Date: Mon, 20 Dec 2004 18:41:32 -0500
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: Aurora Tapestry - Chapter 27

Aurora Tapestry is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and
incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events
or locales, is entirely coincidental.
	All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any
form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author,
excepting for personal use, or for brief quotes used in reviews.
	This book contains scenes of consensual homosexual sex between
adults. If it is illegal for you to download, possess or read works of
erotic fiction, please move on. This book contains scenes of violence and
mature subject matter. Reader discretion is advised.
	While this story is set in 1976, when safe sex was not practiced,
the author urges all his readers to ALWAYS practice safe sex. The life you
save may be your own.
	My thanks to Peter, my editor, whom I hope enjoys long life and
happiness. A good editor is hard to find!

	To all my readers, may the Star of Bethlehem shine down upon you
and all you love. Have a merry, merry Christmas and may 2005 be much kinder
than 2004.

Aurora Tapestry

Chapter 27


	"They're not eating," said Chef as he stood behind the steam line
with The Phantom.
	The Phantom's gaze scanned the half-filled dining room. Lunch was
usually well attended, but today was different. There was the usual gaggle
of YAG crewmembers eating as if the food on their plates would be their
last meal. Chef was not referring to them, of course. The Phantom exchanged
a glance with Chef and then looked over to the far corner. He
nodded. "They", meaning the Aurora cadets, were indeed off their feed.
	At the Chiefs' table, much expanded with the recent promotions,
Tyler, Val, Mark and Tony had been joined by the Twins and Mike
Sunderland. Tyler was toying with what little food there was on his plate,
while Val had tried one bite, and then pushed his plate away.
	This was not a reflection on the food for Ray and Sandro had
prepared a good pork tenderloin, served with apple sauce, oven roasted,
herb dressed, baby red potatoes, and mixed vegetables as one of the two
entrées. The other entrée, a hamburger plate, was proving much more
popular, which led Ray to snidely question why he bothered.
	The Twins, both Cory and Todd, were uncharacteristically quiet,
although for different reasons. Cory had chosen a salad, but spent more
time pushing a small piece of tomato from one side of his plate to the
other. He was still quite stunned at his own erudition earlier, and
reconsidering his opinion of the Order and considering what he should do
now. As Todd had murmured as they left the Gunroom, it was a tough act to
follow.
	Todd was not considering his options or what he would do. He would
follow The Phantom, and he would become a Knight. What was bothering Todd
was Matt's total indifference to him. Darting frequent glances around the
dining room, Todd had noticed that Matt seemed to be paying a great deal of
attention to Nicholas and wondered if he was making more of something
innocuous than he should. Matt was naturally happy and friendly to
everyone. Still . . . A small sigh escaped Todd's lips. Matt and Nicholas
together? Not likely. Nicholas was in love with André, and they had
exchanged vows. Still . . .
	"You had your chance and you blew it!"
	The words, cold, unemotional and without sympathy, seared through
Todd's brain. He turned to see his brother staring at him, Cory's blue eyes
clear and as cold and unsympathetic as the thought he had just sent to his
twin. Todd's face glowed crimson as he slowly nodded his head and murmured,
"Yes, I did and more fool me."

******

	Rob sat with Brian, each toying nervously with the cutlery laid on
the table, both deep in thought and occasionally darting glances at The
Phantom. Finally, Rob asked, "Have you decided?"
	Brian looked at his friend and shrugged. "I think so, yes," he
replied. He looked at The Phantom, smiled wistfully, and continued, "If
only because he's my friend, I'm going."
	Looking about, Rob then lowered his voice. "And the fact that
you're just a little bit in love with him?" he asked.
	Brian cocked his head and smiled slowly. "Yes, that too. But then,
Rob, I think that we all are, just a little."
	Sighing, Rob nodded his head in agreement. "More than a little,
Brian, more than a little." He reached out and his fingertips touched
Brian's hand. "Every time I'm with him I get this warm feeling. I know he
loves me, and wants to protect me. I also know that he will forgive
anything so long as I remain what I now believe I truly am, his brother."
	Brian thought a moment and then said, "Phantom is no saint, but he
does love us. He sees good in just about everybody he meets. It's not about
sex, Rob, although sex has played a part in his relationship with us."
	Rob's eyes widened slightly and he knew. Brian had been visited
during the night, just has he had been.
	"Yes, Rob," said Brian without rancour or remorse. "I make no
apologies and expect none from Phantom. What happened is between us. I'm
glad it happened. Without Phantom I would never have gone on to . . ."
	"Dylan," Rob said quietly.
	Brian's face fell slightly. "Dylan was someone I cared for. I
thought my feelings for him were mutual. They weren't and now I know that
all Dylan was interested in was the sex. It happens. Dylan has gone home
and returned to his life of 'normalcy'. I wish him well, I will always have
a soft spot for him, but I know that we can never be. I hope you have
better luck with Ryan."
	"You . . . you know?" gasped Rob. He had been certain that his
trysts with Ryan in Clothing Stores had been secret.
	Snickering, Brian regarded Rob. "It's all in the body language," he
advised ponderously. "The way a guy looks at another guy, the little
gestures, the light pats when you think no one is looking." He
shrugged. "It don't mean shit."
	Blushing furiously now that his secret was out, at least to Brian,
Rob looked nervous and embarrassed. "Brian, I sort of don't need . . ."
	Brian held up his hand. "Look, Rob, nobody cares. I sure as hell
don't. You've slept with Ryan - went all the way, I suspect - and it's no
big deal. I slept with Dylan. What we did together was great, just as what
you did with Ryan was great." Once again a shrug formed on Brian's
shoulders. "I'm not going to out you, if that's what you're worried about."
He noticed a small frown forming on Rob's forehead and continued. "And I'm
not putting the moves on you, although you are one hell of a good looking
guy."
	Rob squirmed uneasily. "Aw, come on, Brian."
	"It's true," insisted Brian with a grin. "You are one good looking
stud and you've got the parts to go along with the rest of you. I don't
blame Ryan for hopping into the sack with you."
	"It wasn't like that!" Rob's protest was an angry hiss. "We
. . . we love each other!"
	Drawing back, Brian held up his hands. "Perhaps. But then, I
thought that Dylan loved me. He didn't. I hope, truly, that you and Ryan
make a go of it." Then he asked pointedly. "But then, has he called you?
Have you called him?"
	"No, he hasn't," admitted Rob reluctantly. "And I haven't called
him. I haven't heard a word from him." Rob's handsome face fell. "Damn it,
Brian, why are you asking me these questions?"
	"Because when I go with Phantom I want to know that the guy beside
me is there for me and the others. I don't want to go sailing off into
harm's way only to have you, or any one of the others suddenly decide that
you're in over your head and want out."
	"That's unfair and untrue!" snapped Rob. "You're just pissed off
because Dylan took a hike on you!" He glared at Brian. "Don't judge me by
what Dylan did, or what Ryan did! I'm my own man and I make up my own
mind. Ryan has nothing to do with what Phantom is asking us to do!"
	Brian's calmness was disconcerting to Rob. The guy barely changed
expressions! "I haven't made up my mind," Rob continued. Then he leaned
forward and looked evenly at Brian. "But when I do, it will be because it
is the right thing to do, not because I made it with Ryan, or you, or any
other guy. Ryan has nothing to do with what I do, just as Dylan is not a
part of what you plan on doing."
	Brian nodded. "Dylan is out of this thing, and so far as I know
never was in."
	"And neither is Ryan," conceded Rob. "I've heard names being
bandied about, guys who were a part of this dream of Phantom's. Nowhere
have I heard Ryan's name mentioned."
	Pushing his chair back, Brian made to rise. "Then whatever you
decide will be based on the rightness of what is to come?"
	"Yes."
	Brian looked around to see the Twins leaving their table. "Then
it's time, Rob."

******

	"Timing is important," The Gunner said as he gestured to the list
of names and addresses pinned to the wall of Ace's living room. "We must
make certain that we do not strike too soon, or out of sequence. We cannot
allow any of these men time to warn their friends."
	Arranged on the sofa and chairs scattered haphazardly about the
room, the men gathered nodded. They all knew that there must be a
coordinated swoop on the homes of the men who held boys.
	In the far corner Terry Hsiang, Michael Chan's representative,
nodded his concurrence. Terry was young, or at least looked young, with a
smooth, handsome, unlined faced. He was dressed in a conservative suit, and
highly polished oxfords. Outwardly, he gave the appearance of an upwardly
mobile young Chinese, successful to a point, with more success on his
horizon. Few knew that as Michael Chan's Viceroy in Toronto Terry
controlled the clandestine gambling rooms that dotted old Chinatown and was
deeply involved in loan-sharking. Even fewer knew that Terry was involved
in smuggling illegal immigrants from the mainland and Hong Kong. He was
also busily establishing "Chinatown East", where the trickle of ethnic
Chinese who had fled Vietnam had become a flood. They needed homes,
business, and loans. Terry Hsiang was a powerful man, with fingers in many
illegal pies. He was also a man who was not afraid to use his power.
	"If I may?" Terry asked quietly.
	"Yes?" The Gunner knew of Terry's involvement with Michael Chan,
and trusted Michael's judgement. He also trusted Terry's loyalty. Michael
would never have placed the younger man here in Toronto if he were not
trusted implicitly.
	"What is to be done with these . . . people?" Terry asked. He
refused to call them men, these animals who preyed on innocent boys. "Are
they to be punished?"
	"A Bar of Justice has been called," replied The Gunner without
emotion. "Hunter, Willoughby, Simpson and the German, Stennes, who is the
ringleader, will be called before the Bar of Justice. Their punishment is
decided. Death by hanging."
	"And the others?" asked Teddy Vian, who was sitting between Jeff
MacKenzie and Gil Stephenson on the sofa. "Have you decided on what is to
be done with them?"
	"And remember, you can't have a dozen or so bodies turning up
dead," advised Aaron Mark II. He was seated on the arm of an overstuffed
chair with Aaron Mark I. Aaron Mark II's hand was resting against the nape
of Aaron Mark I's neck. "Personally I'd like to see them all floating in
Lake Ontario but . . . I gather it would not be in anyone's best interest
for this abomination to be made too public, or to have the police
involved."
	The Gunner took a deep breath. "Any knight who is involved in this
thing will be brought before the Bar of Justice. Stennes, because he is the
mastermind, the pimp, is to be brought before the Bar of Justice. As for
the others, I am open to suggestions."
	Terry Hsiang's expression did not change. "If any Chinese are
involved, I shall handle them." He levelled dark, cold eyes at The
Gunner. "Such is our way."
	"Which means they will disappear," thought The Gunner. His jade
green eyes were just as cold as Terry's black orbs. "Let right be done," he
said firmly. "As for the others, as I have said, I am open to suggestions."
	"Discredit them, destroy them," said Aaron Mark II. "Make certain
that their business associates know what they are. Start a whispering
campaign - they are men of power and they live for power - and if the
rumours are strong enough, if enough of their friends question their
integrity and morals, they will be destroyed. All it takes is a word here,
a snide remark there, and people will get the message."
	Lester, who was sitting as close to Brent on another chair as he
could, nodded his agreement. "And if there are any doubts we can send
anonymous letters, with photos. There are also the Immigration files. These
men have put their names on government visa applications, or sponsored
these boys as students or visitors. They have a lot to lose, Steve. They'll
head for the hills rather than face exposure."
	"So we make sure that they know what will happen to them if what
they've been doing becomes public knowledge," offered Ace. "Ideally what
should happen is that whenever they appear their peers will sneer and look
away. Some of these people would rather die than lose their so-called
social status." He smiled grimly. "And the politicians amongst them would
rather die than lose their political power."
	"Can it be done?" asked The Gunner.
	"It can be done," replied Terry as Aaron Mark II nodded. "It will
take time but it can be done."
	"We have photos, we can get copies of immigration papers and we can
get sworn statements from our own people," said Brent. "Just the threat of
the Vice Squad paying them a visit will cause those people to think twice
about repeating their actions."
	"There is also the financial aspect," said Lester. He looked at
Steve. "You want to open a hospital for the boys we save, and set up a
school for them."
	The Gunner nodded. "Yes."
	"Then make them pay for it." Lester regarded Aaron Mark II and then
Terry Hsiang. "Surely there must be a way, somehow, to gain access to their
bank accounts and their stock portfolios. Drain 'em, says I. Take them for
every penny they have and let them live under a bridge!"
	Lester's anger was all but overpowering. The Gunner knew the life
that Lester had been forced to lead when his family rejected him. Lester
had been a street boy, and had suffered unspeakable abuse at the hands of
his clients. Lester wanted someone to pay for the hurt and pain he had
suffered not so very long ago.
	Aaron Mark II left his seat beside his lover and studied the long
list of names. "There are ways to find out what they have, and where they
keep it," he said, his eyes never leaving the list. "Killing them will
serve no purpose. Better to destroy them financially and socially. Let them
live with what they are in the knowledge that they are scum," all but
spitting out the last word. "My Israeli friends will help."
	The Gunner knew better than to delve too deeply into Aaron Mark
II's "friends", suspecting that they were Mossad. He turned to Terry
Hsiang. "And you?"
	Terry nodded. "We have people who are in positions to know such
things, and to find out such things," Terry said confidently.
	"And my brother is a junior VP with the Bank of Montreal," confided
Teddy. "I'll speak to him."
	"And I'll speak to my father," offered Max. "He's on the Ontario
Securities Commission down at Queen's Park." He smiled grimly. "Poor Daddy!
He's going to shit a brick when I tell him the names of the men
involved. He knows several of them."
	"And I am not looking forward to telling Sophie about that guy in
Oakville," said Aaron Mark I with a shudder. "I saw a photo in her drawing
room of her second wedding party. The guy was her second husband's best
man!"
	"He is also a senator, Aaron," advised Ace. "A senator who sits on
the Military Affairs Committee." He grimaced. "This rot goes deep, guys."
	"Deeper than we possibly know." Aaron Mark II returned to his chair
arm. "My friends will help in any way. All we ask is that copies of
whatever is discovered about these men are made available. We are
particularly interested in Stennes. He has ties to the neo-Nazi movement in
Germany, to the Skin Heads, to every rightwing crackpot outfit in
Germany. We are very interested in Herr Stennes!"
	The Gunner nodded to Lester. Whatever was discovered was as good as
being photocopied now. "It's settled. Stennes, and any knight involved will
be hanged. The others will be discredited."
	Heads nodded around the room. "When do we launch our rescue
operations? Time is running out, I think," said Shane. "I don't like to
think that the boys are being abused any more than they have to be when we
can do something about it."
	"Keep them under surveillance," ordered The Gunner. "Gather
information and start looking for something that will hold up in court." He
turned to Terry. "Have your people start gathering what documentation you
can. Max, speak to whomever you need to speak to and get copies of
everything you can. Shane, Teddy, Gil, we need more pictures. Get
them. Aaron and Lester, get the hospital ready. You have six days. Aaron of
the special Israeli Friends, please find out what you can about the men on
the list - Lester will give you a copy."
	The men looked at each other and then at The Gunner. "Six days?"
asked Brent.
	"Today is Tuesday the 24th of August. On Monday next, the 30th, at
0500, we will end it."
	"Six days!" exclaimed Lester quietly.
	"Six days," repeated The Gunner briskly and then left the room.

******

	"May I come in, or do you want to be alone?" Ace asked as he pushed
open the door to the bedroom.
	The Gunner, who was lying on the bed, nodded and waved Ace
forward. "I'm not in a good mood, but come ahead."
	"What's wrong?" asked Ace as he settled beside The
Gunner. "Everything is falling into place. Lester and the two Aarons have
gone to the hospital. They're going to bring in a cleaning crew and have
the place scoured."
	"I can imagine the shape it's in," grumbled The Gunner.
	"Actually, it's not too bad. The rooms are all set up with beds,
and there's a good-sized dining room and lounge. According to Aaron Mark I
it was set up to be a pretty upscale little inn, not some fleabag."
	"Well, that's something." The Gunner glanced at Ace. "And the
others?"
	"Off and doing." Ace sat up and began to lift The Gunner's T-shirt
up his chest. "Come on, strip off."
	"Ace, I just condemned four men to death and I really don't think
that getting it on with you is . . ."
	"Don't flatter yourself, hotshot," returned Ace. "You're all tensed
up and I'm going to give you one of my famous massages. Now lose the
drawers."
	The Gunner struggled out of his shorts and lay there, staring at
Ace. "What next?"
	"You turn over and I get nekkid."
	"Nekkid!"
	"I do my best work in the nude, Steve," replied Ace with a
grin. "Now shut up and enjoy."
	Ace straddled The Gunner's body and slowly began to smooth and
massage The Gunner's tense shoulder muscles. "You're doing what needs to be
done," Ace said as his fingers and palms worked magic. "I know it's hard,
Steve, and I'm not sure that I could be so, well logically cold about it."
	The Gunner raised his head. "I didn't hear you objecting," he
protested mildly. "Damn, that feels good."
	"And you won't," returned Ace as he pushed The Gunner's head back
down. His hands moved down to massage The Gunner's back muscles. "It has to
be done. I agree with what you're planning and I have no regrets about a
Bar of Justice." Ace moved back, his warm testicles dragging across the
cleft of The Gunner's firm, round, behind. "What I wonder about, though, is
why the extreme prejudice?"
	The Gunner looked back over his shoulder. "Ace, for all of its long
history the Order has forbidden, categorically, paedophilia, in all its
forms. Society, has condemned it, the Law forbids it."
	Ace leaned forward and kissed The Gunner's broad, warm back. "And
they broke their oath, which cannot be allowed."
	"They swore the oath, Ace. They swore to protect the Order and its
treasure. They have embezzled much of the Order's wealth, the same order
they swore to protect! They gave their word, Ace, and broke it. Take away a
man's word of honour and he has nothing, is nothing. I know to some such
things are hokey, and old-fashioned, but a man's word must mean
something. Willoughby, Hunter, Simpson, all broke their word, in more ways
than one. They became involved with Stennes for personal gain, for money,
and in Simpson's case, sexual gratification."
	"And in addition to breaking their word, they tarnished,
irretrievably, the honour of the Order," supplied Ace. He ran his finger
down the cleft of The Gunner's buttocks and slowly massaged the man's
low-hanging scrotum.
	Ace felt The Gunner squirm and smiled. "You've argued with yourself
over this for too long, Steve. I agree with you. The decision has been made
and we go with it." He gently reached down and grasped his erection. "Now,
Stevie, just keep quiet and enjoy."
	The Gunner was starting to feel warm and content. He sighed as
Ace's wide hands slowly massaged his waist. He could also feel a warm
stirring in his loins. As Ace's hands reached his butt cheeks The Gunner
moaned and raised his hips slowly. "Ace . . ."
	Ace leaned forward and gently kissed The Gunner's right
ear. "Steve, I love you. I need you and if you'd only admit it, you need
me." He gently nuzzled The Gunner's neck. "And right now I do need you."
	Knowing what was coming, The Gunner nodded his head. He felt the
weight of Ace's body lift, and heard the soft, muted rustling of wood as
the drawer in the nightstand was opened and Ace fumbled for the lubricant
he kept there.
	"I love you," Ace repeated as his finger slowly rubbed the cool
lubricant into The Gunner's opening. "I am not fool enough to think that
you will ever be in love with me, but I will always be with you."
	The Gunner spread his legs and felt the spongy, warm, curving head
of Ace's penis as it probed his opening. He looked back to see Ace
straddling him, ready. "Ace, I do love you. I wish I could be in love with
you." He buried his face in the pillow under his head. "Take me, slowly,
love me, slowly," he murmured.
	With excruciating slowness, Ace entered his lover. When his pubic
hairs brushed the smooth, pink cheeks of The Gunner's buttocks, and the
head of his penis pushed gently against the hidden pleasure spot deep
within his lover, Ace lowered his body. "You're a bastard, Steve Winslow,"
he growled as he gripped The Gunner's shoulders. "I should hate you!" Ace
began a slow, deep, thrusting rhythm. "But I can't hate you! I should want
to fuck you!" Ace whimpered as a wave of indescribable pleasure coursed
through his body. "But I only want to make love to you!"
	The Gunner remained silent as the wonder that Ace was giving him
engulfed his being. He would not think of anything else but Ace, of the
glorious lover whose breathing had grown faster and heavier, whose body was
driving him upward and upward to a plateau of delight.
	"Damn you, Steve," Ace growled. "Let me love you! Let me . . ."
Ace's body suddenly grew rigid and a low, keening moan filled the
bedroom. As his penis spasmed and his warm semen surged out, he gasped over
and over, "I love you, damn you! I love you!"

******

	"I'm sorry, Ace," The Gunner whispered as he stroked his lover's
warm, flushed face. "I want to, dear God, I want to, but I can't. I have
too much to do, to many things to do, and something deep within me will not
allow me to be what you want me to be."
	Ace, who was lying comfortable in The Gunner's arms, nodded his
head against the man's strong chest. "I know," came his whispered reply. "I
just wish that you would sit back and smell the roses! I know that's trite,
and a cliché, but damn, Steve, you're not some god, you're not the only one
who can do what you think needs to be done!"
	"I know, Ace, I know," said The Gunner sadly. "But Ace, please try
to understand. I'm responsible. I can't stop to smell the roses, watch the
grass grow. I can't! I must see the thing through to the end; I must devote
my entire attention, my entire being, if you will, to the task at hand. I
know you think it foolish to think that way, but there it is. I cannot help
myself. It is in my heart, my soul and my blood."
	Ace slowly backed away from The Gunner's arms and sat on the edge
of the bed. He fumbled around and found the pack of cigarettes, lit two and
handed one to The Gunner. His eyes were hooded as he asked, "So where does
that leave me, Steve?"
	The Gunner looked into Ace's eyes and a small smile formed on his
lips. "As part of me, Ace, for as long as you want to be a part of me."
	This was not the reply Ace had expected. "You mean that?" he asked,
his voice filled with doubt.
	Nodding, The Gunner ran his hand across Ace's smooth, muscular
leg. "As strange as it may seem, yes. I do need you, Ace. I need someone
who understands me, and will put up with me."
	Ace laughed harshly. "I'm as bad as Lester!" he declared
ruefully. "Brent will never leave his wife and kids, yet Lester loves him,
and puts up with the bastard. You will never back down, or give up on
anything, and you will never allow yourself to fall in love. Yet still I
love you and put up with you!"
	"Ace, I do care for you, I do need you, I do want you, and I want
you to stay with me," replied The Gunner warmly.
	Sighing, Ace looked around for an ashtray, and then ground the
cigarette into the clear glass. "I just wish that once you'd let yourself
go! But you won't."
	"No."
	Ace looked around for his underwear. "Then I suppose I had better
just consider myself well-served and get on with helping you." He smiled
sourly. "So, what happens next?"
	The Gunner uncoiled his body and rolled from the bed. "First, we
have to shower and then . . ." He saw one of Ace's eyebrows arch
inquiringly, " . . . and then we sit down and try to figure out just what
the hell we're going to do when Sophie finds out about her friend in
Oakville."
	Ace snickered and drew his underwear over his face. "Hide! Run and
hide, dear Steve, because she will blow the proverbial gasket!"
	Laughing, The Gunner reached out and his hand slowly enveloped
Ace's genitals. "Well, let's hide something in the shower!" he suggested
lewdly.
	Slowly pulling his underpants away from his face, Ace
grinned. "You're still a bastard! But yeah, I think I'd like that." He felt
The Gunner's thumb as it slowly stimulated the curving, slightly sticky
glans of his penis. "And you only want me in there 'cause you know I won't
be able to run far!"
	As he slipped his arm around Ace's waist, The Gunner laughed. "Not
that you'd even try!" he said as he leaned forward and licked Ace's ear.

******

	"Er ist Sterben!" Sepp snapped angrily. "Es gibt zu viel Blut!"
	Troubridge glared at the young German and then returned to slowly
removing the bandage he had packed into Eugen's torn, ravaged, rectum. The
gauze was saturated with blood. Dark, almost black blood. "Jesus, he
muttered." He turned to look at Percy Simpson, who was standing in the
doorway, wringing his hands.
	"He needs a doctor," Troubridge said flatly. "The lad is torn up
inside."
	"Impossible," Percy whimpered. "Stennes would never allow it! He's
still in town with that creature of his." He glared at Sepp and
Gottfried. "Seien Sie ruhig! Er ist nicht genug krank zu sterben!"
	"Aber das Blut!" returned Sepp. "The blood, there is too much
blood!"
	"Halt die Schnauze!" yelled Percy. "Sie wurden nicht um Blut
gesorgt, als Sie das rammten . . . das . . . Pfosten in ihm!"
	"All of you shut up!" bellowed Troubridge. He gestured at the small
pile of gauze bandages lying on the bedside table. "Hand me more gauze." He
glared at Sepp and saw that the boy's thick appendage, his "post" as Percy
had called it, was growing thicker, the deep purplish-pink head peeking out
of the fold of skin that covered it. "The little bastard is excited! He's
enjoying this," Troubridge thought cruelly. "Get out," he ordered. "Get out
of my sight!"
	The two German boys scuttled from the room, pushing their keeper
aside in their haste. Percy, a worried look on his face, advanced further
into the bedroom. He looked at the unconscious boy on the bed and watched
as his butler gently repacked the boy's rectum. "We can't fetch a doctor,
you know that!"
	Troubridge sneered at his employer and then reached down to take
the washcloth from the bowl of warm water sitting on the floor beside the
bed. "If I can't stop the bleeding Eugen will die," he said as he carefully
cleansed the blond-haired boy's buttocks of the blood that continued to
seep from his anus. "Eugen will die!" he repeated.
	Percy's hands began fluttering. "You cannot let him! Stennes will
never . . ."
	"Stennes did this!" Troubridge hurled the soiled washcloth at
Percy. "Stennes and that blond monster he's taken up with! Stennes and Sepp
and Gottfried! And you stood by and let them do it!" He stood up abruptly
and faced Percy. "You allowed it!" he hissed.
	"You don't understand," whined Percy. "Stennes is too powerful. He
will never allow Eugen to live now! If I call him, he will come here and
take the boy away. You know what will happen to him!"
	"He's dying, damn you. Does that mean nothing to you? How can you
say . . ." He drew back slowly. "You are a pitiful creature, Percy. God
have mercy on you!"
	"Me?" returned Percy, his lips curled in a sneer of
disgust. "You're as bad!" He reached into the inner pocket of his suit
jacket and pulled out a thick wad of bank notes. "This is what drove you!"
he snarled as he waved the bills at Percy. He pushed the butler aside and
placed the notes on the table. "What is done, is done," Percy said as he
stared with cold, unfeeling eyes at the boy curled into a foetal position
on the bed. "If I could, I would call Stennes and this . . . problem would
go away." He shrugged. "I have no idea where he is."
	Percy then gave Troubridge a sly, feral glance. He saw that the
butler was paying more attention to the pile of money on than table than he
was to the pitiable German boy. Smiling inwardly, Percy reached out and
brushed an errant lock of blond hair from Eugen's warm
forehead. Troubridge, Stennes, Hunter, Willoughby, all thought him a senile
old fool. But Percy was far from being a fool. He had long ago taken
Troubridge's measure. Any warmth, any compassion, the Englishman might have
had had long since been replaced by cold, hard, dollars.
	Percy turned and faced Troubridge. "It would be a pity if such a
handsome young man were to die. You must see that he is made comfortable."
	"I am not a doctor," Troubridge responded.
	"No, you are not," agreed Percy. "Keep packing his . . . his
orifice. The bleeding will stop and then we will contact Stennes. Eugen's
usefulness is at an end."
	"You can't be sure about the bleeding," protested Troubridge.
	"Then he will die in comfort and with a measure of peace long
before Stennes returns." He looked directly at Troubridge. "If there is no
hope you will call me."

******

	As Percy closed the door behind him, Troubridge sat on the edge of
the bed and stared at Eugen. The boy seemed to be sleeping easier. Perhaps
his original assessment was wrong. Perhaps Eugen would survive. Troubridge
reached out and with the back of his hand felt Eugen's forehead. Warm, but
not worrisomely so. If the bleeding could be contained, and stopped, Eugen
had a chance.
	"Damn," Troubridge muttered as he buried his head in his hands. He
knew what Percy's measure of peace was: a syringe filled with
morphine. Percy would stop at nothing to ensure his little kingdom remained
intact. Nothing would be allowed to destroy Percy's little world.
	Sighing, Troubridge glanced back at the boy and then reached out
for the telephone that rested on the table. As he did so the side of his
hand brushed the small pile of hundred dollar notes.
	Rising, Troubridge slowly replaced the telephone receiver and then
pocketed the bank notes. He looked again at Eugen, shook his head, and left
the room.

******

	"Are you getting this? Are you getting all of it?" Stennes demanded
in a harsh whisper as he peered through the two-way mirror, his eyes
riveted on the scene unfolding in the bedroom beyond.
	The stocky, sour-smelling Oriental, his eye firmly against the
eyepiece of the muffled 35mm camera grunted. Behind them, Hung Tuan Han,
the proprietor of the establishment, smiled benevolently. "We shall make a
fortune with this one!" he declared. "Such spontaneity, such exuberance!"
	Stennes returned Han's smile. "And we have the insurance we need in
the event my young blond friend decides he is unhappy with our
arrangement."
	Han nodded toward the lithe, golden-skinned boy who was approaching
the bed on which Paul Greene lay naked. "What do you think of him?
Beautiful, is he not?"
	"Very," agreed Stennes. The Oriental boy, who looked far younger
than his years, was indeed beautiful, his natural beauty highlighted and
heightened by clever use of lighting. He noticed that the boy's shaving his
body had enhanced the air of youth and beauty. He had no pubic hair or hair
under his arms, and Stennes wondered if he could talk Paul into shaving his
body hair.
	"The boy is Vietnamese," Han said. "He is a boat person and has no
family."
	"Where did you find him?" asked Stennes as he watch the young
Vietnamese slowly trickle warm, scented oil on Paul's body. "Vancouver?"
	"New York," advised Han. "His protector, an American, was hiring
the boy out to the sailors in port for the Bicentenary."
	Snorting, Stennes turned. "You did well. The boy is much better
employed here than in servicing sailors!" he snapped. "He seems to enjoy
his work."
	"He does," confirmed Han. "Nhan worked in Saigon and was
well-trained. It was unfortunate that we could not sponsor him."
	"The Americans are now filled with remorse at abandoning their
little Vietnamese brothers," sniffed Stennes. "They go to great lengths to
sponsor these refugees from the obnoxious Ho's regime."
	"He is dead," replied Han. "The world is better for his passing."
	Stennes led the way from the small, hidden room and asked Han,
"Have you investigated our sponsoring such boys? The Canadians are just as
foolish as the Americans. We must make inquiries."
	Han frowned. "We would have to work through the Chinese although I
would prefer the Italians."
	"Why?"
	"This side of Spadina is controlled by the Circle K Boy," advised
Han. "They do not have the connections. Terry Hsiang, who is the Viceroy,
tolerates them because their business does not interfere with his."
	"Then contact him," Stennes ordered.
	"That is not possible," replied Han reluctantly. Stennes was a pig,
and like many pigs stubborn when denied something he wanted. "Hsiang does
not deal in human beings, at least not for something immoral. He is very
straight-laced and very conservative. If he were to find out what we do
here he would bring pressure on the Circle K Boys to close us down. No, it
is better to work with the Italians. They consider us to be little better
than animals and will gladly take our money."
	"No doubt," responded Stennes dryly. "Do it."
	Han smiled and bowed. "I shall contact them tomorrow." He gestured
toward the staircase that led to the upper floors of the huge Victorian
mansion that housed this very discreet and very expensive brothel. "Do you
wish to take some leisure time?"
	Grimacing, Stennes shook his head.
	"I have two new boys," said Han. "Peasant boys, fresh off the boat
from the mainland. Very crude." Han knew that Stennes preferred his boys
bulky and muscular. The boy Nhan, and the others like Nhan, would never
appeal to the German.
	"I am not in the mood for neophytes," snarled Stennes.
	"They are experienced," said Han hurriedly. "They were trained on
the voyage over. One of them enjoys the whip," he finished in a whisper.
	"Ya?"
	Han nodded enthiusiastically. "And the other has the penis of a
bull!"
	Stennes thought a moment. He had nothing better to do, really. The
young Russian boy had been delivered to his new protector and Noel would
not arrive until later this evening. Paul was busy with his new toy. He
shrugged. "Is my room ready?" he asked.
	"Number 27, as always, Great Lord," replied Han, bowing. "I shall
send the boys to you."

******

	In the opulently appointed bedroom, Paul enjoyed the role of a
Sybarite. He lay on the most comfortable bed he had ever slept in as the
young Vietnamese slowly massaged rose-scented oils into his skin.
	Paul sighed happily. Thus far he had experienced sensations that he
had never known existed. Sex had never been so enjoyable. His body had been
massaged and his penis suckled with such gentleness that he had all but
exploded with pleasure. The Oriental boy, slim, golden-skinned, with
flashing black eyes, had writhed and moaned as Paul's penis savaged him,
and then lay back, smiling, calling him "Great Lord" and complementing him
on the size of his member. Nothing, not what the French-Canadian, who was
now dead, or the two Germans, had done to him, had approached what the
Oriental could do.
	Paul's slate grey eyes studied the slim youth. "What is your name?"
he asked presently.
	"I am called Nhan, Great Lord," replied the boy shyly. None of his
'clients' had ever asked what he was called. "I am Vietnamese and come from
Saigon."
	"But you got out."
	Nhan began to slowly massage Paul's thin chest. "I had a friend, an
American. He arranged for me to go to Hong Kong. Later, he brought me to
America." His hands drifted downward and he slowly rubbed the aromatic oil
onto Paul's small testicles. Then, using just the tips of his fingers, Nhan
gently stroked the small, egg-shaped orbs contained in the smooth skinned
sac. Paul groaned and arched his body. He could feel his penis growing
harder. "Not yet, Nhan," he growled. "I need some time to rest."
	"As the Great Lord wishes," murmured Nhan in reply. He withdrew and
sat demurely at the end of the bed. "I am to please you in any and every
way possible," he said, averting his eyes, as if it were a sin to look upon
the naked, blond-haired boy.
	Chuckling, Paul motioned for Nhan to come forward. "Are you a
whore?" he asked.
	Nhan bristled, and then recovered. "I am a courtesan. I am trained
to please a man in many ways. I am not for sale to just any man."
	"Hey, I didn't mean to insult you," exclaimed Paul
half-heartedly. "I was only asking."
	"I am not insulted," Nhan lied. "In my profession it is to be
expected. Men think that because I please them I am without morals or
consequence. I do not give myself to all, only a select few."
	This last was also a lie. Nhan had been brought to America by his
"protector" to earn money. The American, a crude, overweight former
civilian contractor in Vietnam, had lost a bundle when the Communist tanks
had rolled into the old capital city of Saigon. He needed to make up some
of his losses and Nhan had gone a long way to doing just that. The arrival
of the Tall Ships in New York to celebrate the 200th Anniversary of the
signing of the Declaration of Independence had proved a gold mine. The
event had drawn men from all over North America and Europe to
Manhattan. Many of them were men of wealth and Nhan, ensconced in a suite
at the Pierre, had entertained more than his share.
	Nhan had counted himself lucky that he had not contracted some
dread disease. Of course, he knew how to check for telltale sores and
strange weepings from penises. Nhan knew that he was free of disease, and
his protector had made certain by sending him to a discreet physician
before selling him to Han.
	In Toronto, Nhan entertained only one man a night. The men were
usually Chinese, and accustomed to kow-towing and scraping. Nhan did not
care that he had to demean himself. He was a courtesan and acted as he was
expected to act. Servility had its rewards, after all, and Nhan's secret
horde of jade and gold grew weekly. He did not expect much from this child
who thought he was a man. He had been told to please the blond-haired
boy. A beaming smile from Han would be his only reward. And at last he did
not have to pleasure the German, who was a pig, and had the organ of a
Minotaur!
	Paul regarded the silent Vietnamese and then reached out to gently
cup the young man's slim penis in his hand. He slowly pushed back Nhan's
foreskin, revealing the deep purple, conical head. Nhan sucked in his
breath at the ferengi's touch. Few of the men he pleasured gave any thought
to his pleasure.
	"Have you ever had a man?" asked Paul with a smile.
	Nhan was not at all sure what the blond boy was getting at. "Of
course, many times." He played on Paul's vanity by adding, "And you pleased
me greatly."
	Paul laughed at the lie. "No, I mean have you ever . . . you know,
been with a man?"
	Nhan's eyes widened. "Why, no, Great Lord, not in the way you
mean."
	Paul's eyes brightened as he slowly stroked Nhan to hardness. "Put
some of that oil on your dick," he said huskily.