Date: Mon, 17 Jan 2005 08:09:08 -0500
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: Aurora Tapestry - Chapter 28b

The caveats, comments, etc., expressed in Chapter 28a apply just as much
here.

Aurora Tapestry

Chapter 28b


	"That was quite a speech," murmured Colin as he sat in the
breezeway flats with The Phantom.
	"I cribbed," replied The Phantom as he gazed into Colin's blue
eyes. "Churchill said it first." He reached out and slid his hand in
Colin's. "I missed you."
	Colin leaned forward and pressed his lips softly against The
Phantom's. "And I, God, did I miss you," he replied as he drew back. "I
couldn't think of anything but you!"
	The Phantom blushed deeply. "Colin, we have to be careful. People
might see!" he admonished his lover with a pleased giggle.
	"Wait until they see me do this!" returned Colin as he wrapped The
Phantom in his arms. "I love you, and I'm going to show it." Once again his
lips met The Phantom's. "I don't care what other people think." He chuckled
dryly. "I am, after all, a man of valour."
	The Phantom, snickering loudly, pulled back. "That is not what Chef
meant and you know it!"
	"I'm still going to make love to you, Phantom. I'm going to walk
down the street with you, and I'm going to . . ."
	Just what Colin was planning to do would have to wait. The Phantom
shook his head. "Nope."
	"Nope? What do you mean, 'nope'?"
	The Phantom snuggled against the warmth and strength of Colin and
giggling, said, "Well, first of all I have to go to Sick Bay and be
certified. Then I have to go to the Wardroom and set up the parlour for the
nominating ceremony."
	"The what?" Colon demanded. He wanted to be with Phantom, not shut
up in some dingy Wardroom. "What the hell are you talking about?"
	The Phantom gave Colin a quick peck on the lips and stood. "I'll
explain as you walk me to Sick Bay."
	"I understand what's happening in there," grumbled Colin. "I had to
drop my drawers in the Commanding Officer's cabin and show Bradley-Smith
something I could have told him about!"
	The Phantom could not resist the temptation. "Thereby giving him
the thrill of a lifetime!"
	"Phantom!"
	"Well it thrills me," returned The Phantom, laughing. "You are one
handsome man, Colin Arnott."
	"And you are a salacious twit!" retorted Colin. He blushed
deeply. "Doesn't the Order take anybody's word?"
	"Not when it comes to the Rule," replied The Phantom. A sad look
crossed his face. "I . . ."
	"Is something wrong" asked Colin, worried that something was indeed
wrong.
	"It's Jérémie Larouche," replied The Phantom with a sigh. "We call
him Jérémie Cher and he's a really sweet guy. Everybody loves him and he
wants to be a knight, but he can't be a knight because he won't . . ."
	Colin heard The Phantom's unspoken words. "Ah," he said with a
knowing look. "It happens, Phantom. It's too bad that you have to
disappoint him, but obviously the Order places a great deal of importance
in the covenant." His eyes narrowed. "But then, you know that, and I'm
willing to bet a year's pay that still you tried to move Heaven and earth
to get the Rule changed."
	The Phantom squirmed in embarrassment. "Well, I did speak with
Chef, and he's sort of agreed to something."
	"Knowing you, you yelled and stamped your feet and made loud
declarations of brotherhood for Jérémie," returned Colin, laughing.
	"No, that was for Sandro," admitted The Phantom with a grin. "Chef
bent the Rule for him, but he wouldn't budge for Jérémie." He
grimaced. "The old poot!"
	Colin placed his finger under The Phantom's chin and lifted it so
that he could look into the deep, emerald orbs he had come to
adore. "Phantom, you must understand that to Chef tradition, duty, honour,
responsibility, are very real things. Chef would not be Proctor if he
decided to arbitrarily do away with traditions, traditions that have held
the Order together for centuries." Colin looked at the small line of cadets
forming in front of Sick Bay. "I remember when sailors wore that uniform, a
traditional uniform. I knew they were sailors simply by looking at them."
He turned and stared across the parade square at the sparkling, foam-topped
waters of the Straight of Georgia. "Now consider what happened when the
politicians raped the Royal Canadian Navy."
	"They did away with the traditional uniforms, the customs,
everything," supplied The Phantom.
	"And what was left?" asked Colin, his eyes blazing.
	The Phantom thought a moment. "Nothing."
	"Nothing," repeated Colin. "I was not raised in the traditions of
the Old Navy. When I joined everything was Canadian Armed Forces, green
uniforms, army ranks, the whole sorry charade. I thought I was joining a
special thing, but I wasn't. It's just a job, Phantom. I go on board ship,
I do a job, I go to my cabin. At 0800 that abomination Pearson foisted on
us is hoisted, at sunset it's lowered. Most times it's just bundled up and
shoved into the Flag Locker. No ceremony, no emotion, no tradition."
	The Phantom stared wide-eyed at his lover. "Colin," he exclaimed,
"I never knew you felt that way." He snickered. "You sound like The
Gunner."
	"Good," growled Colin. "I want to sound like him because like him I
now realize what was lost! Part of what holds your Band of Brothers
together . . ." He waved at the line of cadets. "Part of your being is
tradition, of doing things a certain way, of never deviating from the right
path. The Order knows that. Which is why Chef is not an old poot! He might
be a dinosaur, he might be as crazy as a coot, but he knows what holds men
together."
	Nodding, The Phantom reached out to take Colin's hand. "You are a
complex man, Colin. I figured you for a new age sailor. I'm glad I was
wrong."
	Colin grinned. "I am a man of many moods, and many parts. All of
them wonderful!"
	"Now you sound like Harry!" The Phantom smiled.
	"Don't underestimate that behemoth," countered Colin. "He might
boast, and brag, and at times I'm sure he's a pain in everybody's ass, but
Harry knows how to be loyal." He looked at The Phantom. "Harry loves with
all his heart. So do the Twins. You're very fortunate, Phantom. You have
true friends, friends who hold you dear, friends that other men, lesser
men, can only yearn for."
	"They're your friends too," rejoined The Phantom. "They gave you
their friendship in Comox, remember?"
	Colin remembered the happy gathering around the devastated table at
the seaside café where he had sat with the Band of Brothers, with the Boys
of Aurora. "That was a good day," Colin murmured with a happy smile. "I
haven't laughed so much in a long time."
	"You certainly made Cory's day," said The Phantom. "He still talks
about the show you put on."
	Colin laughed and shook his head. "I'll bet he doesn't mention
standing there with his dick in his hand as he watched me do my stuff!"
	Laughing, The Phantom said, "No, he doesn't, and you're going to
have to remind him when he gets lippy." The Phantom sobered suddenly and
stared at the cadets. "I love Cory. In a way, I'm in love with him."
	"And Todd, and Harry, and Matt, every one of those boys, even that
scapegrace Calvin Hobbes. You wear your heart on your sleeve when it comes
to your friends. They don't realize it, most of them, but it time, they
will."
	"And I love you, Colin," whispered The Phantom. "I . . . feel
complete with you."
	"And Steve Winslow?" asked Colin, arching an eyebrow.
	"He's a wonderful memory. I won't deny that I felt, well I felt
giddy and happy, and all sorts of things when I was with him." He looked at
Colin, his face filled with anguish. "But The Gunner is The Gunner. He
could never truly love me, or any man. Sandro says he is like Alexander
Nevsky, destined to never really love because he is fated to remain forever
on guard, forever watchful, forever filled with that indefinable thing
called 'duty'."
	"A man who will love, but never truly love. A man who will never
truly be a part of another man's life."
	"Yes. Cory saw it. Sandro knew it. I now see and know." He
shrugged.
	"They sound like very perceptive young men," replied Colin. He
nodded toward Sick Bay. "They're starting to go in. I hope you've got clean
undies on," he said with a grin.
	The Phantom made a face. "I hope Doc, or Doctor Bradley-Smith, like
what they see!" he sniped.
	"It's required, Phantom," returned Colin, still grinning. "And who
knows, maybe one of them will see something they haven't seen before!"
	"Ha! They'll see the Pride, and Harry will strut around for the
next week boasting about how awe struck Doc, or Doctor Bradley-Smith, was
when they saw that most magnificent of God's creations! He'll wave the
Escorts as well, and Cory will make a smart ass crack, which will get him a
bite on his bum!"
	"I beg your pardon?"
	A low snicker grew from The Phantom's throat. "Harry is very
protective of the Pride and the Escorts. Forceful, too." He took his place
in the line of cadets. "In a way I'm thankful we have the Vigil tonight. I
sure as hell wouldn't get a lick of sleep in the Gunroom!"
	"What?" Colin took The Phantom's arm and led him a few feet away
from the line. "What Vigil?"
	"Didn't they tell you?" asked The Phantom.
	"They told me bugger all," replied Colin. "They had me strip, I
flashed my dick at a doctor I never met before, got my balls prodded when I
was measured for a new uniform, asked if I wanted silk or cotton
underpants, had my feet measured, driven two hundred miles in traffic you
wouldn't believe, and when I asked I was told I asked too many questions so
no, damn it, I do not know what the Vigil is because nobody bothered to
tell me!"
	"Touchy, touchy," tsked The Phantom. "Chef says you have a lip on
you like a Belfast tinker. He's right."
	"Phantom" growled Colin, his voice a warning.
	"Well, I'll tell you then," said The Phantom with a mischievous
grin. He looked at the now greatly diminished line of cadets standing in
front of Sick Bay. "After the certifications are done we all change into
our best uniforms. We go to the Wardroom and Chef asks us if we want to
become knights."
	"That sounds easy enough," responded Colin. "The Vigil?"
	"I'm getting there," returned The Phantom, enjoying his role. "If
we, and that includes you, Colin, agree, we ask to become Chef's liege. I
thought I was The Gunner's liege because I asked him, but Chef says it
didn't count because you need three knights present."
	"Jesus," grumbled Colin. "This is getting confusing."
	"You're the one who went on about traditions," countered The
Phantom. "Anyway, once we are accepted as candidates, we then have to
become knights."
	"Another ceremony?"
	"Yes. I don't know where that will be held because Chef didn't tell
me. What he did tell me was we'd be knighted tomorrow."
	"Don't tell me," said Colin. "I can see it now, all the flashing of
swords and 'Arise, Sir Knight' that Chef can conjure up."
	The Phantom shrugged his ignorance of whatever ceremonies were to
come. "I don't know. What I do know is that after we accept, or decline,
our nomination, we're going to say Kaddish, or at least Sandro is."
	"Kaddish?" Colin looked thoughtful. "That's a prayer for the dead."
	"Yes, it is. Our brother, Sylvain, was killed in a car accident in
Quebec. Sandro is Jewish, although he hasn't had his bris yet and hell and
sheeit, did I have a lot of talking to do about that!" He giggled. "Anyway,
Sandro is very adamant. In the Jewish tradition you say prayers for your
dead, and since Sylvain was our brother, we have to mourn him properly."
	"Chef went along with it?" asked Colin.
	"Oh, yes. He's made all the arrangements. I don't know what he's up
to, but then with Chef you never really know. I do know that he met with a
wonderful old Jewish man this afternoon - did you know that Chef is
something called Righteous Among The Nations? He was in Palestine and saved
a lot of Jews and . . ."
	"Phantom, the Vigil?" reminded Colin gently.
	The Phantom ducked his head sheepishly. He was running on and
getting as bad as Chef! "Well, according to the Arthurian Legend and Chef -
and did I have a time getting through all the Maidens of Monongahela,
Leprechauns, Knights of Larghan and what not before he got to the point - a
candidate knight spends the night in a chapel, in prayer and
contemplation. It's his last chance to change his mind and he can, at any
time during the Vigil . . ." Here The Phantom attempted, not quite
successfully, a broad, Irish brogue, "He can 'sneak away in the night like
the Banshee of Tobermory'."
	"Chef actually said that?" asked Colin, trying hard not to laugh.
	"Faith, and he did," replied The Phantom, laying the accent on
thick. "Sure he said that, on me oath, and a lot more!"
	"Prayer is good for the soul," said Colin as he and The Phantom
reached the steps leading to Sick Bay. "But faith, I sure hope I can
remember some prayers." He looked at The Phantom and winked. "Of course,
I'll be doing more contemplating than praying."
	"I can imagine," said The Phantom, blushing, understanding the
import of Colin's words. "Right now, I have to go inside and let a doctor
contemplate my dick!"

******

	Surgeon-Lieutenant Daniel Dane Bradley-Smith, RNR, Professed Knight
of Honour and Devotion of the Sovereign and Most Noble Order of Saint John
of the Cross of Acre, Count of Stolberg in Hesse, walked down the silent,
stiff lines of cadets that filled the Wardroom and stopped before the
seated Proctor of the Order. He bowed from the neck and announced, "I
present to you, my lord Proctor, these Letters and ask that you make them
Patent."
	Chef leaned forward slightly and took the typewritten papers from
the young, nervous surgeon. "All have been examined?" he asked formally.
	"All save one," replied Daniel. He had thought to examine Jérémie,
but Chef had decreed otherwise. There was no need to examine anyone who was
not a candidate for knighthood, Chef had explained. Jérémie would be a
Companion, and while the old cook had made the appointment sound wonderful,
Daniel had been tempted to ask if Chef had read the passage in Ezekiel
about judging the rams and the he goats. Then the young doctor recalled the
stories about Chef, and his ownership of a large, and lethal, cleaver, and
decided it was wiser to remain silent than risk the wrath of gods.
	"All are acceptable?" Chef asked, continuing the ritual.
	"All save one, my lord," replied Daniel.
	"You grant then, the nihil obstat?"
	"For all save one, nihil obstat is proclaimed," said Daniel. He
stepped back and took his place beside the prie dieu that The Phantom had
nicked from the Padre (P)'s office.
	Chef surveyed the neat, trim lines of cadets, together with Andy
and Kyle, all of them dressed in their best blue uniforms, all of them
standing at attention with their distinctive round, white caps under their
arms. Chef rose ponderously. He bowed first to the Executive Officer, and
then to Doc. "My lords, in accordance with the Rule, will you stand surety
for these candidate knights?"
	Lieutenant-Commander Hazleton placed his hand on his sword hilt and
nodded. "I stand surety for all save one."
	Doc repeated Number One's actions. "I stand surety for all save
one."  Chef had arranged the cadets in order of acceptance, using a system
known only to himself. The candidates had been told that each candidate
would come forward, kneel on the prie dieu and make their oath. They would
ask Chef if he would become their Liege Lord. Daniel, much to his chagrin,
had been detailed to act as Camerlengo, or Master of Ceremonies. Beside him
David Clayton stood holding a framed piece of paper.
	Clearing his throat, Daniel intoned, "I call forward to make oath
Joseph John Pelham."
	Joey, wondering how in the hell he managed to be called first,
walked nervously forward and knelt on the prie dieu. He held out his hands
and waited.
	"Joseph John, you have made known your desire to take oath. I ask
you now, in the face of this company, do you affirm your request?" asked
Chef as he looked directly into Joey's eyes.
	"I do, my lord Proctor," affirmed Joey without hesitation. Then he
added, "Honest!"
	Stifling a chuckle, Chef looked sternly at Joey and then nodded to
David Clayton, who came forward and presented the oath for Joey to read.
	"I, Joseph John Pelham, do become your liege man of life and limb
and of earthly worship and faith and truth I will bear unto you to live and
die against all manner of folks."
	Chef gestured for Joey to rise, took the young cook's hands in his,
and then gently bussed Joey's cheeks. "Welcome, dear son and go in the
knowledge that this day you have brothers."
	As Joey turned, Daniel read out, "Randall Dodson Ramseur Lowndes."
	Blushing as redly as his hair, Randy came forward and made his
oath.  When Randy had received his kiss of peace, Daniel read another name
and Calvin Hobbes came forward.
	"I, Calvin Steven Hobbes . . ."
	In turn, each cadet came forward.
	"I, Mathew Alexander Edward Greene . . ."
	"I, Thomas Matthew . . ." Here Thumper hesitated. His nickname of
"Thumper" had been so much a part of him for so long that he almost
included the fond epithet . . . "Vernon . . ."
	"I, Brian Hugh Carlin Venables . . ."
	Kevin looked over his shoulder and smiled warmly at Ray before he
too made his oath. "I, Kevin Patrick Berkeley . . ."  With eyes filled with
adoration, Ray knelt before Chef, his hands clasping those of his Papa
Chef's. "I, Raymond James Cornwallis . . ."
	"I, Phillip Godfrey Adean . . ." Unlike Thumper, Phillip was proud
of his appellation, and added without hesitation, "called The Assistant do
. . ."
	When the tittering subsided, Tyler took Phillip's place. "I, Edward
Tyler Stephen Benbow . . ."
	Ramrod straight, Sean walked forward and knelt. "I, Sean Mark
Anders . . ."
	Val, his dark features made darker by the waning sun, stepped
forward. "I, Valentine Joseph Orsini . . ."
	Mike Sunderland, no longer the subject of ridicule, was bursting
with barely concealed pride as he said, "I, Michael Spencer Sunderland
. . ."
	Todd's golden hair gleamed in an errant beam of sunlight as he
knelt. "I, Todd William Arthur Philip Louis Leveson-Arundel . . ."
	"I, Nicholas Arthur George Rodney . . ."
	Cory knelt before Chef and it was as if all the clouds parted as
one and sunlight bathed him in a glow of warmth and gilt. "I, Cory Albert
Victor Louis Francis Leveson-Arundel . . ."

******

	As the parade of cadets continued in the Wardroom, Michael Chan sat
in his office, sipping a small dram of scotch. Joe Hobbes sat on the
leather sofa opposite and Gabe Izard, still mourning his loss, had joined
the tall, muscular Joe, who had never left Gabe's side since the short
service in the cemetery.
	From outside the open window behind him Michael could hear the
rhythmic pace of the two sentries, an American and a Brit, posted on the
outside patio. He frowned slightly at the memory of the treachery of his
Chinese guards, who had been confined to their quarters pending their
repatriation to China or Hong Kong, and looked at Joe. "You have sent the
cable to Taiwan?" he asked as he toyed with the crystal nosing glass - it
was in the shape of a thistle - that he used when drinking scotch.
	Joe nodded. "I reported K'ang's treachery and expressed your
displeasure. They have not replied."
	Smiling thinly, Michael nodded his head. "Nor will they. K'ang's
masters have been caught out and will strenuously deny any involvement in
his actions. They will huddle together and worry that there is a Tsang
lurking in every corner or under their beds."
	"Will there be?" asked Gabe, his voice still dulled with grief.
	"No." Michael swivelled in his chair and looked out at the broad
expanse of green, manicured lawns that surrounded his house. "It is not in
our best interest to antagonize the Taiwanese further." Again a thin smile
crossed his face. "It will put us in an advantageous position,
however. They must do business with us and will be anxious to make amends
for something they will claim they had no part in."
	Joe never ceased to be amazed at Michael's pragmatism. K'ang's
treachery had not been personal. It had been business, and the matter would
end. "The Major reports that the arrangements in Hong Kong have been
completed," Joe said, changing the subject. "He and Patrick are flying out
later in the day."
	Michael grimaced. "The marriage contracts have been signed?"
	"Yes, and the dowry gifts presented. According to the Major the
Soongs were very pleased."
	Thinking of the considerable treasure of jade and gold that had
accompanied the Major to Hong Kong, Michael grumbled, "They had better be."
He turned and his eyes fell on a small sheaf of typed papers sitting on his
desk. As if poking a stick at an unknown, but definitely suspicious, lump
of road kill, Michael glowered and moved the papers slightly with his
finger. "The final list?"
	Gabe, for the first time since Darren's death, spoke with some
enthusiasm. "As far as we can tell, yes. Joel has correlated everything we
received from Toronto, Montreal and here." He shook his head. "There are
some very well known people involved in this."
	"Celebrity, and political power, have the ability to bury a
multitude of sins," opined Michael. "Frankly, I am not surprised."
	Joe coughed delicately. "Regrettably, there are more knights
involved than we originally thought." He looked extremely uncomfortable as
he reported, "It appears from the papers we found in the old Grand Master's
files that he, and a large group of knights, were practicing paedophiles."
	"Including Simpson, Hunter and Willoughby?"
	"We believe so," replied Joe to Michael's question. "There are
great gaps in the files, letters, memoranda, missing. What we have been
able to piece together is that one of our footmen, Noel Aubery, arranged to
have young boys delivered to the Grand Master's house in Coquitlam on a
regular basis."
	"He used the services of this Stennes person," added Gabe. His face
looked stricken. "We cannot prove it, but it would seem that there were
regular orgies held."
	Michael's face remained impassive. "The cesspool is deep, but we
will clean it." He glanced at Gabe, assuring himself that the young man was
finally coming out of his mourning stupor. He then looked at Joe. "What of
our Chancellor?"
	"The Chancellor has gathered together a group of young men." He
glanced at his notes and smiled. "And one very determined, opinionated
woman."
	Michael's eyebrows rose imperceptibly. "A woman?"
	Smiling, Joe nodded. "Sophie Nicholson. She was a great friend of
The Gunner's aunt. She has entered into The Gunner's plans with a gusto
that he claims surprises him."
	"She must be a remarkable woman then," said Michael dryly.
	"Apparently she is," said Joe without inflection. He continued
on. "The Gunner and his people have identified quite a network of
paedophiles in Toronto. Our people have done the same in Montreal,
Winnipeg, and Vancouver. I am still waiting for further reports from the
smaller western cities."
	"Contact our people and tell them that I want the information, and
that I wanted it yesterday!" ordered Michael impatiently. "This business
cannot be allowed to continue indefinitely." His impatience dissipated,
Michael then asked, "What does our Chancellor plan to do?"
	Joe looked at his patron. "The Gunner and his people have
established a hospital. He has enlisted the aid of some people he refers to
as his 'Jewish friends' . . ." This caused Michael's eyes to widen
slightly, but he said nothing. " . . . And of course, Terry Hsiang has been
most helpful. His people are keeping the men we are interested in under
surveillance, and he is using his contacts to ferret out financial
information on all those we are interested in."
	Michael nodded approvingly. He did wonder just who The Gunner's
"Jewish friends" were, but decided not to pursue the matter until later,
when he could speak to his Chancellor in private.
	"The Chancellor plans to strike next Monday morning," continued
Joe. "He plans for a coordinated attack on all the men that he and his
people have identified. He worries that if this is not done the bastards
will try to contact their fellows, warn them."
	"Time on target," said Gabe. "It's a sound military move." He stood
and walked to the side table where the drinks sat. After pouring himself a
large scotch, he returned to his seat. "We should do the same, I think. We
have the manpower, and the Tsangs are ready."
	Michael thought quickly. "Patrick will be returning with the
Major. He and Cousin Tommy are to make the arrangements." He raised a
finger. "They are to be discreet. Emphasize that point, Joe."
	"Discreet?" asked Gabe, surprised. He had thought that Michael's
wrath would be devastating.
	"We cannot have dead bodies littering the streets," offered Michael
softly. "There are better ways to destroy these creatures."
	"The Chancellor has called a Bar of Justice," reminded Joe.
	"I am aware that he has," responded Michael calmly. "And all
knights who are involved in this will appear before the Bar and be punished
according to the Rule. As for the others . . ." He smiled grimly. "Gabe,
you and Joel will gather every bit of financial information, every item of
personal information on each of the men we would destroy. I want them
ruined, financially and socially. I want their friends and business
acquaintances made aware of what they are. Whispers of impropriety have
destroyed more men that can be counted. We will use humanity's natural
curiosity and inborn desire to think the worst of everyone to destroy these
men. When we have finished with them they might not be dead, but will wish
they were!"
	"And the law?" asked Gabe.
	Michael snorted. "Dearest Gabriel, look at the list of names!" he
said, pushing the small pile of papers across the desk. "Lawyers, judges,
politicians, men of business, military men! The spectrum of filth is
broad. Do you not think that these men, when word gets out, will not try to
limit the damage?"
	"They'll slither away and try to deflect as much blame as they
can," thought Joe aloud.
	"Yes, and they will use what they know of their fellows against
them, use every legal trick they can think of, to save their necks. These
are men without scruples, morals, or honour!"
	For the first time Michael's face showed emotion, and anger. "We
will destroy them using our methods. They will not be allowed to use their
contacts, their influence, their power, to save their miserable lives!" He
glared, his rage barely controlled, at Gabe and Joe. "Simpson, Willoughby,
Hunter, and all other knights involved will stand before the Bar of
Justice. This Stennes person is to be dealt with as the Chancellor sees
fit. Any associated with him will suffer the same punishment."
	"And Noel Aubery?" asked Joe.
	"I have not forgotten him," replied Michael stonily. "He is to be
found, and any information he has extracted. When he has served his purpose
Cousin Tommy will deal with Noel Aubery!"
	When Michael fell silent, both Joe and Gabe made to rise, thinking
that the audience was at end. Michael stopped them. "Even as we speak our
Proctor is presiding at a ceremony that will bring us our hope. Tomorrow I
will go to Comox. You, Joe, and you, Gabe, will accompany me."
	Rising from his seat Michael returned to staring out of the
window. "We will take the Relic, and the collars. Please arrange for
transportation and a suitable venue, Joe. You know the area and I would
have what I plan to do be as impressive as possible. You might also have
the staff prepare as many bedrooms as possible for guests. I would like to
. . ."
	A movement at the far end of the garden caught Michael's eye. For a
moment he did not quite believe what he was seeing. Through the gate a
small gaggle of naked men straggled, prodded by two black-clad
figures. >From the terrace came muted snickers.
	As Michael watched the two guards stationed on the terrace ran
toward the group of men. He blinked as the two black-clad figures turned
and, almost gracefully, disappeared into the deep woods on the other side
of the gate.
	Laughingly, Michael said, "It would seem that the construction of
Lieutenant Sheppard's obstacle course will be somewhat delayed."

******

	"What is going on?" asked Gabe as they entered the Gold and Silver
Vault. "And what obstacle course is Michael talking about?"
	Chuckling, Joe swung open the door to the small chamber that
contained the Order's hidden treasure. "Laurence and his protégé, or his
familiar, Logan - it depends on your point of view - are making life
miserable for the Outside Security Force which, as we speak, is supposed to
be building an obstacle course out in the woods. It seems that Laurence has
other ideas."
	Gabe did not reply, although he did wonder, briefly, what stripping
one's opponents naked had to do with making their lives miserable. He
wondered briefly because somehow his melancholy seemed to be lifting. Gabe
felt . . . strangely at peace, and content. "What . . . what is this
place?" he asked.
	Joe had much the same feelings as Gabe. "The polished boxes contain
mere gold, silver, jewels. This . . ." He reached out to touch a battered,
square chest. "This contains a treasure beyond price, a treasure that has
moved men to perform great deeds."
	Withdrawing the box from its resting place Joe reverently offered
it to Gabe. "This box has not been opened in eight centuries or
more. Legend tells us that it contains nothing more than a piece of wood,
yet it has endured, this box, and survived the violence of the enemy, and
the raging of the sea. In 1185 it was carried through the streets of Acre
by the last surviving Knights, Charles de Notre Dame de Grace, Bradley,
Baron of York, whose son had been killed at Hattin, Stephan, sometimes
called Stephane, of Normandin, and Peter of Halifax. It was taken to
England, where it rested in a small, nondescript chapel in what was then
called Whitehall. It has survived fire, and flood, and the wrath of kings
and dictators. When the Germans blitzed London the chapel was destroyed,
yet there, amidst the destruction and rubble, the altar stood, pristine,
untouched, and the box was whole. Some have scoffed, others have screamed
schism and heresy, yet it has endured."
	Gabe's eyes grew wide as an almost irresistible force pulled his
hand toward the box containing the remnant of what the Knights of the Order
had protected with their lives, and honour. As his hand touched the scarred
olivewood of the box, a great peace came over Gabe, and he
shuddered. "Darren is at peace," he whispered, his voice filled with awe.
	"Yes. And so now, are you," said Joe. "Tomorrow true men of honour
will take their vows and touch this box. Tomorrow we, you and I, shall
witness a great thing. Tomorrow the Order will rise anew, strengthened,
cleansed of simony and treachery and sin. Boys, some mere wisps of manhood,
stand before their brothers. The Order is renewed by their oaths and their
bravery of spirit. Deus Vult!"

******

	"I, Philip Andrew Thornton . . ."
	Harry lumbered forward and grasped Chef's hands in a vice-like
grip. He was weeping softly as he said firmly, "I, Harold Franz-Josef von
Hohenberg . . ."
	"I, Robin Rosslyn Wemyss . . ."
	Mark came forward, magnificent in a uniform he had borrowed from
Tyler. His blue eyes shone brightly as he knelt and without hesitation
spoke. "I, Mark James van Beck . . ."
	Tony, his olive skin flushed, followed his friend and lover. "I,
Anthony Salvatore Valpone . . ."
	Stuart, who had been standing beside Steve, holding his friend's
hand, gave it a gentle squeeze and walked forward. "I, Stuart Malcolm
Douglass MacDuff . . ."

******

	Outside the Wardroom a small head peeked into the room as the
Aurora cadets walked forward. "What are they doing?" asked Mike Knox, a
short, dark-haired YAG cadet.
	"It looks like they're praying," replied Peter Race, who was barely
taller that Mike Knox, only skinnier. His eyes sparkled behind his
spectacles. "Chef is smiling and Harry is crying." He reached down to touch
the trumpet he had been issued by the old cook. "It looks like they're
having some kind of religious service."
	"I guess that explains the music," said Mikey Logan, a stocky,
dark-haired cadet who normally counted sheets and pillowcases on the
command YAG. He lifted the baritone trombone and sheet of music that Harry
had given him.
	"What I don't understand is why we have to play this at all,"
complained Nicholas Scheer, who stood a head taller than the others, had a
head of delightfully curly black hair, and a winning smile. "And I hope I
remember how to blow this thing!" His foot touched the boxed tuba he'd been
issued. "I haven't played it in months!"
	"Did you at least read the music?" asked Petty Officer Eion Reilly,
nominally in charge of the pickup band he'd been told to ferret out amongst
the YAG crews. He held a French horn, which he played very well. "It's a
classic and . . ."
	"And why do we have to wait until Chef's guests arrive? I have
laundry to do," whined Andrew Payton, his bespectacled eyes narrow.
	"Because Chef threatened to do nasty things to us!" replied
Peter. "With a cleaver!" He returned to peeking in the window. "Now be
quiet."

******

	"I, Thomas Jonathan Jackson . . ."
	"I, Steven Robert Edward Lee . . ."
	Fred came forward, a smile that would not fade on his blushing
face. He was no longer an outcast, no longer an orphan. England had never
happened and the future beckoned. "I, Frederick John Fisher . . ."  Chris,
almost angelic in appearance, smiled at the Twins as he passed them, the
Twins who had helped him take the first step on the road to
self-discovery. He looked lovingly at Jon, and knew that today he would be
bound forever to his lover. "I, Christopher James Hood do . . ."
	Nathan, who had for the first time in his young life found true
contentment and love, smiled at Fred and then at Cory. Cory would always be
Nathan's first, true love, but Fred would forever be in Nathan's heart. "I,
Nathan Michael Berman . . ."
	Two Strokes, the last of the cadets to make their oath, much to
everyone's surprise, marched forward without hesitation. The slim,
sloe-eyed youth had played Devil's Advocate almost from the beginning,
always doubting, always questioning. Cory, who had listened, and watched,
had secretly doubted that Two Strokes would join his brothers. What Cory
could not know was that Two Strokes doubted, but in his heart he believed,
for his voyage of discovery, which had begun on Harwood Island, when he had
slept close to Cory, and continued to an ending on another beach after the
End-of-Year Barbecue, had led him to the realization that he had walked the
earth much of his life with his eyes and ears closed, suborned by the
teachings of his childhood.
	What few knew was that Two Strokes thought long and deeply about
many things. His growing relationship with Thumper had affected him deeply,
not because he and Thumper were lovers in every sense of the word, but
because what they did together felt so . . . very right. Two Strokes had
tried to view the world with cold, logical, precision. Now he felt a warmth
that he had never known existed. A warm, loving young man had replaced the
prim, proper, and very straight young man who had arrived in Aurora back in
June. Two Strokes now knew how to love with his heart, and not his head.
	As he knelt before Chef, Two Strokes did not doubt his love for
Thumper, nor did he doubt the rightness of what he was about to do. He
reached out his hands . . . "I, Roger Andrew Home . . ."

******

	Sandro reached into the back pocket of his bell-bottoms and pulled
out the white silk kippa. He was aware that the Order was a Christian
organization. He was also aware that Phantom had used great influence, and
a threat or three, to bring him to this place. Still, Sandro was Jew and he
would not deny his heritage. Much was being given him, he knew, and he
would give much in return. But he would do it as a Jew.  Chef remained
impassive as he watched Sandro place the kippa on the back of his head
before kneeling. The old man saw the look of doubt in Sandro's eyes,
smiled, and nodded slowly.
	"I, Alexandr Efimovitch Signaransky . . ."

******

	"Marty . . ." thought Andy as he knelt before Chef. The image of
his Marine lover, dead too young in the hell of a lost war and lying in a
lonely grave somewhere, seemed to form, a smile creasing his face. Marty,
blond, strong, pretending to be as dumb as a post but smart as a whip
Marty. Andy imagined a hand resting lightly on his shoulder. As he reached
out to take Chef's hands, Andy turned his head and glanced at his lover,
his friend, and his partner. "Marty understands, and Marty is with us,
Kyle," Andy thought serenely. "He is with us. He is with us."
	"I, Andrew Frederick David Berg . . ."

******

	As Andy rose, Kyle heard the faint tinkling of the three medals
that adorned the young officer's white tunic. Andy, his Marine, his love,
his hope, his future, had a look of serenity on his face such as which Kyle
had never seen. He knew, then, that Andy was at peace and that Marty no
longer stood between them. Kyle moved forward, hoping that he was worthy of
the love he now knew that Andy had for him.
	"I, Kyle Michael St. Vincent . . ."

******

	Colin felt a hand slip into his and smiled, thinking, although he
knew he should not, that the real Phantom would have given his butt a
pat. Then Colin realized that the hand in his belonged to the real Phantom,
that a young man of deep, abiding love, of loyalty unparalleled, was
holding his hand. Phantom believed with all his heart in what was happening
in this small, dusty chamber. Colin's heart began to pound with pride, that
such a person could love him. He knew that he would be called to defend
this young Prince, and vowed a secret vow. He would love the boy called The
Phantom, with his body, with his soul. He would risk the wrath of the gods
for that love.
	"I, Charles Colin Matthew Arnott . . ."

******

	As was traditional, or at least so he thought, Commander Stockman
was the last of the officers to take the oath. He had watched with pride
and dignity as the boys he had come to think of as his "young gentlemen"
slowly, with a grace and dignity none knew they possessed, came
forward. They had relied on him, as their Commanding Officer, to protect
them, to defend them, and he hoped that he had done what was expected of
him, and made a good job of it. He had bent the rules, and ignored the
rules, all for his young gentlemen. He had seen the love and devotion grow
between the boys, growing slowly, growing carefully, but always
growing. They would need him less and less, he knew, as they grew older and
more secure in themselves. But they would need him, and he would be there
for as long as God allowed him to be there.
	As he knelt Father suddenly thought of his newborn grandson. What,
he wondered to himself, if the lad turned out to be . . .? And if he were,
would there be someone there for him, to hold him, to help him when all
seemed hopeless. Then he thought if it is the will of God if the wee lad
were . . . so be it, because behind him stood a small group that would take
him as one of them, would defend him, and teach him, and hold him close.
	Smiling, the Commanding Officer held out his hands. "I, Francis
Albert Edward Stockman . . ."

******

	"All save one," thought The Phantom as he looked down to see
Jérémie Cher's morose, sad face. "Chef knows how I feel, and he promised."
He knelt before Chef, reached out and took the old man's hands, and looked
pleadingly at his mentor. "Please," he whispered.
	Chef knew what Phantom was worried about. He leaned forward and
pressed his cheek against The Phantom's, whispering, "Sure and did I not
promise?"
	Feeling The Phantom's head nod, Chef straightened. "Now make your
oath, Phantom darlin', for you are beloved of the Order, and of your fellow
man."
	"And blessed of the Lord my God, for it has been promised me,"
thought The Phantom as a beatific smile formed on his face. "I, Philip
Andrew Thomas Lascelles . . ."

******

	Jérémie's shoulders slumped in dejection and, or he thought,
rejection. "I'm not good enough, I'll never be their brother, I'm just
another Frog . . ." he thought desperately when he felt a sharp jab in his
ribs. His head swivelled and he glared at Cory.
	"You're wanted, you dippy Toad," Cory growled out the corner of his
mouth.
	"What?" Jérémie's head moved quickly left and right and then he saw
Chef beckoning. "Oh," he whispered. Impulsively he grasped his Duff Bag,
wiping his sweating palms on the smooth rayon of his silk.  When Jérémie
was in place, Chef reached out and his broad, callused hand touched
Jérémie's cheek, and murmured,

	"Thou art brothers in the sight of God and ye shall take thy
brothers and all that are like unto them, unto thy breasts and keep them
safe, for they are Blessed of the Lord thy God. This I promise thee.

"You are much loved, my son and brother, more deeply and firmly that you
know," said Chef, his voice as soft and smooth as silk. He saw the tears
forming in Jérémie's deep brown eyes and gently wiped them away. "The Order
has always tried, in all ways to respect the customs and traditions of many
who would be, but for reasons left to God, could not be, one with us. I am
reminded . . ." Chef glanced balefully at The Phantom, "that perhaps the
Order has been remiss in its duty, and that it is time that we return to
the way set by our forefathers."
	Chef patted Jérémie's cheek and continued. "In you the Order
returns to the true way of the Rule for you, my dearest Jérémie, have
answered the call to arms, and chosen to arm yourself and become a man of
valour. The Order cannot and will not deny you, our brother, or allow you
to stand aside."
	Jérémie quickly ran the sleeve of his jumper under his nose and
brightened. "You mean, I can be?"
	Chef's hand never left Jérémie's cheek. "Will you become the first
of many? Will you, dear son, become a Companion of Honour? Will you
accompany your brothers, stand beside them and share their glory and their
hardships? Will you be their companion above all others?"
	Nodding his head vigorously, Jérémie nodded. "I will, yes." He
whispered.
	Chef motioned for The Phantom to stand to the right of
Jérémie. "Will you, dear brother, stand surety for this man?" he asked The
Phantom.
	The Phantom, who could not swear on his sword, because he didn't
have one, placed his left hand on Jérémie's shoulder and his right over his
heart. "I stand surety for this man," he said stoutly.
	"Then, in the presence of your brothers, make your oath," Chef said
to Jérémie.
	Beaming, and looking directly into Chef's tired old eyes . . ."I,
Jérémie Stephane Larouche, do become your liege man of life and limb and of
earthly worship and faith and truth I will bear unto you to live and die
against all manner of folks."

******

	Peter Race gasped and his eyes widened.
	"What? What's happening?" demanded Mike Knox.
	"They're . . . they're kissing!" exclaimed Peter breathlessly.
	"On the lips?" Andrew Payton rose and tried to push Peter away from
the window.
	"No!" whispered Peter harshly as he returned Andrew's push. "On the
cheek! And Jérémie is crying! He's crying but he's got the biggest
shit-eating grin on his face that I've ever seen!"
	"This I have got to see!" declared Nicholas Scheer.
	Eion Reilly's hand held Nicholas back. "Leave them be," he ordered
firmly. "And the rest of you, park your asses down here."
	"But Eion," whined Peter, "they're kissing and hugging. He lowered
himself to the grass reluctantly.
	Eion looked disparagingly at the thin, bespectacled young Peter
Race and shook his head. "Peter, just let it go, okay?" Eion said.
	Peter cocked his head and looked quizzically at the stocky young
Petty Officer. Eion was a nice guy but he sure had been acting strangely
since that bimbo had gone down on him during the beach party. Peter
shrugged inwardly. Getting a blow job was something that every boy
supposedly yearned for. Peter had never been blown, but popular rumour had
it that a blow job was a wonderful experience. Then Peter thought that
maybe Eion was a touch embarrassed. He had cum awfully quick, and squealed
loudly as he did it!
	What Peter did not know, what no one knew, was that Eion Reilly's
first sexual experience had been less than glorious. Not only had he nutted
after a few sucks on his dick, the girl had withdrawn at the first sign of
his ejaculation - strange, he couldn't call her anything else, as she
hadn't told him her name - but he had blown all over his shorts, and the
guys snickered and made fun of him. He could have lived with the
ridicule. What he found difficult to understand was, after receiving
something that promised glory, why he felt defiled, so dirty.
	As he watched the other YAG cadets, Andrew, Peter, Mikey, Nicholas,
and Mike Knox sitting against the outside bulkhead of the Staff Barracks,
yawning and scratching at themselves, Eion wondered why he felt the way he
did. He had made it with a girl, which was what he was supposed to do, or
so he thought. Yet, he could not help asking himself, why did he feel so
. . . unclean, and why did not those who he knew were involved with each
other, keeping a "special relationship", feel that way?
	Eion kept his eyes and ears open. He had seen some of the other
cadets together and . . . Well, he knew that Chief Anders, whom Eion
secretly admired and emulated as much as he dared, and Chief Arundel were
an item, as the saying went, and made love in Chief Anders' cabin whenever
the coast was clear and there was no officer snooping around. Eion also
knew that Chief Thornton was deeply involved with the two young cooks, Joey
and Randy, jumping their bones in the Dockyard office, although Eion had to
admit that he sometimes wondered if it weren't the other way around.
	Eion had heard the other boys whispering together. To be honest, he
wondered just what they did together that made them seem so, well,
happy. That was not supposed to happen, was it?
	Then there were the other whispers, whispers not about the sexual
undercurrents that Eion wondered about, or heard talked about. He had
overhead Sean and Cory talking together quietly. He had seen Phil Thornton
and the cooks sitting apart from the other cadets and their body language,
and the looks on their faces told Eion that they were not discussing sex at
all.
	Jeremy Cher was also in some sort of a funk, at least he had been
until he entered the Gunroom. Eion knew that Jeremy had overhead something,
or seen something, something involving Chief Lascelles, The Phantom. Only
this morning, in the mess decks and later in the Mess Hall, there was a
firm undercurrent of mystery and intrigue. Eion listened to the murmured
voices of the Gunroom cadets, to the quiet urgings of the cooks, and knew
that something had happened. He'd heard words like "brotherhood", and "The
Order", and "knights", and dark, spectral wraiths, heard about a dream, and
Ste Anne de Beaupré, heard Sylvain's named mentioned - Eion had never cared
for the arrogant Drum Major, although was sorry to hear that Sylvain had
been killed in a car accident.
	The more he thought of it, the more Eion realized that at the core
was The Phantom. This puzzled Eion no end. Until this summer The Phantom
had been a spectre, a nonentity who swabbed decks and washed dishes in the
Mess Hall. Yet, somehow, the world had turned upside down. The more he
thought of it, the more Eion came to realize that the lives of his fellow
cadets were being influenced by this strange, almost driven young
steward. There was, at first glance, nothing to recommend Philip Lascelles
as a leader, no aura, no great awakening. But somehow he was . . . somehow
this Phantom was no mere mortal.
	Eion had seen the effect The Phantom had had on the others. A look,
a glance and where there had been one, there were now twenty or more, or so
it seemed. In the Gunroom were not only the boys who lived there, but Sean
Anders, whom everyone thought little better than an automaton, Iron Ass
Anders, a Chief Petty Officer who, until now, had been unbending.
	Phil Thornton, up until this moment an arrogant, know-it-all,
been-there-done-that, got the T-shirt-and-the-mug jerk, who delighted in
looking down his nose at everything and everybody, everybody who just
didn't seem to be up to Phil's imaginary standards, was there, and not only
there but laughing and smiling and crying and hugging cadets only a week
ago he would have dismissed as half-trained barracks stanchions.
	It all seemed so very strange to Eion. How could one boy affect so
many and how could one boy, with just a glance, and it had happened only
once, make him feel . . . ashamed? Hell, everybody knew about the blow job!
But this boy had never, as the others had done, laughed or cracked lewd
jokes, or remarked on his lack of staying power. Once, only once, had The
Phantom looked at him, the steward's emerald eyes filled with . . .
	Eion started and sat up. Those damned eyes! Eion had expected
amusement, pity perhaps, or anger, for The Phantom knew all the girls who
had been at the beach party. No, it had been something else and Eion now
knew what it was: sadness.
	"Are you all right?" asked Nicholas. "You've got this strange look
on your face."
	Smiling whimsically, Eion replied, "Nicholas, one day I hope no one
ever looks at you with a look that says, 'You could have done better', or
makes you believe that what you did was foolish and maybe just a little
sad."
	Before any of the boys who waited to play could respond to Eion's
cryptic, and strange, remark, they heard the sound of tires on gravel.
Their heads turned and watched as three cars rolled to a halt beside the
Staff Barracks. Their eyes widened as the doors of the vehicles opened and
a group of men, some old, some middle-aged, and one obviously a teenager,
got out. What was puzzling was that all the men were dressed in sombre
black suits, and all, with the exception of the teenage boy, were wearing
hats, fedoras for the most part. The teenager, whom Peter Race recognized
from his visits to the quaint little shop in town that didn't sell plastic
models of warships, was wearing a little black beanie of a cap on the back
of his head.
	As the cadets watched, the men - there were ten in all - opened the
trunks of the cars and took out what looked to be purple, gold-embroidered,
parcels.
	Peter Race's eyes widened as the oldest of the men turned and
smiled at the cadets hunkered against the building. "Shalom," the old man
whispered to them and Peter's heart skipped a beat. Suddenly he was a very
little boy again and there was another old man, bent, wrinkled, but with a
voice that sounded of brass. Peter's memory returned him once again to the
parlour, dusty, filled with overstuffed furniture, in the house they lived
in, overlooking the inner harbour. He saw the old man sitting, as he always
sat, in the dark corner where the photos, sepia coloured, blurred, faded
from the effects of the sun, sat arranged in some sort of order in the
glass-fronted cabinet. Every morning, as the sun rose, the old man would be
there, rocking gently in his chair, chanting in a strange tongue that
Peter's father refused to allow him to learn.
	Rising slowly, Peter watched the group of men file into the Staff
Barracks and the whispered words he had heard so often slowly came back to
him.
	"Baruch atah Adonoi, elohaynu . . ."