

"Undoing your shorts!"

Ray pushed the door open as much as he dared, listening intently.

"But, Phantom, I mean, after all you . . ."

"Cory, in a little while, I am going to sleep. When I fall asleep I want to
do it with the taste in my mouth of one of the four people I care more
about than my life.

"F . . . F . . . Four?"

"The Gunner, Ray, Todd . . . and you."

Ray heard Cory gasp loudly and then moan.

"Ah, gee, Phantom . . ."

Ray, stunned at The Phantom's declaration of love for him, stepped back
from the door. "He loves me," he thought, his heart skipping a
beat. "Phantom actually loves me." He moved back to the cabin door and
pushed it open until he had a good view of the two boys lying in the far
bed.

Cory lay on his back, his neck arched, his eyes closed and his mouth
slightly ajar. The Phantom, his face buried in Cory's crotch, slowly bobbed
up and down on Cory's sweet erection. As Ray watched, wide-eyed, The
Phantom pushed the blankets away and cupped Cory's balls. The Phantom's
long, deep, slow sucks drove Cory to moaning deliriously.

The Phantom's mouth was so warm and sensual that Cory could not hold
back. He groaned and arched his body as the suctioning mouth sent waves of
ecstasy coursing through his body. He thrust slowly, matching his movement
to The Phantom's bobbing head. "Phan . . . Phanto . . . Phantom . . ." he
gasped as feeling of wonder built deep within in. "Phantom . . ."

As much as he wanted to prolong the glory Cory could not hold back. His
body arched ever higher and his dick expanded and exploded. "AAAAAGH . . ."
Cory felt a jolt of electricity pass through him as he ejaculated a massive
stream of nectar into The Phantom's mouth. He groaned loudly as successive
jets of his seed filled The Phantom's mouth.

The Phantom, sucked gently on Cory's dick, his lips firmly affixed to
Cory's penis just at his circumcision line. As each successive hot jet
pulsed into his mouth his tongue lapped greedily, his taste buds a series
of trembling excitement as the sweet cream that was Cory washed over them.

In the corridor Ray had unconsciously slipped his hands into his
shorts. His dick was rock hard and leaking precum. As he listened,
breathing heavily, his hand stroked and kneaded the hot smooth flesh of his
boner. When Cory groaned his warning Ray felt his dick thicken, then
pulse. He bit his lower lip, stifling the moans of pleasure as his dick
squirted and pumped his thick semen over his encompassing fist.

Cory's smooth, curving mushroom head seemed to be on fire as The Phantom
continued to suck and lick at it. Finally, Cory could stand no more and
with a soft yipping noise he pulled away. "Holy SHIT!" he moaned. He drank
in great drafts of air as his heart continued thud in his chest.  "Jesus,
Phantom . . ."

The Phantom giggled and squirmed into a position beside Cory. He cradled
the boy in his arms, and then kissed the tip of Cory's nose. "I told you
that I loved you," said The Phantom, his face a huge grin.

Cory returned The Phantom's grin. "Do you do that to all the guys you
love?"

"Pretty much, yeah," admitted The Phantom, a touch of pride in his
voice. "When I want to give you as much pleasure as I can, I take you
across the river. When I want some enjoyment I do that."

Cory snuggled and spooned himself against The Phantom's warm body. He
rested his head on The Phantom's shoulder. "Phantom, you want me to . . .?"
Cory moved his hand and felt The Phantom's firm, thick penis under the
fabric of his underwear.

The Phantom stroked Cory's hair, drinking in their delectable odour of his
friend. "No.  I just want to lie here, with you in my arms for a little
while." He gave Cory a slight squeeze. "Cory?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for letting me . . ."

Cory squirmed uncomfortably. "You're thanking me? Hell, Phantom, I'm
thanking you. Fuck, for what you did there is no way we can thank you
enough."

The Phantom lay quietly for several minutes before answering Cory.

Ray leaned forward, straining to hear the low voices, not understanding
Cory's words, not understanding at all! He heard The Phantom speaking again
and pressed his ear to the door.

"It's done, now, Cory," The Phantom said quietly. "My Gunner is safe. You
and Todd are safe. Ray is safe."

Ray raised his eyebrows, surprised. Safe? What am I safe from?

Cory raised himself up on one elbow and looked into The Phantom's deep
green eyes. "At what cost, Phantom?" he asked. "For a while there, shit, it
was like you had lost your mind. I was scared, man, so was Todd and Tyler
and Val."

The Phantom pursed his lips and blew out a great gust of air. "For a while
there, I think maybe I did lose my mind. I guess the realization of what I
had done just sort of, well, just sort of overwhelmed me."

Cory, who was almost overcome with curiosity about what had happened inside
the Petty Officers Mess, managed to contain himself. He remembered
Phantom's admonition about never asking what had happened and remained
silent.

Ray listened intently, the questions racing through his brain. What did
Phantom do? What was Cory was talking about? Who or what was he safe from?

"I do not regret what I did, Cory," continued The Phantom. "I didn't really
enjoy it, either."

"You didn't?" Cory was flabbergasted. He was full of questions but dared
not push too hard. He took a deep breath. "Phantom, I know you told Todd
and me not to ask questions, but, well, I mean, shit, Phantom, you did fuck
Little Big Man, didn't you?" Cory immediately regretted the question. "Ah,
shit, Phantom, I'm, sorry. Forget . . ."

Ray felt as if he'd been punched in the chest. Phantom? Phantom and Little
Big Man? NO! Phantom would never . . .

"Cory, to answer your question, yes, I did fuck Little Big Man.  I cannot
deny it. Besides, you have it all on tape."  The Phantom sat up
abruptly. "Shit! I forgot the tape recorder!"

Cory pulled him back down. "Todd remembered it. I went and got it." He
would not tell The Phantom about Little Big Man demanding to be
fucked. Maybe later, when everything was done and finished . . .

"Then you will hear everything. When you confront Little Big Man, make sure
he hears everything."

"He will," promised Cory grimly. "You don't have to worry. We'll make sure
that he understands that he got fucked, big time, and enjoyed every minute
of it!"

"It's more important that he understands that if he ever opens his mouth
about any of us, about you and Todd, or The Gunner, or anybody, that you
will use that tape to destroy him. That is all that matters."

"When Todd and I are finished with him he will wish that he had never heard
of AURORA," promised Cory grimly.

"Good."

"I just wish . . ." Cory shook his head, as if trying to erase the image of
Phantom and Little Big Man together.

"What? That I hadn't fucked him?"

"More like you should not have had to fuck him," replied Cory hotly. "I
couldn't have done it! Shit, Phantom, when I think about what you had to
do, to actually fuck . . ."

The Phantom sat up and hugged his knees. He turned his head and looked at
Cory.

"Cory, what you do not understand is that all I did was fuck him. When I am
with The Gunner, or you, or Todd, or Ray, I am not fucking. I am with
someone I love, making love to him, and he is making love to me. That's the
difference, Cory."

Ray caught his breath. He smiled happily at The Phantom's words.

"You didn't feel, well, you know that great feeling you get when . . ."
asked Cory, his eyes wide.

"I know the feeling," said The Phantom with a smile. "God, do I know THAT
feeling. But, with Little Big Man, all I was doing was making sperm. To be
honest, I knew when I came. Hell and sheeit, Cory, I couldn't not know. But
it was just a release. It was sort of like when you wake up in the middle
of a night with a rod. You know you have to get rid of it so you beat off,
shoot a load which you barely feel, roll over and go back to sleep. That's
what it was like, Cory. Just blowing a load, just squirting cum into
him. In the back of my mind I kept telling myself that this was just an
exercise. It was something that had to be done."

Cory sighed heavily. "So you did it." He hugged Phantom close. "You are
very brave, Phantom, and I promise that Todd and I will do our part."

"I know you will, Cory.  Now, can I get some sleep?"

"If you must."

"I must.  You can go, if you want. I'll be all right."

Cory quickly arranged the covers. "Nope.  Here I am, and here I
stay. Nobody will miss me, because nobody who isn't Duty gets up before
noon on Sundays. Just let me lock the door."

******

Ray heard the bedsprings creak and moved quickly down the corridor and out
of the Wardroom. His mind was in turmoil. Phantom had said that he loved
him. Phantom had also fucked Little Big Man! Damn, it was all so
confusing. Why had Phantom been with Little Big Man and what was he
protecting everybody from?

It was half light and even though no one was about, Ray kept to the far
side of the barracks blocks as he made his way back to his own bed. The
barracks was quiet, with only the sound of the off-Duty cooks sleeping. He
noted that Randy's bed, and Joey's bed, were empty. He quickly slipped off
his shorts and lay down on his bunk. He lay quietly, thinking, waiting for
sleep to come. He was determined to find out what Phantom had done, and,
more importantly, why he had done it. He did not yet know how he was going
to find out what was going on, but he was GOING to find out. He was just
drifting off when he felt a soft hand shake his shoulder. He opened one eye
and saw Joey staring back at him. "Ah, shit, Joey, what now?"

"We can't get the stove to light," whined Joey, his tone suggesting that it
was all Ray's fault.

"Joey, you don't need the stove until 0700. All you have to do is make the
coffee." Ray rolled over, turning his backside to Joey.

Joey, who thought that Ray had a very nice bum, resisted the urge to reach
out and rub the two globes of firm flesh hidden under Ray's white
briefs. "Ensign Berg wants some bacon and eggs," explained Joey. "He's
hungry. So am I."

"Wake Sandro up," growled Ray impatiently.

"I tried to. He tried to hit me and then he swore at me. In Russian!"

Ray rolled on his back. "He's always swearing at you. Ignore him and tell
him I said to get his hump out of his fart sack."

"Ah, gee, Ray, can't you come?" snivelled Joey. "I don't want to go near
Sandro. He's got a woody! It's sticking out of his underpants and it's
HUGE!"

"Sandro has a fucking woody in his drawers, not a fucking Great White
Shark! It won't bite you!"

"Yeah? Well I ain't going near it," declared Joey stubbornly. "I ain't
taking no chances with no horny Russian!"

Ray gave up and reached for his shorts.

******

When he finished his inspection Todd returned to the quiet Gunroom. He
quickly scanned the room. Every bunk except his and Cory's held a sleeping
body. He sat on his bunk and looked around the Gunroom, wondering if any of
the others would ever know what had been done for them this night.

Directly opposite Fred lay flay on his back, snoring softly. In the next
bunk, Nicholas lay curled up, his smooth, slightly muscled body sheened
with a light coating of sweat. His black hair was messed and tousled from
sleep, his firm, chiselled face smooth and peaceful. Nicholas had his hand
down the front of his pale blue briefs and there was a slight smile on his
handsome features. Todd wondered if Nicholas was dreaming of Andre. He knew
the signs and they all said that Nicholas and Andre were lovers, which
pleased him.  They would never know that tonight a boy they hardly knew had
ensured that their love would remain as secret as their two cultures
demanded.

On the other side of Nicholas, Greg snuffled and rolled in his sleep. Todd
rose and stood beside Greg's bunk, a wave of sympathy washing over
him. Greg grimaced and ground his teeth and balled his fists. Todd sighed
heavily and then reached out and brushed away the lock of dark brown hair
that had fallen over Greg's wide brow. He was a very handsome boy and one
day Todd hoped that Greg would find the happiness he so desperately
needed. He also wondered if the day would ever come when Greg would know
that tonight the dragon, the dragon that wrought such havoc in his dreams,
the dragon that he feared so much, had been slain.

In the corner bunk Harry lay on his back naked, his legs spread, the Pride,
soft and pink in the pale morning light, resting quietly on his
thigh. Harry, who pretended to be such a jock and a big dumb farm boy, was
in reality smarter than most of the boys combined. Harry, on the surface,
was a tough, no nonsense footballer. Underneath he, one of the warmest,
most caring, sensual, and yes, sensuous, of creatures. Harry loved with
every fibre of his being; his loved expressed in so many ways and shared
with so many people, his Sea Puppies, Cory, Greg, and Stefan. Todd smiled a
small smile. Harry's sweet, adorable boy Stefan was waiting at the end of a
long and tortuous road, and when the time was right Harry would learn that
while that road had many barriers and winding bends a friend had made that
road a little straighter.

Across from Harry lay Two Strokes. Skinny, vulpine, a boy who in his own
way had contributed to tonight's activities. Last year, and for part of
this year, he had been Little Big Man's soul mate. Oh, to be sure not as
loud, not as overt, but given to sly, acerbic digs about queers and
faggots. Two Strokes lived in a world of blacks and whites. Straight was
good. Gay was not. He tolerated gays because he had no other choice. They
could be tolerated but never really accepted.

As Todd watched Two Strokes rolled on his belly, gave his mattress a long,
slow hump, then settled into stillness. Todd grinned. Two Strokes was human
after all. He might have a mean streak in him, he might have the skinniest
ass in Christendom, but he still craved what every boy in the Gunroom
craved: affection, if only expressed in its basest form - sex. Two Strokes
might pretend to be an inflexible, demanding Regulating Chief Petty
Officer, scarcely tolerant of imperfection, but in reality he was just like
all the rest of them. He was just as human as the rest of them and like all
humans he had undergone a sea change of sorts. Ever since the weekend
sailing trip Two Strokes had become softer, more understanding, and
certainly less vocal in his condemnations.

Todd knew that Two Strokes had slept next to Cory and that he had, whether
by accident or design, rubbed himself against Cory's soft, warm body. Two
Strokes had popped his nut on Harwood Island. Two Strokes had popped his
nut AFTER stimulating himself against Cory's naked body. Looking at the
sleeping Two Strokes Todd wondered if perhaps, just perhaps, Two Strokes
had more in common with Cory and himself than he was prepared to admit.

Thumper, who lay in the bunk next to Two Strokes's, diverted Todd's
attention. He was chuckling in his sleep and obviously enjoying himself,
which was not surprising considering that his hand, like Nicholas's, was
down the front of his white briefs. Unlike Nicholas, who was just
protecting his most prized possessions, Thumper was jerking off in his
sleep, his hand squeezing and pulling slowly at his erect organ.

Shaking his head and crawling into bed, Todd sighed. Life for Thumper was
simple. He was fed at regular intervals; he had a not too lumpy cot to
sleep in and the heads to beat off in. Yet of the ten boys who slept in the
Gunroom, only Thumper had been visited in the night and Todd grinned like
an ape, remembering Thumper's volcanic eruption, his dick like an out of
control fire hose, squirting thick streams of cum all over the place.

Thinking about Thumper's dick jerking and squirting caused Todd to giggle
so much that he had to bury his head in his pillow. He managed to recover,
marvelling that Thumper had never said a word to anybody about what had
happened to him, but then, being blown in the middle of the night by
another guy was NOT something a guy talked about, ever, especially if he
liked what had happened to him. Sex with another guy, no matter how
enjoyable simply was never spoken of because it never happened. Todd had
seen the effects of the taboos against sex between boys every time he had
been with another boy, most recently when he had been on QUEST with
Sylvain.

For six nights Sylvain had been Todd's lover, and Todd had been Sylvain's
lover. They had pleased each other in every way two boys could. Sylvain was
a jerk, but a tall, blonde, handsome jerk that fucked like a bunny and
totally enjoyed what they did together. Every night, after the other cadets
had gone to sleep, they had joined their sleeping bags together and frankly
fucked each other silly . . . oh please, God, don't ever let Cory find out
about what really happened in the tent! For six nights they had been lovers
and for seven mornings Sylvain had acted as if nothing had happened. He
would wake up, throw back the sleeping bag cover and revert to type, acting
as if Todd was nothing more than a lump of warm flesh that helped keep the
night chill away.

Sylvain's reaction did not bother Todd. He had seen it before. It was all
part of the game they all played. Every boy he had been with did it. Every
boy except Chris, who was sleeping on his side, his arm extended. Jon was
also sleeping on his side, facing his lover, his arm extended over the edge
of his bunk, as if reaching to touch Chris's hand. A warm feeling came over
Todd as he looked across The Gunroom, watching the two boys sleeping. They
should be together, he thought. They loved each other and they should be
together.

Why could people not understand that two boys could love each other with
all the depth of emotion they could muster? Todd lay back in his bed and
pounded the mattress in frustration. It was so fucking unfair! Not one of
the boys in the Gunroom could help they way they felt, just as Phantom
could not help loving The Gunner so much that he had performed an act of
such extraordinary heroism, an act of degrading debasement, to secure and
protect that love.

Damn it, DAMN IT! Todd caught a sob in his throat. It was so fucking UNFAIR
that so many lives could have been utterly destroyed by an evolutionary
U-turn named Paul Greene.

Todd stared into the darkness. Tomorrow, Monday at the latest, he and Cory
would finish the business of Little Big Man. Phantom had hooked the little
bastard and Todd was determined more than ever, to sink the gaff into Paul
Greene's hide and put paid to his treachery. Paul would pay a price for
what he had done and Todd was going to make sure that every penny of that
price was extracted.

What annoyed Todd, however, was that Phantom's part in the affair could
never be acknowledged, never spoken of aloud. Which pissed him off. He
could understand why everything had to remain as secret as possible. But
dammit, he also felt that Phantom should at least be made aware of how they
all felt about it. He deserved some recognition and not their muttered
thanks in the dead of night or a quick handshake before everybody got on
the bus that would take them to the airport!

Phantom, of course, wanted no mention of his act at all. He wanted the
whole affair over and done with as quickly as possible and forgotten just
as quickly.  Todd sat up with a start. Well, goddamn, goddamn, that was not
going to happen! He remembered something from two years earlier, when the
Sea Cadet camp was in Esquimalt and one of the old Chiefs retired. The more
he thought about his idea the better he liked it. A grunt from the end of
the Gunroom reminded him that he would have to talk to Harry about the
music. The Band was always so damned predictable and Todd wanted something
special. He would talk to Harry later in the day, after he got up.

This was Sunday, and they could all sleep as late as they wished. While
Harry was unpredictable at the best of times, Todd knew with certainty that
he was always as cranky as a bear with a sore dick when he didn't get
enough sleep.  Waking Harry before time could be injurious to life and
limb. Todd decided to talk to Harry MUCH later in the day. He would have to
talk to Tyler, of course. Tyler was Master at Arms so he had to be
informed. Todd also had to talk to Val. As Cadet Chief Gunnery Instructor
Val owned the parade square, was in charge of the drill routines and, like
all Chief Gunners, tended to be damned petulant when someone tried to
fiddle with his Parade.

Todd swung his legs over the edge of his bunk. He had noticed a thin sliver
of light under the door of the Chiefs Mess when he came in so he figured
that at least one of the two Chiefs was still up. As he stood up Todd
chuckled, remembering the last time they had done something special for
Phantom, and thinking that this time around Phantom would at least keep his
clothes on.