Aurora Tapestry

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

Aurora Tapestry

Chapter 28b

"That was quite a speech," murmured Colin as he sat in the breezeway flats with The Phantom.

"I cribbed," replied The Phantom as he gazed into Colin's blue eyes. "Churchill said it first." He reached out and slid his hand in Colin's. "I missed you."

Colin leaned forward and pressed his lips softly against The Phantom's. "And I, God, did I miss you," he replied as he drew back. "I couldn't think of anything but you!"

The Phantom blushed deeply. "Colin, we have to be careful. People might see!" he admonished his lover with a pleased giggle.

"Wait until they see me do this!" returned Colin as he wrapped The Phantom in his arms. "I love you, and I'm going to show it." Once again his lips met The Phantom's. "I don't care what other people think." He chuckled dryly. "I am, after all, a man of valour."

The Phantom, snickering loudly, pulled back. "That is not what Chef meant and you know it!"

"I'm still going to make love to you, Phantom. I'm going to walk down the street with you, and I'm going to . . ."

Just what Colin was planning to do would have to wait. The Phantom shook his head. "Nope."

"Nope? What do you mean, 'nope'?"

The Phantom snuggled against the warmth and strength of Colin and giggling, said, "Well, first of all I have to go to Sick Bay and be certified. Then I have to go to the Wardroom and set up the parlour for the nominating ceremony."

"The what?" Colon demanded. He wanted to be with Phantom, not shut up in some dingy Wardroom. "What the hell are you talking about?"

The Phantom gave Colin a quick peck on the lips and stood. "I'll explain as you walk me to Sick Bay."

"I understand what's happening in there," grumbled Colin. "I had to drop my drawers in the Commanding Officer's cabin and show Bradley-Smith something I could have told him about!"

The Phantom could not resist the temptation. "Thereby giving him the thrill of a lifetime!"

"Phantom!"

"Well it thrills me," returned The Phantom, laughing. "You are one handsome man, Colin Arnott."

"And you are a salacious twit!" retorted Colin. He blushed deeply. "Doesn't the Order take anybody's word?"

"Not when it comes to the Rule," replied The Phantom. A sad look crossed his face. "I . . ."

"Is something wrong" asked Colin, worried that something was indeed wrong.

"It's Jérémie Larouche," replied The Phantom with a sigh. "We call him Jérémie Cher and he's a really sweet guy. Everybody loves him and he wants to be a knight, but he can't be a knight because he won't . . ."

Colin heard The Phantom's unspoken words. "Ah," he said with a knowing look. "It happens, Phantom. It's too bad that you have to disappoint him, but obviously the Order places a great deal of importance in the covenant." His eyes narrowed. "But then, you know that, and I'm willing to bet a year's pay that still you tried to move Heaven and earth to get the Rule changed."

The Phantom squirmed in embarrassment. "Well, I did speak with Chef, and he's sort of agreed to something."

"Knowing you, you yelled and stamped your feet and made loud declarations of brotherhood for Jérémie," returned Colin, laughing.

"No, that was for Sandro," admitted The Phantom with a grin. "Chef bent the Rule for him, but he wouldn't budge for Jérémie." He grimaced. "The old poot!"

Colin placed his finger under The Phantom's chin and lifted it so that he could look into the deep, emerald orbs he had come to adore. "Phantom, you must understand that to Chef tradition, duty, honour, responsibility, are very real things. Chef would not be Proctor if he decided to arbitrarily do away with traditions, traditions that have held the Order together for centuries." Colin looked at the small line of cadets forming in front of Sick Bay. "I remember when sailors wore that uniform, a traditional uniform. I knew they were sailors simply by looking at them." He turned and stared across the parade square at the sparkling, foam-topped waters of the Straight of Georgia. "Now consider what happened when the politicians raped the Royal Canadian Navy."

"They did away with the traditional uniforms, the customs, everything," supplied The Phantom.

"And what was left?" asked Colin, his eyes blazing.

The Phantom thought a moment. "Nothing."

"Nothing," repeated Colin. "I was not raised in the traditions of the Old Navy. When I joined everything was Canadian Armed Forces, green uniforms, army ranks, the whole sorry charade. I thought I was joining a special thing, but I wasn't. It's just a job, Phantom. I go on board ship, I do a job, I go to my cabin. At 0800 that abomination Pearson foisted on us is hoisted, at sunset it's lowered. Most times it's just bundled up and shoved into the Flag Locker. No ceremony, no emotion, no tradition."

The Phantom stared wide-eyed at his lover. "Colin," he exclaimed, "I never knew you felt that way." He snickered. "You sound like The Gunner."

"Good," growled Colin. "I want to sound like him because like him I now realize what was lost! Part of what holds your Band of Brothers together . . ." He waved at the line of cadets. "Part of your being is tradition, of doing things a certain way, of never deviating from the right path. The Order knows that. Which is why Chef is not an old poot! He might be a dinosaur, he might be as crazy as a coot, but he knows what holds men together."

Nodding, The Phantom reached out to take Colin's hand. "You are a complex man, Colin. I figured you for a new age sailor. I'm glad I was wrong."

Colin grinned. "I am a man of many moods, and many parts. All of them wonderful!"

"Now you sound like Harry!" The Phantom smiled.

"Don't underestimate that behemoth," countered Colin. "He might boast, and brag, and at times I'm sure he's a pain in everybody's ass, but Harry knows how to be loyal." He looked at The Phantom. "Harry loves with all his heart. So do the Twins. You're very fortunate, Phantom. You have true friends, friends who hold you dear, friends that other men, lesser men, can only yearn for."

"They're your friends too," rejoined The Phantom. "They gave you their friendship in Comox, remember?"

Colin remembered the happy gathering around the devastated table at the seaside café where he had sat with the Band of Brothers, with the Boys of Aurora. "That was a good day," Colin murmured with a happy smile. "I haven't laughed so much in a long time."

"You certainly made Cory's day," said The Phantom. "He still talks about the show you put on."

Colin laughed and shook his head. "I'll bet he doesn't mention standing there with his dick in his hand as he watched me do my stuff!"

Laughing, The Phantom said, "No, he doesn't, and you're going to have to remind him when he gets lippy." The Phantom sobered suddenly and stared at the cadets. "I love Cory. In a way, I'm in love with him."

"And Todd, and Harry, and Matt, every one of those boys, even that scapegrace Calvin Hobbes. You wear your heart on your sleeve when it comes to your friends. They don't realize it, most of them, but it time, they will."

"And I love you, Colin," whispered The Phantom. "I . . . feel complete with you."

"And Steve Winslow?" asked Colin, arching an eyebrow.

"He's a wonderful memory. I won't deny that I felt, well I felt giddy and happy, and all sorts of things when I was with him." He looked at Colin, his face filled with anguish. "But The Gunner is The Gunner. He could never truly love me, or any man. Sandro says he is like Alexander Nevsky, destined to never really love because he is fated to remain forever on guard, forever watchful, forever filled with that indefinable thing called 'duty'."

"A man who will love, but never truly love. A man who will never truly be a part of another man's life."

"Yes. Cory saw it. Sandro knew it. I now see and know." He shrugged.

"They sound like very perceptive young men," replied Colin. He nodded toward Sick Bay. "They're starting to go in. I hope you've got clean undies on," he said with a grin.

The Phantom made a face. "I hope Doc, or Doctor Bradley-Smith, like what they see!" he sniped.

"It's required, Phantom," returned Colin, still grinning. "And who knows, maybe one of them will see something they haven't seen before!"

"Ha! They'll see the Pride, and Harry will strut around for the next week boasting about how awe struck Doc, or Doctor Bradley-Smith, was when they saw that most magnificent of God's creations! He'll wave the Escorts as well, and Cory will make a smart ass crack, which will get him a bite on his bum!"

"I beg your pardon?"

A low snicker grew from The Phantom's throat. "Harry is very protective of the Pride and the Escorts. Forceful, too." He took his place in the line of cadets. "In a way I'm thankful we have the Vigil tonight. I sure as hell wouldn't get a lick of sleep in the Gunroom!"

"What?" Colin took The Phantom's arm and led him a few feet away from the line. "What Vigil?"

"Didn't they tell you?" asked The Phantom.

"They told me bugger all," replied Colin. "They had me strip, I flashed my dick at a doctor I never met before, got my balls prodded when I was measured for a new uniform, asked if I wanted silk or cotton underpants, had my feet measured, driven two hundred miles in traffic you wouldn't believe, and when I asked I was told I asked too many questions so no, damn it, I do not know what the Vigil is because nobody bothered to tell me!"

"Touchy, touchy," tsked The Phantom. "Chef says you have a lip on you like a Belfast tinker. He's right."

"Phantom" growled Colin, his voice a warning.

"Well, I'll tell you then," said The Phantom with a mischievous grin. He looked at the now greatly diminished line of cadets standing in front of Sick Bay. "After the certifications are done we all change into our best uniforms. We go to the Wardroom and Chef asks us if we want to become knights."

"That sounds easy enough," responded Colin. "The Vigil?"

"I'm getting there," returned The Phantom, enjoying his role. "If we, and that includes you, Colin, agree, we ask to become Chef's liege. I thought I was The Gunner's liege because I asked him, but Chef says it didn't count because you need three knights present."

"Jesus," grumbled Colin. "This is getting confusing."

"You're the one who went on about traditions," countered The Phantom. "Anyway, once we are accepted as candidates, we then have to become knights."

"Another ceremony?"

"Yes. I don't know where that will be held because Chef didn't tell me. What he did tell me was we'd be knighted tomorrow."

"Don't tell me," said Colin. "I can see it now, all the flashing of swords and 'Arise, Sir Knight' that Chef can conjure up."

The Phantom shrugged his ignorance of whatever ceremonies were to come. "I don't know. What I do know is that after we accept, or decline, our nomination, we're going to say Kaddish, or at least Sandro is."

"Kaddish?" Colin looked thoughtful. "That's a prayer for the dead."

"Yes, it is. Our brother, Sylvain, was killed in a car accident in Quebec. Sandro is Jewish, although he hasn't had his bris yet and hell and sheeit, did I have a lot of talking to do about that!" He giggled. "Anyway, Sandro is very adamant. In the Jewish tradition you say prayers for your dead, and since Sylvain was our brother, we have to mourn him properly."

"Chef went along with it?" asked Colin.

"Oh, yes. He's made all the arrangements. I don't know what he's up to, but then with Chef you never really know. I do know that he met with a wonderful old Jewish man this afternoon - did you know that Chef is something called Righteous Among The Nations? He was in Palestine and saved a lot of Jews and . . ."

"Phantom, the Vigil?" reminded Colin gently.

The Phantom ducked his head sheepishly. He was running on and getting as bad as Chef! "Well, according to the Arthurian Legend and Chef - and did I have a time getting through all the Maidens of Monongahela, Leprechauns, Knights of Larghan and what not before he got to the point - a candidate knight spends the night in a chapel, in prayer and contemplation. It's his last chance to change his mind and he can, at any time during the Vigil . . ." Here The Phantom attempted, not quite successfully, a broad, Irish brogue, "He can 'sneak away in the night like the Banshee of Tobermory'."

"Chef actually said that?" asked Colin, trying hard not to laugh.

"Faith, and he did," replied The Phantom, laying the accent on thick. "Sure he said that, on me oath, and a lot more!"

"Prayer is good for the soul," said Colin as he and The Phantom reached the steps leading to Sick Bay. "But faith, I sure hope I can remember some prayers." He looked at The Phantom and winked. "Of course, I'll be doing more contemplating than praying."

"I can imagine," said The Phantom, blushing, understanding the import of Colin's words. "Right now, I have to go inside and let a doctor contemplate my dick!"

Surgeon-Lieutenant Daniel Dane Bradley-Smith, RNR, Professed Knight of Honour and Devotion of the Sovereign and Most Noble Order of Saint John of the Cross of Acre, Count of Stolberg in Hesse, walked down the silent, stiff lines of cadets that filled the Wardroom and stopped before the seated Proctor of the Order. He bowed from the neck and announced, "I present to you, my lord Proctor, these Letters and ask that you make them Patent."

Chef leaned forward slightly and took the typewritten papers from the young, nervous surgeon. "All have been examined?" he asked formally.

"All save one," replied Daniel. He had thought to examine Jérémie, but Chef had decreed otherwise. There was no need to examine anyone who was not a candidate for knighthood, Chef had explained. Jérémie would be a Companion, and while the old cook had made the appointment sound wonderful, Daniel had been tempted to ask if Chef had read the passage in Ezekiel about judging the rams and the he goats. Then the young doctor recalled the stories about Chef, and his ownership of a large, and lethal, cleaver, and decided it was wiser to remain silent than risk the wrath of gods.

"All are acceptable?" Chef asked, continuing the ritual.

"All save one, my lord," replied Daniel.

"You grant then, the nihil obstat?"

"For all save one, nihil obstat is proclaimed," said Daniel. He stepped back and took his place beside the prie dieu that The Phantom had nicked from the Padre (P)'s office.

Chef surveyed the neat, trim lines of cadets, together with Andy and Kyle, all of them dressed in their best blue uniforms, all of them standing at attention with their distinctive round, white caps under their arms. Chef rose ponderously. He bowed first to the Executive Officer, and then to Doc. "My lords, in accordance with the Rule, will you stand surety for these candidate knights?"

Lieutenant-Commander Hazleton placed his hand on his sword hilt and nodded. "I stand surety for all save one."

Doc repeated Number One's actions. "I stand surety for all save one." Chef had arranged the cadets in order of acceptance, using a system known only to himself. The candidates had been told that each candidate would come forward, kneel on the prie dieu and make their oath. They would ask Chef if he would become their Liege Lord. Daniel, much to his chagrin, had been detailed to act as Camerlengo, or Master of Ceremonies. Beside him David Clayton stood holding a framed piece of paper.

Clearing his throat, Daniel intoned, "I call forward to make oath Joseph John Pelham."

Joey, wondering how in the hell he managed to be called first, walked nervously forward and knelt on the prie dieu. He held out his hands and waited.

"Joseph John, you have made known your desire to take oath. I ask you now, in the face of this company, do you affirm your request?" asked Chef as he looked directly into Joey's eyes.

"I do, my lord Proctor," affirmed Joey without hesitation. Then he added, "Honest!"

Stifling a chuckle, Chef looked sternly at Joey and then nodded to David Clayton, who came forward and presented the oath for Joey to read.

"I, Joseph John Pelham, do become your liege man of life and limb and of earthly worship and faith and truth I will bear unto you to live and die against all manner of folks."

Chef gestured for Joey to rise, took the young cook's hands in his, and then gently bussed Joey's cheeks. "Welcome, dear son and go in the knowledge that this day you have brothers."

As Joey turned, Daniel read out, "Randall Dodson Ramseur Lowndes."

Blushing as redly as his hair, Randy came forward and made his oath. When Randy had received his kiss of peace, Daniel read another name and Calvin Hobbes came forward.

"I, Calvin Steven Hobbes . . ."

In turn, each cadet came forward.

"I, Mathew Alexander Edward Greene . . ."

"I, Thomas Matthew . . ." Here Thumper hesitated. His nickname of "Thumper" had been so much a part of him for so long that he almost included the fond epithet . . . "Vernon . . ."

"I, Brian Hugh Carlin Venables . . ."

Kevin looked over his shoulder and smiled warmly at Ray before he too made his oath. "I, Kevin Patrick Berkeley . . ." With eyes filled with adoration, Ray knelt before Chef, his hands clasping those of his Papa Chef's. "I, Raymond James Cornwallis . . ."

"I, Phillip Godfrey Adean . . ." Unlike Thumper, Phillip was proud of his appellation, and added without hesitation, "called The Assistant do . . ."

When the tittering subsided, Tyler took Phillip's place. "I, Edward Tyler Stephen Benbow . . ."

Ramrod straight, Sean walked forward and knelt. "I, Sean Mark Anders . . ."

Val, his dark features made darker by the waning sun, stepped forward. "I, Valentine Joseph Orsini . . ."

Mike Sunderland, no longer the subject of ridicule, was bursting with barely concealed pride as he said, "I, Michael Spencer Sunderland . . ."

Todd's golden hair gleamed in an errant beam of sunlight as he knelt. "I, Todd William Arthur Philip Louis Leveson-Arundel . . ."

"I, Nicholas Arthur George Rodney . . ."

Cory knelt before Chef and it was as if all the clouds parted as one and sunlight bathed him in a glow of warmth and gilt. "I, Cory Albert Victor Louis Francis Leveson-Arundel . . ."

As the parade of cadets continued in the Wardroom, Michael Chan sat in his office, sipping a small dram of scotch. Joe Hobbes sat on the leather sofa opposite and Gabe Izard, still mourning his loss, had joined the tall, muscular Joe, who had never left Gabe's side since the short service in the cemetery.

From outside the open window behind him Michael could hear the rhythmic pace of the two sentries, an American and a Brit, posted on the outside patio. He frowned slightly at the memory of the treachery of his Chinese guards, who had been confined to their quarters pending their repatriation to China or Hong Kong, and looked at Joe. "You have sent the cable to Taiwan?" he asked as he toyed with the crystal nosing glass - it was in the shape of a thistle - that he used when drinking scotch.

Joe nodded. "I reported K'ang's treachery and expressed your displeasure. They have not replied."

Smiling thinly, Michael nodded his head. "Nor will they. K'ang's masters have been caught out and will strenuously deny any involvement in his actions. They will huddle together and worry that there is a Tsang lurking in every corner or under their beds."

"Will there be?" asked Gabe, his voice still dulled with grief.

"No." Michael swivelled in his chair and looked out at the broad expanse of green, manicured lawns that surrounded his house. "It is not in our best interest to antagonize the Taiwanese further." Again a thin smile crossed his face. "It will put us in an advantageous position, however. They must do business with us and will be anxious to make amends for something they will claim they had no part in."

Joe never ceased to be amazed at Michael's pragmatism. K'ang's treachery had not been personal. It had been business, and the matter would end. "The Major reports that the arrangements in Hong Kong have been completed," Joe said, changing the subject. "He and Patrick are flying out later in the day."

Michael grimaced. "The marriage contracts have been signed?"

"Yes, and the dowry gifts presented. According to the Major the Soongs were very pleased."

Thinking of the considerable treasure of jade and gold that had accompanied the Major to Hong Kong, Michael grumbled, "They had better be." He turned and his eyes fell on a small sheaf of typed papers sitting on his desk. As if poking a stick at an unknown, but definitely suspicious, lump of road kill, Michael glowered and moved the papers slightly with his finger. "The final list?"

Gabe, for the first time since Darren's death, spoke with some enthusiasm. "As far as we can tell, yes. Joel has correlated everything we received from Toronto, Montreal and here." He shook his head. "There are some very well known people involved in this."

"Celebrity, and political power, have the ability to bury a multitude of sins," opined Michael. "Frankly, I am not surprised."

Joe coughed delicately. "Regrettably, there are more knights involved than we originally thought." He looked extremely uncomfortable as he reported, "It appears from the papers we found in the old Grand Master's files that he, and a large group of knights, were practicing paedophiles."

"Including Simpson, Hunter and Willoughby?"

"We believe so," replied Joe to Michael's question. "There are great gaps in the files, letters, memoranda, missing. What we have been able to piece together is that one of our footmen, Noel Aubery, arranged to have young boys delivered to the Grand Master's house in Coquitlam on a regular basis."

"He used the services of this Stennes person," added Gabe. His face looked stricken. "We cannot prove it, but it would seem that there were regular orgies held."

Michael's face remained impassive. "The cesspool is deep, but we will clean it." He glanced at Gabe, assuring himself that the young man was finally coming out of his mourning stupor. He then looked at Joe. "What of our Chancellor?"

"The Chancellor has gathered together a group of young men." He glanced at his notes and smiled. "And one very determined, opinionated woman."

Michael's eyebrows rose imperceptibly. "A woman?"

Smiling, Joe nodded. "Sophie Nicholson. She was a great friend of The Gunner's aunt. She has entered into The Gunner's plans with a gusto that he claims surprises him."

"She must be a remarkable woman then," said Michael dryly.

"Apparently she is," said Joe without inflection. He continued on. "The Gunner and his people have identified quite a network of paedophiles in Toronto. Our people have done the same in Montreal, Winnipeg, and Vancouver. I am still waiting for further reports from the smaller western cities."

"Contact our people and tell them that I want the information, and that I wanted it yesterday!" ordered Michael impatiently. "This business cannot be allowed to continue indefinitely." His impatience dissipated, Michael then asked, "What does our Chancellor plan to do?"

Joe looked at his patron. "The Gunner and his people have established a hospital. He has enlisted the aid of some people he refers to as his 'Jewish friends' . . ." This caused Michael's eyes to widen slightly, but he said nothing. " . . . And of course, Terry Hsiang has been most helpful. His people are keeping the men we are interested in under surveillance, and he is using his contacts to ferret out financial information on all those we are interested in."

Michael nodded approvingly. He did wonder just who The Gunner's "Jewish friends" were, but decided not to pursue the matter until later, when he could speak to his Chancellor in private.

"The Chancellor plans to strike next Monday morning," continued Joe. "He plans for a coordinated attack on all the men that he and his people have identified. He worries that if this is not done the bastards will try to contact their fellows, warn them."

"Time on target," said Gabe. "It's a sound military move." He stood and walked to the side table where the drinks sat. After pouring himself a large scotch, he returned to his seat. "We should do the same, I think. We have the manpower, and the Tsangs are ready."

Michael thought quickly. "Patrick will be returning with the Major. He and Cousin Tommy are to make the arrangements." He raised a finger. "They are to be discreet. Emphasize that point, Joe."

"Discreet?" asked Gabe, surprised. He had thought that Michael's wrath would be devastating.

"We cannot have dead bodies littering the streets," offered Michael softly. "There are better ways to destroy these creatures."

"The Chancellor has called a Bar of Justice," reminded Joe.

"I am aware that he has," responded Michael calmly. "And all knights who are involved in this will appear before the Bar and be punished according to the Rule. As for the others . . ." He smiled grimly. "Gabe, you and Joel will gather every bit of financial information, every item of personal information on each of the men we would destroy. I want them ruined, financially and socially. I want their friends and business acquaintances made aware of what they are. Whispers of impropriety have destroyed more men that can be counted. We will use humanity's natural curiosity and inborn desire to think the worst of everyone to destroy these men. When we have finished with them they might not be dead, but will wish they were!"

"And the law?" asked Gabe.

Michael snorted. "Dearest Gabriel, look at the list of names!" he said, pushing the small pile of papers across the desk. "Lawyers, judges, politicians, men of business, military men! The spectrum of filth is broad. Do you not think that these men, when word gets out, will not try to limit the damage?"

"They'll slither away and try to deflect as much blame as they can," thought Joe aloud.

"Yes, and they will use what they know of their fellows against them, use every legal trick they can think of, to save their necks. These are men without scruples, morals, or honour!"

For the first time Michael's face showed emotion, and anger. "We will destroy them using our methods. They will not be allowed to use their contacts, their influence, their power, to save their miserable lives!" He glared, his rage barely controlled, at Gabe and Joe. "Simpson, Willoughby, Hunter, and all other knights involved will stand before the Bar of Justice. This Stennes person is to be dealt with as the Chancellor sees fit. Any associated with him will suffer the same punishment."

"And Noel Aubery?" asked Joe.

"I have not forgotten him," replied Michael stonily. "He is to be found, and any information he has extracted. When he has served his purpose Cousin Tommy will deal with Noel Aubery!"

When Michael fell silent, both Joe and Gabe made to rise, thinking that the audience was at end. Michael stopped them. "Even as we speak our Proctor is presiding at a ceremony that will bring us our hope. Tomorrow I will go to Comox. You, Joe, and you, Gabe, will accompany me."

Rising from his seat Michael returned to staring out of the window. "We will take the Relic, and the collars. Please arrange for transportation and a suitable venue, Joe. You know the area and I would have what I plan to do be as impressive as possible. You might also have the staff prepare as many bedrooms as possible for guests. I would like to . . ."

A movement at the far end of the garden caught Michael's eye. For a moment he did not quite believe what he was seeing. Through the gate a small gaggle of naked men straggled, prodded by two black-clad figures. >From the terrace came muted snickers.

As Michael watched the two guards stationed on the terrace ran toward the group of men. He blinked as the two black-clad figures turned and, almost gracefully, disappeared into the deep woods on the other side of the gate.

Laughingly, Michael said, "It would seem that the construction of Lieutenant Sheppard's obstacle course will be somewhat delayed."

"What is going on?" asked Gabe as they entered the Gold and Silver Vault. "And what obstacle course is Michael talking about?"

Chuckling, Joe swung open the door to the small chamber that contained the Order's hidden treasure. "Laurence and his protégé, or his familiar, Logan - it depends on your point of view - are making life miserable for the Outside Security Force which, as we speak, is supposed to be building an obstacle course out in the woods. It seems that Laurence has other ideas."

Gabe did not reply, although he did wonder, briefly, what stripping one's opponents naked had to do with making their lives miserable. He wondered briefly because somehow his melancholy seemed to be lifting. Gabe felt . . . strangely at peace, and content. "What . . . what is this place?" he asked.

Joe had much the same feelings as Gabe. "The polished boxes contain mere gold, silver, jewels. This . . ." He reached out to touch a battered, square chest. "This contains a treasure beyond price, a treasure that has moved men to perform great deeds."

Withdrawing the box from its resting place Joe reverently offered it to Gabe. "This box has not been opened in eight centuries or more. Legend tells us that it contains nothing more than a piece of wood, yet it has endured, this box, and survived the violence of the enemy, and the raging of the sea. In 1185 it was carried through the streets of Acre by the last surviving Knights, Charles de Notre Dame de Grace, Bradley, Baron of York, whose son had been killed at Hattin, Stephan, sometimes called Stephane, of Normandin, and Peter of Halifax. It was taken to England, where it rested in a small, nondescript chapel in what was then called Whitehall. It has survived fire, and flood, and the wrath of kings and dictators. When the Germans blitzed London the chapel was destroyed, yet there, amidst the destruction and rubble, the altar stood, pristine, untouched, and the box was whole. Some have scoffed, others have screamed schism and heresy, yet it has endured."

Gabe's eyes grew wide as an almost irresistible force pulled his hand toward the box containing the remnant of what the Knights of the Order had protected with their lives, and honour. As his hand touched the scarred olivewood of the box, a great peace came over Gabe, and he shuddered. "Darren is at peace," he whispered, his voice filled with awe.

"Yes. And so now, are you," said Joe. "Tomorrow true men of honour will take their vows and touch this box. Tomorrow we, you and I, shall witness a great thing. Tomorrow the Order will rise anew, strengthened, cleansed of simony and treachery and sin. Boys, some mere wisps of manhood, stand before their brothers. The Order is renewed by their oaths and their bravery of spirit. Deus Vult!"

"I, Philip Andrew Thornton . . ."

Harry lumbered forward and grasped Chef's hands in a vice-like grip. He was weeping softly as he said firmly, "I, Harold Franz-Josef von Hohenberg . . ."

"I, Robin Rosslyn Wemyss . . ."

Mark came forward, magnificent in a uniform he had borrowed from Tyler. His blue eyes shone brightly as he knelt and without hesitation spoke. "I, Mark James van Beck . . ."

Tony, his olive skin flushed, followed his friend and lover. "I, Anthony Salvatore Valpone . . ."

Stuart, who had been standing beside Steve, holding his friend's hand, gave it a gentle squeeze and walked forward. "I, Stuart Malcolm Douglass MacDuff . . ."

Outside the Wardroom a small head peeked into the room as the Aurora cadets walked forward. "What are they doing?" asked Mike Knox, a short, dark-haired YAG cadet.

"It looks like they're praying," replied Peter Race, who was barely taller that Mike Knox, only skinnier. His eyes sparkled behind his spectacles. "Chef is smiling and Harry is crying." He reached down to touch the trumpet he had been issued by the old cook. "It looks like they're having some kind of religious service."

"I guess that explains the music," said Mikey Logan, a stocky, dark-haired cadet who normally counted sheets and pillowcases on the command YAG. He lifted the baritone trombone and sheet of music that Harry had given him.

"What I don't understand is why we have to play this at all," complained Nicholas Scheer, who stood a head taller than the others, had a head of delightfully curly black hair, and a winning smile. "And I hope I remember how to blow this thing!" His foot touched the boxed tuba he'd been issued. "I haven't played it in months!"

"Did you at least read the music?" asked Petty Officer Eion Reilly, nominally in charge of the pickup band he'd been told to ferret out amongst the YAG crews. He held a French horn, which he played very well. "It's a classic and . . ."

"And why do we have to wait until Chef's guests arrive? I have laundry to do," whined Andrew Payton, his bespectacled eyes narrow.

"Because Chef threatened to do nasty things to us!" replied Peter. "With a cleaver!" He returned to peeking in the window. "Now be quiet."

"I, Thomas Jonathan Jackson . . ."

"I, Steven Robert Edward Lee . . ."

Fred came forward, a smile that would not fade on his blushing face. He was no longer an outcast, no longer an orphan. England had never happened and the future beckoned. "I, Frederick John Fisher . . ." Chris, almost angelic in appearance, smiled at the Twins as he passed them, the Twins who had helped him take the first step on the road to self-discovery. He looked lovingly at Jon, and knew that today he would be bound forever to his lover. "I, Christopher James Hood do . . ."

Nathan, who had for the first time in his young life found true contentment and love, smiled at Fred and then at Cory. Cory would always be Nathan's first, true love, but Fred would forever be in Nathan's heart. "I, Nathan Michael Berman . . ."

Two Strokes, the last of the cadets to make their oath, much to everyone's surprise, marched forward without hesitation. The slim, sloe-eyed youth had played Devil's Advocate almost from the beginning, always doubting, always questioning. Cory, who had listened, and watched, had secretly doubted that Two Strokes would join his brothers. What Cory could not know was that Two Strokes doubted, but in his heart he believed, for his voyage of discovery, which had begun on Harwood Island, when he had slept close to Cory, and continued to an ending on another beach after the End-of-Year Barbecue, had led him to the realization that he had walked the earth much of his life with his eyes and ears closed, suborned by the teachings of his childhood.

What few knew was that Two Strokes thought long and deeply about many things. His growing relationship with Thumper had affected him deeply, not because he and Thumper were lovers in every sense of the word, but because what they did together felt so . . . very right. Two Strokes had tried to view the world with cold, logical, precision. Now he felt a warmth that he had never known existed. A warm, loving young man had replaced the prim, proper, and very straight young man who had arrived in Aurora back in June. Two Strokes now knew how to love with his heart, and not his head.

As he knelt before Chef, Two Strokes did not doubt his love for Thumper, nor did he doubt the rightness of what he was about to do. He reached out his hands . . . "I, Roger Andrew Home . . ."

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

"I, Alexandr Efimovitch Signaransky . . ."

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

"I, Andrew Frederick David Berg . . ."

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

"I, Kyle Michael St. Vincent . . ."

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

"I, Charles Colin Matthew Arnott . . ."

As was traditional, or at least so he thought, Commander Stockman was the last of the officers to take the oath. He had watched with pride and dignity as the boys he had come to think of as his "young gentlemen" slowly, with a grace and dignity none knew they possessed, came forward. They had relied on him, as their Commanding Officer, to protect them, to defend them, and he hoped that he had done what was expected of him, and made a good job of it. He had bent the rules, and ignored the rules, all for his young gentlemen. He had seen the love and devotion grow between the boys, growing slowly, growing carefully, but always growing. They would need him less and less, he knew, as they grew older and more secure in themselves. But they would need him, and he would be there for as long as God allowed him to be there.

As he knelt Father suddenly thought of his newborn grandson. What, he wondered to himself, if the lad turned out to be . . .? And if he were, would there be someone there for him, to hold him, to help him when all seemed hopeless. Then he thought if it is the will of God if the wee lad were . . . so be it, because behind him stood a small group that would take him as one of them, would defend him, and teach him, and hold him close.

Smiling, the Commanding Officer held out his hands. "I, Francis Albert Edward Stockman . . ."

"All save one," thought The Phantom as he looked down to see Jérémie Cher's morose, sad face. "Chef knows how I feel, and he promised." He knelt before Chef, reached out and took the old man's hands, and looked pleadingly at his mentor. "Please," he whispered.

Chef knew what Phantom was worried about. He leaned forward and pressed his cheek against The Phantom's, whispering, "Sure and did I not promise?"

Feeling The Phantom's head nod, Chef straightened. "Now make your oath, Phantom darlin', for you are beloved of the Order, and of your fellow man."

"And blessed of the Lord my God, for it has been promised me," thought The Phantom as a beatific smile formed on his face. "I, Philip Andrew Thomas Lascelles . . ."

Jérémie's shoulders slumped in dejection and, or he thought, rejection. "I'm not good enough, I'll never be their brother, I'm just another Frog . . ." he thought desperately when he felt a sharp jab in his ribs. His head swivelled and he glared at Cory.

"You're wanted, you dippy Toad," Cory growled out the corner of his mouth.

"What?" Jérémie's head moved quickly left and right and then he saw Chef beckoning. "Oh," he whispered. Impulsively he grasped his Duff Bag, wiping his sweating palms on the smooth rayon of his silk. When Jérémie was in place, Chef reached out and his broad, callused hand touched Jérémie's cheek, and murmured,

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

"You are much loved, my son and brother, more deeply and firmly that you know," said Chef, his voice as soft and smooth as silk. He saw the tears forming in Jérémie's deep brown eyes and gently wiped them away. "The Order has always tried, in all ways to respect the customs and traditions of many who would be, but for reasons left to God, could not be, one with us. I am reminded . . ." Chef glanced balefully at The Phantom, "that perhaps the Order has been remiss in its duty, and that it is time that we return to the way set by our forefathers."

Chef patted Jérémie's cheek and continued. "In you the Order returns to the true way of the Rule for you, my dearest Jérémie, have answered the call to arms, and chosen to arm yourself and become a man of valour. The Order cannot and will not deny you, our brother, or allow you to stand aside."

Jérémie quickly ran the sleeve of his jumper under his nose and brightened. "You mean, I can be?"

Chef's hand never left Jérémie's cheek. "Will you become the first of many? Will you, dear son, become a Companion of Honour? Will you accompany your brothers, stand beside them and share their glory and their hardships? Will you be their companion above all others?"

Nodding his head vigorously, Jérémie nodded. "I will, yes." He whispered.

Chef motioned for The Phantom to stand to the right of Jérémie. "Will you, dear brother, stand surety for this man?" he asked The Phantom.

The Phantom, who could not swear on his sword, because he didn't have one, placed his left hand on Jérémie's shoulder and his right over his heart. "I stand surety for this man," he said stoutly.

"Then, in the presence of your brothers, make your oath," Chef said to Jérémie.

Beaming, and looking directly into Chef's tired old eyes . . ."I, Jérémie Stephane Larouche, do become your liege man of life and limb and of earthly worship and faith and truth I will bear unto you to live and die against all manner of folks."

Peter Race gasped and his eyes widened.

"What? What's happening?" demanded Mike Knox.

"They're . . . they're kissing!" exclaimed Peter breathlessly.

"On the lips?" Andrew Payton rose and tried to push Peter away from the window.

"No!" whispered Peter harshly as he returned Andrew's push. "On the cheek! And Jérémie is crying! He's crying but he's got the biggest shit-eating grin on his face that I've ever seen!"

"This I have got to see!" declared Nicholas Scheer.

Eion Reilly's hand held Nicholas back. "Leave them be," he ordered firmly. "And the rest of you, park your asses down here."

"But Eion," whined Peter, "they're kissing and hugging. He lowered himself to the grass reluctantly.

Eion looked disparagingly at the thin, bespectacled young Peter Race and shook his head. "Peter, just let it go, okay?" Eion said.

Peter cocked his head and looked quizzically at the stocky young Petty Officer. Eion was a nice guy but he sure had been acting strangely since that bimbo had gone down on him during the beach party. Peter shrugged inwardly. Getting a blow job was something that every boy supposedly yearned for. Peter had never been blown, but popular rumour had it that a blow job was a wonderful experience. Then Peter thought that maybe Eion was a touch embarrassed. He had cum awfully quick, and squealed loudly as he did it!

What Peter did not know, what no one knew, was that Eion Reilly's first sexual experience had been less than glorious. Not only had he nutted after a few sucks on his dick, the girl had withdrawn at the first sign of his ejaculation - strange, he couldn't call her anything else, as she hadn't told him her name - but he had blown all over his shorts, and the guys snickered and made fun of him. He could have lived with the ridicule. What he found difficult to understand was, after receiving something that promised glory, why he felt defiled, so dirty.

As he watched the other YAG cadets, Andrew, Peter, Mikey, Nicholas, and Mike Knox sitting against the outside bulkhead of the Staff Barracks, yawning and scratching at themselves, Eion wondered why he felt the way he did. He had made it with a girl, which was what he was supposed to do, or so he thought. Yet, he could not help asking himself, why did he feel so . . . unclean, and why did not those who he knew were involved with each other, keeping a "special relationship", feel that way?

Eion kept his eyes and ears open. He had seen some of the other cadets together and . . . Well, he knew that Chief Anders, whom Eion secretly admired and emulated as much as he dared, and Chief Arundel were an item, as the saying went, and made love in Chief Anders' cabin whenever the coast was clear and there was no officer snooping around. Eion also knew that Chief Thornton was deeply involved with the two young cooks, Joey and Randy, jumping their bones in the Dockyard office, although Eion had to admit that he sometimes wondered if it weren't the other way around.

Eion had heard the other boys whispering together. To be honest, he wondered just what they did together that made them seem so, well, happy. That was not supposed to happen, was it?

Then there were the other whispers, whispers not about the sexual undercurrents that Eion wondered about, or heard talked about. He had overhead Sean and Cory talking together quietly. He had seen Phil Thornton and the cooks sitting apart from the other cadets and their body language, and the looks on their faces told Eion that they were not discussing sex at all.

Jeremy Cher was also in some sort of a funk, at least he had been until he entered the Gunroom. Eion knew that Jeremy had overhead something, or seen something, something involving Chief Lascelles, The Phantom. Only this morning, in the mess decks and later in the Mess Hall, there was a firm undercurrent of mystery and intrigue. Eion listened to the murmured voices of the Gunroom cadets, to the quiet urgings of the cooks, and knew that something had happened. He'd heard words like "brotherhood", and "The Order", and "knights", and dark, spectral wraiths, heard about a dream, and Ste Anne de Beaupré, heard Sylvain's named mentioned - Eion had never cared for the arrogant Drum Major, although was sorry to hear that Sylvain had been killed in a car accident.

The more he thought of it, the more Eion realized that at the core was The Phantom. This puzzled Eion no end. Until this summer The Phantom had been a spectre, a nonentity who swabbed decks and washed dishes in the Mess Hall. Yet, somehow, the world had turned upside down. The more he thought of it, the more Eion came to realize that the lives of his fellow cadets were being influenced by this strange, almost driven young steward. There was, at first glance, nothing to recommend Philip Lascelles as a leader, no aura, no great awakening. But somehow he was . . . somehow this Phantom was no mere mortal.

Eion had seen the effect The Phantom had had on the others. A look, a glance and where there had been one, there were now twenty or more, or so it seemed. In the Gunroom were not only the boys who lived there, but Sean Anders, whom everyone thought little better than an automaton, Iron Ass Anders, a Chief Petty Officer who, until now, had been unbending.

Phil Thornton, up until this moment an arrogant, know-it-all, been-there-done-that, got the T-shirt-and-the-mug jerk, who delighted in looking down his nose at everything and everybody, everybody who just didn't seem to be up to Phil's imaginary standards, was there, and not only there but laughing and smiling and crying and hugging cadets only a week ago he would have dismissed as half-trained barracks stanchions.

It all seemed so very strange to Eion. How could one boy affect so many and how could one boy, with just a glance, and it had happened only once, make him feel . . . ashamed? Hell, everybody knew about the blow job! But this boy had never, as the others had done, laughed or cracked lewd jokes, or remarked on his lack of staying power. Once, only once, had The Phantom looked at him, the steward's emerald eyes filled with . . .

Eion started and sat up. Those damned eyes! Eion had expected amusement, pity perhaps, or anger, for The Phantom knew all the girls who had been at the beach party. No, it had been something else and Eion now knew what it was: sadness.

"Are you all right?" asked Nicholas. "You've got this strange look on your face."

Smiling whimsically, Eion replied, "Nicholas, one day I hope no one ever looks at you with a look that says, 'You could have done better', or makes you believe that what you did was foolish and maybe just a little sad."

Before any of the boys who waited to play could respond to Eion's cryptic, and strange, remark, they heard the sound of tires on gravel. Their heads turned and watched as three cars rolled to a halt beside the Staff Barracks. Their eyes widened as the doors of the vehicles opened and a group of men, some old, some middle-aged, and one obviously a teenager, got out. What was puzzling was that all the men were dressed in sombre black suits, and all, with the exception of the teenage boy, were wearing hats, fedoras for the most part. The teenager, whom Peter Race recognized from his visits to the quaint little shop in town that didn't sell plastic models of warships, was wearing a little black beanie of a cap on the back of his head.

As the cadets watched, the men - there were ten in all - opened the trunks of the cars and took out what looked to be purple, gold-embroidered, parcels.

Peter Race's eyes widened as the oldest of the men turned and smiled at the cadets hunkered against the building. "Shalom," the old man whispered to them and Peter's heart skipped a beat. Suddenly he was a very little boy again and there was another old man, bent, wrinkled, but with a voice that sounded of brass. Peter's memory returned him once again to the parlour, dusty, filled with overstuffed furniture, in the house they lived in, overlooking the inner harbour. He saw the old man sitting, as he always sat, in the dark corner where the photos, sepia coloured, blurred, faded from the effects of the sun, sat arranged in some sort of order in the glass-fronted cabinet. Every morning, as the sun rose, the old man would be there, rocking gently in his chair, chanting in a strange tongue that Peter's father refused to allow him to learn.

Rising slowly, Peter watched the group of men file into the Staff Barracks and the whispered words he had heard so often slowly came back to him.

"Baruch atah Adonoi, elohaynu . . ."