Date: Wed, 8 Sep 2004 17:25:50 -0400
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: Aurora Tapestry - Chapter 20

Aurora Tapestry is a work of fiction. HMCS Aurora does not exist and is a
creation of the writer. The characters are fictional and any resemblance to
persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
	The story is set in 1976 and the reader is once again reminded that
it details the customs, traditions and mores of the times. What is now was
not necessarily then. Times change, customs change, and not always for the
better.
	This is a story containing erotica, sexual acts between consenting
males, adult and teenage. I remind all my readers that while safe sex was
not practiced in 1976, please remember the times in which we live. Always
practice safe sex.
	The opinions expressed in the story are the writer's. You don't
have to agree with them, all you have to do is respect his right to express
them. If you don't agree, please do not write me a flaming e-mail. I have
neither the time nor the patience to read or respond to flames. Find a site
that agrees with you and have a ball.
	My thanks, as always, to Peter, who edits and listens to my
grumbling.
	The Phantom of Aurora is now available through the publisher,
PublishAmerica, Amazon and Barnes & Noble. On the PA website there is a
space for reviews, good, bad or indifferent. I read them and thus far I
have no complaints. Thanks to those who reviewed the book. To be honest
they are what make it all worthwhile.
	Finally, you must be of legal age (18 or 21) in order to read,
download or possess the following chapter. While there is no sex per se,
there are portions that might offend the sensibilities of the timid.

Aurora Tapestry

Chapter 20

	"You perverts have nothing better to do than to sit around the
washplace drinking and holding each other's dicks?" snarled Cory as he
shuffled into the heads. While a self-professed morning person, he was not
a middle of the night person and was decidedly grumpy.
	As he stood at the urinal, Cory looked back over his shoulder, saw
the three cadets sitting side by each on the wooden bench and mumbled about
three monkeys, one seeing no evil, one hearing no evil, the last doing no
evil, and opined that if ever there was a perfect example of an oxymoron it
was sitting on the bench behind him!
	Val, not to be outdone, reminded Cory that while he might be a
monkey he at least had a banana, which was more than could be said for
Cory.
	Shaking the last drops of urine from his flaccid penis, Cory
sauntered to a sink and washed his hands, all the while looking pointedly
at Val's crotch, and observing that if Val's somewhat diminutive offering
was supposed to be biggest of the only three circumcised Sicilian penises
in Saskatoon, he must remember to include a magnifying glass in his
carry-on luggage when next he visited that prairie city.
	Val responded by telling Cory to put his banana where the monkey
put the nuts, which led The Phantom to opine that such an act was
anatomically impossible, even for Cory! This led Tyler to growl at Cory,
look disdainfully at The Phantom and cuff Val on the back of his head.
	Cory, the pressure on his bladder relieved, his hands clean and his
mood improved by his exchange with Val, smiled sweetly, snickered, and sat
down on the bench beside the other three boys. Eying the lowering level of
the grappa, and not wanting to antagonize Val further, he gave the Sicilian
boy a winning smile and asked, "Any of that left for me?"
	"Just what you see," replied Val. He had also enjoyed the schoolboy
session of shit chucking. He held up the bottle, sighed sadly at the level
of grappa remaining and then instructed in pretended exasperation, "Go find
a glass or a cup."
	Muttering, Cory stood up, left the washplace and then returned. He
held out a battered tin cup for a drink.
	"Where did you get that?" asked The Phantom. He noticed that Cory
was wearing his pinstriped boxers. "And are you going to church?"
	"The cup is Nicholas'," replied Cory with a grunt. "I think he goes
begging every now and then with it and no, I am not going to church." He
took a very small sip of the grappa, knowing how potent it was. "And
speaking of church, are we doing anything about Sylvain?"
	Tyler nodded. "Just a small prayer at Divisions. Dirty Dave is
gone, and the guys from the Dockyard didn't know him."
	"And the ones from the ship who did, didn't like him," added
Val. "It's awfully hard to feel sad about a guy you didn't like."
	"Chef had Kevin say the rosary," advised The Phantom. "It was very
emotional. Randy and Joey cried."
	"And you didn't?" asked Cory with a grin.
	"Why would you think that?" asked The Phantom indignantly.
	"Because you're a big softy," returned Cory. "You walk around being
all pecker and balls and then something happens and the waterworks open
up. You are really quite emotional when you want to be."
	The Phantom opened his mouth to rebut Cory's remark, then closed it
and blushed. "Come on, Cory, I'm not that bad."
	"Yeah, you are," said Tyler. "You feel for the guys."
	"And you don't?" The Phantom retorted.
	"Not like you," replied Tyler. "I do feel for the guys, yes, but
sometimes they piss me off!"
	"Like Greg?" asked Val.
	"Yes. He's a jerk!" Tyler's smooth face became as red as The
Phantom's. "He's my brother, I know that, but damn it, how could he have
let himself go as he did?"
	"He's afraid, and he's gay," replied The Phantom. "Neither of which
he wants to admit."
	"He's also addicted to sex!" Cory pointed out. "He's getting laid
as often as he wants, when he wants, and he loves it."
	"That's true," observed The Phantom. "His problem is that he
doesn't want to be gay, and hates himself for being gay. Unlike Little Big
Man, who projected his hatred for himself to others, mainly Todd and Cory,
Greg drinks. He drinks to forget what he is, and . . ."
	Cory interrupted The Phantom's musing by wiggling his way between
him and Val. He promptly took Val's soft penis in his hand. "Don't worry,"
he said to Val. "I've already been warned about having sex with Italians."
	While Tyler glared jealously at him, Val reciprocated Cory's
groping. "You're not too bad for a little fella," he said with a wicked
grin. "And what's wrong with Italians?"
	"They're insatiable, at least according to one very well informed
authority," replied Cory easily. He reached out with his free hand and held
The Phantom's penis. "Now, that's better."
	"Cory . . ." warned The Phantom. Cory, for all his good intentions,
was squeezing just a little too . . . eagerly.
	"Now, Phantom, don't you worry. I am only holding it!" He smiled
and winked at The Phantom. "Did you know that there is a Bible verse that
says when you make an oath, you clutch the other party's genitals? It's a
sign that you're true to your oath and words."
	"I don't believe that!" retorted Val. "It's too convenient!"
	"It's quite true," insisted Cory without elaboration and not about
to give up holding one of the only three circumcised Sicilian penises in
Saskatoon. "Now, back to Greg," he said briskly.
	"Greg is a drunkard," replied Tyler with a sad shake of his
head. "Or at least close to it. He can't stay away from Jimmy, he can't
stop needing the sex they have together, and he can't just live with the
truth about himself."
	"Too true," said Val. He gave The Phantom a searching look. "Would
the Order try to do something about Greg?"
	"The Order?" sniffed Cory, unable to keep the disdain from his
voice. "You've told them about the Order?" He shook his head and
grimaced. "Really, Phantom, the Order is nothing but a bunch of old men
sitting around bemoaning the fact that things were better done in their
day."
	The Phantom looked at Cory. He had discussed the Order with Todd at
some length, and with Chef, but never with Cory and he wondered just what
Cory knew that Todd did not. "And what is wrong with the Order? The Gunner
seems to think that it's worthwhile."
	"In was, in its day," returned Cory. "Now?" he shrugged
expressively. "In the first place, they're all but broke. My father was
helping to investigate some sort of malfeasance on the part of some very
senior members."
	"I know that, Cory," said The Phantom firmly. "But the Order is not
about money! It's about gays helping gays, and The Gunner is . . ." He
stopped abruptly.
	"The Gunner is what?" asked Tyler ominously. "You're sitting here,
holding my dick, which means whatever you say you have to tell the truth!
Now, Phantom darlin', as Chef would say, spill, or let go of my dick!"
	The Phantom hesitated. While he reasoned that Chef had not said
that he could not talk about what The Gunner was up to, he wondered just
how much of what he knew he could relate to his friends. They were his
brothers, yes, but what, really could any of them, himself included, do
about it? He decided to tell what he knew.
	"The Gunner is involved in something dangerous," The Phantom began
slowly. "I'm not sure of all the details, but it involves kids."
	"Kids?" Cory inadvertently squeezed Val's penis, which evoked a low
growl of Sicilian outrage. "Sorry," muttered Cory. "What kids?" he asked
The Phantom.
	"Well, the man I spoke to didn't go into too many details, but from
what I can gather there is a ring of men - paedophiles - who are buying and
selling young boys. The Gunner is in Toronto organizing some sort of a
rescue operation. Apparently there is some danger involved, not that we'd
have to worry, as we're not knights, and since no one has contacted any of
you, I suppose that The Gunner didn't get his 1,000 Laurences."
	"His what?" asked Val dreamily, and who was actually enjoying what
Cory was doing to him. He could feel his penis plumping ever so slightly
and placed his hand over Cory's, a small signal not to go too far.
	The Phantom, who was not paying attention to what Cory was doing,
and wondering why Tyler was now squeezing his parts so nicely, tried not to
react and explained. "The Gunner is the Chancellor of the Order. His job is
to recruit 1,000 new knights. He used this 'Laurence' as an example of the
perfect knight. He thought of you, Tyler, and you Val." He snickered and
looked over at Cory. "He's considering the Twins as well."
	"What do you mean by that?" demanded Cory. He released Val and
waved a finger at The Phantom. "Todd and I are just as eligible as the next
guy. We're gay, and we know the Grand Master."
	"So I understand," replied The Phantom. His smile grew wider. "The
Gunner was thinking of making you and Todd his Pages of Honour. I think
that would have been a very good idea!"
	"And I think that if he did that he would have to make you the
Eunuch of Honour," hissed Cory in reply.
	"What the hell is that all about?" asked Tyler. He could feel The
Phantom's penis throbbing as he laughed silently, hoping that The Phantom
wasn't getting any ideas.
	"Pages are sort of like Virgins in Waiting," began The Phantom.
	This evoked large snorts of disdain from Val and Tyler. Cory
snarled under his breath but merely motioned for The Phantom to continue.
	"Pages can't have sex with Knights," continued The Phantom with a
giggle. "It's forbidden for a knight to fool around with a Page."
	"Can they fool around with each other?" asked Val, interested, but
not if it meant giving up Tyler.
	"Sure. As long as you're discreet, and don't do it in the streets,
you can have a relationship with another knight." The Phantom gestured
toward the two senior chiefs. "You and Tyler would be knights, and
brothers, so there would be no problem."
	"It would be if it were Joey or Randy," said Cory sourly. "The
Order is dead set against guys fooling around with kids. From what I know
it's cause for a Bar of Justice and that, my friends, is bad!"
	"How so?" The Phantom asked. He had never heard of a 'Bar of
Justice' and was intrigued.
	"Well, it's a court," replied Cory. "A knight who has broken the
Rule is called before the Bar of Justice, which is a panel of seven
knights. I saw the Rule and while my Latin is a little rusty, I got the
gist of it. A knight who is found guilty can be thrown out or, if the crime
is serious enough, put to death."
	"Trudeau abolished the death penalty," Val pointed out. "The worst
you can get is a few years in the slammer and then . . ."
	"The Order is not a part of the government," Cory said firmly. "The
Order has made up its own mind about things for eight centuries and the
government can go whistle as far as the knights are concerned."
	"They would actually put someone to death?"
	"Yes. Death by hanging," replied Cory. "No appeal, no commuting of
a sentence. It's final."
	"Jesus," breathed Tyler. "You mean if I was to become a knight I
might have to sit on this 'Bar', I might have to condemn someone to death?"
	"Yes." Cory left off holding Val's penis and crossed his arms
across his chest. "Something to think about, isn't it?"
	All three of the other boys nodded and then The Phantom spoke. "Can
any of us actually do that?" He looked at Cory. "Could you?"
	"Could you?" returned Cory. "Remember, though, that there hasn't
been a Bar of Justice for hundreds of years, so the likelihood of it ever
happening is slim. But, could you, Philip Lascelles, do it?"
	The Phantom paled and his mind reeled. "Could I?" he asked
himself. "I . . ." He hesitated and then the remembered scene when he and
Todd had been lying on the sandy shore of the small, hidden cove formed in
his mind. Before his eyes came the picture of three boys, Randy, Joey and
Simon, young, innocent in their youth as they splashed and played in the
shallow waters.
	"Could I?" his inner voice asked The Phantom. He remembered the
smiling faces of the three boys, and he remembered his answer to Todd's
question. "For them," he said aloud.
	"What?" Cory looked searchingly at his friend.
	The Phantom's eyes seemed to flare with a green fire. "I was just
remembering a question Todd asked me. He wanted to know why I would want to
be a part of the Order, why I felt, as a gay male, why I would want to
stand up and fight for my rights. At the time we were swimming with Randy,
and Joey, and Simon and I looked at them, and I knew why. It was for them."
	"There is a difference between fighting for justice, or whatever,
and condemning a man to death," rejoined Val sharply.
	"I am aware of that, Val," replied The Phantom. "But, let me ask
you a question. If a man, or a group of men, did harm, maimed, hurt one of
us beyond reason, would you not seek justice?"
	"Justice, or vengeance?" asked Tyler.
	"Justice," said The Phantom as firmly as he could. "If a man hurts
one of my own, or abuses one of my brothers, then he must be held
accountable for his actions. I would like to think that if confronted with
a situation where I must sit in judgement, I would judge, coldly, coolly,
and without bias."
	"And if the only penalty for the crime is 'death by hanging', would
you, as a judge, render such a verdict?" Tyler looked into The Phantom's
eyes. He saw the fervour, the determination and nodded. "I think you
would."
	The Phantom returned Tyler's look. "And so would you," he said
coolly.
	Before Tyler could answer Nicholas came shuffling into the
washplace. He looked sleepily at the line of young men sitting along the
far wall, shook the sleep from his eyes and asked, "Is this a private group
grope or can anybody get in on the action?"
	"We happen to be having a very intellectual discussion," replied
Cory somewhat huffily.
	"Looks like you're feeling Val's dick to me," returned Nicholas as
he walked to one of the urinals. He pulled down the front of his boxers and
let loose. When he was finished Nicholas carefully shook his soft penis
free of any errant drops of urine and joined the others. He looked
accusingly at Cory. "That's my cup!"
	"Yes, it is," said Cory nonchalantly. "Don't worry, I'll return
it."
	"Betcha ass!" returned Nicholas.
	The Phantom's ears perked up at Nicholas' use of the phrase. "Have,
um, have there been any more signals for me?"
	Nicholas reached out and took the tin mug from Cory. He sniffed the
contents, grimaced, and answered, "Nope." He looked at Cory. "Sippers?"
	Cory, who thought that Nicholas was some hunk of stud, thought that
allowing the Yeoman a sip of his drink was a small price to pay for the
opportunity to fondle a very handsome weapon. "Sure," he replied with a
nod. "Are you planning on joining us?"
	"Might as well, can't sleep now," replied Nicholas.
	Cory had been plotting for a way to entice Nicholas into his web,
and if what he suspected about Nicholas and Matt was true, well . . . Being
loath to pass up a golden opportunity, Cory slid himself and an
unappreciative Val down the bench to make room for the Yeoman.
	Nicholas, who thought that being groped by Cory was not exactly a
fate worse than death, happily plopped down in the middle. "Once I'm up,
I'm up."
	Both Tyler and Val leaned forward and stared at Nicholas, who
snickered and shook his head. "Not that kind of up!" Then he thought, Not
after Matt!  He took a small sip of Cory's drink, shuddered, and then
regarded The Phantom. "Just the one signal. But I did talk to Andre. He
said to say hello to everybody."
	"I always liked Andre," offered Cory as he retrieved his cup from
Nicholas. He looked at the level of grappa left, shook his head sadly, and
then nonchalantly placed his hand on Nicholas's boxer covered thigh.
	"He's doing okay?" asked Val, who had always liked the young
French-Canadian cadet.
	"Better than all right," said Nicholas. He pointedly ignored Cory's
hand slipping into the slit of his boxers and squeezing his penis
gently. "He's been very busy, as has his little souris."
	As Andre was always chattering away about his souris, everybody
knew what Nicholas meant. "You don't mind?" asked The Phantom. "I mean, you
guys did make your vows."
	"We did," confirmed Nicholas, "but his souris met a little friend
and things happened. Means squat." Nicholas was hardly in a position to
comment on Andre's activities after his latest session with Matt. "When I
get home his little souris won't be interested in any other souris except
mine!" A serious look came over Nicholas' face. "Andre's got to attend a
Memorial Mass for Sylvain on Thursday. Apparently the priests are making a
big deal out it."
	"In Montreal?" asked Tyler. "I thought Sylvain came from
Chicoutimi."
	"He did," replied Nicholas. "But his uncle is some bigwig and I
gather contributes big bucks to the Jesuit College so the good fathers want
to ensure their meal ticket. Andre was just happy that he didn't have to go
to the funeral."
	"I don't blame him," said Val as he poured a minute dollop of
grappa into his glass. "It's a hell of a long way from Montreal to
Chicoutimi."
	"The funeral is in Ste Anne de Beaupre, not Chicoutimi." Nicholas
spread his legs slightly, offering more of his fittings for Cory's
exploration. "Actually, the whole thing is strange."
	"Why is that?" asked The Phantom.
	"Well, no one can understand what Sylvain was doing on the highway
leading to the Quebec City airport. Why would someone who was staying in
Ste Anne drive south and west to Quebec City, instead of north and east, to
Chicoutimi?"
	"Maybe he was meeting someone," Cory offered as he contentedly ran
hs finger under Nicholas' scrotum. "I'm sure he had friends . . ."
	Giving Cory a warning look, Nicholas shook his head. "Not so that
anyone knew," he said. "According to Andre, Sylvain went from Dorval
Airport to the college and picked up the car . . ."
	"What car?" asked Val. "Sylvain never mentioned a car, and so far
as I know none of the students at the college were allowed to even have a
car." He turned to Tyler. "Remember, we visited the College two years ago,
on that dippy 'ecumenical' visit."
	Tyler nodded. "The Jesuits are great teachers, but they don't like
ostentation. And why would Sylvain even need a car? He was a boarder at the
school."
	"Those questions can only be answered by Sylvain, and the last I
heard he was dead," returned Nicholas flippantly. "All I know is what Andre
told me, which is that Sylvain's uncle bought him a fancy car, a red
Corvette convertible, which Sylvain drove in up to Ste Anne de Beaupre. He
apparently spent the night at his uncle's place and then, for some reason,
left in a hurry and motored on down to Quebec City. Everybody's wondering
what he was up to."
	"But since Sylvain is dead there will be no answers," said The
Phantom sadly. "I feel sorry for him, and I'm glad that there's going to be
a memorial for him. It's more than we're doing."
	"I heard that Chef said the rosary for him, in Latin!" said
Nicholas.
	"Actually, Kevin said the rosary in Latin," replied The
Phantom. "It was very beautiful. Randy and Joey cried." He leaned forward
and stretched out his arms. "Well, I hate to break this up, but I think
I'll hit my pit." He looked at Cory and Nicholas, who were grinning goofily
at each other. The looks on their faces led The Phantom to think that
neither would be going to sleep any time soon. As he left the washplace The
Phantom smiled at Cory and winked.
	Tyler motioned for Val to get up. It was time for them to be back
in their bunks. He looked at Cory and Nicholas with a knowing grin. "Try
not to stay too long. 0600 is still 0600."
	"Oh, we'll be along directly," replied Cory with a slight
smirk. Nicholas nodded his agreement and returned Cory's smirk.
	Val grinned as he left the washplace and his voice was low as he
asked Tyler, "Do you think they're going to have a 'very intellectual
discussion'?"
	Laughing quietly, Tyler responded, "From the look on their faces I
would think little intellect and no discussion at all!"

******

	Nicholas heard the door close softly and turned, draping his arms
around Cory's neck. "So, what do you want to talk about, Tiger?"

******

	The General stared into the darkness from his bedroom window, the
broad fields that stretched into the distance appearing black and
barren. His fist, clenched, slammed again and again against the sill of the
open window. "How could he do this to me?"  He raged inwardly. "How could
he dare do this to me, his patron, his . . ."
	Behind Achille whimpered loudly from the depths of the ancient
canopied bed. Turning, the General snarled, "Be quiet!"
	"You hurt me!" responded Achille, raising his voice. "You promised
it would not hurt! And I am bleeding!"
	"Bah," snapped the General. He walked into the bathroom adjoining
the bedroom and emerged with a warm, wet towel. "Here, clean yourself!" he
ordered as he handed the towel to the dark-haired little boy.
	The boy's eyes flashed as he reached down to wipe away the evidence
of his deflowering. The General had promised that it would not hurt, but it
had, and Achille was very angry. "You promised," he repeated. "You lied."
	The General sighed. His anger had overwhelmed him and he had been
perhaps a trifle too rough on the boy. He had taken the boy roughly,
thrusting savagely, the boy's screams and pleadings so stimulating that the
General had experienced an orgasm of unbelievable proportions.
	"I hate you," declared Achille as he tossed away the wet cloth. "I
will tell my father!"
	The sound of the General's hand slapping Achille's face cracked
loudly, breaking the stillness of the night. Achille shrank back against
the pillows, his hand rubbing his smarting cheek, his black eyes wide with
fear.
	"You will tell no one!" hissed the General. "What we do together
you will never talk about, because if you do, I will send your father away
and I will give you to the Snake!"
	Achille became trembling with fear. He believed every word of the
General's. The old man was crazy with grief over the loss of his nephew,
and capable of anything, including giving him to the detestable German.
The thought of having to sleep with the man Achille called the Snake caused
Achille to burst into tears. "Non! Please, not him!"
	"You will keep silent, then!" replied the General. Edmund Stennes
was a serpent, but a useful serpent. Sitting on the bed, the General
reached out and began to manipulate Achille's small penis. "If you are a
good boy I will reward you," he promised. "Did I not give you the new
bicycle?"
	Achille nodded slowly. "But you must not hurt me," he
whimpered. "Please, General, do not hurt me."
	"I am sorry," soothed the General as the immature penis in his hand
hardened. "See, he likes what I do to him."
	Squirming, Achille allowed the nice feelings to overcome his
fear. "I am sorry, please . . ."
	"Now that is better," said the General. "Now turn on your stomach."
	As the General left the bed and returned to the bathroom in search
of something to use as a lubricant, Achille's hate-filled eyes followed
him. He knew what was coming, and he would endure it. But he would have his
revenge. One day, he would have his revenge.

******

 	As the undercarriage thumped loudly, the sleeping passengers in the
comfortable First Class section of the aircraft stirred and began
stretching. The Seat Belt light blinked on and Edmund Stennes reached for
the belt that would strap him into his seat as the aircraft landed in
Toronto. Beside him Paul Greene performed the same movement.
	"We will be in Toronto for only a few days. I have a special
consignment to collect and then we will be off."
	"To the special camp?" asked Paul, his voice low and confidential.
	"No. You are much too valuable for the camp. I have something
special in mind for you."
	Shrugging his indifference, Little Big Man stared out of the window
at the lights of Toronto. "The old man is dangerous. He cannot think
straight with his nephew gone. He is not thinking correctly. There is also
the matter of the boy he sleeps with."
	"You noticed, then?" Stennes smiled happily. This junge was smarter
than he looked and he told himself that he had indeed chosen well.
	"The boy is too young, too close. He knows too much, I think," his
narrowed, grey eyes hard.
	"Are you suggesting that perhaps we might have to rethink our
arrangement with the General?" asked Stennes, surprised at Paul's
perspicacity. "He is perhaps too much of a public figure, don't you think?
And the boy is well known in the neighbourhood."
	Coldly, emotionlessly, Paul turned to look at Stennes. "Which would
work in your favour if somehow the authorities were to come to hear of the
General's little arrangement with the boy," he pointed out.
	Laughing, Stennes shook his head in wonder. "Ah, Paul, we are so
much alike, you and I. I have been thinking much the same thing." He held
up one finger. "However, now is not the time. The General is still useful
to us. Let him continue his little play with the boy. It is enough that we
know about him and his playmates."
	"Whatever," Paul replied indifferently. He was not at all
interested in the General and his games. He had aligned himself with the
repugnant German for his own purposes. Personally, Paul would have
eliminated the old Frog long since, but Edmund was still in charge. "The
General is a sly old fox," Paul pointed out presently. "We should be
careful."
	"Let him mourn his nephew," said Stennes. "And we will be careful."
He looked at Paul with a salacious twinkle in his eye. "It is a pity about
the nephew."
	Paul saw the look and shrugged. He felt absolutely nothing for
Sylvain. "He was satisfactory," he said flatly. "There are others and the
nephew was of no other use to us."
	"A pity, for he was quite handsome," Stennes allowed. "A little
old, but . . ." He glanced out of the corner of his eye at his young
companion. "I will introduce you to some nice German boys. They are quite
wasted where they are."
	Paul did not reply. German, French, whatever. If Stennes supplied
what he wanted, all well and good. Paul enjoyed the sex, but he and Stennes
were bound to a higher cause.
	The aircraft tires thumped against the runway and the engines
howled in reverse. They had landed and soon they would be on their
way. Stennes had said little about their destination, but Paul did not
care. He would do what was required of him, and do what he had to do to
ensure that his dream became reality. He was an Aryan Man, and did not ask
questions. He was an SS-Mann, hard as Krupp Stahl, and he would do his
duty.

******

	In the spare bedroom Lester snuggled against his lover and
protector. They were both deep in sleep, exhausted from a busy day of
investigating, weighing options and rushing to have more and more
information correlated and evaluated.
	Both men were clothed in their underwear, Lester in a pair of deep
red briefs, Brent in a white T-shirt and tight, thigh-hugging boxers. They
had gone to bed scant hours earlier and immediately fallen asleep. They had
not had sex - they had scarcely touched lips in days - and lying beside
each other, cradled in each other's arms, was enough.
	In the master bedroom, Ace slept fitfully. He tossed and turned in
his sleep, missing the warmth of the man who should have been sharing his
bed.
	In the living room The Gunner studied the charts, the plans, and
the photographs. As he drew on his cigarette his eyes went from one
enlargement to the other, searching and remembering the faces of the men he
would, somehow, in one way or another, destroy utterly.

******

	In the small apartment deep within Kensington, Aaron Mark I lay
back, his hand resting comfortably on Aaron Mark II's smooth, bare
chest. They had spent much of the afternoon together, arranging the leasing
agreement for The Gunner's new hospital, had dinner, and now had the
night. Aaron felt wonderful, satisfied and content. His instincts had
proven correct, and Aaron Mark II had proven a wonderful lover.
	Aaron Mark I felt the young Israeli stirring and reached down to
cup his warm, large testicles. Aaron Mark II chuckled and returned the
gesture. "For a skinny goy you sure have staying power," he joked.
	"You forget, I'm Jewish in the right place," returned Aaron Mark I
jokingly. "Not that the Rabbi would agree."
	"I'm not sleeping with him," retorted Aaron Mark II. He sat up and
then leaned forward and gently kissed the circumcised head of Aaron Mark
I's penis. "And I only go to shul when I have to."
	Aaron Mark I ran his fingers through Aaron Mark II's soft, blond
hair. "You are a beautiful man. I'm glad I met you."
	"Glad you seduced me, you mean," returned Aaron Mark II with a lewd
wink. "And I am glad I met you." He looked into Aaron Mark I's eyes and
asked, "No regrets?"
	"None," said Aaron Mark I with a smile, then he frowned. "Unless
not having met you sooner counts."
	"You never knew I existed until today."
	"True." Aaron Mark I reached out his hand and pulled his new lover
close. "We have to make the most of what time we have. I won't be staying
here too much longer and . . ."
	Aaron Mark II's fingers pressed against the young Canadian's
lips. "No regrets, no recriminations. I wanted you and you wanted me. I
knew from the beginning that you would be out of my life shortly. I know
that you and your friends are up to something, something dangerous,
perhaps?"
	"It could be," admitted Aaron Mark I. "There is also the fact that
I'll be posted to NDHQ in Ottawa."
	"And I'll be returning to Israel soon," replied Aaron Mark II. He
rolled to his side and groaned softly.
	"Maybe, when this thing I'm working on is done with, we can arrange
some time together. I'd like that."
	"And so would I." Aaron Mark II looked searchingly at the young man
beside him. "Perhaps, if I knew what you were up to, I could help."
	"Aaron, we've only just met!" protested Aaron Mark I. "And what I
am involved in is dangerous. Men will die. I could be killed if things go
wrong, and they could!" He shook his head firmly. "You cannot be involved."
	"Why?"
	"Because, damn it, I think I love you, and the danger is too great!
All right, you've had some training, and I suspect that you've fought an
Arab or a Palestinian or two. But there are desperate men out there who
will stop at nothing and believe me, I couldn't ask you to . . ."
	"You could ask Mossad," returned Aaron Mark II quietly.
	"Mossad?" exclaimed Aaron Mark I, just as quietly.
	A huge grin creased Aaron Mark II's face. "You didn't really think
that I was just some devastatingly handsome, well hung Jewish immigrant,
did you?"

******

	In the shower stall Eugen Arenberg felt the all but scalding water
pound against his body as he scrubbed and scrubbed with the bar of
soap. Again and again his hand rubbed the soap around and across his
genitals, scrubbing away the filth, the dishonour, the stains!  He reached
down and retracted his foreskin, baring his deep pink glans. He looked
around and saw the washcloth and began cleansing the smooth
dome. Scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing.

******

  	In Regina RCMP Constable Brendan Lascelles awoke with a start and
stared at the ceiling of his bedroom. Beside him, his wife snored
softly. Looking with distaste at his wife's thickening body, Brendan
grimaced with distaste and left the bed.
	He walked into the small sitting room of the hotel suite and
slumped into an overstuffed chair. He sighed heavily, wondering if marrying
the woman he had professed his love to and pledged his troth, was worth
it. Somehow the thought of spending the rest of his life trapped in what he
now knew was a loveless marriage caused him to groan quietly.
	"How could I have been so stupid" Brendan asked himself. "All I had
to do was agree to pay support." He would have been asked to leave the
Force, but that would have been as nothing to Brendan. He would have been
happy and he could always sign on with the Comox or Courtenay Police.
	Rising, Brendan went to the small cabinet against one wall and
opened it, about to take a miniature bottle of something - he really didn't
care. He needed a drink, and badly. As he straightened his eyes fell on his
wallet, which he had left on the top of the cabinet. He placed the small
bottle of liquor aside and picked up the wallet, leafed through it and
found what he wanted. He returned to his seat and stared at the photograph,
a young man dressed in an impossibly skimpy Speedo, smiling broadly,
pretending to flex his muscles, goofing for the camera.
	"Joe was right," Brendan whispered at the photograph. "I do love
you. I have always loved you." He began to weep quietly. "I'm sorry, I'm
sorry," he repeated over and over again. "I do love you, and I am sorry."

******

	Noel felt decidedly seasick, and Aubrey's tongue sliding under his
foreskin, eagerly licking away the detritus of smegma and semen, was not
helping matters at all. Why anyone would want to sleep on a waterbed quite
escaped Noel's understanding. Rocking and rolling like a cork in a swell
was not, at least so far as Noel was concerned, conducive to romance. But
then, the aromatic candles had begun to sputter out, which was something to
be thankful for.
	Spreading his legs to allow Aubrey free access to his pendulous
testicles, Noel lay back, thought of England, and wondered why he had not
just gone to a decent hotel instead of this overpriced house in North
Vancouver. He certainly did not need the cash. He was awash with money, now
that the Order had dispensed with his services. The settlement had been
very generous. And he certainly did not need some middle-aged pouf mooing
and humming over his cock! Not with a sweet young lad available on half the
street corners in downtown Vancouver.
	Listening to Aubrey's groans of pleasure, Noel frowned. The man was
such a twat! When Noel had appeared on his doorstep, asking to stay a few
days, the man had flown into full Barbara Cartland mode! He had placed
candles on every flat surface, pulled out some bottles of not so decent
wine, cranked some mellow music on the stereo, and pounced.  In a way, Noel
was quite proud of himself. He had performed well three times, with a
fourth coming up if Aubrey had anything to say about it. And there would be
a fifth, stood to reason, actually, for Aubrey would soon tire of sucking
and would beg, quietly, plaintively, with promises of special presents, to
be fucked. He liked it rough and ready, moaning with each savage,
animalistic thrust of the old John Henry. There were worse fates, Noel
reasoned, although he could not think of any just now.
	Noel was thankful that the fate he feared had not been visited upon
him. His indiscretion with the latest young candidate had not gone over
well with either the Major or Laurence. Noel wondered which of the two men
would be bedding the young man. Not that it mattered, for Noel was well
away from the Order. He no longer had to watch his every move, and he no
longer had to worry about putting the moves on the wrong man. In a way it
could all have been worse, had Laurence known about the young Chinaboy in
the kitchen, or the hard-eyed ex-SAS corporal from the outside Security
Force.
	Yes, it could have been worse. Laurence had expressed his
disappointment, and offered the opinion that Noel was not quite ready to be
a part of the Order, or remember that his position called for absolute
discretion. Noel could not see what he had done wrong, but Laurence had
disagreed and they had parted.
	As he lay back, enjoying Aubrey's mouth, Noel frowned. There was
only one small cloud on his horizon. The man who had suborned him years
ago, had paid for information, the man Noel called the 'Guvnor', would not
be pleased. The Guvnor was a man of mercurial temperament, and being a
Kraut, demanded exactness and precision. He demanded satisfaction for money
given, which satisfaction Noel had always supplied.
	As his orgasm approached Noel grunted. Still, all was not
lost. Hidden in the bottom, zippered section of his overnight bag, was a
sheaf of documents, which he had stolen from the files of the Order before
he left the mansion. Very interesting files, listing names, addresses and
business information. Noel could feel Aubrey humming and lapping at his
spewing organ and grimaced as his orgasm passed through his body. The
Guvnor would be pleased with that. Stood to reason, didn't it?
	As his penis slowly deflated, Noel looked down at Aubrey, who was
looking back at him with a smile of pure ecstasy on his face. "Give me a
rest, Aubrey? Need to catch me breath a bit, and then we'll have a bit of
rumpy-pumpy. What say, up for a laugh and a tickle, then?"

******

	Deep in the woods to the north and west of British Properties the
campsite was quiet, with only the scuttling of a woodland creature moving
furtively to break the silence. In the small tent, Logan Hartsfield lay
snuggled against his instructor, feeling the warmth of the man's body. His
arm was draped across Laurence's chest, his hand clasping Laurence's. Logan
had never been so at peace before. He sighed happily.  `"You have decided,
then" asked Laurence, knowing the answer.
	"Yes, I have," murmured Logan. He gently kissed the back of
Laurence's neck. "Thank you for showing me, sir."
	"When the time comes, you will have no difficulty in being
professed?"
	Logan's eyes widened as his brain absorbed the meaning behind
Logan's question. Then he answered, truthfully, "Only if you will not be my
sponsor."
	"It is already done," said Laurence. "Now sleep, young
Logan. Tomorrow we have a full day." He could feel Logan's mouth against
his back. "I have shown you your true self. This will not happen again."
	"I know," Logan whispered, as his eyes grew heavy. "Thank you for
showing me, sir. And this will not happen again between us."

******

	Gabe Izard quietly opened the door to the apartment and paused,
listening to the music drifting quietly from the far end of the corridor
that led to the kitchen. Groaning as he bent over to remove his shoes, Gabe
smiled. MacReady was still up.
	In the kitchen, MacReady put aside the shirt he had been mending
and smiled as Gabe entered. "You're late," he said, not unkindly. "I kept
some dinner in the cooker for you."
	As the old man made to stand up, Gabe motioned for him to remain
seated. "I've eaten. How is Darren?"
	"He's as quiet as can be. We went down to the square this afternoon
and he met some lads. They were throwing around a round, plastic projectile
and were kind enough to let him join in their fun."
	"A Frisbee?" asked Gabe as he opened the refrigerator.
	"Yes, I believe they called it that. Darren wants one."
	After pouring a glass of milk, Gabe sat at the table. He slid one
hand across the wooden surface and patted MacReady's gnarled, work- worn
hand. "Thank you, MacReady, for taking care of Darren. I wanted to spend
more time with him, but what with the Major off to Hong Kong, and Laurence
playing Royal Marine Commando in the woods, Joe and I have been doing all
their work."
	MacReady shrugged away Gabe's apology. "You are doing something
important. Darren understands."
	Sighing, Gabe shook his head. "I wish I did. We've spent all day
sifting through documents and taking reports from Michael's agents, and the
more we learn the worse the whole mess becomes. Dear God, MacReady, you
would not believe the people involved."
	"I would," replied MacReady. "Your Da . . ." he said, referring to
Gabe's soon to be adoptive father, Louis Arundel, " . . . and your Uncle
Bertie have been busy briefing Michael and researching some of the names
your people have uncovered."
	Gabe smiled. They were not his people. They were Michael's people,
Chinese for the most part, who were now in place in Montreal, Quebec City,
Toronto, and here, in Vancouver. He and Joe Hobbes had spent all day
sifting through their reports. "Where is Da?" he asked.
	"Louis is in his bed. Which is where I intend to be as soon as you
finish your milk and go to yours," responded MacReady with a smile.
"Darren has been in bed long since, although I doubt he's asleep."
	"I keep telling him not to wait up, but he always does."
	"He's in love with you, young man. He wants to hear your voice
before he sleeps."
	Laughing, Gabe drained the glass of milk. "You really are an old
romantic, you know that?"
	"Bah, I merely state a fact," returned MacReady. "Now, off to bed
with you. I'm an old man and failing fast."
	They left the kitchen together, MacReady to his room, Gabe to
his. In his room Gabe stripped down to his briefs and then went into the
bathroom where he brushed his teeth, had a pee and then went to his bed
where, as he had expected, Darren was waiting sleepily for him.
	"How are you" Gabe asked as he climbed into the bed and cradled the
love of his life in his arms.
	"I missed you," replied Darren. He gave a quick kiss on the
lips. "Can you stay home tomorrow?"
	Shaking his head, Gabe answered, "No. I have too much to do at
work." He returned Darren's kiss. "When this is over we'll take trip
together. How would you like to go to Disneyland?"
	"Will you buy me a Mickey Mouse Frisbee?"
	Gabe laughed softly. "A dozen, if you'd like."
	"Can we buy MacReady some Goofy boots? He has very big feet, you
know."
	"Darren, you mustn't say things like that! You'll hurt his
feelings," replied Gabe, barely able to control his laughter. "How about we
buy him one of those hats with mouse ears instead?"
	"Okay," agreed Darren. "Gabe, don't be sorry about not coming
home. You are catching the bad men who hurt little boys, and that is more
important than me."
	As he gave Darren a hug, Gabe said, "Nothing, and no one is more
important than you. And how do you know about what I'm doing?"
	"I heard Uncle Louis and MacReady talking," replied Darren. "They
said that you are hunting some very bad men, men who hurt little boys. Are
you?"
	"Yes."
	"Are they hurting boys like Mr. Tsapopoulas hurt my friends at the
Centre?"
	"Yes, Darren, some not as badly, others much, much worse."
	Raising his head, Darren looked into Gabe's eyes. "You must find
them, and make them pay for the bad things they've done."
	"I will," promised Gabe.
	"And then we'll go to Disneyland." Darren lay back down and
snuggled closed to his Gabe. "I love you so very much, Gabe," he whispered
as he settled toward sleep.
	"And I love you so very, very much," replied Gabe. "Now go to
sleep."
	"Okay. And Gabe?"
	"Yes?"
	"You promise, you will make them pay?"
	"I promise. Now go to sleep."
	"I love you Gabe."
	"I know. And I love you."

******

	Sometime during the night, Darren reached up and gently stroked his
Gabe's face with his hand. "I love you so very much, Gabe," he whispered.
	Then Darren's body shuddered, his eyelids flickered and his
breathing became shallow, and then . . .

******

	The morning mist whirled and swirled dream-like across the field of
battle, tendrils drifting to the left, to the right, as the carrion crows,
dark as ebony, cawed and fluttered about the broken, bloody bodies that lay
strewn across the churned, muddy earth.
	Far across the field the Observer saw the red, crimson orb slowly
rising, burning away the fog of war, revealing shattered carts, cold,
white, marble hard bodies: horses, men, the wretched aftermath of
battle. And the crows, yellow beaks sharp and probing, eyes blank and
bright as jet, hopped and croaked, too full to move far from the feast.
	As the Observer looked down, he saw the mist dissipate, his green
eyes sharp, seeing the faceless bodies, all horrible in their nakedness,
all torn with gaping wounds exposing muscle and viscera, their bloodstained
hands clasping at the sterile, fetid mud.
	Far to the left the transparent, black, shapes formed and reformed,
without definition, features hidden behind veils of rage, dancing and
darting toward a small, slim, black-robed figure lying hard against the
remnants of a broken tambour, the slim body exposed by the torn and
bloodied black robe, the features fixed with the rictus of death, the grey
eyes lifeless, staring sightless at the rising mist.
	Around and around the tow-headed figure the spectres swirled,
shrieking their uncontrollable rage and waving skeletal fists and
iron-tipped staves at unseen enemies as behind them a slavering, giant of a
Beast, eyes red and lips crimson with the dripping blood of men, rose above
the carnage, the eyes, the eyes filled with the lightning of hatred.
	Across the wreckage-strewn field the others waited behind a ditch
filled with broken swords, lances, arrows, spilled piles of earth from the
riven fascines and baskets. Their ranks were decimated, shattered in
places, bloodied, but not bowed, their eyes tired, their bodies weak with
hunger and constant warfare, yet still they waited.  Above them, stirring
in the slight breeze that sent the morning mists to drifting forward, their
Gonfalon, their Ensign, was lashed to a stripped pole, held upright by
their broken drums. The Gonfalon had never known defeat, and would never be
lowered in shame.
	As the Observer watched a youth stepped slowly into the breach
opened in the long wall of earth and sharpened logs that guarded the ditch,
and protected the camp stretching far back from the wall. The youth's
emerald green eyes were crinkled with fatigue, but flashing with
determination. His light brown, gold-flecked hair was matted and filthy
from the dirt of battle, his mailed coat rent in places, his surcoat torn,
but the Escutcheon bright.
	Peering closer, the Observer saw that the youth's Escutcheon,
bright red and white and blue, the three soiled, white lilies quartered
with three golden lions, had been charged with a white heron, surrounded by
a golden thread.
	Behind the youth the Guardian stood, his hair, once the colour of
the gold of Morne, dark and bloodied. His mail, once silvered, was torn in
places, and dulled grey in the cool morning light. His face, still as pink
as a Chanticleer peach, was strained and smeared with muck, his broad, firm
chest was sheltered by a surcoat, stained and torn, but the Escutcheon
remained bright, the embroidered Ensign unsullied, the golden thread
shimmering and strong. The Guardian's eyes, the colour of the stormy waters
of the great ocean, never left his charge, and his hand gripped tighter the
leather hilt of the broadsword that would never be sheathed in defeat.
	Behind the barricade the others waited. To the youth's left and
right the carronades and culverins pointed outward, the touchholes begrimed
with black powder that needed only the touch of a smouldering wick of hemp
held by one of the grim-faced gunners.
	Behind the guns they watched, one on the left, one on the right,
the slim, golden haired, blue-eyed knights. Like all the others, their
faces were lined with fatigue, but their eyes, their sky blue eyes were
sharp and restless. Like all the others, their surcoats were torn and
shredded, but their Escutcheons remained unmarred, and the golden thread
shimmered in the light of the rising sun.
	Along the line the youths and young men stirred uneasily, their
handsome faces black with dirt, their hands stiff with the cold of morning,
their eyes darting and peering. One, tall, black-haired, with sparkling
white teeth and dazzling eyes, raised on high his broadsword, a sword as
tall and as strong as its owner, taunting the spectral shapes that shrieked
and howled their impotence.
	To the rear the reserve waited, their portly leader standing
quietly, his head covered with a cowl of stiff, unyielding chain, his
strong hand clasping the Axe, broad of blade and shimmering as the sun rose
higher. Around him, too young to be here, his lambs waited, their hearts
pounding but not knowing fear. Each wore a different Escutcheon, a crowned,
double-headed, golden eagle here, a black, red-tongued eagle there, a
sleeping lion, a crouching leopard, a silver-threaded Menorah, the silk and
bullion broken and torn, but always the golden thread that entwined the
crests glowed brightly.
	The Observer shook his head. What a pitiful little army they
were. How could so few defeat so many? They were too young, the brightness
of their youth dulled by the sands of battle. But then they raised their
bloodied heads and revealed their determination. They were boys, too be
sure, but they were now men, men who would never be defeated.
	Two others walked the lines, knights, their hands grasping sword
and shield, their eyes never wavering, one, slim and tall, with dark hair,
the other slight and seeming vulnerable, but there was no vulnerability in
him. Their shields and chests bore their colours, the azure saltire, green
fir tree, stalked and leaved thistle and barbed rose of the one still
bright, the once-bright eagle, ball and anchor of the other pitted and
slashed, but still the golden thread forming the knots of constancy and
love shone bright.
	Others waited, their hands clutching metal-tipped pikes, longbows
and crossbows, each head covered with a conical helmet, each mailed body
taut and tense, each face anxious but steadfast in their courage. To the
front stood their leaders, older, wiser, one bearded, the other not. They
waited patiently with the wisdom of age, and from time to time one, or the
other, would reach to touch the red-slashed, white towered Escutcheon that
marked their place on earth, or run their fingers along the thread of gold
that joined them together.
	Further back and further back they waited, their brightly
caparisoned steeds restless and pawing at the hard-packed, unforgiving
clay. They sat immobile, these knights, three holding golden batons, their
armour as dull and pitted as the mail and surcoats of the others that lined
the ditch. All wore once white, now grey, cloaks, each cloak embroidered in
gold and silver, in carmine and ebony, and each stared with passion at the
black, dancing, formless shapes across the plain of death.
	The Observer turned his head, seeing a movement, slight, barely
noticed, but a movement. There, scant paces from the cesspool of the ditch,
a boy lay, long, muscular, naked, the blond curls of his head matted and
soiled with blood, his hands curled in pain, his blue eyes filled with
terror. The boy stirred, his mouth forming and reforming painfully words
that would not be heard. He raised his head and then his arm, pleading
. . .
	The green-eyed youth raised tired eyes and saw the movement. He
slowly, deliberately shaded his piercing eyes, the red, deep red table-cut
ruby in the ring he wore flashing with a fire that momentarily blinded the
Observer. The youth's eyes took in the barely moving body and then he
moved, leaving the safety of the barricade.
	The Observer leaned forward to watch as the youth slowly,
carefully, picked his way toward the broken-bodied youth, and then fall to
one knee to lift the boy's head. The Observer craned his head, listening as
the battered boy spoke in frightened, desperate words, "A la maison,
Monseigneur, je veux aller a la maison. Prenez-mois la maison, Cher
Monseigneur. Prenez-moi la maison."
	Rising, the youth cradled the desperately injured boy in his arms
and carried him slowly and carefully across the ditch and to the small
sloping defile behind.
	"Home, my friend, my brother, I have brought you home," The youth
murmured as he lowered himself to his right knee. He continued to support
the blond-haired boy as the others gathered.
	The Observer saw a movement in the thin line of fighters as a
small, slim, dark brown-haired boy with gentle brown eyes left the side of
his red-haired companion and came forward, a bowl of water and a clean,
pristine white towel in his hands. He knelt beside the parfair gens with
the emerald eyes; saw the pain in those still-sparkling eyes as he held the
wounded boy close. The brown-haired boy smiled as he slowly and gently
cleansed the wounds and dirt from the blond-haired boy's body.
	The boy raised his head, looked into the eyes of the youth that
held him safe, and then looked at the circle of faces surrounding him. He
smiled and murmured, "A la maison, je suis a la maison avec mes freres. A
la maison."
	"Yes, Sylvain, you are home," whispered the green-eyed youth as the
brown-haired boy gently washed the blood and grime from Sylvain's pale
body. "You are home with your brothers."
	Sylvain raised his eyes and gazed into his rescuer's emerald, tear
glistening eyes. "Thank you, dear Monseigneur, for bringing me home."

******

	As the brown-haired lad gently closed the eyes from which all life
had fled, the green-eyed youth threw back his head and a feral, primeval
scream thundered across the battlefield.  "NOOOOOOOOOOOO!"