Date: Fri, 20 Feb 2004 15:25:43 -0500
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: Aurora Tapestry - Chapter 6

AURORA TAPESTRY is the third book in a series. It chronicles the lives and
times of a group of men and teenage boys living in an age and an
environment where being gay was to be despised, maligned and scorned. It is
a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or
places, is purely coincidental.

My writing reflects the customs, mores, traditions, prejudices and
attitudes of the times. The year is 1976 and it was a different world. Some
of the attitudes will no doubt offend those who are so determinedly
politically correct that they are unable to conceive that others might have
a different opinion or outlook. Others are so Liberal in their thinking
that they make Hillary Clinton look like Attila the Hen! And then there are
those that are into "causes". Please, do not write me hooting and hollering
about your cause, prejudices, preferences or whatever. I am not into
causes. I AM a grumpy old sailor and I do not suffer fools gladly. Be
warned.

IN 1976 the AIDS pandemic was only just infecting North America. Condoms
were used primarily to prevent pregnancy and gay men never gave a thought
to having sex with a condom. Do not, I beg you, let what was common in 1976
influence your conduct today. Always practice safe sex.

As my writings detail scenarios of gay sex - tastefully, I hope - in
sometimes graphic detail, I must warn that in some states, provinces,
cities and towns reading, possessing, downloading, etc., is illegal, or if
you are not of legal age to read, possess, download, etc., works of
erotica, please move on.

My thanks as always to Peter, my intrepid editor, who puts up with my
tantrums.


Aurora Tapestry - Chapter 6


A late night summer storm blew in from the Pacific and thunder crashed over
Heron Spit. In the Gunroom The Phantom awoke with a start. A combination of
a strange bed and the crashing thunder had made for a restless night. Below
him Harry was snorting and growling in his sleep. In the next bunk Greg,
who had been missing most of the evening, ostensibly working in the Ship's
Office, lay in drunken stupor. The Phantom stared at the slim, unmoving
Writer and shook his head. Greg's fear of discovery, his fear that his
latent homosexual tendencies, which had flared, briefly, with Stephen Tyler
Perkins, a young Able Cadet, and with Harry, would become known, had driven
him to paranoia, desperation, and the bottle. Vodka, The Phantom
thought. Little Big Man's treachery was a legacy that would live on in
Greg.

Beside Greg's bunk was Nicholas'. The tall, dark-haired Yeoman of Signals
slept on his side, deep in sleep. Another roll of thunder crashed through
the Gunroom and Nicholas stirred slightly. He was dreaming of Andre, his
French-Canadian lover, and a smile dominated his face.

Todd lay in the next bunk, awake, although The Phantom did not know
this. Todd had been on duty most of the day and while tired, sleep would
not come. He had tossed and turned after crawling into his bunk, trying to
focus on his life. At the far end of the Gunroom lay Harry, who had been
his lover. Next door, in the Petty Officers Mess lay Matt, who had wanted
to be Todd's lover. Todd had discouraged Matt, refusing to be a party to
what he thought was nothing more than a schoolboy infatuation. He now
realized how wrong he had been. Matt had loved him without reservation, as
Harry had not. Todd's life was a shambles, the only constants now being his
brother, and The Phantom. Rolling on his back, Todd stared into the
darkness, wondering just how he had managed to fuck up so much.

Cory's bunk was empty. He had quickly changed after going off duty and
hurried down to the Dockyard to meet Sean. He had stopped by the Mess Hall
after lunch looking for The Phantom and Joey had told him that The Phantom
had gone sailing . . . with Sean. Cory wanted a full report!

The double bunk across from Cory's was empty. Nathan and Fred had waited
until the Duty Hand had made Rounds and then slipped away to Mark's
behemoth. They were in the back seat of the black Imperial, locked in
passion. As the thunderstorm raged Nathan made slow, passionate love to
Fred.

The storm did not waken Chris or Jon. They had spent time together after
Lights Out, not making love, not having sex, content with just being
together.

Thumper's bunk was empty, as was Two Strokes'. They were on Watch, sitting
close together in the Guardhouse, hoping that they could sneak away, using
the pretext of doing a walk about as an excuse to rekindle the flames they
had lit in Boatswain Stores. Two Strokes sent the Duty Quartermaster over
to the Mess Hall for coffee and as the door slammed behind the YAG crewman,
he reached out and caressed Thumper's crotch. Soon they would find the few
moments they needed to be together.

In the Chiefs Mess Tyler slept soundly with Val at his side. There was not
all that much room for the both of them in the bunk, but they had managed
to sleep close. Across the small cabin Tony and Mark were also sleeping
together in Val's bunk, behind a blanket that they had draped from the bunk
Tony was supposed to be sleeping in. They had not made love. Just being in
each other's arms was enough.

In the Petty Officers Mess, two of the bunks were empty. Mike, the Chief
PTI and Phillip, called the Assistant had, like Thumper and Two Strokes,
waited until the Roundsman had gone through, and then hurried off to the
their small office in the Drill Shed. There they had reaffirmed their love
for each other.

Steve and Stuart were sound asleep. They had spent most of the evening in
the locked Boatswain Stores where, after carefully draping a blanket over
the window in the door, each boy had offered the other his
virginity. Neither had known what to expect and both were so enraptured
that they could barely speak, unable to express their joy at finally
expressing what they had both felt for so long. Now they slept, satisfied,
and more in love than ever before.

In his bunk, Matt lay half-awake, listening to the thunder, his blue eyes
half closed as his hand rubbed the front of his underpants gently. He was
remembering the night that he had spent in Cabin 5 with The Phantom and he
could feel the tingling sensation building deep within his groin as his
hand rubbed faster and faster.  Matt imagined once again The Phantom's
warm, gentle kisses as they made love, imagined once again the silky smooth
skin that disguised the inner hardness of The Phantom's penis, felt once
again the warm lips as they slowly caressed the head of his dick, and
. . . Matt arched his body and felt his orgasm explode, flooding his
tighty-whiteys with his semen. Gasping, he jerked and bucked until,
drained, he fell back against the mattress. He lay there until his
breathing slowed and then he slowly pushed down his underpants. As he
dropped the soiled briefs to the deck Matt suddenly remembered Todd. Then
he rolled on his side and hugged his pillow. Todd was in the past. He'd had
his chance and now Matt would move on.

n the Cooks Barracks, Sandro stood in the washplace, naked, admiring his
erection. He could do this because except for him, the barracks was
empty. Joey and Randy were in the Mess Hall lounge, cuddled against their
love, Phil Thornton. All three were naked, and all three were flushed from
the sex they'd had. Now the two younger boys, half asleep, listened
inattentively as Phil whispered their names over and over again and told
them how much he loved them. As Phil's words penetrated, Randy reached down
and cupped Phil's large testicles, while Joey's hand enveloped the broad,
arrow-shaped head of Phil's soft penis. Phil sighed happily and kissed the
top of each boy's head in turn, knowing that he would not be returning to
the Dockyard any time soon.

In Chef's office, at the opposite end of the building from the lounge, Ray
stirred as a clap of thunder set the windows to rattling, and hugged Kevin
closer.

Sandro knew where his fellow cooks were, and envied them all. The young
Russian stood before the mirror in the washplace, slowly retracting his
foreskin, wondering what Chad was doing this morning. Sandro had found love
at last, and all too soon it had been snatched away. Sighing, he looked
down at his semi-hard penis and laughed quietly. With the skin pulled back
his dick resembled Chad's, which Sandro thought was the most beautiful
thing he had ever seen. With his free hand he reached around and gently
rubbed his puckered entry. He felt his cock stiffening. Chad had done that
to him as he sucked him, his finger rubbing slowly and gently back and
forth across his anus. Just thinking of what Chad and he had done together
caused Sandro's body to tremble and before he knew it he was wracked with a
massive orgasm, his dick spurting three huge streams of spunk into the
sink. He thrust his hips involuntarily with each ejaculation, his breathing
shallow and hoarse until his discharge was reduced to a mere trickle. "Fuck
your mother," he declared harshly, in Russian. Fuck your mother!

Across the Parade Square the Officers' Mess was dark and silent. All the
cabins, save one, were empty. In their cabin, Andy and Kyle slept in Andy's
bed. They had made love, and then drifted off, happier than they had ever
been before, lovers destined never to be apart.

******

The Phantom was in that nether world between sleep and wakefulness when he
heard the creak of the door leading to the outside. He snuffled a bit and
rolled on his side, hugging his pillow and was just about to slip into
relaxed sleep when he felt his shoulder being roughly shaken. He struggled
and rolled, growling "What the . . ."

"What did you do to him?" came an angry hiss. "You did it! You did it!"

The Phantom shook off the shaking hand and opened his eyes. He shook the
sleep-induced fog from his brain and saw Cory staring back at him. "What
did I do?" he whispered as he rubbed his eyes. "And do you know what time
it is?"

"You turned my Sean into a Tiger!" came Cory's retort. "This morning he was
Casper Milquetoast, and tonight, Holy Jesus!" He shook his head and grinned
at The Phantom. "Talk about fireworks! Hell, it was like the Aurora
Borealis had gone off!"

The Phantom leaned forward and looked into Cory's blue eyes. Because it was
dark he couldn't see much. Still, he asked with a grin, "Do I detect a
twinkle in those blue eyes of yours?"

Cory began to twitch and all but exploded with enthusiasm. "Twinkle!
Twinkle does not begin to describe it!" he declared. "Phantom, you dog! You
did it and Sean was so . . . Harry, stop that!"

"What's he doing?" asked The Phantom, wondering just what was going on
below him.

"Damn it, Harry," growled Cory. He shuddered and snarled. "The fool is
pulling down my shorts! Now he's . . . AWK!"

The Phantom leaned over the edge of his bunk and saw that Cory's was all
but naked from the waist down. His shorts were around his knees and Harry's
tongue was circling the perfect head of Cory's rapidly inflating
penis. "Harry, have you no shame?" demanded The Phantom in a hoarse
whisper.

Harry let Cory's now hard penis fall from his mouth. "Nope." Then he went
back to sucking gently.

The Phantom lay back and sniggered. "Well, you do have to admit, Cory, that
it's a hell of a lot more pleasant than having your bum bitten!"

Cory ignored The Phantom and tried to pull away. Harry's broad hands
reached around his waist and pulled him closer. "Harry . . ." Cory grunted
as Harry's hands slid down and began to knead his firm buttocks.

The Phantom tried to maintain a studied indifference to what was happening
to Cory and failed miserably. He could feel the bunk shaking and bumping
against the bulkhead as Cory's hips began to thrust rhythmically and his
head rolled back. Suddenly, and much quicker than The Phantom thought it
would be, Cory suddenly stiffened and a long, low moan escaped his lips. He
gasped twice more and then pulled roughly away. "Damn you, Harry, you know
how sensitive I get!" he growled through pants of harsh breathing.

Harry smacked his lips, belched loudly and as he settled back he laughed
softly and sniped good naturedly, "Sean can't be that great a Tiger, seeing
as how he didn't empty the tank!"

******

Petey Rice heard the whistling long before the figure stepped from the
shadows and into the light. He looked at his watchmate, Lenny Winston and
asked, "Is that who I think it is?"

Lenny looked down the long wooden jetty and nodded. "I see it, I hear it,
but I don't believe it!" He snickered as the whistling grew louder,
recognizing the tune. Lenny's mother was the mainstay of the local
Community Theatre back home and he'd been dragged to every amateur musical
and play for as long as he could remember. His home was often filled with
the sounds of recorded show tunes. Lenny shook his head. Sean Anders, Iron
Ass Anders, was coming home, and he was whistling "Tonight", from "West
Side Story"!

Petey and Lenny watched, wide-eyed, as Sean all but skipped up the
gangway. They could not understand at all this new Sean, who was not only
violating a long-standing tradition by whistling - only the cooks were
allowed that privilege - he was positively dishevelled! His hair was awry,
his shorts were wrinkled and his gunshirt was not tucked into his shorts!
Not only that, Sean had the goofiest smile on his face!

"Good evening, gentlemen," Sean said as he braced to attention before
stepping onto the deck. "A wonderful night, isn't it?" He gave a winning
smile to both cadets.

Neither Petey nor Lenny thought it was a wonderful night at all. It was
thundering, and a light rain was beginning to fall. Lenny gave Petey a look
that asked, "And what has he been smoking?"

Petey suppressed a giggle and replied, "Uh, it's raining, Chief."

For the first time Sean seemed to notice his surroundings. "Ah, yes, so it
is. I hadn't noticed." The he did a most uncharacteristic thing. He pointed
to the wheelhouse settee and said, "It's a quiet night. Make sure that you
get some kip. Take turns."

Petey was astonished. The Sean Anders he knew would have raised holy hell
if he caught either of the watchmen taking a nap on duty. "Uh, you sure,
Chief?" he asked tentatively.

"Certainly," exclaimed Sean. "There's no point in both of you sitting up
waiting for something to happen. Take a nap!" He turned and was about to go
down the hatch leading to the berthing deck when he turned. "Even money
says that the Duty Officer is snoring away in the Guardhouse. What's sauce
for the goose is sauce for the gander!" With that he gave the two cadets a
cheery wave and disappeared below.

"Talk about the world turned upside down!" gasped Petey as the Squadron
Chief disappeared from sight.

Sean heard Petey's remark and smiled as he entered his small, cramped
cabin. He sat on his bunk, kicked off his sneakers, and then slowly
stripped off his gunshirt. His mind drifted back to the small clearing just
inside the tree line at the far end of the Spit as he ran his hands down
his smooth, taut torso. He pushed down his shorts and giggled. He wasn't
wearing any underwear! He reached down and lifted his sex-flushed penis and
his giggle turned into soft, rolling laughter. He'd left his tighty-whiteys
back where he and Cory had set metaphorical fireworks to exploding in the
wet night sky.

He continued to laugh and fondle himself as he crawled into his bunk. Sean
smiled happily and thought that Petey had been quite right. After tonight,
after his wonderful time with Cory, the world had indeed been turned upside
down!

******

What Sean did not know, what none of the Boys of Aurora knew, was that in
Vancouver a decision was about to be made, a decision that would impact on
their lives and change forever their perception of life.

******

As the line of thunderstorms moved east and The Phantom settled back to
sleep, across the Strait of Georgia Michael Chan strolled through the dark
gardens of his estate. Trailing at a distance was Major Meinertzhagen and
Laurence. Near the house, ready to spring into action if necessary, Patrick
Tsang stood watch.

Presently there came a low, muted rumble and the Major turned to
Laurence. "There is a storm approaching," he said, more to make
conversation than anything else.

"In more ways than one," replied Laurence quietly. He nodded with his chin
at the dimly seen Grand Master of the Order, who had stopped before a dark
bush.

The Major nodded but said nothing. The full impact of Chef's telephone
calls - he had called twice more - and the revelation that members of the
Order were involved in pedophilia and the buying and selling of children
had finally struck home and Meinertzhagen knew that it was taking every
ounce of Michael's self control not to explode in a killing rage. He waited
impatiently for Michael to make his decisions.

A bolt of lightning rent the blackness of the sky and Michael looked up. Hs
mind was racing and he felt ill. He had placed so much hope in the Order,
had trusted the men he had come to consider as his brothers and now
everything seemed to have turned to dust. How could he turn to the vast
population of gay men and ask them to trust him when the very men he had
relied upon to help him in his crusade had betrayed his trust? Behind him
stood two men whom he knew he could trust implicitly. In Toronto was
another man, two if he counted Acton Grimes. There were the Arundels, and
Gabriel Izard, and Joe Hobbes. There were Rick Maslen and his lover, Glenn
Britnell, in Ottawa.

"Too few," Michael muttered under his breath. He began to walk again,
considering his resources. He had the Tsangs, whose loyalty was beyond
reproach. But they were Chinese, and he needed men who would blend in, not
drawing attention to themselves. There were the cousins of course, although
they would not take kindly to being involved with something they did not
understand. He knew that he could rely on Joel, and Tommy Chan had proven
his loyalty on more than one occasion.

A shadow crossed Michael's path, startling him until he realized that it
was one of the perimeter guards. More Chinese, and while dedicated to his
person, they could not be used for anything other than service as
bodyguards. There was the outside Staff, Brits and Americans, but their
loyalty was based almost entirely on the amount of money in their pay
packets. They were mercenaries, hired for their brains and brawn. All were
ex-servicemen, and Michael could not trust that they would continue to
serve him if they knew that he was homosexual, or that he was the Grand
Master of an Order of homosexuals. Michael knew every armed service in the
civilized, and not so civilized world, abhorred homosexuality. He could
well imagine what his private soldiers might think about serving a
homosexual master!

There was also the question of money. The Major had said that the Order was
not without resources. This was true, and according to Chef the finances of
the Order had been increased by $10.37, donations from two boys. Chef had
insisted that it was a beginning and that the Order must act.

Michael agreed with Chef. The Order had to act, if only to rid itself of
the rot that had invaded its very structure; but how to act? How to punish
the Willoughbys, and the Hunters, the Simpsons? He could he supposed, turn
to the law. Bertie Arundel could use his contacts and given the present
moral climate, Simpson and his friends would feel the full force of outrage
and indignation. But was that enough? Michael knew that Simpson had a firm
of lawyers on retainer. Being lawyers they could tie a case up in the
courts for years. Simpson would in all probability never see the inside of
a jail, let alone a prison. Willoughby and Hunter were in this thing up to
their necks and Michael had no doubt that they would use all their
influence, all their contacts. Pressure, legal and political, would be
brought to bear. Every scrap of evidence would be scrutinized and
questioned, every action on the part of anyone remotely connected with this
horror would be examined, weighed in the balances and the slightest doubt
cast on one bit of information or evidence would cast a damning shadow on
all the information and evidence.

As the first scattered raindrops of the summer storm began to fall and
Michael wheeled and walked quickly back toward the house. No, he thought as
he climbed the short flight of steps that led to the terrace, the legal
system could not be trusted. He would speak with Bertie Arundel, but in the
end Michael knew what must be done.

Once inside, Michael settled behind his desk. Laurence and the Major
settled into the two chairs in front of the desk and Patrick Tsang moved to
stand near the door. Michael wondered why the young Chinese seemed to be
hovering about so much of late but decided not to pursue the
matter. Patrick would not be on guard unless he had been told to do so by
the Major. While it seemed that the Major was being over cautious, Michael
let Patrick's presence pass. His eyes flickered over the young man's body
and his heart skipped a beat as he thought that it was amazing that the
Tsangs could produce such a handsome specimen.

Shaking himself and dismissing Patrick Tsang from his thoughts, Michael
looked at the Major. They had neglected business far too much today. "The
matter of Willoughby and Company we will put aside for the moment," he said
quietly. "I should like to know what our financial situation is."

The Major gestured to Laurence who reached into the leather briefcase at
his feet and extracted a thick file. He placed it carefully on the desk in
front of Michael, cleared his throat, and said, "We have disposed of all
our stock in Willoughby's bank. We managed to clear just under a million
and a half, which in turn was invested in tax-free municipals. The bonds
issued by Hunter's brokerage house were sold, strangely enough, to
Simpson's bank. We believe he might be planning a takeover."

Michael considered this and nodded. "Or, the rats are panicking and Simpson
is making certain that they have the wherewithal to bolt to whatever holes
they've managed to find."

Nodding his agreement, The Major said, "They must know that something is
going on. A sudden run on their stocks would certainly pique their
curiosity."

"Or that of their Boards," replied Michael. "I believe that they know that
I am behind their sudden financial debacle." He pushed the file folder
away. "But, no matter. They are fools and will look upon our raid on their
market holdings as revenge for their conduct at the Conclave, and as an
attempt to recover some of the money they embezzled.  They have no idea
that we know about their other activities."

The Major grimaced. "Despicable creatures," he snarled angrily.

"Quite," returned Michael, his face blank. "And they will be treated as
such."

The Major cast a sideways glance at Laurence, who remained stoic. Then he
looked at Michael and asked quietly. "You will deal with them in your own
way?"

Michael nodded. "I have given much thought to the problem. Our campaign to
recover some of our lost monies is over. Now we will begin to sort out this
mess of pedophiles." His face became flushed with anger. "Chef has told me
that Chancellor Winslow's young man has said that something must be done."
He squared his shoulders. "So we shall do something."

Laurence reached into his briefcase for a pad of writing paper. Behind him,
Patrick Tsang stirred slightly. He had listened to the stories of his
elders and knew that Michael's "something" would be terrible to behold.

"Philip Lascelles, who seems a very intelligent young man - and I would
like to meet him, please, Major - has said that our first priority must be
the poor boys who have been enslaved. He is quite right. We must save them,
and quickly. The man, or men, who are the real 'bosses' in this trade will
not hesitate to remove the boys from their masters, and eliminate them if
they think the boys are a danger to them."

"We don't know how many boys there are," the Major pointed out. "We only
know of three, and according to Chef two of them would not want to be
'rescued'."

"Then they will be set free, to follow their own path," replied Michael
calmly. "Those who wish it will be given our protection."

"We will set up a safe house, then?" asked Laurence.

"We will." Michael rubbed the side of his nose, thinking. "We will need to
gather information first. We must know just how many boys there are, and we
must know who is behind this trade."

"We shall have to be very careful," reminded the Major needlessly. "We know
how ruthless these men can be." He shook his head. "We also do not know
just how many of our people are involved."

"Then we shall find out," returned Michael forcefully. He looked at Patrick
and gestured for him to come closer. "You will contact Cousin Roy, in
Montreal. He is to set up a surveillance of Willoughby's house and
business. He is to contact his friends in Toronto and do the same at
Simpson's residence. Tell him that I would deem it a personal favour if he
did this service for me."

Patrick nodded. Ru Yee, Roy, Chiang, was a man of great power in Quebec and
the Maritimes. He had the manpower and the resources needed to do what
Michael asked. Patrick quietly slipped away, looking for a telephone.

As Patrick left the office, Michael turned to Laurence. "You will contact
Acton Grimes. He is to initiate a friendship with Stephen Winslow. Together
they will meet with this Troubridge person and garner whatever information
they can." He turned to the Major. "They will also find a safe house in
Toronto. It need only be temporary until we can make permanent arrangements
for the boys we rescue."

"They will need money," replied The Major pragmatically. "Troubridge
strikes me as the type of person who gives nothing for nothing. We will
also have to arrange something for him. He will be in danger once his part
in this matter becomes known."

"If it is a matter of false papers, they can be arranged," replied Michael
flatly. "What is important now is that we gather as much information, from
whatever source, at whatever cost, to enable us to bring down this horrible
organization." The Major felt constrained to point out that the Order's
resources were not infinite. Michael agreed. "Joel has bragged that he can
access any bank account in the country. Let him do so! Bring Joseph Hobbes
back from Comox, and inform Gabriel Izard that he is moving into the
compound for a while. Together the three of them should be able to use that
very expensive, and cumbersome, computer to arrange the clandestine
transfer of funds."

The Major nodded and then said, "If anyone can do it, I believe Joel can."

"Then roust him from his bed. He is to begin at once." The Major was about
to rise from his chair when Michael's quiet voice stopped him. "There is
also the matter of manpower. I cannot use my Chinese resources for what we
must do. My business partners would grow suspicious and begin to ask
questions."

Nodding his understanding, Laurence said quietly, "We can use some of the
mercenaries."

Reluctantly, Michael agreed. "They will do what is asked of them, one
supposes, so long as they are paid," he replied sourly. "Dear Lord, I wish
that some of our Knights were younger!"

The Major harrumphed loudly, taking exception to Michael's words. "I am
still capable of performing, Michael. And Laurence is young, as is Noel!"

Michael's left eyebrow rose slightly. "Noel might be a young man,
Major. However, it would seem that he has found new interests to occupy
himself with."

Laurence swallowed nervously. "I have the feeling that he is not quite so
enthusiastic about joining the Order."

Shrugging phlegmatically, Michael replied, "It happens, Laurence, and there
is no reflection of you." He looked pensive for a moment, and then added,
"Noel has left the compound for the evening. He is visiting a gentlemen
friend."

The Major started. He had been so wrapped up in the business of ruining
Willoughby he had neglected his primary duties. "I do apologize, Michael,"
he said shamefaced. "I should have known."

"You had more important things to occupy your time than to monitor the
movements of a footman," replied Michael kindly. "Do not worry yourself
about Noel. The man Noel is seeing is only interested in bedding him and
poses no danger to us." He laughed tonelessly. "From what Cousin Tommy
tells me, it is a business arrangement. The man is very generous."

"Perhaps he would float us a loan?" asked the Major, smiling, trying to
lighten the mood in the room.

Michael smiled and shook his head. "Now why would we need a loan? Why, we
have at least $10.37 in our coffers." He saw the quizzical looks on
Laurence's and the Major's faces. "Young Lascelles donated $5.37 to found a
hospital. A friend of his . . ." he quickly consulted a scribbled note on
his desk and continued on, " . . . one Sean Anders, gave $5.00." A strange
look came over Michael's face. "They are so young," he murmured, almost to
himself. But what choice did he have? He looked at the Major. "I have
decided that some changes need to be made."

The Major glanced at Laurence, whose face remained blank. Then he looked at
Michael. "Changes?" he asked.

Nodding, Michael began to explain what he wanted. "We cannot depend on our
present roster of Knights. Oh, Stephen Winslow, Rick Maslen, some of the
others can be relied upon. As for the others . . ." He shrugged
expressively. "We know that someone was protecting Simpson, someone within
the organization. I believe that the late Grand Master was that someone. I
do not believe that Simpson's activities could have been kept so deep a
secret that no one in the Order knew of them."

Michael's belief sounded logical. The late Grand Master had clung to power
even on his deathbed. Before he died he had also ordered the destruction of
many of the Order's papers. The members of his personal household had
disappeared. It was all too neat for the Major's liking. He sighed
heavily. "It all seems so . . . unbelievable!"

"Why?" asked Michael. "The late Grand Master was in office for something
like forty years. He knew many secrets - secrets he took to the grave with
him, secrets he did not want revealed."

Laurence shook his head. "And in doing so, sowed the seeds of the
destruction of the Order."

"Perhaps," said Michael blandly. "The Order has survived 900 years and
more. It has risen from the ashes before and it will do so again."

"You have a plan, I take it?" asked the Major.

"I have a plan," confirmed Michael. He pointed a finger at the Major. "You
are confirmed as Keeper of the Common Treasure and raised to the rank of
Knight of Justice, and granted Letters Patent as Duke of Anhalt and Dessau,
with the honourific of Serene Highness." He turned to Laurence and said,
"You are raised to the rank of Professed Knight of Honour and Devotion, and
granted Letters Patent as Margrave of Carpathia, with the honourific of
Serene Highness. Bertie Arundel is granted Letters Patent as Margrave of
Istria, with a special remainder that the title will be inherited, and
shared, by his sons, Todd and Cory, who are named Pages of Honour to the
Grand Master; Louis Arundel is granted Letters Patent as Count of Bregenz,
with a special remainder that the title will be inherited by his former
ward, Gabriel Izard."

Laurence, who had been scribbling madly, raised his head. "With respect,
Grand Master, do you have the authority to make these appointments, to
grant patents of nobility?"

"I have," replied Michael firmly. "The authority of the Grand Master has
not been used in over three hundred years. Now it will be." He saw the
questioning looks on both the Major's and Laurence's faces. "My authority
is the Papal Bull issued by His Holiness Gregory VIII, which granted the
Order sovereignty from the bishops, which is buttressed by Letters Patent
issued in 1355 by His Imperial Majesty, Charles IV, Holy Roman Emperor,
creating the Grand Master, his heirs and successors as Counts Palatine, and
confirmed by His Imperial Majesty, Charles V in Letters Patent issued on
the 10th of May 1557."

The Major looked sheepish. "I should have known, Michael."

Michael smiled and waved away the Major's apology. "You were more concerned
with the present than the past. Rightly so! Now, we will use the past the
help us shape the present!" He scratched his jaw and then nodded his head,
as if confirming a thought. "Rick Maslen is raised to the rank of Professed
Knight of Justice, and granted Letters Patent as Duke of Holstein in the
Austrian Peerage. All the others are named Peers of the Holy Roman Empire."

Laurence was about to mention Chef, and Stephen Winslow, when Michael
seemed to read his mind. "I have not forgotten Chef. Or Stephen." He
reached into the middle drawer of his desk and withdrew a large leather and
gold-tooled binder. "Chef is raised to the rank of Knight of Grace and
Devotion. He is granted Letters Patent as Duke of Lorraine and Styria, with
the honourific, Serene Highness. He is further named Hospitaller of the
Order." He smiled sternly. "And he is not to sell his ring!"

"And Stephen?" asked the Major, wondering when the awarding of honours
would end.

Michael folded his hands over the gold-tooled binder and looked at Laurence
and the Major in turn. "Stephen is our hope, our future. He has a sense of
duty and honour that rivals my own! He will not compromise, nor will he
surrender or bend to the will of others. His sense of justice is
unparalleled and his judgment of the characters of other men has yet to be
proven wrong."

Suddenly, Michael stood up, left his desk and walked over to the tall
cabinet that dominated one side of the room. He opened a door in the
cabinet, revealing a small safe. Carefully he dialled the combination and
when the door swung open he extracted a large blue leather jeweller's box
emblazoned with the Arms of the House of Hapsburg. He handed the box to the
Major and gestured for the man to open it.

Inside the box was a bejewelled collar, each link fine gold. The "flints"
that separated the links were made from carved emeralds, and the Golden
Fleece pendant adorned with rubies. The Major's eyes widened in surprise
and awe. "The Golden Fleece!" he explained softly. "An Imperial Golden
Fleece!"

"In 1712 the Emperor Charles VI granted to his cousin, the Archduke
Maximilian Alexander, who was the then Grand Master, the Order of the
Golden Fleece, with the remainder that the Collar and Fleece were to be
worn by all succeeding Grand Masters."

Laurence nodded. "You wear that collar!" he said. "But this, this is a
different insignia."

"On his death the Emperor willed the Collar to the Order as a special mark
of his favour. With it came Letters Patent granting the Grand Master the
authority to create a new member of the Order of the Golden Fleece. The
honour was to be awarded only to a knight of exceptional honour, devotion,
and bravery. Until now such a knight has never been found." Michael cleared
his throat. "Stephen Winslow, Chancellor of the Sovereign Order of St. John
of the Cross of Acre, is hereby raised to the rank of Professed Knight of
Magistral Grace, Donat and Justice, and granted Letters Patent as Archduke
of Trieste and Protector of the Hospital at Jerusalem. He is named Champion
of the Order and awarded the Order of the Golden Fleece, together with a
Patent of Nobility in the Austrian Peerage as Margrave of Salzburg."

When he returned to his seat Michael regarded the other men. "Understand,
my friends, that I am not playing at bread and circuses. I am not Napoleon,
handing out marshal's batons from my saddlebag. These honours that have
been given to you did not, as the English would say, come up with the
rations. They are marks of my trust in you, in your abilities and in your
honour as Knights." He reached out his hands. "My life, the future of the
Order, is in your hands, and in the hands of the men I have named this
evening. I beg you, do not betray that trust."

The Major rose stiffly and bowed from the neck. "I pledge you, Grand
Master, my life and my honour. I pray that I will be worthy of your trust."

Laurence stood and bowed. "I too, pledge you my life. I am unworthy of the
honours bestowed on me, but I swear on my honour as a man, as an officer in
the Royal Marines, and as a Christian, to be faithful to you."

Michael beamed. "You honour me with your presence and I am proud to call
you my brothers." Then he sighed. "And now, my brothers, we must begin to
rebuild our Order." He handed the Major a piece of paper on which was a
list of names.

The Major read the list of names with increasing intrepidation. When he was
finished he shook his head. "With respect, Michael, some of them are so
young! Why, some of them are barely into puberty!"

Michael had expected opposition and returned the Major's gaze. "I was 9
years of age when Uncle Henry introduced me to his business. When I was
sixteen, Joey Tsang paid the price for his disloyalty." He looked sternly
at the Major. "Do not underestimate the wisdom of youth, or the enthusiasm
they possess." He shrugged. "In the event, they will not be put in harm's
way if it can be avoided." Michael pointed at a name on the list. "This
young man, what has become of him?"

Laurence read the name. "Logan Hartsfield?"

Michael nodded.

"He has been watched, as the Chancellor requested," advised Laurence. "He
is living in a small flat above the grocery store where we arranged a
situation for him. He has also applied to join the Army. When the paperwork
is completed I expect that he will be off to basic training."

Michael rubbed the side of his nose, a sure sign that he was thinking
deeply. "Young Hartsfield is a child of the streets," he said
presently. "From all accounts he is quite capable of looking after himself
in a sticky situation. He has also bonded, in a way with one of the boys in
AURORA?"

The Major, who had a memory for such things, nodded as he said, "Yes, Brian
Venables, a Gunnery Petty Officer. He seemed quite impressed with
Hartsfield, at least according to the Chancellor."

"Then ring Joel and tell him that Cousin Tommy is to contact Hartsfield and
say to him that I wish him to perform a service for me."

A look of surprise formed on the Major's face as he asked, "Cousin Tommy
and Joel . . .?"

"They are adults and what they do in the privacy of Joel's apartment is
their business."

The Major wondered how Michael knew that Joel and Cousin Tommy were
sleeping together but said nothing. When Michael said that it was their
business the matter was closed, and would not be mentioned again.

"Call Acton Grimes," continued Michael, "And tell him that I wish . . ."

******

The telephone on the bedside table jangled noisily. Joel, who was in bed
with Tommy Chan, ignored the noise, enjoying the feelings of rapture that
captured him as Tommy slowly thrust in and out of his body. As he
approached his climax Tommy's hand reached down to grasp Joel's throbbing
erection. Both men were lost in passion. Joel could feel Tommy's hot breath
on the back of his neck, could feel Tommy's thick penis probing deep within
him. Deep within his own body waves of pleasure crashed through Joel as the
head of Tommy's thrusting organ brushed again and again against his
prostate.

The wave of pleasure began rising and Joel's sphincter clamped down on
Tommy's penis. Groaning, Joel orgasmed and almost immediately Tommy let out
a small yelp. Joel could feel Tommy's penis throb and twitch and then felt
the wetness as his bowels were filled with Tommy's seed.

Both men continued to groan and shudder until finally, Joel could no longer
stand the noise. He reached over and snatched the telephone receiver from
its cradle and snarled into the mouthpiece, "What!"

Tommy, who was still hard and firmly embedded in Joel, paid no attention to
the whispered conversation that Joel was having over the telephone. Tommy
had never been happier in his life and, lost in the throes of wicked sex,
began to lick and suck the back of Joel's neck. Joel, who was trying to
have an intelligent conversation, bit his lower lip in an effort to stifle
his moans of pleasure. He pushed back as Tommy pushed in and held the
telephone receiver in a death grip. When the Major - it was he on the other
end of the line - finally rang off Joel let out a loud moaning groan. Then
he began wiggling and wriggling, forcing Tommy to adjust his thrusting and
his position. Very soon Joel was on his back, with his legs wrapped around
Tommy's waist. Tommy's nose was buried in the valley of Joel's shoulder and
his harsh breathing vied with the grumbling thunder that broke the silence
of the bedroom. Very soon the tempo of Tommy's thrusting increased and his
grip on Joel tightened. His breath came in quick, ragged gasps and then he
let out a long, low, "Fuuuccckkk!" His body stiffened and he thrust upward,
shuddering as his second orgasm overwhelmed him.

Joel held Tommy close until his orgasm had passed and he rolled away, his
softening penis falling from Joel's body with a soft "plop". When he had
caught his breath Tommy smiled at Joel and said, "Now for the main event."
He raised his legs and pulled them back, whispering for Joel to fuck him.

"For someone who is supposed to be straight you sure like getting it up the
ass," observed Joel as he pressed the crisp, warm, circumcised glans of his
penis against Tommy's pink rosebud. Then he pressed forward, pausing when
the head of his penis was inside of Tommy.

Tommy grimaced and grunted at the intrusion, then reached around and pulled
Joel into him. "And for someone who is supposed to be a bottom, you sure
know how to bring the straight boy off!"

******

Joel and Tommy came again within seconds of each other and when he was
finished Joel rolled away, off the bed, and padded into the bathroom. He
returned with a bowl of warm water scented with lilac water and carefully
cleansed Tommy's body of his ejaculate. He was particularly careful when he
pushed back Tommy's foreskin to clean the light purple glans. Tommy was
very sensitive after sex and he groaned happily as his penis was
cleaned. "Fuck, Joel," he murmured, "Nobody as ever cleaned me like that
before."

"Nobody but me has sucked your dick," rejoined Joel with a slight
frown. Tommy was a brilliant fuck but his dick, being uncircumcised, needed
frequent cleaning to rid it of the lingering odour of smegma, and the faint
taste of urine and sperm that seemed to gather in the folds of skin
covering the glans.

When he was finished Joel washed his stomach and genitals, and then poked
Tommy in the ribs. "Time to get moving."

Tommy, who was looking forward to a long nap, allowed a look of surprise to
cross his face. "Moving where?" he asked as he raised himself on one
elbow. "And who was on the telephone? It wasn't Pavel, was it?"

Joel laughed and shook his head. Pavel had returned from the baths to find
Joel and Tommy in a most compromising position. In a fit of pique the young
Pole had stormed from the apartment, vowing never to return. "It was
Richard Meinertzhagen," said Joel as he bent down to retrieve his
underpants from the floor beside the bed. "He has work for me and told me
to tell you that Michael wants you back at the compound."

"Jesus!" exclaimed Tommy. "Meinertzhagen knew that I was here?"

Joel snickered at Tommy's discomfiture. "Don't worry, your 'secret love'
will remain a secret." He pulled on his underpants. "Now, get out of bed
and get a move on."

"Did the Major happen to say just why I'm required at the compound?" asked
Tommy as he began dressing.

Shrugging, Joel went to fetch a clean shirt for Tommy. As he handed the
crisply starched shirt to his cousin, Joel said diffidently, "All he said
was that you were to find someone named Logan Hartsfield and you were to
bring him to the compound. Who is Logan Hartsfield?"

Cousin Tommy knew that Joel was not privy to any of the Order's secrets and
knew better than to lift the veil of secrecy. "Just a young man Michael
knows," replied Tommy enigmatically.

As Tommy began fumbling with his tie, Joel reached out. "Here, let me do
that," he said quietly. He expertly knotted the coloured length of cloth,
then patted Tommy's chest. "There."

Tommy saw the twinkle in Joel's eyes and leaned forward to kiss him. "You
know that I'm falling in love with you," he said softly.

Sighing, Joel turned away. "You're married, Tommy, and you have three
sons," he reminded Tommy.

"My wife is happy if I keep her supplied with money and long ago lost
interest in sleeping with me," replied Tommy with a scowl. "I can be a good
father and be in love with you!"

Joel shook his head. "Nobody knows about us, Tommy, except Michael and the
Major. We had better keep it that way."

"Why, dammit?" demanded Tommy angrily. "I want to be with you and you want
to be with me!"

Joel never lied to those he loved, and he did not lie now, though he knew
it would have been better if he did. "Tommy, I won't deny that I have
always had deep, strong feelings for you. In a way, yes, I am in love with
you. But . . ." Joel sat on the bed and raised dark, concerned eyes at
Tommy. "I have nothing to lose by being your lover. You, on the other hand,
would lose your children. Sleeping with me on the quiet is one
thing. Living openly with me, in a homosexual relationship, is quite
another and because I love you I will not let you do it." He raised his
hand and slowly caressed Tommy's cheek. "And I do love you, Tommy."

Tommy rested his hand on Joel's and then leaned forward to kiss him
gently. When he drew back Tommy's eyes were bright with the love he felt
for Joel and the anger at a society that would take away his most precious
sons. Joel was right, of course, and Tommy knew it. The Chinese culture
abhorred homosexuality and Tommy's wife, aided and abetted by his in-laws,
would see to it that he never saw his children again if he left her for
Joel. Tommy sighed unhappily. "One day," he vowed under his breath. "One
day!"

******

In Toronto the heat wave that had enveloped the city continued unabated and
the humidity hung over the city like a pall. In Acton Grimes' apartment The
Gunner, sweating profusely, left Ace's bed, picked up his packet of
cigarettes, and walked naked to the small balcony overlooking Bloor
Street. He was sufficiently high up not to have to worry about casual
passers-by and all the windows in the building opposite were dark. He
settled onto a cushioned, cast iron chair and smoked contentedly. He heard
the jangling of the telephone but ignored it.

Presently a new, louder noise broke the silence. Ace, cursing and snarling,
was awake. The Gunner heard the crash of something falling into the floor
and then Ace's snarled greeting. For a long time there was silence and then
came snatches of a one-sided conversation. The Gunner's ears perked up when
he heard Ace say, "Yes, Laurence."

The Gunner, his curiosity piqued, continued quiet as he listened carefully
as Ace switched on a reading lamp, the weak beam of light breaking the
blackness of the night, and continued his conversation. There was another
long pause and then Ace said, "I've already done that and . . ."

It was obvious that whoever was on the other end of the line had
interrupted Ace abruptly. The Gunner leaned forward in his chair, cocking
his head and listening. Presently Ace spoke softly, "Dear God! And the
Grand Master knows?"

At these words The Gunner stiffened. Grand Master? Laurence? His natural
caution aroused his suspicions. Just what connection did Ace have with a
"Grand Master"? How did he know a "Laurence"? Ace had given no indication
that he was a member of the Order, and he did not wear the ring of a
Knight. Yet it seemed obvious that Ace was involved with the Order, but
how?

The Gunner mashed his half-smoked cigarette into the glass ashtray on the
small glass-topped table that stood near the door. He skewed uncomfortably
and peered through the open window of the bedroom and saw Ace sitting on
the bed, a serious look on his face, the telephone receiver clasped to his
ear. While The Gunner watched, Ace reached out to rummage in the bedside
table drawer for a pen and a pad of paper.

As he watched with growing frustration and impatience, The Gunner heard Ace
give further evidence that whatever he was up to without doubt involved the
Order. Ace made further muttered references to the Grand Master, and once,
to the Major. "Just what in the hell is going on?" The Gunner asked himself
as he watched Ace scribbling madly on the tablet of paper. As he took notes
Ace's face revealed a theatrical range of emotions - from surprise, to
amusement, to puzzlement, to fury, to acquiescence, and finally, to
determination.

As Ace continued his whispered conversation, The Gunner turned to stare
into the darkness, barely noticing the buildings surrounding the small
terrace, and not hearing the angry bleats and rush of tires from the
traffic in the street below. Why would Ace not tell him about his
involvement with the Order, and why would Laurence call Ace in the middle
of the night? The Gunner temporized. It was entirely possible that Ace was
not a Knight, that he could be merely one of Michael Chan's many
correspondents and therefore could not know that The Gunner was
Chancellor. It could be mere coincidence that he and Ace had met, and
urgent telephone calls in the middle of the night were hardly rare
occurrences. But . . . The Gunner did not believe in coincidences and this,
this was all a bit much to be a coincidence!

Determined to confront Ace, The Gunner stood up and was about to return to
the bedroom when Ace hung up the telephone. He saw The Gunner standing in
the doorway. He also saw the determined look on his lover's face and asked,
"You heard?"

"I heard enough," replied The Gunner. "When were you going to tell me that
you were a Knight, Acton?" He glared at Ace. "That's is, if you are a
Knight!"

Ace recognized the icy tones and sighed. "Steve, I . . ."

"What did they tell you? Afford me every courtesy? Fuck me and keep me
happy?" demanded The Gunner angrily. "And what did Laurence want? A
report?"

"Don't be an ass, Steve," returned Ace. He stood up, pushed past The Gunner
and walked out onto the balcony. He regarded the sleeping city around him
and then took a seat on the wooden bench that ran the length of the
balcony. He heard The Gunner come onto the deck and the slight squeak as he
sat down on the chair. Ace turned and saw The Gunner staring at him. He
stared at The Gunner for a long time, gathering his thoughts, his eyes
boring into the man he was falling in love with. "You were not just a fuck,
Steve, never!" he said slowly, trying to keep his emotions under control.

"Then what was I? What am I? And what is Laurence doing calling you in the
middle of the night?"

"I will answer all of your questions," replied Ace. He resisted the urge to
reach out and take The Gunner in his arms as he said, "When your aunt died,
and I was told that you were coming out to the funeral, Major Meinertzhagen
asked me to keep an eye on you, to give you emotional support, and to just
be as helpful as possible."

"Including seducing me?" asked The Gunner dryly.

Ace smiled and shook his head. "It was never asked of me. Sleeping with you
was a pleasant, and surprising bonus. And sleeping with you was entirely my
idea. The moment I saw you come into the house I wanted to sleep with you."
He shrugged expressively. "I meant it when I said you were never a fuck!"

"Then you had no ulterior motives?" asked The Gunner. He was, frankly,
suspicious. He barely knew Acton Grimes and if Acton, who had to know that
he was the Chancellor, had crawled into his bed in the hopes of rewards
within the Order, Acton was about to be sorely disillusioned. "You are a
member of the Order, and yet you do not wear the ring," The Gunner said,
his words flinty.

"Nor do you!" returned Ace, his words just as hard-edged as The
Gunner's. If Steve was implying what Ace thought he was implying, well he
was in for a rude awakening. "I don't wear the ring because it would draw
too much attention, evoke questions from my father that I am not yet
prepared to answer." He looked sternly at The Gunner as he added, "And I
didn't sleep with you because you are the Chancellor! I slept with you
because I'm . . ."

"Don't say it, Ace," interrupted The Gunner. "I told you, I'm committed to
someone else. I like you, I want to be with you, but I am not in love with
you."

"I know that!" snapped Ace with a grimace. He squared his
shoulders. "Steve, I am in love with you, and you cannot change that. I
also know that soon, very soon, you'll be out of my life, and I cannot
change that. I meant no disrespect, had no ulterior motives, when I slept
with you. I think now, however, that I made a mistake."

"Really?" asked The Gunner, his eyes widening slightly.

Nodding, Ace continued. "I should have kept our relationship on a
professional basis. I should have told you from the get go that I am a
Knight. I apologize for that. I do not apologize for what has happened
between us."

The Gunner folded his arms across his chest. "And now?"

Gazing off into the distance, Ace replied, "That is up to you. In the mean
time, I have a message to convey, Chancellor," he finished formally.

Groaning, The Gunner reached out and pulled Ace to him. "Don't, asshole! I
made a mistake in suspecting you. I'm sorry for that."

"Apology accepted," replied Ace briskly. He pulled away and returned to the
bench. "I still have a message for you, from Michael Chan."

The Gunner groaned inwardly. He had insulted Acton, knew it, was sorry for
it, and had not the slightest clue how he was going to make it up with the
young man. "Very well, Sir Acton," The Gunner said with heavy
emphasis. "Your Chancellor is listening."

Ace shook his head. "Laurence asked me to contact you - if I had not
already done so - and inform you that there is Order business to be done."
A doleful look crossed Acton's face. "Laurence did not go into detail, but
there is something dreadful going on. It involves Percy Simpson."

"Simpson!" snarled The Gunner. "I wouldn't soil my hands with him! He's a
thief and a liar and God only knows what else!"

"He is also a paedophile," said Ace quietly.

The Gunner felt his stomach heave. "A paedophile?" he asked, his voice
shaking with indignation. "How can that be? How is that a Knight . . .?"

"It gets worse," interjected Ace. "For some time now there has been an
investigation into Simpson's involvement in missing funds, which you know
about."

"He and Willoughby and Hunter stole big bucks," confirmed The Gunner with a
wry smile. "But what has that got to do with Simpson being a paedophile?"

"I have no idea," replied Ace. "I only know what Laurence told me, and that
was not much!" He looked at The Gunner, his eyes sad. "Steve, we are to
contact a man named Troubridge. He is Simpson's butler and has information
that will confirm Simpson's activities in what is turning out to be a ring
of boy lovers buying and selling young boys and . . ."

The Gunner's jaw dropped. His eyes were wide with shock and
disgust. "Simpson . . . boys . . ." he began, trying to retain some
semblance of calm. "A ring of men selling . . .?"

"And this Troubridge is to provide the proof that Knights of the Order were
involved," said Ace. "You and I are to arrange a meeting with him -
Laurence gave me a telephone contact number - and find out what Troubridge
knows."

Shaking his head, The Gunner reached for his cigarettes. After lighting up
he smoked a bit, and then regarded Ace. "And report back, or take action?"

"We do nothing but listen and learn," replied Ace. "We are on a fishing
expedition, nothing more."

"And God knows what fish we'll catch," said The Gunner. "Simpson is tight
with Willoughby and Hunter." His eyes bore through the darkness as he
stared at Ace. "This could get . . . messy," The Gunner warned.

"I expect it will," replied Ace with a small smile. "And if it does I shall
serve with honour the Champion of the Order."

"The what?"

Ace did not immediately reply. He leaned forward, placed an elbow on his
knee and cupped his chin in the palm of his hand. He stared at The Gunner,
smiling softly.

The Gunner had no idea what Ace was up to now, and was not in the mood for
foolishness. "I suppose that in the fullness of time you will tell me what
in the hell you're talking about!" snapped The Gunner. "And why are you
looking at me that way?"

Ace grinned in spite of himself. Then he said seriously, "I'm just
wondering if a cat may look at an Archduke."

"Whatever are you on about?" asked The Gunner frostily. First Ace natters
on about Champions of the Order and now he's on about cats! "Who is a cat,"
he growled, "and who is an Archduke?"

Ace could not resist. He pointed at his chest, waggled his soft penis at
The Gunner, and growled a long, low "Meow!"

Completely taken aback, The Gunner's eyes widened. "I'm an Archduke?" he
asked in a shocked whisper.

"Amongst other things," replied Ace with a grin. "Now, let me see if I can
remember everything Michael told me." He began ticking off items on his
fingers. "Let's see, oh, yes, raised to the rank of Professed Knight of
Magistral Grace, Donat and Justice, and created Archduke of Trieste and
Protector of the Hospital at Jerusalem."

"Jerusalem?" interrupted The Gunner. "There is no hospital at Jerusalem."

"It's a title, Steve," replied Ace. "And we are to found a hospital here."

"What?"

Shrugging, Ace continued, "Don't ask me. Laurence told me that Michael
wants us - that's thee and me - to found a hospital. We even have a
budget."

"We do?"

"Yes, $10.37!" announced Ace waspishly.

"You're joking," insisted The Gunner.

"Not at all," replied Ace with a straight face. "I would never joke at the
expense of the Champion of the Order and a Knight of the Golden Fleece."

The Gunner, who was not entirely sure that Ace was not joking, flung his
cigarette to the decking of the balcony. "Now really, Ace, that is too
much. You can only carry a joke so far and . . ."

"I am not joking, Stephen," replied Ace in all seriousness. "You are
everything I said you were." Then he knelt between The Gunner's legs,
licked the head of his warm dick, and growled, "Meow!"

When he stopped laughing The Gunner gently pushed Ace away. "I don't think
the neighbours are quite ready for a floor show," he said with a
grin. "Behave and tell me everything, if there is anything more to tell."

Looking disappointed, Ace resumed his seat. "That's it. We contact this
Troubridge, we establish a hospital, and we report back and await
developments. What future role you - or I - will have in this Laurence did
not say."

"We will have a role, you and I," said The Gunner ominously. He stood up
and a dark, menacing look came over his face. "It will not be pleasant, I'm
thinking," he said, his voice low. He held out his hand. "Never compare
yourself to a cat, Acton, and always remember that the Chancellor and
Champion of the Order regards you as a friend . . . and a lover." He
squeezed Ace's hand gently. "I am like Michael Chan, Acton. We will not
countenance betrayal, nor disloyalty, nor dishonour. If you follow me, if
you walk at my side, know that if the allegations against Percy Simpson are
proved Michael Chan will have no mercy." The Gunner's eyes hardened. "Nor
will I!"

Ace allowed himself to be led back into the apartment, wondering just what
sort of a man he had fallen in love with.

To Be Continued in Chapter 7