Boys of Aurora

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.