Date: Mon, 21 Feb 2005 07:55:47 -0500
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: Aurora Tapestry - Chapter 33

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.

Copyright 2005 by John Ellison

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or
by any means without the prior written consent of author, excepting brief
quotes used in reviews.

WARNING: This story contains graphic depictions of sex between consenting
adult males and/or teenage males. Please do not continue reading if you are
offended by this genre of erotic literature, if you are underage or if this
type of story is illegal where you live.

WARNING: This story contains scenes of violence, graphic and abusive
language and graphic descriptions of male nudity. Discretion is advised.

Aurora Tapestry

Chapter 33

	While Sophie paced the cramped waiting room outside the surgical
suite of the Chinese Community Hospital, The Gunner flailed the Rangers for
more information. He drove Terry Hsiang to distraction with his demand for
information! Where were Stennes and the mysterious boy accompanying him?
Stennes lived in the dark shadows of crime and depravity. He dealt with
slime and had been in contact with the men they had under surveillance. Had
none of them seen anything? Had none of Terry's people, who controlled
Chinatown and had contacts with every criminal gang in the East, seen
nothing of a strange German who was accompanied by a young blond boy?
Where, The Gunner demanded, would a creature such as Stennes hide?
	Terry remained impassive in the face of The Gunner's irate
demands. Stennes could be in Toronto. He could be in Montreal. For all
anyone knew, the man, and the boy, could be in Europe. Toronto was a huge
city and anyone wishing to hide could find plenty of boltholes. He would do
what he could but he cautioned The Gunner not to expect too much.
	What The Gunner did not know, what the Rangers did not know, what
Terry Hsiang did not know, was that the objects of their interest were less
that a thousand yards away from the hospital.

******

	The hospital, a tan brick and glass, state-of-the-art facility,
stretched along Huron Street from Baldwin to D'Arcy, its pavilions and
wings taking up much of the block. To the north, and slightly west, at the
far end of Glasgow Street, and set in a large garden that had once produced
vegetables and flowers for the original owners, dour Scots Presbyterians,
who would have been shocked to their underpinnings if they knew what had
become of their home, was the red brick, Victorian Oriental Students
Residence, as a small brass plaque on the gate post proclaimed it to
be. Paul, had he bothered to look out the windows of his assigned room
would have seen the bulk of the hospital and the huge illuminated green
cross fixed to the side of the building.
	After breakfast, Paul had returned to his room and the sleeping
Damian. They had sex again and then showered, dressed, and went off to take
in the sights.
	Stennes spent much of the morning in conference with Hung. The
German had thought about Paul's ideas and while he was not quite ready to
terminate his operations in Europe and North America, his protege's ideas
had merit. Hung had agreed, pointing out that there were large Chinese
communities throughout Southeast Asia, communities where he had
contacts. There were also the Circle K Boys, who were always interested in
making money. Their tentacles stretched across the Pacific and while not
the largest, or yet the most powerful of the Chinese gangs that ruled
Chinatown, they were completely without scruples when it came to power and
money. Hung had also pointed out that the Circle K Boys would, if
approached the right way, invest in Stennes' scheme. Hung's only regret was
that they could not contact, or in any way let Terry Hsiang, the
acknowledged ruler of Chinatown, know what was going on. Terry had
connections with the Chiangs, who had connections with the Triads in Hong
Kong and Shanghai. Unfortunately Terry Hsiang, who was a third generation
Canadian-born Chinese, had been "with Western morality" as Hung put it, and
would have nothing to do with the sex trade, which was why the whorehouses,
his own included, were all on the east side of Spadina Avenue, in the area
firmly controlled by the Circle K Boys, who could not be ignored, but who
were powerful enough to ensure that there would be no friction, no war
between the gangs, which was bad for business.
	Stennes listened to Hung and directed that the Chinese open
negotiations. He then went off on some mysterious errand that Hung knew
better than to ask about.
	After visiting his bankers, Stennes went to the Western Union
office in the Royal York Hotel where he sent a series of coded telegrams
and cables to certain men in Germany, setting in motion the necessary
arrangements that would ensure that his heir, and successor, would have no
difficulties in establishing his position. Smiling grimly, Stennes then
went to the upstairs lobby bar for a restorative brandy.
	He returned to the house in the late afternoon. Paul had not
returned and Stennes decided to while away the hours before he, and Paul,
would need to leave and take care of the "loose end". Nieh and Nhan were
occupied with entertaining the two white men, Swede and Cole, and Stennes
called for Shem and Shoo, who grumbled that while they didn't mind being
with the German, they did hope that he would not be screening any more
movies! The thumping, cacophonous marches were much too loud and hurt their
ears.

******

	Sophie was driving Chief Edgar crazy! When she wasn't prowling the
corridor outside the surgical suite, a caged lioness separated from her
cub, she was sitting in the small smoking lounge, tapping the toe of her
designer high-heeled shoe in ragged staccato against the polished tiles of
the floor, and smoking far too many cigarettes. She refused to go home,
even to change or rest. She would not listen to any argument on the
subject. She had given her heart to the young boy who lay in the operating
theatre surrounded by a surgical team hastily recruited by Doctor
Langford. She would, she declared, be there when he awoke or, if need be,
she should be there when he died.
	From time to time one of the nursing staff, a Sister of Charity,
would come into the room, murmur that the operation was going as well as
could be expected, smile sadly and depart, never having said anything at
all.  The nuns, like much of the staff, were Chinese, and still wore the
traditional white habits. The older nuns, who had fled their convent in
Shanghai steps ahead of Mao's Communist hordes, knew what Sophie was going
through. The sisters had all seen death before, had all seen mothers
grieving over sick and dying children. Death was no stranger to them and
the nuns whispered, as nuns always seemed to do, that the young man would
soon be standing before his Maker. Shaking their heads and murmuring a
prayer, they glided through the halls on their rounds.
	Sophie knew nothing of the history of the Sisters of Charity who
staffed the hospital. She was grateful for their concern, and compassion,
and their kindness to Eugen, and she asked Ace to inquire as to what, if
anything, she could do to show her gratitude, which brought the only bright
spot in the dismal day.
	The nuns, Ace discovered, could use a bus. Their convent, an
ancient building on the corner of St. Patrick and Elm Streets, next to the
church of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, was a pleasant ten or so minute walk
from the hospital in the summer, but a brutal trek in the winter, or after
a 36-hour shift. Sophie promised a new convent if Eugen survived, but the
nuns were content with a bus. Land was, as always, at a premium in
Chinatown, and the only lot big enough, and close enough, and available,
simply would never do. Not only was it on the corner of Spadina and Dundas,
arguably the noisiest corner in the city, and surrounded by uncounted shops
and restaurants, it was at the moment occupied by a burlesque house! No, a
bus would do nicely, thank you.
	In mid-afternoon The Gunner returned to the hospital. Sophie
collapsed in his arms and allowed him to take her down to the cafeteria for
a cup of tea. She refused to eat, and seemed in a daze. As smoking was not
allowed in the cafeteria she drummed her fingers on the hard Formica table
and sipped the weak tea without really tasting it.
	The Gunner waited patiently for Sophie to open up. He was surprised
that she had, for whatever reason, allowed the injured boy to touch a chord
deep within her. Sophie had always seemed so in control of her life and her
surroundings. Sophie seemed to sense The Gunner's thoughts and presently
looked at him with red, swollen eyes. "Oh, Stephen, what a selfish bitch I
am!" she declared emphatically.
	Taken aback, The Gunner asked, "I beg your pardon?"
	"Stephen, my first husband died pining for a son! Would I give him
one?" Shaking her head, Sophie answered her own question. "No! I was a
bright young thing, the war was over, and after five years of rationing and
deprivation, I was damned determined to put it all behind me and have fun!"
	"You were not alone, Sophie," The Gunner temporized. "A lot of
young women felt that way."
	Snorting, Sophie again shook her head. "Poor George wanted children
so desperately, but I was too busy going to parties, flirting and making a
right fool of myself. Children were not a part of my agenda!"
	The Gunner did not know if he should sympathise or chastise. He
knew very little of Sophie's early life, other than the snippets he had
gleaned in the five days since he had met her, and thought it not his place
to comment. Sophie was obviously about to comment, at length, on her past
life, and imagined transgressions. The Gunner decided to
procrastinate. "Oh," was all he said.
	"I was the belle of the ball," said Sophie witheringly. "I told
myself that I was a liberated woman. I had money to burn, and dear Lord,
did I burn it. I told myself that I could do exactly what I liked, when I
liked, and the Devil take the hindmost!" She hugged herself almost
desperately. "And now it's much too late."
	Given Sophie's age, The Gunner had to agree with her. He was not,
however, about to comment. He remained silent.
	Sophie continued as she began to weep softly. "I buried three
husbands and what do I have to show for it? A pile of money I'll never
spend, or worse, waste it on gigolos and boy toys. I have an empty old
house that I rattle around in and pretend that life is good as I toddle off
to inane luncheons with the girls or boring parties with my friends." She
laughed, her laugh caustic and tinged with venom. "Good old Sophie, always
good for a laugh, always a soft touch when it came to the boys. What a fool
I was!"
	Ace, who had come into the cafeteria in the middle of Sophie's
diatribe, slid into the chair beside The Gunner's and looked inquiringly at
his lover. The Gunner's return look told him that at the moment discretion
was most definitely the better part of valour.
	Giving Ace a short smile, Sophie asked The Gunner, "Can you
understand that somehow I feel, I don't know, an empathy, a bond with that
poor boy upstairs?" She looked around for a napkin to dry her eyes. "I
cannot understand it, Stephen, but I desperately want that boy to live! I
desperately want to hold him, to make him safe!"
	The Gunner nodded. He had seen these feelings in other people, all
men, but the feelings were the same. Two men, or boys, of disparate
backgrounds, cultures, religions, would form a bond, a union of sorts,
based solely on deep feelings. More often than not these bonds, these
unions, had nothing whatsoever to do with sex. The boys, or men, would go
on to marry, to have children, and always feel a need to be with their
friend, their brother in spirit.
	The Gunner looked kindly at the distraught woman. She needed now
the comfort that she had brought to his aunt. "I can, Sophie," he told
her. "Aunt Margaret loved you and you brought great happiness to her
life. You helped fill a void in her life, part of which I caused." He
paused and motioned for Sophie to remain silent. "My uncle, her husband,
neglected her and I was too busy buckling swashes to really know her."
	Sophie could not help smiling. "She loved you, Stephen."
	"I know," replied The Gunner with a slight nod. "I should have
tried harder to make her life a little happier but I didn't. I should have
been with her when she died, but I wasn't." He reached out to gently stroke
Sophie's hand. "You were there when she needed you, and you were there when
she needed someone to love. She loved you Sophie and saw in you the heart
of gold you try so hard to conceal." He glanced at Ace, who smiled back,
his eyes brimming with tears. "You like to think that everybody thinks
you're a tough old broad," The Gunner continued. "You are, but everybody
knows that you are capable of great love. You need someone to love, to
hold, to spoil."
	Sophie's eyes flashed. "A lot you know!" she growled. "Perhaps I'll
just get a poodle!"
	Ace chuckled. "It's not working, Sophie. You're caught out at
last."
 	Sophie looked at Ace and then a strange, almost peaceful look came
over her face. "I would have liked to have him with me, this young
German. He needs someone who cares for him. If he lives, I shall do that,
Stephen." She sniffed and laughed ruefully. "Of course it's all moot, isn't
it?"
	"Not necessarily," replied The Gunner carefully. He did not want to
upset Sophie any more than she already was. "The doctors here are first
rate, and you know that Old Doctor Langford and Young Doctor Langford are
the best, or you would not have recruited their help."
	Sophie's eyes grew dim. "Thank you, Stephen, but you know as well
as I that Eugen is very ill. Even if the surgery is successful, there is
still the infection."
	The Gunner did not want Sophie to give up hope. He knew
instinctively that she needed Eugen to live, and she needed Eugen to
fulfill an awakened maternal instinct. Before he could reply, however, The
Gunner saw a nun standing in the cafeteria doorway, gesturing for him to
come. The Gunner recognized the white-robed sister. She was the Charge
Nurse from the surgical floor.
	Glancing at Ace, and then at Sophie, The Gunner said
quietly. "We're called."
	Sophie glanced over her shoulder and if such a thing were possible,
she grew paler. "It's over and Eugen is . . ."
	"We don't know that, Sophie," said Ace sharply, sharper than he
intended to be. "Let's hear what the doctors have to say."
	As they waited for the elevator to take them to the upper floors of
the hospital, Sophie slipped her hand in The Gunner's. "No matter what
happens, I wish to help you and your boys," she said, her voice
trembling. She felt The Gunner squeeze her hand in reply and continued. "If
Eugen lives, I will take him as my son. If he does not, then I shall build
him a memorial." She turned her tired eyes to The Gunner. "You are going to
be building that school you spoke of?" she asked emphatically. "And the
hospital, you will maintain it?"
	As the elevator door opened The Gunner replied. "The hospital will
remain open," he promised. "I have spoken with Lester and there is a need
for it." He, Sophie and Ace entered the elevator and The Gunner pressed the
button that would take them to the surgical floor. "It will be a haven for
young gays who have nowhere else to turn. We'll give them a bed, medical
treatment if they require it, food, and help to establish themselves. Some,
those who wish it, we'll send to school. Our school if they want to go
there."
	"Our school," murmured Sophie as the elevator glided to a stop and
doors slid open. "I like that." She glanced obliquely at The Gunner as they
left the elevator. "The two boys who were with Eugen?"
	"Sepp and Gottfried? They're at the hospital. Teddy and Max are
with them."
	As they walked slowly down the corridor to the Nurses' Station,
Sophie asked, "They have not been harmed? You will help them?"
	"They have not been harmed," confirmed The Gunner. "And they won't
be. The Order will keep them safe and sound until this thing we are
fighting is defeated."
	"You must try to give them pride in themselves, Stephen," Sophie
replied, "as you have helped to give your boys of Aurora pride. They must
not be written off, or abandoned. Promise me that you will not do that,
Stephen."
	"If they wish it, Sophie, if they wish it," returned The Gunner,
trying to keep the doubt he felt out of his voice. He personally felt that
both Sepp and Gottfried had been too long on the game. But he, and Lester,
and Ace, would try.
	Sophie stopped abruptly. In front of the door leading to the
private conference room the doctors used when speaking to the next of kin
of their of their patients, stood Old Doctor Langford and a Chinese man
wearing wrinkled surgical scrubs, who was fingering the surgical mask that
hung loosely around his neck. Chief Edgar, who had been talking with the
doctors, turned, his face heavy.
	Seeing the look on Chief Edgar's face, Sophie gave out a small
sob. Then, squaring her shoulders, she squeezed The Gunner's hand. "Just
hold my hand, Stephen, just hold my hand."

******

  	"Are you sure that you want to do this?" The Phantom asked Peter,
his voice low and caring. "You can wait a few years, until you're sure."
	The Phantom and Peter Race were sitting on the unmade bunk that
Peter had been assigned in the Petty Officers Mess. With the departure of
the YAGs, Peter, together with Phil Thornton, Eion Reilly, and Sean Anders,
were homeless. They had moved into the Petty Officers Mess for the day and
night remaining before all the cadets left Aurora forever.
	After moving their gear up from the Dockyard, and attending the
Vigil, the four cadets, as did their fellows in the Gunroom and the Cooks
Barracks, had showered, and napped. Chef had laid on a monster breakfast,
but few had eaten any of the food prepared for them. The Phantom, too
excited to sleep, had given his bunk over to Jeremie Cher, who snored away
while The Phantom ironed his Number 11 uniform and polished his boots. The
Phantom had been tempted to spend some time with Colin, who was sleeping in
the Wardroom, but decided against it. Somehow, after everything, having sex
with Colin did not seem . . . right.
	While he worked the other Gunroom cadets slept, and for the very
first time bunks were shared. Cory and Sean crowded into Cory's bunk,
holding each other and, The Phantom suspected, Cory would have his hand
down the front of Sean's boxers.
	What surprised The Phantom, for there had been no hint whatsoever,
was that the corner bunk contained two sleeping cadets: Thumper and Two
Strokes. Thumper lay close to the tall, thin Regulating Petty Officer he
loved, his head resting on Two Strokes' chest, his face in repose. Two
Strokes held Thumper protectively.
	Jon and Chris, their bodies warm and pink also shared a bunk. What
had begun as a daring seduction in the breezeway flats had turned into
true, lasting love. As The Phantom watched, Jon reached up to scratch his
nose, snuffle, and then bury his face in the hollow of Chris' shoulder.
	Todd, Harry and Nicholas slept alone.
	After finishing his whites, The Phantom ran a soft cloth over the
scabbard of his sword, which he had taken from The Gunner's store of swords
and memorabilia that he had brought from Victoria. He had offered swords to
Cory and Todd. They had chosen, however, to wear the dirks they had been
awarded at the Prize Giving.
	His uniform ironed, neatly hung in his locker and waiting, his
sword polished, his medals pinned on the left breast of his uniform, The
Phantom went off to shower. Finished, The Phantom donned white boxers a new
white T-shirt. Except for his socks, he was ready to dress.
	The Phantom was ready, but nobody else was, and they wouldn't be
for hours. Chef had deliberately arranged for the Ceremony of Knighthood to
be held away from the ship, and in the late afternoon. The old cook was
adamant that every boy nominated would have every opportunity to reflect on
the coming Rite. Each cadet was taking a giant leap forward in his passage
to manhood, and Chef would not have on his conscience a boy who doubted the
rightness of what he was doing.
	What complicated matters was that each candidate would be asked the
question: "Will you be professed?" and this alone would call for great
courage. Could anyone imagine, Chef had asked, how terribly courageous it
was for a boy who had spent his entire life denying his true self? Every
cadet had been programmed, as Chef had put it, from birth, by his parents,
by his teachers, by his priests, his rabbis, his preachers or whatever, to
believe that homosexuality was an aberration, an abomination in the sight
of God and man. Every boy had heard the slurs, the hatred, the spitting
words of bigotry, in the schoolyard, in the churchyard, in the streets of
the towns and cities where they lived. Better dead than queer had more
truth in the words than anyone realized, for the suicide rate amongst young
gays was horrific.
	Chef, for once his words devoid of hyperbole or cliches, had calmly
asked the cadets to think long and hard. When asked the question, they
could not lie. What they answered would, in many ways, be the governing
ethos of the rest of their days.
	The Twins would not be a problem. They were gay, and had never
hidden their homosexuality. The Phantom, at peace with himself, had come
out to Tyler and Val, and did not for a minute regret that decision. Harry,
for all his bluster, was the essential honest man. He never lied, never
procrastinated, and would never deny that he loved another man. Fred and
Nathan, who snuggled close together in Fred's bunk, had made their love
public, and Nathan had dared Chef to make something of it. Chris and Jon,
lovers and friends even before Victoria, would profess before their
friends.
	What of Nicholas, Phantom wondered. The Yeoman had, as he put it,
"made his vows" with Andre, to The Phantom's mind essentially marrying the
young French-Canadian drummer. Yet Nicholas had slept with Matt, of that
The Phantom was sure. Did this mean, Chef had asked The Phantom, that
Nicholas was indeed gay, or was he merely enjoying sex with another boy?
	The Phantom had considered Chef's question carefully. He had to
admit that there was more than a little "fooling around with a buddy" than
people cared to admit. He knew that there were boys in his school who took
care of each other if the need arose. It happened, and every one of those
boys would adamantly and loudly deny that they were queer. Did this mean,
The Phantom asked himself, that Nicholas was just helping Matt out? Matt
had privately admitted that he was gay. Admitting it publicly, however, was
a different matter.
	There were also Kevin and Ray. They were inseparable, and while
Kevin had no hesitation in admitting his feelings for Ray, would Ray return
those feelings? Ray's people were Bible-thumpers, Evangelicals who believed
in the literal "Word of God" as published in the Bible. Would Ray's love
for Kevin overpower the bigotry he had been force-fed for so many years?
	In the Gunroom, Mike Sunderland and Phillip Adean, called The
Assistant, were lovers. In the Cooks Barracks Randy and Joey were no doubt
cuddled against Phil Thornton. Phil adored the two young cooks, and would
never abandon them to such a trivial thing as public opinion. He risked
jail, for he was 18, and the two young cooks were barely into their 14th
year. Randy, the more daring of the trio, didn't give a fiddler's fuck what
people thought. He loved Joey, and he loved Phil. As far as Randy was
concerned, that was all that mattered.
	Joey, for his part, adored Randy and was in love with Phil, sort
of. Yet he came from a conservative farming family, and lived in a rural
area, where homosexuality was abhorred. Would Joey commit the rest of his
life to the Order, as a professed knight? What would Steve and Stuart, what
would any of them answer when asked, "Will you profess?"

******

	The Phantom heard a soft shuffling of bare feet on the scarred tile
deck and looked up to see Peter Race passing by the open door that led to
the Petty Officers Mess, coming from the heads and washplace. Peter had a
towel hung around his neck and was wearing only his tighty-whiteys, which
The Phantom had to think made the young man look scrawny, and very little
boyish.
	As The Phantom watched, Peter settled on the bunk once occupied by
Mal, and sat quietly, his hands in his lap, his head bowed. The Phantom
knew that Peter had been very moved by the ceremony yesterday, and was
questioning his heritage. The young man had attended the Vigil, true, but
what motivated him? Peter's desire to return to his People had nothing to
do with the Order. The Order could not, and would not, interfere and could
not bring Peter back to his heritage.
	And what of Eion? Like Peter, Eion had been moved deeply, and had
attended the Vigil. Was Eion gay? Or had he simply been swept up in the
emotion of the moment. Could he devote a good portion of his life to
furthering the lives and rights of gays? Could he stand up to bigotry and
hatred, and stand foursquare beside his newfound brothers?
	Chef, The Phantom decided, was right. Every boy needed time and
space to think, and decide and each boy had to understand what they were
getting themselves into.
	Glancing at Peter, who looked lost and forlorn, The Phantom decided
to find out just what Peter wanted. He left the Gunroom and sat on the bunk
beside Peter. "Are you sure that you want to do this?" The Phantom asked
Peter, his voice low and caring. "You can wait a few years, until you're
sure."
	Peter's eyes were bright and clear. Before answering he put his
arms around The Phantom's waist and nodded slowly. The Phantom embraced
Peter, holding him close. "Please, Peter, be very sure."
	"I am sure," returned Peter in a low whisper. "I want to be with
you, and with the others. I'm sure."
	The Phantom reached up his hand to gently rub the back of Peter's
head. "You must understand that the Order is about being gay, Peter. You
can be a knight, or a companion, without being gay, and I personally would
welcome you. But, Peter, if you are looking for something else . . ." The
Phantom's voice trailed off.
	Peter never moved and never released his hold on The Phantom's warm
body. "Phantom, when I heard the words of the Kaddish, something stirred in
me. I remembered my grandfather. He was from Poland and he said those same
words every day. I remember the hurt in my mother's eyes when my father got
drunk and said bad things about the Jews." Peter raised his head and gazed
into The Phantom's emerald eyes. "I saw my mother crying, Phantom, and I
saw my Grandpop shake his head and turn away."
	"Peter, I understand, I truly do, the hurt you're feeling. What I
want you to understand is that if you're Jewish, and if you wish to know
about your heritage, you don't have to join the Order. Sandro will help
you, and I know Nate Schoenmann will help you."
	"I've already spoken to them," Peter replied. He rubbed his cheek
against The Phantom's T-shirt covered chest. "They both told me that I
should talk to my mother. They don't want to discourage me, but they both
want to make sure that I know what I am."
	The Phantom had a sudden thought. "Where is Nate? Did he go home?"
	"He's sleeping in the galley lounge." Peter giggled. "Alone. He's
not gay, you know."
	"I sort of gathered that, from the way his Zeyda was talking,"
countered The Phantom with a snicker.
	"He's going to ask Chef to make him a Companion of Honour. He wants
to help."
	"Is that what you want?"
	"Yes," replied Peter firmly. His hold on The Phantom tightened
slightly. "You remember the night you came down to the Dockyard, and you
talked with Jeremie?"
	"Yes." The Phantom remembered the evening, and was now wondering if
Jeremie Cher might have taken Little Jeremie for a walk in the moonlight
with Peter.
 	"Phantom, I've wanted to do this for a long time. I used to see you
walking in the Dockyard, or when I was in the Mess Hall and, like I said, I
heard you and Jeremie talking."
	"Um, have you and Jeremie, I mean, are you and Jeremie friends?"
asked The Phantom delicately.
 	Peter drew back and looked at The Phantom. "No. I've thought about
being with another boy. And I've thought a lot about Jeremie."
	The Phantom's eyebrows rose upward. "But you haven't?"
	"We haven't done anything," replied Peter. "I didn't . . . and he
hasn't and . . . I don't think he knows how I feel. To be honest, I do
wonder about what it would be like to be with another boy. Then I think,
'Yuck!'."
	"Why 'Yuck'?" asked The Phantom.
	Peter blushed with embarrassment. "Well . . . um . . . Phantom,
being with another guy . . . um . . . you know, that way, I don't
. . . Sometimes I think, yeah, it would be great to have a guy suck my dick
and I would like to know what it feels like to suck his, putting his dick
in my mouth and I think, 'Yuck' and I go off and make a bell rope!"
	The Phantom could not help laughing. "A bell rope?"
	"Yeah. It helps me take my mind off of . . . things," replied
Peter, smiling shyly.
	"I always thought that a cold shower did wonders," offered The
Phantom, grinning widely. "I never did learn fancy ropework."
	Peter returned to hugging The Phantom. "I want to be a part of what
is happening, Phantom. You know why?"
	The Phantom shook his head. "It was kind of sudden," The Phantom
offered.
	"Phantom, if I'm gay, which I don't think I am, but if I am, it's
nice to know that I'm not alone. If I'm Jewish, and I'm pretty sure I am
because my mother is, and if I decide to talk to a rabbi, then it's even
money my old man will toss my skinny ass into Gottingen Street, 'cause he's
really nuts when it comes to the Jews. He thinks that they're in charge of
all the money and that they want to take over the world."
	"He sounds like Little Big Man's soul mate," The Phantom blurted.
	Peter frowned. "I know about that jerk. When he was on Defaulters
and mooching around the Dockyard he made some cracks about Yids. I guess he
was hoping for someone to bite."
	"Did they?" asked The Phantom, interested, but careful.
	"No. Most of the guys couldn't stand him and Chief Anders ran the
little dickhead off. Anyway, I might need a brother or twenty around in
case I do have to leave home."
	"Is that the only reason?" asked The Phantom.
	Again, Peter's reply was no. "Something, somehow, I don't know,
makes me want to do this. Don't get me wrong, Phantom, maybe I am just
looking down the road and making sure that there's help if I need it, but I
can't get this feeling from my mind."
	"What feeling is that?"
	"The feeling that I have to be with you, and with the other guys. I
can't explain why I need to be with you, Phantom, I just know it."
	"Fair enough," replied The Phantom. "You will always have a
brother, if you need one, Peter," he continued. "I don't know what I can do
about you thinking you might be Jewish. Maybe recommend a good mohel?"
	Giggling, Peter shook his head. "I'm too old for a mohel. Sandro
says I'd have to see a doctor, like he has to."
	"Doc Reynolds is experienced," said The Phantom, thinking of the
"little operation" Doc had performed on Ryan last month.
	"So I hear," remarked Peter dryly. Ryan's operation had been the
main topic of conversation for a week! "Anyway, I want to make sure that I
am Jewish. Nate seems to think I am because in the Jewish tradition if your
mother is Jewish, so are you."
	"Did you talk to Chef?" asked The Phantom. "He's a pretty smart old
bird, you know."
	"I know," sighed Peter. "And he can talk the hind leg off a dead
cat! But yeah, we talked, or rather Chef talked and Eion and I
listened. Nate, too."
	"Nate?"
	"Nate's a nice guy. He told Eion and me about Chef coming to his
grandfather's shop, and what Chef had done for the Jews. He said that he
was a very inadequate Jew, whatever that means, and that he had to do
something to make it up to his Zeyda. What's a Zeyda?"
	"It's 'Grandfather' in Hebrew," replied The Phantom. "Nate knows
that he can only be a Companion of Honour?"
	Giggling, Peter nodded vigorously. "Well, after we got through
Leprechauns, and fairies - of Morne, not the other kind - and banshees and
Knights of Tara, and God knows what else because I sure didn't understand
half of what Chef said, and then watching him turn red and blubber and
bluster about Article 24 of the Rule, which Sandro had already told Eion
and me about, and Eion doesn't have to worry, because he is, Chef said that
we could be Companions of Honour."
	"Was he taking his 'medicine'," asked The Phantom with a knowing
grin.
	"If you mean was he sipping from that jug he keeps in his desk,
no," replied Peter. "He was drinking tea, and every time he took a sip he
looked liked he was drinking motor oil!"
	"Chef is not partial to tea," replied The Phantom, his eyes bright
with hidden laughter. "Then what happened?"
	"He dragged us over to the Wardroom. The CO and the XO were there
with Doc Reynolds and that new doctor, and Chef said they had to stand
surety for us. Nate and Eion went into the scullery with Doc Reynolds and
when they came out Doc said that he could grant nihil obstat, whatever the
hell that means."
	"I think it means 'Permission Granted'," returned The Phantom.
	"You could have fooled me," replied Peter with a shrug. "Then we
had to kneel in front of Chef and make our oath. Then Chef kissed us on
each cheek and the CO bought us a beer!"
	"Trust Chef to get in his medicine one way or the other!" grumbled
The Phantom.
	At that moment they were interrupted by a loud thump from the
Gunroom. Both The Phantom and Peter looked up to see Jeremie shuffle past
the door and begin to make his way down the Gunroom toward the
washplace. Neither The Phantom nor Peter could fail to notice the huge
bulge in Jeremie's tighty-whiteys.
	"Hell and sheeit," muttered The Phantom. "That guy has enough wood
in his shorts to build a YAG!" he exclaimed.
	"Which explains why I've been thinking about him," returned Peter,
not taking his eyes of off Jeremie's retreating form. "A lot!"

******

	As The Phantom rose to leave the Petty Officers Mess he heard the
soft click of a door being opened and saw Matt's slim form slip from the
long chamber. He bade Peter goodnight and walked outside to find Matt
sitting quietly on the steps, looking at the dark sky overhead.
	"Are you all right?" asked The Phantom as he settled beside Matt.
	Slipping his arm around The Phantom's waist, Matt smiled and
nodded. "I feel, I don't know, wonderful and accepted and a little sad."
	"Sad?"
	"Phantom, when this is all over what will happen to us?" asked Matt
as he laid his head on The Phantom's shoulder. "I don't want to be alone."
	The Phantom gently brought Matt's warm body closer. "Matty, you
will never be alone again. We might not be together, but you will never be
alone again." He ruffled Matt's hair. "In a little while you're going to
have more brothers than you know what to do with!"
	Matt snickered. "Pains in the ass, most of them!" he grumped.
	"Matty!"
	"I know, I know," returned Matt with a grin. "I'm looking forward
to being with them." He glanced obliquely at The Phantom. "Even Todd."
	Sighing, The Phantom shook his head. "Matty, Todd has his reasons."
	"I know," replied Matt. "And I'm not faulting him. I love him, but
he will never look at me as someone he can love."
	"He loves you," insisted The Phantom. "He just . . ." The Phantom's
face fell. "I think that Todd regrets the way he treated you. I also think
that deep down he knows how you feel about him."
	"It's too late," replied Matt. "I love him and I always will." He
looked up at the sky and shook his head. "I love him but he has to be Todd,
just as I have to be Matt. I'm not a part of his life, except as a
brother. Tomorrow he'll become my brother in the flesh, as well as the
spirit, and because he's Todd he'll be honourable and a tower of
strength. I will love him, but not the same way as I love you."
	The Phantom looked at Matt for a long time before replying. "Matt
. . . don't . . ." he began slowly, not wanting to hurt his friend.
	"Oh, Phantom, I'm not trying crawl into your bed!" Matt said with a
hearty chuckle. "I've already done that!"
	Recalling the time that Matt had snuck into his bed, The Phantom
looked pained. "You took advantage of a sick sailor!" he complained with
humour. "I was vulnerable."
	Laughing, Matt hugged The Phantom. "I knew what I was doing when I
did it!" he declared. "I wanted to be with you, so I was." His eyes
sparkled as he said, "You were my first, you know."
	"I know," said The Phantom. "I'm still not sure if I should be
angry with you for sneaking around taking advantage of me!"
	"We both needed each other," returned Matt. "and you're not capable
of anger when it comes to someone you care for." He turned his head
slightly and winked at The Phantom. "I did warn you, you know."
	"Yeah, you did," admitted The Phantom. "I just didn't think you'd
actually do it!"
	"And I don't regret doing it," returned Matt with a small
chuckle. "You are one hell of a lover, Phantom. I envy Colin."
	The Phantom's body stiffened. He did not wish to speak of something
he considered to be a private matter.
	"Don't get all huffy, Phantom," said Matt. "Colin is very lucky to
have you. I'm not going to gossip about you and Colin." He gave The Phantom
a nudge in the ribs. "We're not stupid, you know."
	Relaxing, The Phantom expelled a breath of air. "I know, it's just
that I don't like talking about . . . you know . . ."
	Releasing his hold on his friend Matt lay back, his elbows resting
on the top step. "There's no reason not to talk about your relationship
with Colin," he said slowly. "I'm not interested in the details. You're in
love with him, and he's in love with you. To be honest, at first I thought
he caught you on the rebound from The Gunner."
	"Maybe he did," interjected The Phantom.
	"Bullshit," responded Matt, grinning. "He took one look at you and
bingo! You took one look at him and kaboom! Hell, Phantom, you light up
like a Christmas tree every time you see him."
	"Is it that obvious?" asked The Phantom, surprised at Matt's
words. "We tried to be discreet."
	"You failed," returned Matt dryly. "You do try to keep your
emotions under control, I admit that, but sometimes you just look at Colin
and this, I don't know, light I suppose I can call it, seems to come all
over you."
	Pulling himself upward Matt resumed hugging The Phantom. "I never
saw that look with The Gunner," he said without inflection.
	"But I did see that look when you were with Todd," rejoined The
Phantom. "You still love him."
	"Very much," replied Matt truthfully. "But I'm not hanging around
waiting for him to make up his mind. What we could have had is in the
past. I'm looking to the future. Tomorrow, later today really, I'm going to
take an oath and when I do it I am going to have a clear conscience. I
don't regret loving you, and I don't regret making love with you. I don't
regret having loved Marcus."
	"He must have been a wonderful person," responded The Phantom with
as much gentleness as he could manage. He knew that the memory of Marcus,
Matt's stepbrother and first love, would linger forever in the boy's
memory.
	"He was," said Matt with a slight sob. "In many ways you're like
him, loyal, warm, and gentle. But you're not him."
	"No."
	"And neither is Todd, or Nicholas," said Matt. He was under no
illusions that The Phantom did not know what he and Nicholas had been doing
in private. "I don't look for Marcus any more, Phantom," he said
quietly. "He's dead, and I'm alive. Do I want another Marcus? No. I want
someone like Colin, someone who is not afraid to show his love for me, not
afraid of being in love with me. Marcus would have stood proud and tall
before whomever we have to stand tall and proud before and profess without
hesitation. You will, Todd will, I will. And so will Colin."
	"You understand, then?" asked The Phantom drawing back.
	"Of course," replied Matt easily. "I have to admit the truth." His
blue eyes bore into The Phantom. "I'm not afraid of telling my brothers
that I'm gay, because I am gay." He shrugged expressively. "There was a
time when I would not have admitted that to anyone, not even under threat
of torture." He leaned forward and gently kissed The Phantom's
lips. "Remember what you told the Twins in Victoria?"
	"And Dylan," said The Phantom as he remembered his words, spoken in
anger but filled with truth, "Never be ashamed of who you are. Never be
ashamed of what you are and never, ever, be afraid to be who you are!" He
chuckled. "Then I took Joey and Randy shopping."
	Matt nodded, smiling. "For bathing suits, with a pouch in them for
their parts." His smile left his face and a look of peace came over
him. "I'm not afraid anymore, Phantom," he said, his voice warm and
sure. "I look around and I see boys who love me for who I am, not what I
am. I look around and I see the greatest bunch of guys I have ever
known. When I first came here I was so afraid! Paul was here and Paul would
have crucified me without a second thought. I was afraid and so alone,
Phantom. You changed that! You made me feel like I was important, you loved
me and never questioned me. You made me understand the real me, made me
face the fact that I was gay. You made me understand that I could be
whatever I wanted to be, that being gay meant zip when it came to my being
whatever I am meant to be. But, Phantom, more importantly, you gave me the
opportunity to love again."
	The Phantom enveloped Matt in his arms. "You thought that when
Marcus died, love died. Now you know that life goes on, love goes on. You
won't ever forget Marcus, but you'll move on, and that's what is
important." He gently caressed the back of Matt's head. "You will never be
alone again, Matty. No matter what happens, you will never be alone again."

******

           As the morning wore on the cadets congregated in the Gunroom,
preparing for the coming ceremony. The cadets were at first subdued, aware
of the importance of what was coming, but happy. There was the usual
badinage, and chucking of shit back and forth. The Twins reprised their
roles as Tailors, By Appointment, to the Gunroom, stripped Eion and Peter
of their white uniforms and set to, plying their needles and scissors
diligently, making sure that the uniforms were a proper fit.  Nathan, who
had brought nothing but his civilian clothing, and had scrounged a set of
Number 11s from Rob, alternately blushed and blustered as Fred, Chris and
Jon, all but sewed him into the things.
	Colin, Andy and Kyle came over from the Wardroom, and the Twins,
being the Twins, immediately fell on them. Colin was forced to suffer the
indignities of ooh's and aah's of admiration from the cadets as he stood,
blushing furiously wearing nothing but his Canex Specials and white socks,
and threatened, as he gripped his sword, instant emasculation to anyone who
so much as touched his butt or parts! Harry rumbled from the far corner of
the Gunroom, "Yum, yum, yum, nice fresh officer bum!" and Colin gripped his
sword tighter.
	Sean and Phil came in carrying their uniforms. They both had long
ago learned that they would be inspected by the Twins and decided that
since it was going to happen anyway, they might as well get it over
with. Sean pulled off his T-shirt and slipped down his shorts. This caused
his boxers to slip, revealing the upper part of why he was nicknamed "Iron
Ass Anders".
	Andy, who had been sitting on Chris' bunk, had got a bird's eye
view of Sean's ragged scar, whistled, and then asked, laughing, "Grenade?"
	"Shackle," returned Sean without embarrassment.
	Randy, who was almost as bad as the Twins when it came to never
missing an opportunity to improve his mind, asked with pretended innocence,
"Is it true that you have a scar, too, sir?"
	Andy, without thinking of the consequences, answered, "Yeah. A big
mother of a scar on my ass!"
	Cory hunkered down and sewed diligently at Nathan's trousers. "Oy
vey, here it comes," he muttered at Todd, who giggled.
	"How big a mother of a scar?" Randy asked, maintaining his innocent
little boy act. "Can we see it?"
	Andy, as an officer, failed to see the need to expose any part of
his body, except by accident, to any cadet. "Um, I don't think so," he
muttered in reply.
	Half the Gunroom exploded in deliberate coughing fits. Everybody
had heard the story of Andy's unfortunate expose the morning Kevin had come
knocking. It had taken Kevin days to get over seeing Andy as naked as the
day he'd been born, and Andy still grumbled and complained about being
called "Tiny" by Chef.
	"You might as well show him," advised Kevin, who remembered the
morning the two young cooks had checked him out in the showers. They still
did, although not so much since meeting Phil Thornton. "They'll wait, like
spiders, until they check you out." He looked at Joey, who was wondering
how "they" came into the picture. "Like spiders, waiting for a fly,"
growled Kevin.
	Looking at the circle of cadets, Andy stood up and said, "Oh, hell,
why not! Half of them saw it on the sailing trip." He pulled down one side
of his boxers, revealing the scar.
	"Holy shit," Randy gasped. "That must have hurt!"
	"Shackle?" asked Sean as he bent lower to examine Andy's scar.
	"Mortar round," returned Andy over his shoulder. "And it hurt like
buggery!  Can I pull up my drawers now?"
	Harry could not resist the temptation to take a swipe at Two
Strokes. "Two Strokes, you have a nice little scar," he said slyly. "You
remember that night when Cory . . ."
	Two Strokes glared at Harry and then asked Colin if he could borrow
his sword. Then he snarled at Harry, "And I don't have a scar!"
	Rob chose this moment to put in an appearance. Cory, who had long
maintained that the broad-shouldered, muscular Chief Storekeeper had the
finest ass this side of the Rockies, and maybe even on the other side,
asked coyly, "Do you have any scars, Rob?"
	Rob, who knew that Cory was going to get him down to his Jockeys,
at the least, slowly lowered his trousers. "Just the one around my dick,"
he retorted. "Does that count?"
	Colin snatched back his sword.

******

	Chef had decreed that as a dinner would be served after the
Ceremony, the galley would close after lunch. With the canteen closed, and
no ready source of snacks and munchies, Mark had volunteered to make a run
into town. He took Nate and Calvin with him. Nate, who had decided that he
was going to be a part of the Order, needed his good suit to wear at the
ceremony. Calvin, who either walked in every morning, or cadged a ride from
his brother Mikey, needed to pick up his whites. He also wanted to call
Simon Keppel, the dark-eyed, dark-haired boy he had fallen in love with the
night of the End Of Year Barbecue. Calvin was not going to miss an
opportunity to be with Simon if he could help it.
	When they returned, Nate, much to his annoyance, was forced to
undergo a minute inspection by the Twins. The next thing he knew he was
standing in his baggy boxer shorts, having the inseam of his leg
measured. Cory clucked and said that Nate had very hairy legs. Nate growled
in return that he had a very hairy something else, which Cory would see if
he kept poking around with that damned tape measure.
	Cory, who would not have minded seeing what else Nate had that was
hairy, demurred. He was not about to inspect little pink mice, or big pink
mice, for that matter, not with Sean glowering and tapping his foot on the
tiled deck.
	Nate's rejoinder gained him the liking and respect of the
others. He was invited to join them in the feast that Mark had brought from
town and they all settled down to devour pizza, coke, crisps and other junk
food Mark had found.
	Peter and Eion, as YAG boys, were taken aback by the easy going
camaraderie and banter of the Gunroom. They relaxed somewhat as the lamp
was swung and the war stories were told, although Eion did feel a little
worried when Harry announced that he was still hungry and looked pointedly
at Eion's bum. Tyler gave Harry a smack on the back his head and told him
to behave and warned the Drum Major that under no circumstances was he to
nip, bite or lick anyone!
	As the Gunroom cadets grew more comfortable and as they were all
very soon to be brothers, the need for secrecy about the sailing trip was
eliminated. Everybody had a story to tell, from the Twins being tossed into
the sea for fighting, to Harry being smacked on his butt with Kyle's
spatula for stealing an extra hamburger. Harry, never loathe in extolling
the beauty of the Pride of the Fleet, or the graceful fullness of the
Escorts, brought out his photo album.
	Cory, not about to be one-upped by Harry, brought out his album, as
did Chris and Nicholas, who beamed as the other cadets warmly expressed
their appreciation for all his hard work and complimented him on his
obvious talents as a photographer. Very soon the long mess table was
covered with open albums of photographs and Peter gasped at the sight of
them.
	"Didn't you guys ever wear any clothes?" asked Eion as he flipped a
page in one of the albums. His eyes widened and he looked at Two
Strokes. "What happened to your dick? It looks like a button on a fur
coat!"
	"Shrinkage!" retorted Two Strokes with dignity. "It happens to real
men!"
	"And little boys," offered Joey as he nudged Randy in the
ribs. "You should see Randy after we've been down to the pond back home!"
	Joey gave his best friend his dirtiest look and then asked Colin if
he might borrow the sword, please.
	Sandro ignored the laughter and pointed to a photo of Ray, naked,
sitting on a log. "He is beautiful, da?" he asked Peter.
	"Ray?" asked Peter, looking at the photo. "He's a good looking guy,
but I wouldn't call him beautiful."
	"Ray is very good to look at," opined Sandro, "but I am talking
about his club. I have told him that when doctor is finished, I am to look
exactly like Ray! I wish to have beautiful club!"
	Giggling, Peter pointed to the photo albums littering the
table. "I'm sorta leaning toward this one," he said, pointing at a photo of
Nicholas.
	Sandro glanced at the photo, and then at Ray. "Is very nice club. I
stick with Ray," he announced stoutly. "Is my friend."
	"If I were picking styles," interjected Jeremie, "and if I were
going to want to look like anyone, well that's the one I think I'd like to
have."
	Colin saw where Jeremie was pointing and silently handed his sword
to Phantom.

******

	Stennes knocked on the bedroom door and then, without waiting for
an answer, entered the room. Paul was lying on the bed, stretching like a
cat in the sunshine. From behind the closed door that led to the adjoining
bathroom came the sound of running water. Stennes glanced at the door and
asked, "Your tour guide?"
	Paul, who saw no need to hide the fact that he was naked under the
sheet that covered his body, shrugged indifferently. He didn't care what
Stennes thought. "The boy has an 8-inch dick," he replied dead-panned. Then
he smiled evilly. "All that walking made me hungry."
	"I'm sure it did," returned Stennes flatly. "A pleasant end to a
walking tour, I'm sure."
	"I was bored shitless," responded Paul as he left his bed. "Yonge
Street is nothing but a row of strip joints and tourists traps, with
beggars!" He walked to the dressing table that stood against the wall,
regarded his reflection, hefted his soft genitals, and then ran his fingers
through his dishevelled blond hair. "Damian's a good fuck, but he's dead
afraid that someone will find out that he likes boy pussy."
	Paul's crudity no longer annoyed Stennes, and he ignored Paul's
remarks. "The Canadian Armed Forces are not known for their sympathetic
attitude toward homosexuals," he said.
	"They better get used to them," returned Paul. "If Damian's telling
the truth its party time in the barracks when the lights go out."
	"I have no interest in the sexual antics of the soldiery," snapped
Stennes.
	Paul looked coldly at his patron, his slate grey eyes hard. "What
do you want?" he asked, his tone making it plain that he did not appreciate
being interrupted, and that if Stennes was looking for a little playtime,
he was shit out of luck.
	With a grim smile Stennes placed the package he had brought with
him on the dressing table. "A small gift," he said.
	"A gift?" Paul's eyes narrowed. Stennes was not the type to give
something for nothing. He poked the packaged suspiciously. "What will this
cost me?"
	"Nothing," replied Stennes. He gestured toward the package. "Open
it."
	Paul did as he was bidden and found that the package contained a
holstered 9mm pistol. "What's this? More artillery?"
	"I thought you might want it. It is much more efficient than that
Luger you threatened me with earlier."
	Chuckling dryly, Paul pulled the automatic from the leather case
and hefted the weapon. He dropped the magazine, which was full, and opened
the breech mechanism. Paul peered down the rifled barrel, slid the
mechanism back and forth and then asked, "Is there a point to this?"
	Nodding, Stennes replied. "You recall I mentioned a 'loose end'?"
Seeing Paul's nod, Stennes continued. "Later this evening we will take care
of it. I do not trust the man we are going to see." He opened his suit coat
to reveal a shoulder holster containing his own 9mm. "I do not trust him at
all," he finished with heavy emphasis.
	"When later?" Paul asked as he slowly re-holstered the
pistol. "Damian's a total top and I feel like a piece of ass." He casually
laid the holstered pistol on the dressing table and strolled back to the
bed, deliberately causing his soft penis and testicles to swing back and
forth seductively. He lay on the bed and placed his hands behind his
head. "I want to take a crack at Swede." He grinned salaciously at
Stennes. "You know how much I love that little bit of skin," he chuckled.
	Seeing Paul stretching and pumping his hips seductively at him
caused Stennes' own penis to stir. As he reached down to touch himself he
asked, "Your infatuation with Damian is ended?"
	"There never was an infatuation," returned Paul. He glanced at
Stennes' hand and warned, "And don't get any ideas. Damian is a top. Cole
only bottoms for Damian. Swede is versatile." His slate grey eyes grew
hard. "They think with their dicks, they like getting fucked or sucked so
why not pander to their interests?" He shrugged. "Damian is just another
piece of ass."
	Paul's coldness immediately caused Stennes' rising erection to
wilt. "You really are a selfish little man, aren't you?" he asked
scathingly.
	"I take after my master," returned Paul just as scathingly. He
propped himself on one elbow and glowered at Stennes. "And like my master I
know what I want. Tonight I want to taste some skin, and feel my dick in
Swede's ass." For a moment Paul thought that he had gone too far. Dark
thunderclouds seemed to be gathering in Stennes' eyes so he offered,
"Later, after we've taken care of your loose end, I might be in the mood
for some German sausage."
	Not at all mollified with Paul's insincere half-promise, Stennes
curled his lip in distaste. "I might just take you up on that, Liebchen."
	Paul flopped back against the pillows. "There's no 'might' about
it. Just don't expect me to relive a Party Rally."
	Before Stennes could reply the door leading to the bathroom opened
and Damian appeared, naked, towelling his dark hair. "Um, sorry, I didn't
mean to interrupt," he said, taking a step back.
	"You have not," replied Stennes briskly. "We have concluded our
business." He looked at Paul. "You will be ready by midnight?"
	Paul deliberately goaded Stennes by licking his lips and staring at
the German. "More than ready," he smiled. Then he added, "Keep the sausage
warm."

******

	As a clock somewhere deep within the house tinnily chimed the hour,
Paul stepped from his bedroom, adjusting the camel hair sports coat that he
had borrowed from Nhan. The night was warm, and Paul would have preferred a
much more casual look, but he needed to conceal the pistol that he wore in
the shoulder holster Stennes had given him earlier. The coat, a size too
large, and worn over an open neck white shirt and dark trousers, not only
hid the weapon he wore, but gave him the look of a preppy young student out
for an evening stroll.
	Pleased at his appearance, Paul had glanced back at Swede, who was
snoring away after having spent what he would later describe as the most
erotic evening of his life! Petawawa had never been like this!
	Closing the bedroom door Paul snickered. The handsome, hulking
young soldier had never known what hit him, finally collapsing in
exhaustion and moaning that it would take him a week to recover!
	As he approached the lounge where Stennes was waiting, Paul reached
down and adjusted Little Paul and scowled. Later, after taking care of
whatever the loose end was, he would have to placate Stennes. Then he
thought, what the hell, a piece of ass was a piece of ass, and bedding
Stennes was just another cost of doing business. After all, a man had to do
what he had to do to get ahead in the world. He just wished that the German
would pay a little more attention to his personal hygiene!

******

	"You know how to use that weapon?" Stennes asked as they left the
residence.
	"I've had weapons training," replied Paul without elaboration. "I
know how to use a pistol, a long rifle, and I've had training on the SMG."
Paul did not feel the need to inform Stennes that his one incident of
training on SMGs had led to his being unceremoniously tossed from the Comox
Ranges for gross stupidity and negligence.
	"There may not be a need for it, but keep your weapon handy,"
Stennes grunted in reply.
	As they walked the teeming back streets of Chinatown Paul's eyes
and ears were assaulted with the screaming, yelling and noise of a vibrant
community. As the night was warm it appeared that the entire population had
taken to their front porches and the streets. Children, half-naked for the
most part, shrieked and laughed and played on the sidewalks and darted
uncaring into the street. Their elders, all of whom seemed to smoke,
gesticulated, argued and growled in whatever dialect they had. The Chinese
never seemed to speak, they always yelled, or so Paul thought.
	"Don't they ever sleep?" Paul asked sourly as they passed one house
that seemed to have burst forth with people, all of them chattering away
like magpies. "And don't their kids know when bedtime is?"
	"The Chinese consider children to be great gifts," responded
Stennes with a sniff of disdain. "Boy children are particularly
treasured. They are allowed to do whatever they wish." He glared at a
small, shorthaired Chinese who had tossed a ball into the street. The child
was clad in colourful briefs and a white singlet. "They have no discipline,
the children, and are spoiled rotten."
	An ambulance growled its way down D'Arcy Street and pulled into the
Emergency Entrance of the hospital. "Quite an advance for a people," sniped
Stennes, "who still use necromancers and witches brews for medical
reasons." He sniffed disdainfully. "Barbarians!"
	Paul looked up at the building and then at a small trio of boys
darting around a pile of trash and rubbish that filled the
gutters. "Someone might have taught them basic sanitation," he said. "But,
no matter." As they turned the corner of the hospital building, and walked
south toward Dundas Street, he added, "Little Chinese boys grow up into big
Chinese boys, and they have their uses, don't they?"

******

	The Gunner stood at the window of the surgical waiting room, trying
not to listen to Sophie's quiet sobbing, seeing, but not seeing the teeming
streets below. His eye caught the flashing red light of a vehicle moving
slowly through the small tribe of children darting indifferently into the
street, and he heard the muted sound of a siren. He noticed, almost as an
afterthought, that there were two figures standing on the sidewalk far
below, a man, and a short male, whose blond hair gleamed dully in the
streetlights. As The Gunner watched the younger of the duo turned his head
to look up at the hospital.
	"No," The Gunner breathed, "It cannot be!" He shook his head,
clearing it and looked again but the two men had moved off and the sidewalk
was empty.
	"Just my imagination," The Gunner thought as he turned. "I'm tired,
and I'm worried and . . . It's impossible."
	Forgetting Troubridge's snippet of information about Stennes
travelling with a boy, a blond-haired boy named Paul, The Gunner went to
comfort Sophie.

******

As they dodged a clanging streetcar, Paul's annoyance at being hauled from
his warm bed and the arms of Swede, rose to the fore. "Are you going to
tell me where in the hell we are going, and what we are going to do when we
get there?" he demanded loudly, having to shout over the honking horns,
clamouring street merchants and loud music pulsing from a storefront bar.
	Dodging the outstretched hand of a street beggar - they seemed to
infest every street corner in the downtown area - who smelled abominably,
Stennes walked down Huron Street. "We are going to see a man," he
began. "For some time he has been employed by an organization that has used
my services."
	"He's a pimp," retorted Paul sourly.
	Stennes did not take umbrage. Noel had been a pimp. "To put in
bluntly, yes," Stennes admitted. "He is also an agent of mine. He has been
reporting on the doings of the members of this organization." He
shrugged. "They call themselves knights of some such order or other, but
seem to spend all their time with the boys I provided." Stennes stopped
abruptly. "Perhaps you have heard of it? They are based in Vancouver."
	"I was in Comox, which is on Vancouver Island, and halfway to
nowhere!" replied Paul. "What was this order called?"
	Stennes looked thoughtful. "Saint John of something or other."
	"There must be at least three orders of Saint John of something or
other, and I never heard any talk about any order when I was in Comox,"
replied Paul. "It can't be much, can it?"
	"Probably just a cover for a group of boy lovers," agreed
Stennes. He stopped at the corners of Huron and Grange, and pointed at a
scabrous, three-storied building with a neon sign announcing the location
of the "Grange Hotel".
	The building, which looked as if it had been on this backwater of a
corner since the first English soldiers set foot in the town of York, was
painted a dingy yellow. The facade was pocked with peeling paint revealing
the original red brick construction. As Paul watched, a blowsy woman with
bleached hair, followed by two young Chinese males, entered the building
through one half of the double glass doors that marked the entrance to the
hotel. The other half had been kicked in, or out, and the glass had been
replaced by a stained plywood panel.
	Paul glanced disdainfully at the hotel. "Four stars I'm sure," he
sniped.
	"The Michelin people would flee in horror from such an
establishment," returned Stennes with a laugh. "Still, it serves a
purpose."
	"Yeah, for ten or twenty bucks an hour," said Paul. "Not including
the price of the hooker."
	"Really, Paul, you are becoming quite the moralist," answered
Stennes. He reached out to touch Paul's shoulder. "The man we are meeting
is dangerous. He was employed to report on the order. He did, in a
haphazard way, fulfill his end of the arrangement."
	"Then what's the problem? He skim the take?"
	"Probably," replied Stennes easily. "They all do, which is why the
price I charge is so high." He shook his head. "Skimming is not the
problem. This man, whose name is Noel Aubery, has been holding back, I
think. He knows much more than he has been willing to tell me. He hints at
this man, or that man, but sends nothing substantial. He gives no details
of the order, and that makes me wonder just what he is holding back."
	"And makes you wonder why he's holding back," interjected
Paul. "He's not dealing with the Knights of Pythias, and at the prices we
charge, the men involved have to have big bucks."
	"Precisely. Now consider, we have this man who is supplying young
boys, for whatever purposes, to a group of men. He lives in the same house,
works in the same house as a servant, and yet he reports little. Who are
the men? Do they have rank or position? Are they just masquerading as some
fraternal organization or is this order something we should look into?
There are many questions for which I have yet to receive an answer."
	"You're pissed off because you think this Noel guy is taking a
bigger piece of the action than you think he's entitled to," returned Paul
altruistically. "You don't mind sharing, so long as your share is a hell of
a lot bigger than his."
	"You are quite the mercenary little urchin, aren't you," sneered
Stennes.
	"If I wasn't, I wouldn't be here," retorted Paul. He pushed open
the door leading to the hotel lobby and entered, immediately wrinkling his
nose. The area was filthy, with little or any pretence at cleanliness or
even neatness. The overstuffed lounge chairs, which were placed
helter-skelter around the room, were spavined and torn, with grimy stuffing
showing through the tears. In one a mound of clothing seem to be piled. The
mound moved to reveal a dishevelled, unshaven man. The floor was littered
with bits and pieces of things that Paul did not want to think about. The
lobby smelled like a public urinal on a hot day. The man in the chair
smelled worse.
	At the front desk, which had been enclosed with Plexiglas, the lady
of the evening was engaged in a spirited and profane discussion with the
night clerk over the cost of a room. Her two Chinese johns glanced around
the lobby, two embarrassed young men who looked as if they would rather go
back to the dorm and beat off.
	"What a pit!" gasped Paul, his stomach churning.
	"The man we want is on the second floor," said Stennes, ignoring
the hooker as he walked briskly toward the stairs. There was an elevator
but there was an ill-printed sign declaring it "Out of Order".
	"It figures," Paul complained as he followed Stennes toward the
stairs.

******

	On the second floor, in a back room that overlooked an alley, Noel
grunted and snuffled, thrusting deep into the body of the young Chinese
male beneath him. The Chinese boy, who was barely 16, lay impassively as
the massive organ of the ferengi began to spasm. The ferengi squealed like
a pig and the boy felt the outpouring of semen filling his body.
	His orgasm fast becoming a memory, Noel rolled away from the boy
and lay on his back, panting. The boy rolled to the side of the bed, stood
up and immediately pulled on his blue jeans and dirty T-shirt. He had kept
his socks on, and never wore underpants when working. He looked at Noel and
held out his hand. "You pay!"
	Noel glowered at the boy. "Ten dollars," he muttered, reaching for
his wallet. "And not worth half that."
	"No. You pay," the boy repeated. "Twenny dollah, like you say!"
	"For what?" Noel demanded as he looked for a $10.00 bill. "Fucking
you was like fucking a dead fish!"
	The Chinese boy sneered. "Circle K Boys say twenny dollah."
	Noel knew better than to argue. If the kid worked for the Circle K
Boys, then . . . He found a $20.00 bill and tossed it in the boy's general
direction. "Take it and fuck off," he snarled.
	Snatching up the note, the boy turned and quickly opened the
door. He was surprised to see two men standing there, one old, the other
very young with blond hair. The older man rattled something in Cantonese
and the boy paled, then scuttled crablike past the blond man and hurried
down the dimly lit corridor. Paul and Stennes entered the foul-smelling
room and closed the door behind them.
	"Well, well, if it ain't the Fuehrer," declaimed Noel. He reached
down and hefted his semi-hard penis upright, pulling down the foreskin to
reveal the slimy, plum-coloured head as he did so. "Heil Hitler!"
	Both Stennes and Paul stiffened. Noel's obscene disrespect for the
dead man they both venerated was enough to ensure that the Scotsman would
not leave the room alive.
	As he continued to play with his penis, rolling the foreskin and
pulling it up and down, Noel sneered. "What then? Never seen a real man,"
he asked Paul.
	"You are either drunk or mad," snapped Stennes. His eyes drifted to
the grungy nightstand and saw the remnant of what liked several lines of
white powder. "I warned you about the cocaine," he snarled.
	"Fuck you," returned Noel. "You called me here, I'm here. I do what
I like."
	As Paul looked around the room, which smelled of sex and booze, it
was obvious that basic housekeeping was not included in the list of things
that Noel liked to do. The room looked as if it had not been cleaned in
years, and Noel's occupancy had obviously not improved the decor one whit.
	"What are you lookin' at, then?" Noel slurred at Paul. Then he
smiled lasciviously at Stennes. "Nice bit of fluff you have there, Eddy old
son." He waggled his now hard penis at Paul. "Up for a threesome?"
	Paul gagged at the thought of even being in the room with this
loathsome creature.
	Stennes placed his hand on Paul's shoulder. "He is not for the
likes of you," he told Noel sneeringly.
	"Not for the likes of me?" growled Noel as he pulled himself into a
sitting position. "The likes of me were all right when you paid me old Da
five Scottish pounds to pound my arse!" he glared at Paul. "Nine year old I
was, and the bastard hurt me!" He returned to looking daggers at
Stennes. "The likes of me were good enough to hold down Logan's son while
you raped him!"
	Paul's eyes widened in shock as he stared at Stennes and his jaw
dropped. He quickly decided that he would have to be much more circumspect
in goading the German.
	"Keep your mouth shut!" bellowed Stennes.
	Noel was not impressed. "Sod you, Eddy lad." He looked at Paul
again. "He's a right pig, is our Eddy," he sneered. "Likes to hurt the
lads, does Eddy. Likes to make 'em scream and bleed. Did he tell you the
lad took the easy way out?"
	Paul did not reply. He was not surprised at Noel's
accusations. Stennes was a pig.
	"You are a liar," growled Stennes. "And a thief."
	"Oh? And just what have I stolen?"
	"You were sent to Vancouver to report on the order. You did
not. You were paid to do so and that makes you a thief."
	"I sent reports," countered Noel. "There was nothing to tell." He
made a deprecating gesture. "They were a bunch of old men diddling little
boys." He grinned evilly. "But then you'd know all about diddling little
boys, wouldn't you."
	Stennes started to move toward Noel. Paul held up his arm, holding
the German back. "Perhaps if we discussed the matter calmly?" he asked as
he looked pointedly at Stennes. He then looked at Noel. "Herr Stennes
thinks that you've been holding back. Have you?"
	"What was there to hold back?" demanded Noel. "I watched a bunch of
dirty old men partying with little boys."
	Paul tried to keep the doubt from his voice as he asked, "And made
no effort to profit from what you saw?"
	"How could I?" returned Noel. "All right, they paid me good coin to
look the other way when they took the boys into their rooms, and yeah, I
did sometimes see things. But . . ." He held up one finger. "They might
have been old, and they might have been rich, but they weren't stupid! They
only called each other by their first names and they would have done me in
a minute if they thought I was spying, or taking pictures."
	Paul's eyes flashed at Stennes and then back to Noel. Mentioning
pictures had been a mistake on Noel's part. Stennes, and Paul, immediately
knew that he had taken photos of the wild goings-on.
	Pretending to be satisfied, Paul then asked, "And you never
suggested to any of the men that if they were not more than generous, that
your, um, knowledge, might find its way to the authorities?"
	"What, and fuck up a good thing?" Noel asked, pretending to be
indignant. "I was stuck in the middle of fucking nowhere with a bunch of
whining brats and old men who could only get it up once a week, if then!"
He looked deliberately at Paul. "Nobody signed a guest book, you know."
	"Then you have nothing to give us?" asked Stennes, taking Paul's
lead.
	There was actually quite a lot that Noel could give, what with what
he had stashed away in his safety deposit box, and in the bottom of his
carryon. But he would be damned if he were going to tell Stennes anything
further this night. "There's nothing to give," Noel said flippantly. "How
many times do I have to tell you?" He missed the look that passed between
Paul and Stennes.
	"In that case," Paul began flatly as he reached into his jacket.
	Noel's eyes widened and his mouth formed into a perfect "O", which
matched the muzzle of the pistol pointed at him, and almost matched the
small hole in his forehead that appeared when Paul pulled the trigger of
his 9mm. The Scotsman never heard the report and barely felt the back of
his head exploding, splattering blood and brains across the flyspecked
wallpaper behind the headboard of the bed.
	"I never could stand a liar," Paul observed as he holstered his
pistol.
	Stennes moved quickly, ignoring the blood and gore and the
excrement that soaked the mattress on which Noel's body lay. "Quickly,
search his case," Stennes ordered as he rummaged through Noel's suitcase.
	Paul found some papers, but never knew that there was a hidden
cache in the false bottom of the carryon. He quickly scanned the papers and
handed them to Stennes. "Looks like he put a little aside for his old age,"
he observed emotionlessly.
	"Bah, it is only money," returned Stennes. "Any lists? Any names?
Any photos?"
	Paul shook his head. "Nothing worthwhile." He glanced at Noel's
body splayed on the evil smelling bed. "Do we leave him?"
	"Take his money," replied Stennes as he pawed through the pockets
of Noel's trousers. He held up a set of keys. "Someone will find him and it
will look like a robbery. Don't touch anything and wipe down that case. And
pick up that shell casing. There must be nothing to indicate that we were
here."
	Taking the papers that they had found, Paul and Stennes went down
the back stairs and into the alley. Stennes could not believe how calm and
cold his protege was as they walked back toward Dundas Street. "You did
well, Paul," Stennes said, for the first time treating Paul as an
equal. "We will talk."
	"About?"
	"Let us just say that I have made plans for you." He smiled
grimly. "In time you will be well rewarded, meine Kleine
Sturbannfuhrer. Until then, you will return to Ottawa and go to Germany, as
planned. When we return to the residenz we shall talk, and I shall give you
some papers."
	"Papers?"
	Stennes smiled fondly at Paul. "As you have pointed out on numerous
occasions we are very much alike. I wish to ensure your future."
	Paul did not reply. A smile of satisfaction creased his face and a
strut developed in his gait. A promotion and a promise of a future. His
smile increased. No a bad night's work after all.