Date: Tue, 26 Jul 2005 08:26:54 -0400
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: The Knights of Aurora 4

"The Knights of Aurora" 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.

The Knights of Aurora

Chapter 4

The Hospital of Saint John of the Cross of Acre, Arnprior, Ontario, Present
Day.

	Jergen snuggled closer to Jeremie Cher and sighed. "Do you remember
that night in Toronto, the night we were all put to bed?"
	"Of course I remember," replied Jeremie. He looked down and said
warningly, "I thought we had to get ready for the Ceremony."
	"We do," said Jergen. "It is just that I am far too happy admiring
the most beautiful man I have ever known." He gently ruffled Jérémie's
pubic hairs. "And I still think you should have entered that contest!"
	Staring, Jérémie asked, "You remember?"
	"Of course," replied Jergen. He impulsively fondled Little Jeremie,
who was snuggled against Jérémie's leg, fast asleep. "I remember the first
time with you. I remember everything you told me." He glanced up and looked
into Jeremie Cher's deep brown eyes. "I remember how you told me about
Phantom's dream."
	"Phantom's dream," whispered Jeremie. "I remember him telling us
about it. I remember it all."
	"That was the true beginning," said Jergen.

******

The Hospital of Saint John of the Cross of Acre, Kensington, Toronto, 1976

	Jérémie Cher looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror and
smiled. It was good to be in a washplace that didn't have forty other guys
jockeying for a position under the showerheads, good to be able to
luxuriate under the hot spray of water and not have some officious Chief
come roaring in and yell at everybody for wasting water. He reached out and
took one of the towels that were neatly folded on the shelf beside the
toilet. Gosh, he thought idly as he finished drying his slim, and very trim
body, this is soft! Which was a change from his usual towel, which he had
to launder himself and he always forgot the softener!
	After wrapping the towel around his waist, Jérémie ran his hand
across his chin, thinking that he should shave. He had a definite shadow,
but then he'd been shaving for two years now. He looked around the small,
brightly lit and even brighter tiled bathroom and swore under his
breath. His shaving kit...he'd left the brown leather bag containing his
razor and shaving cream, underarm deodorant and assorted unguents and
aftershave in the bedroom. With a low muttering swear word, Jérémie
returned to the bedroom. He saw that Jergen, who had showered earlier, was
comfortably settled on one of the twin beds, idly scanning a book. Jérémie
smiled and reached out for his shaving kit, which sat on the long, dresser
that dominated one side of the room. He held up the kit for Jergen to see
and then returned to the bathroom.
	Inside the shower Jérémie scrubbed and soaped his body, luxuriating
in the steamy water. He shampooed his hair and used some of the foamy suds
under his arms, and then on his dense, black, thatch of pubic hair. He
rinsed and reached for the face cloth that he had left hanging on the
taps. As he always did when he showered, he rolled back the thick foreskin
that covered the light purple glans of his penis.
	At the first touch of the washcloth Jérémie sucked in his
breath. Damn, he was horny! The exposed head of his penis was extremely
sensitive, the more so as he had not masturbated, which he usually did at
least twice a gay. As he gently cleaned under the crisp ridge of his penis,
Jérémie was tempted. He could feel his thick penis start to chubb, and he
slowly began to rub the warm, soft skin. Then he remembered where he was
and who was lounging in the next room.
	Muttering another swart oath Jérémie quickly turned off the water
and left the shower stall. After towelling dry he pulled on a clean pair of
tighty-whiteys, adjusted himself so that Little Jérémie was snug and
comfortable within the confining cotton, and returned to the bedroom. He
smiled tentatively as he passed Jergen and then settled on the other
bed. He put his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling.
	Jérémie was curious. He had helped, in a small way, to rescue the
young man who was lying in the next bed. It struck Jérémie that Jergen was
a young man, and wondered why he had not attempted escape.  He was hesitant
to ask. After all, Jergen, and all the boys, had been through a horrible
experience, an experience that Jérémie could only contemplate and wonder
about.
	Turning his head, Jérémie glanced quickly at the German boy. He did
not seem battered at all. In fact, Jergen looked the picture of health. His
cheeks and face were clear of schoolboy acne; his eyes were bright and
clear. Jérémie was reminded of the day Matt Greene had first come to AURORA
and the Twins had discovered his bruised back and bottom. They had been
outraged, rightfully so, Jérémie thought. Matt's father had beaten him for
consorting with a Jewish boy. It was obvious that Jergen had not been
beaten at all.
	For some reason Jérémie's eyes were drawn to the full mound at the
front of Jergen's thin underpants. Jérémie, who was big, silently admired
Jergen's trim body and the enticing outline of what was a very large penis
and . . . He looked quickly away. He was not "that way", not at all! Had he
not spent two months in a mess deck, with forty other cadets, everyone of
whom had no qualms about parading about naked, overtly flaunting their
attributes, and never once had an evil thought? Then, looking away, Jérémie
thought, well, that was not exactly true. There had been the night when he
and The Phantom had talked and Little Jérémie had quiet inexplicably
stirred and he had admitted that he would not have said no to an invitation
to walk in the moonlight with the tall, handsome, emerald-eyed young man.
	"I do not bite," murmured Jergen, never taking his eyes from book.
	"Uh, sorry?" asked Jérémie, flustered that he had been caught.
	"You wish to look at me," responded Jergen emotionlessly. "This I
understand."
	Rising and resting on one elbow, Jérémie eyes flashed
briefly. "What are you talking about?"
	Carefully closing the book, Jergen returned Jérémie's look. "You
are a fine, clean, moral young Canadian. You must know what I am?" Before
Jérémie could reply, Jergen continued. "I am a whore. You have never met
anyone such as I, and naturlich, you are curious." His tone was a
statement, not a question.
	Jérémie's eyes flared as he quickly rolled to sit on the side of
his bed. "Don't call yourself that!" he snapped. "You were forced to do
. . ." Jérémie hesitated. He really did not know what Jergen had done, but
he had a good idea. "You couldn't say no!" Then he added ominously, "And
don't ever let Phantom hear you call yourself that . . . word! You can't
help what happened to you!"
	Placing the book beside his leg, Jergen regarded Jérémie. "This
. . . Phantom?" Jérémie nodded and Jergen continued, "He is the boy with
the green eyes? He is your leader?"
	Nodding, Jérémie replied quietly, "That and much more." He regarded
Jergen and then continued, "He saw you, and the other boys, in a dream."
	Jergen bit back a sarcastic reply. "I do not understand," he said,
his voice low.
	"Neither does he!" returned Jérémie with a snicker. "He . . . look,
Jergen, Phantom is, well, he's The Phantom.  It's very difficult to
explain, really, but he had this dream, and he saw you, and me, in it." He
gestured toward Jergen's bed. "May I?"
	For a moment Jergen was unable to speak. Not once in his young life
had anyone asked permission to come to his bed! He nodded, wondering if
Jérémie would . . .
	Jérémie seemed to know Jergen's thoughts. "Don't worry," he said as
he settled himself beside the German youth. He looked seriously at
Jergen. "I'm not trying to get into your pants!"
	"I never thought you were," Jergen lied in reply. He shifted
slightly offering the young French Canadian more room.
	"Just so you know," returned Jérémie. "Now, what you don't know is
that The Phantom is a very special person. He loves me, he loves all his
friends and he's the one who began what Chef - he's the old, fat guy who
bellows a lot - calls the 'Ninth Crusade'."
	Not knowing what to reply, Jergen nodded. "He is why you came to
Toronto?"
	"In a way, yes," said Jérémie, settling himself more
comfortably. "Before that, well, it all began with a friend of ours, named
Sylvain. He was a rat bag of a Frog . . ." here Jérémie smiled proudly "
. . . like me." His pride dissolved into a look of sadness. "He died."
	"I am sorry."
	Shrugging, Jérémie continued. "Sylvain was, well, he was
Sylvain. Nobody liked him, really. He was very vain, and most of the time
he was a pain in the ass. He was the Drum Major of the Bugle Band, back in
AURORA . . ." He regarded Jergen. "That's the Sea Cadet camp we were all
at."
	"I have heard the others talking," said Jergen.
	"Good. Well, Harry, who was the Drum Major of the Band, a separate
band, he . . ."
	"Harry, he is very large," interrupted Jergen. "He laughs easily
and everybody seems to be afraid of him." He thought a moment. "He also
possesses something called 'The Pride of the Fleet'. This I do not
understand."
	Laughing, Jérémie pointed at Jergen's crotch. "It's Harry's dick!
Harry's got a hell of pecker on him. And a great set of stones - they're
called 'The Escorts'. He's very vain, and very proud of them." He gave
Jergen a sly nudge with his elbow. "Between us, I'm bigger." He thought a
moment. "And there was a steward . . . The stewards had a party after our
Passing Out Parade and since everybody was pissed off with Harry always
bragging about his dammed pecker, they held a contest and Dave, yes, Dave
Tomkens, that was his name, he won."
	Jergen glanced quickly at Jérémie's crotch. "You mean they . . ."
	"Sure, it was just some fun," said Jérémie. "And besides, you must
have seen more than enough peckers and . . ."
	Jérémie suddenly realized what he had said and blushed
furiously. "Oh, Christ! I'm sorry, Jergen. I didn't mean, I, uh, gosh, damn
it! I'm so sorry!"
	Smiling, Jergen patted Jérémie's bare leg. "I am not offended. You
have nothing to be sorry about."
	Feeling a shiver of . . . something . . . pass through his body,
Jérémie quickly returned to his story. "As I was saying, Sylvain, he was a
pain in the ass. When Harry got promoted Sylvain got all pissed off -
angry, you understand?"
	"Yes."
	"Sylvain went home, to Montreal. His uncle, the General had bought
him this flashy new car and Sylvain drove it up to Sainte-Anne-de-Beaupré,
I guess to thank the old bastard."
	Once again Jergen interrupted. "This was the man who was molesting
the young Achille?"
	"Yeah, the prick," snarled Jérémie. "Anyway, something happened and
Sylvain left his uncle's place and was driving back toward Quebec City. I
guess he was speeding and he lost control of the car. He died instantly so
I understand, and of course word came back to AURORA. Chef was very upset
about it but to be honest none of the rest of us were."
	"Sylvain being a, pain in the ass?" asked Jergen dryly.
	"Yeah," agreed Jérémie with an embarrassed shrug. "What nobody knew
was that The Phantom, well, he has this, bond with all the guys who went to
AURORA! Nobody can understand how or why, he just does." A wistful tone
crept into Jérémie's voice. "Somehow, you just look at him and you can't
help but feel, I don't know how to describe it, you just want to be with
him." Jérémie shook his head. "It's very strange."
	"So it would seem," replied Jergen. He had never known true love,
had never had a friend, really.
	"Phantom had a dream," said Jérémie. "He told us that it was a
battlefield. On one side were all his friends, all the Boys of AURORA. On
the other were these . . . things, formless wraiths, all black, without
faces. And in the middle, surrounded by dead bodies and the wreckage of
war, was Sylvain."
	"But he was dead!" interjected Jergen, his eyes widening.
	"Yeah, he was," nodded Jérémie. "But not in the dream. The Phantom
saw him, wounded, mortally wounded, trying to crawl toward what I guess you
could call the Crusader lines. Phantom ran into the field and cradled
Sylvain, who cried and said he wanted to come home, to come home to his
brothers." A sob escaped Jérémie's throat. "I'm sorry, now, that I thought
Sylvain was such a jerk."
	"You could not know," said Jergen kindly. "Your 'Phantom', he saw
something you did not."
	"Yes. And he told us about his dream. He said that Sylvain was
coming to us, had something to tell us, something so terribly important
that he came back from the dead. Phantom also said that he was going to
Sainte-Anne-de-Beaupré to find out what it was that Sylvain wanted us to
know."
	"He saw all this in a dream?" Jergen's remark was not quite a snort
of scepticism.
	"You don't have to believe me," replied Jérémie easily. He was not
angry. He admitted that the story was far-fetched, and stretched
credibility. "But I believed it, and I followed Phantom. We all followed
Phantom!"
	"And I am very glad that you did!" exclaimed Jergen.
	Seeing the anguished look on Jergen's face, Jérémie asked, "Was it
. . . bad?"
	For many years, Jergen had kept bottled up his true feelings. As a
whore, which is what he considered himself to be, he did not see that he
was allowed to feel. "I was a whore, Jérémie, what do you think?" he asked
grimly.
	Impulsively, Jérémie hugged the German boy. "I'm sorry. I have no
right to ask!"
	"You are curious," returned Jergen without emotion. "You are
confronted with a thing that has done things you will never do, has lived a
life so vile that it is beyond your comprehension!"
	"I said I was sorry," replied Jérémie, upset at himself for
asking. "Let's not talk about it."
	Turning, Jergen's pale blue eyes bored into Jérémie. "Why? I am
sure that you are all but overcome with the curiosity you feel. You are
asking, 'what it is like, to be a whore? How could he allow himself to be a
whore? Why did he not run away?' All this I understand."
	"Jergen, please, don't!" Jérémie moved from the bed and returned to
his own. "I'm sorry, I just wanted . . ."
	"Come back at once," growled Jergen, interrupting Jérémie's
apology. "I am not angry." He smiled winningly. "Please, Jérémie
. . . Cher, please come back."
	Jérémie started. "How do you know . . ." he began.
	"The Phantom refers to you that way," said Jergen. He looked
thoughtful. "He loves you very much, I think." He looked pleadingly at
Jérémie. "Please, come back. I wish to be with you. I have never had a
friend who would just . . . be with me!"
	Leaving his bed, Jérémie quickly joined Jergen. "Of course," he
murmured. Without thinking, he ran his hand over Jergen's broad, firm
chest. "You never had a friend?" he asked, the surprise registering in his
eyes.
	Impulsively, Jergen placed his hand over Jérémie's, holding the
warmth against his chest. "I was not allowed, Jérémie. I was an object,
used only to gratify others." The smile left his lips as he continued.
	"I do not remember where I was born - I only know that it was
somewhere in East Germany. We were very poor. The Communists controlled
every aspect of our lives. My father . . ." Here Jergen paused and shook
his head. Then he continued tightly. "My father had been in the war. He was
in the Waffen SS. You understand the SS?"
	"Yes. The worst of the Nazis," replied Jérémie softly.
	"The very worst," confirmed Jergen. "My father, as a former SS man,
was not allowed any privileges. He was less than scum. The Communists
allowed him to work in a steel mill, to sweep the floors. We lived in two
rooms, in a building that was falling down. There was no toilet and there
were so many of us." Jergen frowned. "I remember my mother, and some other
children, older. I also remember black bread and thin cabbage soup, all we
ever had to eat! I remember being cold, and wearing rags!"
	"Dear, God," whispered Jérémie.
	"There is no god!" growled Jergen angrily. "All there is is hunger
and privation, and beatings, and ignorance!"
	"Jergen!"
	"It is true, Jérémie. For such as I, that is all we had, all we
ever had. When the man came, and offered to take me away, I was happy! I
would be leaving the filth, the ignorance! I would have good food, he
promised, good clothing! I would go to a real school and not have to learn
from some battered old book my mother had stolen from one of her
'customers'." Once again Jergen looked at Jérémie. "And do not say that you
are sorry, or call on a non-existent god! My mother did what she was forced
to do to put some food on the table, some clothes on her children's backs!
My father could not!"
	Wisely, Jérémie remained silent.
	"I was eight, or nine, I do not remember," said Jergen. "The man
paid my father for me. He paid in West German Marks, which in itself was a
crime to possess in East Germany. I was taken to Berlin, and smuggled into
the Western part. That was when it all started."
	Jérémie could feel Jergen's body grow flush with anger. Still, he
remained silent.
	"The first day I was bathed, given clean clothing - I wore for the
first time underpants - and I thought I was a very fortunate little boy!
Little did I know!"
	"The man, he treated you kindly?" asked Jérémie carefully.
	Snorting, Jergen said, "For a few hours. After he had cleaned me,
and fed me, and dressed me in underpants, he took me upstairs to his
room. He told me that I should be grateful! He had taken me from a pigpen
and given me every luxury! I did not understand, because he was taking off
his clothes. Then he told me that I must show how grateful I was. He pulled
down my pants and played with my . . . penis!"  Jergen shrugged. "He raped
me. What I did not know at the time was that he was preparing me. I was
his, you see, to do with as he thought best. I was with him for perhaps a
month. The time, it is all a blur."
	Jérémie felt a tear course down his cheek. He did not want to hear
Jergen's story, but something made him stay beside the German boy. He would
stay, and listen, as Jergen purged his soul.
	"I remained with the man for perhaps a month," repeated
Jergen. "Then I was taken into the country, to a house. It was what the
English call a 'Shooting Box'. Money exchanged hands and I had a new
master. He was a very rich man. He was married, and only used the house on
the weekends when he could get away from his wife and children. He did not
beat me, but he used me constantly. He was not kind, he was not unkind."
Jergen's voice was flat, and he sounded as if he were reciting a railway
timetable.
	"How . . . how did you come to Canada?" asked Jérémie.
	"Jérémie, you do not know what it is, this business I am a part
of." He looked at his newfound friend. "Some of the men, they want only
young boys, boys who have not yet formed. Others, they want older boys,
boys who can . . ." He stopped trying to remember the correct English
word. "Ja," he said to himself. "Boys who can 'cum'. When I was little, I
pleased one type. When I outgrew his particular taste, I was sold to a man
who wanted an older boy. He was a friend of the first man and he took me to
America, where his firm had transferred him."
	Not quite believing what he was hearing, Jérémie swallowed and
asked, "Did he hurt you?"
	"Actually, he was the best of them all. He only beat me once."
Jergen grimaced and looked ill. "He had a . . . fetish?"
	Jérémie did not know what a "fetish" was, but nodded anyway.
	"He liked for me to piddle on him!" exclaimed Jergen. "He would
make me pee on him and then sit on his erection while he . . . while he
fucked me!" Jergen forced smile. "It was very messy, being with him, but so
long as I did what he demanded, he treated me decently. He was kind enough,
I suppose, and gave me books to read, and helped me with the lessons he
composed."
	"What happened?"
	"His firm experienced some financial difficulties. He was called
home and as he was short of money he sold me." Jergen almost spat. "The
next, he was the worst of the lot! A hypocrite! He was supposed to be a man
of god!" A dark, forbidding look came over Jergen's face. "If he is what
passes for god's messengers, then I am glad I do not believe!"
	"He was a priest?" asked Jérémie, appalled.
	"Nein! He was what you call an evangelist! Thousands of Americans
send him money, and every Sunday he is on the television! He looks and
sounds so saint-like. He surrounds himself with luxury, with a choir, an
orchestra, and he bellows and raves at the fools who watch him! He refers
to his wife, a stupid woman who wears too much paint! And to his sons, four
boys who look like they would never have an evil thought. They all shout to
their god, and sing hymns! Everybody looks at them and calls them saints,
very holy people! Ha!"
	Jergen's sweeping gesture of disgust almost knocked Jérémie from
the bed. He apologized and went on. "The Reverend would not have his sons
subjected to what he called the wiles of women! They would, when the time
came, go to the marriage bed, virgins." Again Jergen snorted. "They were,
at least with women!"
	"They . . .?"
	"Fucked me? Yes. I was there to satisfy their natural lust. To them
it was nothing. I was a receptacle for their sperm. The old man's, as
well!"
	"The Reverend? A preacher?" squeaked Jérémie.
	"He was the worst of the lot!" snapped Jergen. "When his sons were
finished, he would come into the room and simply stick it in me. He would
pump furiously and then scream, 'I'm goin' to glory!'." Jergen
sniggered. "At least he was quick!"
	Jérémie could only gasp and shake his head.
	"The sons treated me indifferently. I was just someone to use, and
for the most part they ignored me, except when they were what is called
'horny'. I was fed, I was clothed, and basically I was left alone, locked
in my room. I had the television, and books. Life was bearable, except at
night. They would come, one after the other. I would lie on my stomach, on
the bed, and they would use me. Eventually I felt nothing, just as
eventually I was sold to another man.  "
	"What happened?"
	"There were rumours," said Jergen. "Perhaps one of the sons said
something he should not have said. I do not know. I only know that one
night some men, very important men in the Reverend's organization, came to
the estate. The next day I was put in a car and driven to the border with
Canada. It was a long ride and I was very tired. I can remember only that
the man who bought me - the man you rescued me from - was waiting. He took
me to Toronto."
	"Did he hurt you?" asked Jérémie.
	Laughing, Jergen shook his head. Suddenly he reached down and
exposed his long, thick penis, which was covered in skin, and ended in a
short tube of wrinkled flesh. "He loved this!" Jergen exclaimed.
	"Huh?" Jérémie looked at Jergen and then exclaimed, "What could he
love? It's your dick!"
	Still laughing, Jergen fondled the tube of skin. "He wanted his
boys to be natural! I am not beschnitten and he loved it!"
	Jergen thought a moment. "Beschnitten . . . oh, you mean
circumcised!"
	"Yah, just so," replied Jergen. "The man was mad for my skin!"
Still fondling himself, Jergen continued, "He called this little bit of
skin my tassel! He would play with it constantly." Once again Jergen
frowned. "He would not allow me to clean myself . . . down there." Quickly
covering his organ, Jergen all but gagged in remembering. "All four of the
Reverend's sons were beschnitt . . . I mean they had been circumcised. They
insisted that I be very clean on my penis, and not smell. Not so the new
master. He loved it when I was filled with the cheese! When Artur came, I
thought he would die from the pleasure!"
	"Artur is the other boy who was with you?" asked Jérémie.
	"Yes. His penis is very long, very thin, and very not circumcised!"
replied Jergen with a laugh. "He is also a peasant and does not mind being
unclean." His eyes bore into Jérémie. "I am not a peasant!"
	For some strange reason Jérémie reached down and pulled out his own
member. "And neither am I," he exclaimed. He exposed the purple glans of
his penis. "I make sure that I am clean!"
	Jergen looked admiringly at Little Jérémie and nodded. "Quite
handsome," he snickered. "But I thought that all Canadians were . . ."
	"Nope. A lot are," said Jérémie, covering himself. "But I am
Canadien, and we do not do it."
	Feigning indifference, Jergen pretended to yawn. "You are quite
handsome and I think that you should have entered that contest that you
mentioned."
	Not knowing if Jergen was joking, or being serious, Jérémie
shrugged and then giggled a bit. "I would have won!" he declared. He
yawned, for he was very tired.
	"I am sorry, I am keeping you awake," said Jergen. "You have come
many miles."
	"Yes." Jérémie rubbed his eyes. "It has been quite an adventure."

******

Vancouver Airport, August 1976, One Week Earlier

	The Service Air flight from Comox landed without incident, taxied
to the terminal and stopped, the huge engines whining down to a stop. The
ground crew hurried out, pushing a set of stairs to the forward
door. Presently it opened and one of the flight attendants looked out. One
if the groundsmen ran up the stairs, pushed the forward side panels forward
until they were just resting against the fuselage of the aircraft. He
winked at the attendant, and scampered back down to the taxiway.
	After a few moments, Commander Stockman, in keeping with naval
protocol, which said that the highest ranking officer always boarded last
and exited first, looked out of the aircraft door, adjusted his cap to a
rakish angle, and began to descend.
	In the second floor Concourse Lounge, Pete Sheppard looked through
the high, plate glass, floor-to-ceiling windows, and murmured as he checked
the list he held, "Stockman, Francis Albert Edward." He saw the medal
ribbons of Commander Stockman's blue uniform jacket and nodded
approvingly. Pete approved of men who had known war. "Commander," he
continued, "Royal Canadian Navy Reserve."
	Beside Pete, Ned Hadfield, the tall, lanky, West Virginian who had
been left hog-tied and naked during one of Laurence and Logan Hartsfield's
forays into the woods, consulted his list, which was fixed to a
clipboard. He looked out the window and muttered into the hand held
walky-talky he held in his free hand, "Stein."
	On the main level, Avram Stein, a short dark-complexioned man
dressed in a well-cut, dark suit, moved toward the entrance.
	"Them ribbons mean anything?" asked Ned, referring to the ribbons
on Commander Stockman's uniform jacket.
	"More than you'll ever know," replied Pete absently as he looked at
the ribbons of the DSO and DSC on Commander Stockman's chest. "Knight of
Honour."
	Ned made a check mark beside the names of Commander Stockman and
Stein, and asked, "You ever a-goin' to tell us what kind o' knight thet
is?" Most of the time Ned kept his hillbilly twang under control, but
sometimes he forgot.
	"All in due time," returned Pete, whose attention was drawn to the
next figure to appear in the aircraft doorway, a tall, strikingly handsome
young naval lieutenant whose uniform could not quite hide his superbly
muscled chest and firm, strong legs.
	"Arnott, Colin Charles Edward Thomas," read Pete from his
list. "Lieutenant, Royal Canadian Navy Reserve." He looked directly at
Ned. "Professed Knight of Grace and Devotion."
	Hearing Pete's emphasis on the word "Professed", Ned shrugged. The
word meant nothing to him.
	"Lieutenant Arnott is the Custos Principum, the Guardian of
Princes," continued Pete.
	Ned, who was a lapsed Southern Baptist, knew no Latin. "If you say
so." Then he asked, "He a big shot?"
	"One of the biggest, and about to get bigger," replied
Pete. "Tomorrow he'll receive Letters Patent making him the Defensor
Princeps, Hereditary Earl Marshal and Duke of Lausanne and Aquitania."
	"Royalty, like?" asked Ned. Where he came from men were called a
lot of names - few of them complimentary - and any man who owned more than
five acres and two mules was "royalty". He grumbled into his
walky-talky. "Peabody." He grinned at Pete. "That jerk says his folks come
over on the Mayflower so he oughtten to feel right to home."
	Downstairs, Hank Peabody, whose real name was Cabot Henry Peabody,
a tall, well-built man whose baby face belied his ferocity when roused,
moved forward.
	Next to exit the aircraft came Andy and Kyle. "The fellow in the
American khaki," said Pete. "He's one of us. He was in the Nam."
	"Yeah?" Ned's eyes widened. "Thet a Purple Heart he's wearin'?"
	"Yes. Berg, Andrew Frederick David, Ensign, US Navy Sea Cadets. He
is a Professed Knight of Honour. Michael has plans for him."
	There was that word again. Ned was tempted to ask what "professed"
meant, but was more impressed with Pete's revelation that Michael Chan had
plans for the officer, which he obviously did not so far as Ned himself was
concerned. "Who is the other one?"
	"Saint Vincent, Kyle Michael, Sub-Lieutenant, Royal Canadian Navy
Reserve, Professed Knight of Honour."
	Ned muttered into his walky-talky and two more stern-faced young
men stepped forward. When he had checked their names off of his list he
looked out and saw a large, well-upholstered man wearing an ill-fitting
green uniform. He looked at his list and asked, "All it says is
'Chef'. What the hell is a Chef?"
	Laughing quietly, Pete said, "That is what he is called, and that
is all you need to know, other than he's a mean old bugger when he wants to
be. He is also going to be the new Hospitaller of the Order. He is also the
Proctor of the Order." He saw the quizzical look on Ned's face and
continued. "He talks to people. Play your cards right and maybe he'll have
a talk with you."
	"Yeah?"
	"Yeah. In the mean time, Chef is very important. He's a Knight of
Grace and Devotion, which means he's a bigwig. He doesn't know - yet - but
he's also the Duke of Lorraine and Styria and the next time you see him you
call him 'Serene Highness'."
	"I do?" Ned looked out of the window. "He don't look so 'Serene' to
me. And how come he ain't got no Protection Officer assigned?"
	Shaking his head, Pete replied, "If you knew Chef, you'd know he
doesn't need one!"
	With the departure of the high priced help the rest of the plane's
passengers began to descend, in no particular order. Pete, who had spent
half the night shuffling photographs, which Chef had supplied, some cadged
from The Gunner's album, others from Nicholas' hoard, and yet more from the
Investiture, leafed through the snaps he had with him. "Okay," he said,
glancing first at the photograph, and then at the tall, blond young man
descending the steps. "The tall kid in front is named Benbow." He glanced
at his list. "Edward Tyler Stephen. He is the Master-At-Arms and the
ranking cadet. He is also a Professed Knight of Honour." Pete paused, and
looked again. "The short, dark guy is the Cadet Chief Gunnery
Instructor. He's Italian."
	Ned glanced toward the aircraft. "That mean's something?"
	"No," replied Pete. "I merely offer it for information. His name is
Orsini, Valentine Joseph. Also a Professed Knight of Honour."
	More muttering into the walky-talky and downstairs two more men
walked forward.
	"American cadets," Pete noted as three white-uniformed young men
began coming down the stairs. "The big dude is Master Chief Petty Officer
van Beck, Mark James. He plays football."
	"Yeah?" Ned was a gridiron fan. "He any good?"
	"No." Pete shuffled his photos again. "Next is Chief Petty Officer
Valpone, Anthony Salvatore. He's got an appointment to Annapolis."
	Ned shrugged. He had been, as he once said, born a grunt, and as
far as he was concerned the service colleges at West Point and Annapolis
were little better than training schools for wayward boys and graduated
self-serving pains in the ass. "Another Eyetie?" he asked.
	Pete glanced sourly at Ned. "Never you mind. The next two you watch
and you had better have good men assigned to them."
	"Why?" Ned asked.
	"The first one, the dark-haired boy, is Nathan Michael Berman. His
family is very big in Seattle, and one of his uncles is a power in the
Democratic Party. He has PI written all over him."
	"The uncle or the kid?" replied Ned, pretending stupidity, which he
did very well.
	"The kid, you ass!" snarled Pete. "The next one is Fisher . . ." he
consulted his list. " . . . Frederick John. His old man is with Foreign
Affairs - Ambassador rank. More importantly, and be warned, if anything
happens to him you, and the man you assign to him, will lose your balls to
the Tsangs . . ."
	Ned looked intently out the window. "He's that important?" he
asked.
	"His uncle is an Admiral in the Royal Navy. The uncle is also
Second Sea Lord." Pete looked sideways at Ned's questioning face. Ned was a
good soldier, but at times as dumb as a brick. He never read a book, unless
it had lots of pictures, and only watched television for the more inane
"comedy" series (he never missed Laverne & Shirley if he could help
it). "Sort of Chief of BUPERS," translated Pete for Ned's benefit. "He has
connections in all the right places in England."
	More figures appeared in the aircraft doorway. "Okay, next we have
two more coppers," Pete said. Once again Ned had no idea what Pete was
talking about so the slim, dark haired Security Chief
explained. "Regulating Petty Officers - ship's policemen, but not as mean
as shipboard Marines."
	"Oh."
	"The tall, skinny one is Roger Andrew Home, pronounced as in
'fume'," advised Pete. "The other cadets call him 'Two Strokes' and I have
no inkling why." Pete consulted his list again. "The shorter, stockier
cadet is Thomas Matthew Vernon. He's nicknamed Thumper."
	Ned chuckled. "We had us a 'Thumper' when I was doin' my basic at
Parris Island. He just couldn't leave his jamoke alone! The Gunny liked to
pitch a fit every time he caught ole Hudson in the heads! Hell, that boy
shore did like to thump his meat - 'course he had the meat to work with and
. . ."
	"Was that the Hudson who was awarded the Medal of Honour?" asked
Pete quietly. Then he added, "Posthumously?"
	Ned gulped. He was a Marine still and a Marine never slagged off
another Marine, especially one who saved six of his buddies at some shit
hole named Ahn Loc. "Sorry," he muttered.
	"Who's up?" asked Pete, deciding not to pursue the matter
further. He would speak to Ned later.
	"Antonelli and Jones," replied Ned.
	The next group out of the aircraft were Cory, Todd, Sean and
Matt. Pete frowned a little. "The two good looking blonds are Todd and Cory
Leveson-Arundel," he told Ned. "They're fraternal twins and they are very
dear to Michael's heart, and their mother is a close friend."
	As Sean followed Cory down the stairs Cory turned and reached up to
brush a stray bit of lint from the front of Sean's jumper. Ned, who had
seen the gesture, innocent in itself, seemed odd to him. "Thet ain't
right," he exclaimed.
	Pete, who had also seen the gesture, turned and snapped, "Mind your
own business, Hadfield! Those two are going to be Michael's Pages of
Honour. They are also very special to the kid they all call The Phantom,
very special!"
	The harshness in Pete's voice caused Ned to back away,
quickly. "Hey, I didn't mean anything by it, Cap," he said hurriedly.
	"I prefer Captain," snarled Pete. "And yeah, you did." In a way,
Pete felt responsible for not informing his men of the true importance of
this group of young men, or the true nature of them. He would rectify that
mistake, soon. "Whom did you assign?" he asked.
	"Uh, Patrick Ives and Dave Edge to the Arundels, Reese to the
redhead and uh . . ." He looked at his clipboard, " . . . Griffin."
	"Make it so," said Pete, his voice calm. When Ned had finished his
radioing, Pete said, "The Twins are very important to the Order. Their
father is an Associate Justice of the Supreme Court. He and their uncle,
Louis Leveson-Arundel once did Michael, and his uncle, Uncle Henry Chan, a
great service." His eyes bore into Ned. "And Michael Chan never forgets a
service."
	Ned nodded.
	"The 'redheaded one' is Fleet Chief Sean Mark Anders. He's a bit of
a dip, but don't try to pull the wool over his eyes. He's a close friend to
Cory Leveson-Arundel. You get my meaning?"
	Once again Ned nodded his head.
	"The young lad is Matt Greene, Matthew Alexander Edward Greene
according to his service documents. He's just a friend. But . . ." Pete
paused and held up a finger. "He enjoys the personal protection of the man
they call 'The Phantom'. He is the Prince of the Order and man, if you so
much as look at him the wrong way, or so much as hint that you disapprove
of what he is, Michael will hand you over to the Tsangs!" Pete turned to
look out the window again. "And Ned, make sure those clowns assigned as
their Protection Officers are aware of the importance of their young
charges."
	Ned paled a bit. Pat Ives, a short, well-muscled young man with the
pink face of a cherub, was also a jokester and according to the Gunny back
in Parris Island, as horny a toad as ever hopped down the Carolina
Pike. Dave Edge, taller and Ives' workout partner, had a baby face and a
perpetual smile. Both men were trained Delta Force alumni. "They'll be
okay," mumbled Ned.
	"They had better be," warned Pete, whose tone implied that if any
of the Protection Officers screwed up Ned's balls were on the chopping
block.
	More cadets appeared. "Brian Hugh Carlin Venables," said
Pete. "He's the Guard Petty Officer." For some reason Pete thought that
Brian walked a little straighter, a little taller than the others. "Don't
let appearances deceive you, Ned. The kid is sharp and was made Petty
Officer of the Guard (Queen's Company) because of it." He regarded Ned a
moment. "His protection officer has already been assigned. Hartsfield." His
tone implied that Ned had no need to know why Logan Hartsfield, an unknown
quantity to many of the other guards, had been given his assignment.
	"Yeah," replied Ned glumly. He had worked hard on the assignments
roster and resented interference from up top.
	Ignoring Ned's pouting, Pete continued. "Okay, directly behind
Venables are Cook Chief Petty Officer Raymond James Cornwallis and Leading
Gunner Kevin Patrick Berkeley. Cornwallis, Ray to his friends, is Chef's
protégé and all-but surrogate son."
	"Which means the old man will blow a gasket if anything happens to
him," grumbled Ned. "I got a good man for him. Who's the other kid?"
	Pete tested Ned again. "He's Ray's special friend. Where Ray goes,
Berkeley goes."
	Ned's left eyebrow rose almost imperceptibly. "I got Larsen for
Cornwallis and Prentice for Berkeley."
	"Fine. Behind them are . . ." Pete consulted his list and the
clutch of photographs. "Yeah, Chief Petty Officer Robin - he prefers to be
called Rob - Rosslyn Wemyss and the Yeoman of Signals, Nicholas Arthur
George Rodney. His daddy is ex-USN, a Commander I think."
	"Joe Kent and Adam Sheridan," said Ned, uninterested in Nicholas'
antecedents. He looked out and gasped. "And who in the hell is that
. . . that . . . moose?"
	Pete choked back a chuckle. "That is Chief Petty Officer Michael
Spencer Sunderland. You'll like him, Ned. He's an even bigger jock that you
are. He works out all the time."
	Looking at Mike's barrel chest and thick forearms, Ned nodded his
agreement. "Who's the skinny kid with him?"
	"That is Petty Officer Phillip Godfrey Adean. He's the assistant to
Chief Sunderland, so of course everyone calls him 'the Assistant'," replied
Pete with a grin. "He's also a jock, and he's not so skinny, unless you
compare him to Sunderland."
	Ned snorted and muttered into his walky-talky.
	Next down the stairs were Stuart and Steve. "The tall blond with
the moustache is Stuart Malcolm Douglass MacDuff, Chief Boatswains Mate of
AURORA," said Pete. "With him, the shorter, dark-haired kid, is his buddy,
Petty Officer Steven Robert Edward Lee. They are both Professed Knights of
Honour."
	There was the word again. Ned glanced obliquely, muttered and two
more Protection Officers moved forward.
	Gesticulating, and waving his finger, Sandro appeared in the
doorway with Nate beside him. "Cook Chief Petty Officer Alexandr
Effimovitch Signaransky," said Pete. "A Russian Jew."
	Ned's eyebrows rose again but he did not say anything.
	"The Order accepts non-Christians as Knights of Honour," explained
Pete. He gave Ned a hard look. "Do you have a problem with Jews?"
	"Not me," replied Ned quickly. "I shower with Stein!" Ned felt a
chill up his spine and just knew that several generations of itinerant
Baptist preachers were glaring down, or up, at him for that remark. Ned
metaphorically glared back. He did not have a problem with Jews - one Jew
in particular, Catholics, or any other religious persuasion. Whatever
prejudices he had brought with him from the small hamlet in the West
Virginia hill country where he had been born, had been left behind in the
maelstrom of war. The jungles of Vietnam had been a great leveller, where
survival far outweighed the petty differences of man.
	"Good," said Pete, "Because the dark-haired lad behind Signaransky
is also Jewish."
	"A civilian?"
	"The Order accepts civilians," rumbled Pete. "Make certain that the
men you assign are not a couple of flaming anti-Semites."
	"Derek Walker is from California," replied Ned, "and all he cares
about is surfin' and being a 'dude', whatever the hell that is! Mike Knight
is from New York. He votes the straight Democratic ticket - when he votes."
	Pete wondered what in the hell surfin' and voting Democratic had to
do with not being anti-Semitic, but decided not to push it. "Fine," he
muttered.
	Joey, Randy, and Calvin emerged, chattering and teasing Phil, who
was following the three younger cadets. Ned saw Phil looming in the
aircraft doorway and muttered, "Fuck, another moose! They sure build 'em
large up here!"
	Pete laughed. "Sometimes. The three younger kids are cooks, Joseph
John Pelham, who is the one with the dark hair. The kid with the bright red
hair is Randall Dodson Ramseur Lowndes. They're just kids. The other red
head is Calvin Steven Hobbes, who just happens to be Joe Hobbes' younger
brother. They are all Professed Knights."
	"Kinda young, ain't they?" observed Ned.
	"That was a decision made by the Grand Master," responded Pete. He
continued on, "The tall guy is Chief Petty Officer Phillip Alexander
Thornton. Where Lowndes and Pelham go, he goes."
	Wondering just what sort of relationship existed between Phil and
Randy and Joey, Ned noted, "I sent a car to pick up that other kid
. . . Simon Keppel?"
	"Good."
	"He important?"
	Pete looked at Ned and shook his head. "You just don't get it, do
you?" he asked.
	"Get what?" asked Ned at his obtuse best.
	"Ned, they are all important! If you remain in Michael Chan's
employ you had better get used to having those . . ." he pointed his finger
at the trio descending the steps, "young men as part of your life!"
	"Well, y'all might tell a feller what the hell is going on, once in
a while," complained Ned.
	While Ned did have a point, Pete was under certain constraints. He
had been told certain things by Major Meinertzhagen, but not everything. In
many ways, Pete was as much in the dark as Ned. "Look, I'll explain a few
things to you, and the other guys . . . but not just now!" he said heavily.
	Not at all mollified, Ned shrugged. "More comin'," he said as more
cadets came down the stairs.
	"Hood, Christopher James," said Pete as Chris came down the stairs
and began walking toward the terminal building. "With him Thomas Jonathan
Jackson. Behind him is Eion Reilly. Hood and Jackson are professed
Knights. Reilly is a Companion of Honour."
	"Another title, unexplained," thought Ned crankily.
	" . . . As are the next two," Pete continued on. "Jérémie Stephane
Larouche and Peter Race. Behind them are . . ." Pete paused and all but
whispered. "The huge guy is Harold Franz-Joseph von Hohenberg, called Harry
by his friends."
	"He don't look like he needs protecting," sniffed Ned as Harry
lumbered down the stairs. "And who's the skinny feller with him?"
	Ignoring Ned's impertinence, Pete answered softly, "That young man
is the be all, the end all, so far as the Order is concerned. He is the
reason the others are here. Without him they would not be, period. Mark his
face, Ned. Mark it well."
	"But who is he?"
	"He was born Philip Andrew Thomas Lascelles," recited Pete. "He's
called 'The Phantom', why I don't know. Michael told me that he is the
leader, that he has this ability to influence his friends. Call it
charisma, call it black magic, but never underestimate his influence." Pete
lowered his voice. "I had it in strictest confidence from Michael that
tomorrow at the dinner The Phantom will be given some very special
honours."
	Ned recognized the warning in Pete's voice. "He's that important,
this 'Phantom'?"
	"Yes. He is also a close friend to the Chancellor of the Order, and
Chef thinks the world of him. Once The Phantom extends his hand in
friendship, it's yours forever." Pete straightened his shoulders. "When you
were in Nam the guys you served with became your brothers?"
	"Damn straight," responded Ned. "Hell, without them I might never
have got back home."
	"Well, in a way, the same thing has happened in Comox, at a little
Sea Cadet camp called HMCS AURORA. If you understand what happened to you
in Nam, then you understand the bond between these young men."
	Without waiting for Ned to respond, Pete watched as The Phantom and
Harry walked toward the terminal entrance. "The Phantom has Lieutenant
Arnott as his minder, but Michael wanted a good man with them. Who did you
assign?"
	Ned hesitated. When he was given the task of assigning "a few good
men" to be Protection Officers for the newest members of the Order, he had
not really given much thought to the job. All the men were ex-servicemen of
one county or another, all had been in combat, and all were crack
shots. Michael's Chan's orders, relayed through Pete Sheppard, had been
clear: Michael did not expect trouble, but be prepared for it. Only the
best men were to be considered. Ned had tried his best, and had considered
each man carefully. He was constrained simply by the fact that he had no
idea of what the Order was, no idea of who the knights were, and no idea of
the characters he was about to deal with. He had not quite picked names
from a hat, but he had fudged a bit, simply writing a name from the Outside
Security Force (now Protection Service) against the name of a knight.
	"Um, well, Grinchsten," Ned answered.
	Pete's voice rose as he asked, "Alex Grinchsten?"
	"Yeah."
	Pete was about to flare. There was nothing intrinsically wrong with
the man, and he was a man for all of his appearance. He stood barely five
and a half feet tall, was slim, had dark blond hair and had a barely
defined body. Put him in a blue uniform and mix him in with the cadets and
Grinchsten would never stand out. He was, Pete thought, about 23, or 24,
and looked 17! He was notoriously fastidious, and never smiled, his lips
primly set in a thin, unwavering line. He had no sense of humour, or none
that Pete had ever been able to discern, and had all the warmth of a
Calvinist preacher at a camp meeting.
	But then . . . Alex Grinchsten was a Vet, and had served two tours
in Nam. He had not been drafted, but had volunteered. He had been 17 years
old and because of his size and slimness of body he had become a
. . . Tunnel Rat. What he had seen, what he had done, Alex never spoke
of. He never joined in the usual bullshit sessions the others always seemed
to be holding at the end of their shifts. Alex Grinchsten lived in a lonely
world, with his memories and his ghosts.
	The more he thought of it, the more Pete came to realize that Alex
Grinchsten had lost his soul in the jungles of Vietnam. Pete could see it
in Alex's eyes, pale, violet eyes that seemed lifeless and cold. The
brightness had left Alex Grinchsten's life and, while he was a good
soldier, intelligent, and completely reliable, he was without purpose,
without . . . hope?
	Pete watched as The Phantom and Harry disappeared from view and a
sudden thought struck him. If The Phantom could inspire so many of his
peers, could he perhaps . . . He turned abruptly and
spoke. "Good. Grinchsten it is. And Ned, let's walk and we'll have a talk."

******

	"You know, Phantom, I am really chuffed about all this," Harry said
as he and The Phantom walked toward the main entrance to the terminal. "Of
course, it would be nice to know just what in the hell we're doing."
	Chuckling, The Phantom agreed. "Harry, if I knew, I'd tell
you. Chef is like a Sphinx, and all I get out of him is a parable about
some Irish Leprechaun or some mythical King - usually of Tara, strong of
arm and mightily thewed . . ."
	"Mightily what?" asked Harry.
	"Buggered if I know," responded The Phantom. "I sometimes think
that Chef is as full of shit as a Christmas goose!" He saw Colin waiting at
the door, talking quietly to a craggy-featured young man, and sniggered. "I
sort of think that 'thews' is something like 'thighs', a man of mighty
thighs!"
	Harry regarded Colin and smiled winningly. "And yonder is a knight
of mighty thews." He nudged The Phantom. "Nice ass, too."
	"Harry!" exclaimed The Phantom, pretending to be shocked. He had
long ago learned never to be surprised at what Harry might say.
	Harry was deflected as two young men both wearing suits with
suspicious bulges in their jackets sidled up to them. "Phantom, unless you
have any other idea, I think we just got arrested," he muttered, not
entirely in jest.
	Colin moved quickly to The Phantom's side. "Don't worry, they're
protection officers," he said. He gestured toward the man he had been
talking to. "That's Peabody. He's mine."
	The two young men, who had been coached by the Major in how to
address their "principals", stopped one or two paces short. The first, a
tall black-haired man with a five o'clock shadow, and whose suit seemed to
strain at the seams, reached into the side pocket of his jacket and
produced a slim, leather wallet, which he flipped open and showed to
Harry. "Sir Harold von Hohenberg?" he asked formally.
	Harry, who had never been addressed formally, or referred to as
anything other than "Harry", except when the Twins were around, when any
name, usually dirty, was thrown at him, nodded. The Phantom giggled at
Harry's discomfiture.
	"I am Sergeant Seward," the young man said. "I have been assigned
as your protection officer," he explained.
	"Huh?"
	"Your bodyguard, you nit!" Colin growled at Harry, his voice
low. "Where you go, he goes."
	Harry regarded Sergeant Seward. "What if I have to go to the
heads?" he asked.
	Sergeant Seward answered for Colin. "Only if I think there's a
danger inside. Other than that, you're on your own." He grinned.
	Harry returned Seward's grin and then, being Harry, decided to have
some fun. "Well, a feller does like a little privacy at times," he opined,
"and I don't have to sleep with you, do I?"
	The Phantom sniggered and even the strange, slim young man who was,
The Phantom assumed, his minder, managed a slight curl of a smile.
	Seward looked a little stunned. "Why no! We don't sleep with our
principals, ever. I'll be around, though."
	"Good," said Harry, "'cause it would get crowded, what with all of
us in the same bed."
	"Here it comes," muttered The Phantom to Colin, who sighed.
	"I'm sorry, Sir Harold, but I don't understand," said Seward.
	Harry started walking toward the terminal door. "Well, there'd be
me, and I'm a big guy, and you, and you're a big guy, and then the Pride,
which is not to be believed until seen, and the Escorts, so you see . . ."
Harry's smile grew wider as Seward's face grew longer in confusion and
together they entered the terminal.
	Shaking his head at Harry's nonsense, The Phantom turned to look at
the young man waiting silently a few feet away, and immediately noted the
man's haunted eyes.
	"I am Sergeant Grinchsten," the young man said as he presented his
credentials. "I have been assigned as your Protection Officer." His voice
was cold, formal, and precise.
	Emerald green eyes met pale, violet eyes and The Phantom saw
pain. Somehow, somewhere, this young man, so youthful looking that he might
have been a contemporary of Joey or Randy or Calvin, had been hurt, and
hurt badly. The Phantom returned the credentials to Grinchsten and said
softly, "I shall try not to be too much trouble, Sergeant." Then he added,
"Or may I call you Alex?"
	The Phantom's quiet courtesy caused Alex to take a small step
back. He had expected an arrogant, self-centred young man. He had expected
to be ignored at the best of times, and castigated at worst. Protection
officers he had been told were to be seen, and not heard. Protection
officers remained in the background, always vigilant and always expecting
the unexpected, and were never to forget their position, or the rank of
their principal.
	"I . . ." Alex looked embarrassed as he murmured, "Whatever you
wish, Sir Philip."
	Laughing quietly, The Phantom said, "It would seem that we are
stuck with each other, Alex, and I would want you to be comfortable being
with us." He turned and indicated Colin. "This is Colin Arnott. He is my
companion and . . ."
	Alex's body stiffened as he gave Colin a formal, correct neck
bow. "The Custos Principum," he said. "I have been told." He coloured
slightly.
	Colin smiled inwardly. He saw the look on Alex Grinchsten's face,
and saw how the young man could not take his eyes from The Phantom. Colin
had seen it before, had experienced the same feelings, the same unexplained
feeling that passed between The Phantom and those who would become a part
of his life. Alex Grinchsten did not know it, perhaps might never know it,
but he was now a part of The Phantom, and The Phantom was now a part of
Alex, just as he was a part of the Twins, Harry, the Brats, all the young
men of AURORA, and of one Colin Arnott.

******

	Inside the terminal Brian was just getting over the shock of seeing
Logan Hartsfield standing beside him. "Logan?" he whispered, not quite
believing his eyes.
	"Good morning, Sir Brian," Logan replied formally. He gave Brian a
correct neck bow. "It's good to see you." He smiled winningly. "And gosh,
do you look wonderful!"
	Beaming, Brian held out both hands. He wanted to take Logan into
his arms but thought better of it. "I . . . I never thought I'd see you
again!" he said.
	Taking Brian's right hand, Logan shook it, and lingered. The gentle
tremor he had felt when he met Brian the previous evening back in the
gardens of the Admiralty House Hotel in Comox coursed through his body. He
withdrew his hand and for a few moments he was unable to speak. Then he
took a step back. "I'm your Protection Officer," he said hurriedly. He
could feel a stirring in his groin and his face felt flushed.
	Brian regarded Logan, who was blushing like a schoolboy, and
smiled. "My bodyguard?"
	Logan swallowed and nodded. "I'm to be your shadow," he said. "At
least that's what the Major told me."
	"Shadows are awfully close," returned Brian with a wink.
	Logan blushed. "Um, I'm not sure, Sir Brian." He smiled an
embarrassed smile. "And you are a knight and . . ."
	"I'm also a man," said Brian simply. He did not add, "Who has
fallen in love with you."

******

	Halfway down the concourse, Major Meinertzhagen, together with
Patrick Tsang, both resplendent in morning coats and striped trousers,
greeted Chef. Chef, who had been briefed by Michael constantly as to what
was to happen, was expansive and smiling as he held out his hand to the
Major. "Richard, how nice of you to meet us."
	"The pleasure is mine," replied the Major. He shook Chef's hand and
turned to Patrick. "You of course know Patrick Tsang," he said.
	"I do, I do, and a fine young man he is," beamed Chef.
	Behind Chef the Twins, who were eying their minders, who were eying
the Twins, looked at each other. "He's in his Queen Mary mode," muttered
Todd, referring to Chef.
	"Better than the Galloping Lord of Killarney," returned Cory
sourly. He glanced at the tall, well-dressed young man who was standing
alertly off to one side. "And who in the hell are the suits?" he added with
a slight snarl.
	Pat Ives, who had overheard Cory, smiled an almost elfin smile and
his eyes twinkled. Beside him Dave Edge, who had never lost his boyish
smile, winked at Pat. An unspoken message passed between the two men: "Hide
the ExLax!"
	The Phantom had also heard Cory and he sidled up to whisper in
Cory's ear. "They're your very own personal minders," he said with a
snicker. "We all have one and you won't be able to get away with anything!"
	"What's that supposed to mean?" growled Cory. "And why do I need a
'minder'? I am quite capable of taking care of myself!" He glanced at Pat
Ives and snickered, "Mind you, he is kind of cute."
	From directly behind Cory came a low growl.
	"I'm only kidding," said Cory hurriedly over his shoulder. He threw
a winning smile at Sean, which shut him up, and then glanced at Pat. Cory
then motioned him to come alongside. "Who are you?" he asked. "And what are
you?"
	Pat Ives smiled and shrugged. "I am your Personal Protection
officer, Sir Cory." He nodded toward Dave Edge. "He is Sir Todd's
Protection Officer."
	"Who is mine?" asked Sean.  A tall, heavyset young man stepped
forward. Sean eyed him and thought that the guy looked like he could stop a
tank!
	"Sergeant Galloway is assigned to be your Protection Officer, Sir
Sean," replied Pat by way of introduction. "And Sergeant Brodie is yours,"
he continued, looking at Matt. "We know what we're doing, and we won't
interfere too much." He grinned winningly. "We don't bite and . . ." he
looked directly at Cory. "We don't drink Kahlua and milk!"
	Cory's eyes widened. "Jesus," he said with a gasp, "Is nothing
secret?"
	Before Sergeant Ives could inform his "principal" that precious
little was secret, Randy's high-pitched voice floated over the small crowd
of cadets. "Are we going to spend the rest of the day parked here?"
	"Mind your manners, whelp!" came Phil Thornton's deep voice. "Else
I'll turn you over my knee!"
	"Promises, promises," came Randy's cheeky reply.
	Wondering just what he'd been volunteered into, Sergeant Ives
coloured and said, "Ah, yeah, we had better get going." He nodded toward
Chef and the Major who, with Patrick Tsang trailing were walking toward the
exit.
	With the Protection Officers trailing or walking alertly to the
side, the group of cadets walked the length of the concourse, with Cory
muttering every inch of the way. "A minder! I don't need a minder!" he
complained.
	"Even if he is 'cute'?" asked The Phantom. "And Todd's isn't that
bad, either."
	"I . . . I'm . . . spoken for," replied Cory with a nervous look at
Sean, who glowered back. He leaned inward slightly and asked, "And who is
the monk? He's got a face on him like a forty shilling teapot!"
	The Phantom's emerald eyes slid toward Alex Grinchsten, who was
walking a few paces ahead, his eyes, his restless eyes, taking in
everything.
	"Mine," said The Phantom with a sigh. "All mine!"

******

	Outside the terminal the cadets stopped and stared. Ranged in a
long line were the "hearses". First was the Phantom IV, then the twin
Phantom Vs, then the three Daimlers. Beside each car, holding the rear
passenger doors open, were liveried chauffeurs, each one of whom looked
just as strong and capable as the Protection Officers. The cadets did not
know it - yet - but the chauffeurs were highly trained in evasion tactics,
and were, like the Protection Officers, armed.
	"Who died?" came Joey's squeak. "And where's my luggage. We forgot
to get it."
	"Everything is taken care of," said Joey's Protection Officer,
Sergeant Mosser. He led Randy and Joey toward the middle of the
Daimlers. "This is your car, Sir Joseph."
	In the Phantom IV limousine, Chef settled himself on the back seat
and gestured toward the Major, who was sitting in the right hand jump
seat. "And what is it you've planned for the lads?" he asked.
	Without consulting his notes, the Major replied. "First to the
house where Michael will greet his guests, nothing formal. Michael thought
that the young gentlemen would then change and do whatever it is they want
to do, shopping, visiting - which reminds me. We've arranged for young
Hobbes' friend to be brought out from Burnaby."
	Chef nodded kindly. "Young Simon Keppel. A fine young man, so he
is. He and Calvin are great chums, and young Phantom cares deeply for him."
Then he smiled. "There will be lunch, I'm hoping? They're accustomed to
being fed, and fed well, so they are," he said, his tone implying that he
expected culinary disaster if he, himself, did not do the cooking.
	The Major bristled. "We have engaged the services of the finest
caterer in town!" he rumbled. "He is doing all the work at the house,
including tomorrow's formal dinner."
	"Formal dinner?" asked Chef, his tone suggesting that the menu
would be baked beans on toast, served on slates, in a warehouse somewhere
on the waterfront.
	"The man we have engaged has a sterling reputation," returned the
Major, bristling. "I am sure he will meet your exacting standards."
	Chef chose to ignore the Major's sarcasm. "We'll see," he rumbled
warningly.
	Darting a black look at Chef, the Major continued. "Today there
will be a barbecue luncheon at the house." He waited for a comment, but as
none came, he continued. "The young gentlemen will be treated to the finest
Chinese restaurant in town this evening for dinner! Nothing has been
spared." "And you can stick that in your pipe and smoke it, you
supercilious blowhard!" he thought venomously.
	Patrick Tsang sighed. Perhaps he should have stuck to peddling
canned snails in Victoria.
	"I meant no offence," replied Chef blandly. "It is just that the
lads are used to the very best!"
	"Which they will have," snapped the Major imperiously. "The Maestro
has promised that everything will be of the highest class!"
	"Maestro?" asked Chef, almost dangerously. "And who is this
'Maestro', if I may be so bold as to ask?"
	"He is the best caterer in town." The Major shifted uneasily in his
seat. "You have nothing to worry about."
	Chef settled back in his seat. "You are right, of course," he said
with deceptive calmness. "Sure and I am a guest, after all."
	The Major may have missed the gleam of battle that had come into
Chef's eyes, but Patrick had not. "Definitely canned snails," Patrick
thought as the limousine pulled away. "Or potted shrimp."