The Twins stared at the ski mask, open-mouthed, their eyes as wide as saucers. They looked at each other and then in unison shook their heads quickly from side to side as if to clear their minds. “You are going to what?” asked Todd, his voice full of disbelief.

“I am going to go into the Petty Officers Mess tomorrow night. I am going to pop Little Big Man’s puppy,” replied The Phantom, his voice bland, his manner calm. It was as if he had just announced that he was going down to the corner shop to pick up a pack of cigarettes.

“Are you out of your fucking mind” yelled Cory. He jumped up and grabbed The Phantom by the shoulders. “You are not going to do any such thing! You are not!”

The Phantom gently pushed Cory away. “Did I ever tell you that your eyes take on a wonderful gleam when you get angry?” asked The Phantom, making light of the situation. He was just as determined to carry out his plan as the Twins were determined to stop him.

Cory shook his fist at The Phantom. “You leave my fucking gleams out of this!” he yelled. “You are not going to do any such thing! Of all the harebrained, idiotic notions to come down the pike, this takes the cake. You will not go anywhere near Paul Greene, not tomorrow night, not any night! Do you hear me, Phantom?”

“I hear you, and I am still doing it.”

Cory growled and a dangerous look came into his eyes. Before he could lunge Todd reached out, grabbed the back of his brother’s trunks and pulled him down onto the bed. “Cory, shut up, now!” he ordered sharply. Cory gave his brother a devastating look. But he remained sitting down. Todd regarded The Phantom, took a deep breath, and then spoke. “Cory is quite right,” he said quietly. “Yours is an idiotic idea. Have you really thought about what could happen if Little Big Man screams rape?” He put his arm around Cory’s shoulder. “Have you considered the repercussions, the effect such a foolish action would have on your friends, on your family?”

The Phantom regarded Todd with affection, and respect. Dear sweet level headed Todd. The Phantom was not unaware that his seducing, or attempting to seduce Little Big Man could backfire. Still, he was convinced that it was the only way. “I have, yes, Todd,” The Phantom replied, his voice clear and quiet. “I have also considered that if Paul responds the way we all know he will respond, we will be able to use it against him.”

“And just what in the fuck is that supposed to mean?” demanded Cory harshly. “Where the fuck did you come up with that idea?”

The Phantom smiled inwardly. There was no point in reminding Cory that it was he who had broached the idea that Paul Greene was really a closet homosexual. “The where is not important, the why is.” The Phantom pulled out the chair from behind his desk, sat in it and looked evenly at the Twins. “Whether you believe it or not, we are in a war with no rules. Little Big Man has written four letters that we know about . . .”

“Three, four or forty! Does it matter? They are all bullshit!” interrupted Cory. Todd gave him a slight squeeze, a silent order to remain calm.

“Yes, they are,” agreed The Phantom. He continued. “Little Big Man has written four letters. In those letters he has made accusations that will, if they become public knowledge, destroy many people, including the both of you.”

“Two, now three, of those letters have never been sent,” Todd pointed out reasonably. “The first was deep-sixed by Special Branch.”

“Quite true,” said The Phantom, nodding his head. “But the fact remains that Little Big Man will, when he gets home, relate everything he thinks he knows to his father, and to whatever power is controlling them. We can stop the lies here. We cannot stop the lies he’ll tell when he gets home.”

“My father . . .” began Cory.

The Phantom held up his hand. “Your father knows only that Matt has been abused and nothing more. He does not know about the accusations.”

“The Gunner, then. You heard him talking to Corporal Britnell. His friends are taking care of things,” replied Todd with a confidence he did not really feel.

“Up to a point, yes. But Todd, even his friends can’t be everywhere at once, and have either of you considered that if Paul Greene’s father goes outside the military, or goes to this secret Nazi leader we all know he has, have you considered what could happen then?”

“There could be a scandal?” muttered Cory.

Todd looked at his brother and shook his head. “So what? We all know that everything Little Big Man has written can be disproved.”

“Of course it can, and it will be,” said The Phantom. “But what nobody seems to have thought about is what will happen if there is a scandal, and sure as hell no one has considered what is happening now!” The Phantom rolled the ski mask over and over in his hands. “You, Todd, and you, Cory, are leaving the Sea Cadets. You are throwing away your past and your future with the Cadets because you are afraid what effect a scandal will have on your parents.”

Todd glared at Cory, who shrugged. Their leaving the Sea Cadets was not, at least as far as Todd was concerned, something he wanted to become common knowledge. Cory, as usual, had obviously disagreed with his brother.

The Phantom continued on. “While leaving the Cadets might get you out of the line of fire, we must also consider that Val and Tyler have been accused of molesting the Sea Puppies. Val is leaving the Cadets because he’s too old to stay in. Then there is Tyler. What happens to him, Cory? He goes to Royal Roads in September. Can you imagine what would happen if suddenly he is accused of being a child molester?”

“Damn it, Phantom that is not true,” snapped Cory. “Tyler has never touched anybody.”

“Cory, it doesn’t matter. The mere accusation will put Tyler’s whole career in danger. I know, and you know, that in the end he will be found innocent. But no matter! Remember how SIU work. As far as SIU is concerned there is no such thing as innocent until proven guilty. You are guilty until you prove your innocence. As far as those goons are concerned, as soon as they get a report about a guy being gay, he is gay. Case closed.”

The Phantom stood up and began to pace. “So far just the threat of discovery has turned Greg into a basket case. Hell, you live with him, haven’t you noticed?” He stared directly at the Twins. “You do know that he’s drinking?”

The Twins looked at each other and then shook their heads. They had not known.

“Well he is, big time.” The Phantom returned to his chair. “There is also Harry to consider.”

Todd groaned quietly. As much as they hated to admit it, Harry’s relationship with Stefan had not been innocent and, no matter how they coloured it, Harry had made love to a minor boy.

Seeing the look on their faces The Phantom nodded grimly. “Harry lives in one of the most conservative provinces in the country. He can play the martyr, take all the blame and, if he has to, serve the time. What Harry just might not realize is that the red necks of Manitoba will never allow him to forget what he did, and they will never give him a moment’s peace if he goes home after serving time.”

“Oh, come on, Phantom, that is bullshit,” scoffed Cory. “In the first place nobody really knows what went on between Harry and Stefan. In the second place . . .”

“There is no second place, Cory,” said Todd abruptly. He had seen the steely look in The Phantom’s eyes. He leaned forward and took The Phantom’s hand in his. “Phantom, I hear concern for me and this miscreant beside me. I hear concern for Val, and Tyler, for Harry and Greg. Strangely, I do not hear concern for a guy named Philip Lascelles.”

The Phantom thought a moment before answering. “Todd, what I plan on doing is no spur of the moment thing. I have thought about what could happen if I am wrong. I have also thought about what will happen if I am right. I am not being pretentious or smug when I say that I am convinced that Little Big Man will respond if I crawl into his bed. When he does, we will have him.”

“We?” asked Cory, his eyes wide, hoping that The Phantom was just being rhetorical. “How do we figure in this?”

The Phantom looked evenly at each Twin in turn. “I need you two. I need you first to be my lookouts, and secondly, I need you to help me blackmail Little Big Man.”

Todd all but fell off the bed. “Blackmail? Jesus, man, what makes you think that Little Big Man can be blackmailed?”

“I’ve seen what happens when a secret gay takes up with the wrong person.”

“You have?” Todd looked at Cory in puzzlement. Cory looked back. Like his brother, he knew of no such situation in Aurora.

Seeing the look of confusion on their faces The Phantom told the Twins about Jeff and Robbie.

“There is no guarantee that Paul will succumb to blackmail,” observed Todd when The Phantom finished speaking. “Just because your friend let’s his brother . . .”

“There is no guarantee that he won’t, either,” returned The Phantom.

“Still, you are taking a hell of a risk.” Cory thought a moment. Maybe they could not talk some sense into The Phantom, but . . . “Have you considered what The Gunner will say, or do, if . . .” he asked slyly.

The Phantom impatiently brushed aside Cory’s remark. The Gunner would never know about it, if The Phantom’s plans worked out, as he was convinced they would. “That will be between him and me,” he said firmly. “Just as you helping me will be between us.”

The firmness in The Phantom’s voice told both boys that he was not going to be talked out of what he planned on doing. Without The Phantom knowing, what some people called “The Twin Thing” kicked in and a message flashed between the brothers. Although not identical, The Twins seemed to be able to read each other’s mind. They often annoyed people by starting a conversation and, through some sort of mental magic, automatically finishing each other’s sentence. The Gunner forbade them to do it in his presence and Harry threatened mayhem if they did it to him. In the event, the message had been passed. They would argue no more.

“What do you want us to do?” Todd asked quietly.

******

The Vancouver Four Seasons Hotel was reputed to be the finest hotel on the West Coast of North America and The Gunner, as he stepped through the doors of the Park Ballroom Foyer, believed every word of the hotel’s brochures.

On the walls of the room hung neo-classical paintings and the furniture, which had been arranged along the walls, was warm and inviting. On the marble topped pier tables, arranged at regular intervals around the room, rested exquisite flower arrangements. Down the centre of the room was a buffet table, covered in silver dishes and manned by two chefs, each wearing a tall white hat and dressed in unstained cook’s jackets.

The morning session of the Conclave was designed to be a time of renewing old acquaintances and meeting the newest members. Almost immediately The Gunner recognized a familiar face as a tall, muscular, blond, and still boyishly handsome, man crossed the carpeted floor with his hand extended. “Gunner, you old pervert!” boomed recently promoted Major Rick Maslen, friend, lover, and Commanding Officer to one Corporal Glenn Stuart Britnell.

The Gunner laughed and shook Rick’s hand. “I thought you’d be in Ottawa. How the hell are you?”

“Not too bad, for an old man,” replied Rick. “I hadn’t planned on coming but Glenn . . .” He stopped abruptly, which was a signal that Glenn Stuart’s whereabouts were, if not secret, at least on a need-to-know basis.

The Gunner nodded and smiled knowingly. “He gets around, doesn’t he? Hell, I saw him only a week ago.”

Rick took a cup of coffee from the tray of a passing waiter and looked at The Gunner. “He mentioned that he had seen you.” Rick coughed delicately. “Glenn also mentioned that he had told you about a, shall we say, sensitive investigation he’s involved with?”

The Gunner was a little embarrassed. He and Glenn had once spent a weekend together, as lovers, and while their affair had ended almost as quickly as it had begun, Rick was Glenn’s partner. Glenn was also a highly prized investigator for Special Branch. What Glenn had told him was classified and, in many ways, should never have been told to him. The Gunner hastened to assure Rick that anything Glenn had told him would never be repeated.

Rick held up his hand and nodded. “I know that, Steve. I also know that Glenn would not have said anything unless he felt it was important to you.”

“It is, Rick, more than you know.”

“Still, I did have to punish him,” deadpanned Rick.

“You did?”

“Yes. I made him cook dinner.” A broad smile creased his boyish features. “Then I made him eat it!”

The Gunner almost choked with laughter. Glenn’s clumsiness and ineptitude in the kitchen were legendary among those who knew him. “Poor Glenn!” exclaimed The Gunner when he managed to get control of himself.

Rick led The Gunner to a quiet corner. They sat and Rick placed his hand on The Gunner’s knee. “Okay, my friend, tell your old uncle what this is all about.”

The Gunner related exactly what had happened, and what was happening, in Aurora. He held nothing back, telling Rick of the fear all the boys felt.

Rick called a waiter over and asked for more coffee. He waited until his coffee was on the table in front of them before he spoke. “Steve, what we are faced with is a very serious situation. We have an organization, a secret organization, the so-called Aryan Brotherhood that is dedicated to destroying the very fabric of our nation. This organization is starting out by suborning the Military. It feeds on the fears and prejudices that infect all of us. Fear of blacks, gays, Jews, it really encompasses all our hatreds.”

“But, Rick, we are talking about boys here, not grown men.”

“Seed corn, Steve,” replied Rick with a sigh. “Teach the young to hate, and they grow up hating. Teach them to identify the enemy, and then teach them to destroy the enemy. Remove the ‘enemy’ leaders by any means possible. Play on the fears of the ignorant. You of all people should know the drill.”

“They can’t be killed, so destroy them morally.” The Gunner snorted. “The politicians do it, the Evangelical churches do it, so why not the Aryan Brotherhood?”

“Precisely,” said Rick with conviction. “Look at the boys who have been targeted, Todd and Cory Arundel, for instance. Sharp, smart, good looking, amiable and the type of kid you would be proud to call your own.” Rick scratched his chin, thinking, delving into his memory. “Tyler Benbow, not a kid, but the perfect type to lead. He’s a natural at it and with the right training he will make a damned fine Naval officer. Harry von Hohenberg, another natural leader. Those Sea Pups of his will follow him up to and through the Gates of Hell if he asked them to.” He squirmed uneasily in his seat. “And then there is Philip Andrew Thomas Lascelles . . .”

The Gunner’s mouth dropped open. “You . . . know . . .?”

Rick shrugged. “I’m very good at what I do, Steve. I have access to many forms of information.” He waved his arm, indicating the assembled Knights and Pages. “The Order, of course. They have been very helpful.”

Not to mention a source in Aurora, thought The Gunner. He remained silent. There was no point in pursuing this line. Rick had given up as much as he was going to.

“What Paul Greene is doing is laying the groundwork for his superiors to step in with their own people,” continued Rick with a slight frown. “Destroy the leaders, play on the prejudices of the followers, and then offer them a new hope. It’s a classic ploy: infiltrate, identify, destroy and in the resulting tumult and confusion bring in your own people and take control.”

“These are still boys, Rick,” protested The Gunner.

“Doesn’t matter. Small boys, big boys, it’s all the same. Your Little Big Man was sent to observe, report and, if possible recruit, though from the look and sound of it he has managed to come a cropper there.”

“The boys hate him,” replied The Gunner. “Even the three that come from his own unit, they refuse to have anything to do with him.”

Rick nodded. “The silly bugger overplayed his hand. He let his personal prejudices get the better of him. He was probably trolling, trying to find a kindred spirit.”

The Gunner chuckled. “All he got was a world full of hurt.” He frowned. “Which he is trying to repay in kind. The boys know what he’s up to and it’s, well, frankly, it’s causing them a lot of worry.”

“And you want me to help allay their fears?”

“Yes,” replied The Gunner. He hated to be indebted to anyone, but the well being of his cadets came first. “Their biggest fear is that these letters the little git is writing home will be forwarded on to SIU, or the RCMP. He has made some serious accusations, none of which are true, but . . .”

“If taken out of context could bring a shit locker full of trouble to everybody. Shouting, tumult, Royal Commissions, do-dah, do-dah,” finished Rick with a dry chuckle.

“This is serious, Rick,” snapped The Gunner huffily. “You know as well as I do that if Little Big Man, or his father, were to whisper in the wrong ears . . .”

Rick let The Gunner ramble on and then held up his hand. “Stephen, you have friends.”

“I know that!” returned The Gunner testily. “I’ve promised my Phan . . . er, one of the boys that I will do everything I can to put a stop to this nonsense.”

Rick pointedly ignored The Gunner’s slip. “Your boys have nothing to worry about.”

“Rick, it’s not so easy to convince the boys. I know what you are doing and I know I can’t talk to anybody about it. I also know that the boys know what Little Big Man is trying to do and I am afraid that it will not take much for them to take matters into their own hands.”

“It’s not so easy to convince you!” returned Rick. “You are a stubborn son-of-a-bitch when you put your mind to it!”

“When it affects my cadets, yes.”

Rick sighed theatrically. “I can assure you, with absolute certainty, that nothing will happen to anybody. And I say that for two reasons.”

“Two reasons?”

“Yes, and my, what a suspicious chatterbox you are!” Rick grinned. “First reason: every report that in any way, shape or form involves the Greenes, or the Aryan Brotherhood lands on my desk. I see it all, from every source, including the Meatheads, SIU, the RCMP and a few other sources you do not need to know about. Everything, and I mean everything, is red-flagged to me, personal, need-to-know. Nobody sees anything unless I say so. Nobody acts on anything, unless I say so.” He turned in his seat and pointed with his chin toward the end of the room.

The Gunner looked and saw Willoughby and Hunter, their fey, black-clad satellites hovering near by, obviously arguing with a stone-faced and unmoving Michael Chan.

Rick smiled a knowing, conspiratorial smile. “What those two fools do not know, and I do, is that despite their arguments and protests this afternoon you will be elected Chancellor. Once elected you will have access to all the Order’s resources. We have friends, Stevie, in places that would astound you.”

“In other words, the fix is in.”

Rick chuckled knowingly. “And will be for a very long time.”

“Really? What happens if you’re transferred out of Special Branch?”

“Won’t happen,” replied Rick calmly. He stood up and gestured toward the columned doorway leading to the ballroom. “It would appear that we are about to start.”

“You still haven’t answered my question,” said The Gunner as they strolled toward the ballroom.

Rick nodded, laughed throatily and looked evenly at The Gunner. “I plan on retiring from Special Branch and I can say that with absolute certainty because, Stevie, I know where all the bodies are buried!”

******

Although the Twins had grave misgivings, they gave their word to help The Phantom in his scheme. He would sneak into the Petty Officers Mess tomorrow night and attempt to have sex with Little Big Man. They would act as lookouts in the unlikely event the Duty Roundsman wandered by.

The Phantom expected no trouble within the Mess itself. Mike and Phillip, called The Assistant, were Duty Chief and Duty Petty Officer during the Middle Watch. Mal, Jack and Willy slept at the opposite end of the Mess to where Little Big Man slept, and there was a six-foot high barrier of lockers between his bunk and theirs. All three cadets were heavy sleepers and hopefully Little Big Man was a moaner rather than a screamer.

Todd wisely pointed out that it was one thing to fuck Little Big Man, it was quite another to prove it. “Pictures would be good,” suggested Cory.

“I have thought about that,” replied The Phantom. “The problem is, someone would have to be in the Mess taking the pictures, and we would have to use a flash. We cannot take the chance. In order for this to work Little Big Man has to think that only two people know about what happened, him and the guy who did him.”

Todd rubbed his chin, thinking. “You’re right. Not only would you run the risk of waking the other cadets by using a flash camera, there is also the danger that your face would be in the picture. We definitely do not want that.”

“I definitely do not want that!” returned The Phantom with emphasis. “What I do want is for Paul Greene to know that he had sex with a guy, and that he enjoyed every minute of it.”

“I’m sure he will know,” replied Cory dryly. “Let’s face it, if he pops his puppy there’s going to be evidence. And unless you’re planning on taking saltpetre, Phantom, and I am not trying to be funny, we all know that when you blow your load ‘Old Faithful’ has nothing on you.”

The Phantom grimaced. “Yeah, I know that is probably going to happen.”

“Assuming Little Big Man responds the way you think he is going to respond,” observed Todd tartly.

“He will,” repeated The Phantom. “When he does, I’ll clean up with his underpants.”

“What a revolting thought!” Cory exclaimed.

“Agreed, but you will need evidence when you confront him,” replied The Phantom.

The Twins exchanged a look. “We confront him?” asked Todd.

“Yes, you. When you tell him that you know that he spent a very happy time with another guy, he will believe you. He will believe you because last year you had half the ship’s company convinced that he was as queer as a nine-bob note. He also thinks that because you are gay, you are part of some vast underground gay network.”

“It doesn’t exist!” snarled Cory. “Would that it did!”

“He doesn’t know that, so let’s make him think that it does,” returned The Phantom. He looked at each Twin in turn. “Paul is so afraid of what he is you really will not have to do much convincing.”

The Twin Thing kicked in and much to The Phantom’s surprise Cory’s hand went down the front of Todd’s swimming suit and Todd’s went down the front of Cory’s.

“Uh, guys,” warned The Phantom uneasily.

“Hush, Phantom, we’re thinking,” responded Todd.

For five long minutes the Twins sat on The Phantom’s bed, holding each other’s genitals. Finally Todd spoke. “It could work if Paul . . .” he began.

“ . . . Reacts the way you think he will,” completed Cory.

The Phantom opened his mouth to object but Cory silenced him with a glance.

“We would not confront him directly at first . . .” Todd looked at Cory, who nodded.

“ . . . Because you would want him to stew about it a little while,” said Cory with a devious glint in his eyes.

“Sort of build up his self-guilt . . .” Todd gave Cory’s dick a small squeeze.

Cory grinned. “We could just stand and look at him, then snicker.” He returned Todd’s squeeze.

“Or giggle and ask him how he enjoyed his night.” Todd smiled at The Phantom. “Drive him crazy first, then move in for the kill.”

They could hear Chef bellowing down below. The Twins stood up and adjusted the front of their suits. The Phantom could not help but notice that there were no telltale bulges in their swimming trunks. “I don’t know how you manage not to get hard!” he declared, his eyes wide.

“Will power,” replied Todd with a grin.

“So you will help me, then?” asked The Phantom

“Under protest, and against our better judgement, yes,” replied Cory evenly.

“And I would feel much better off with something more concrete than a pair of Little Big Man’s underpants!” put in Todd.

The Phantom was fully aware that he was pushing the limits of his friendship with the Twins. They would help him but for some reason he could not let the remark about more concrete evidence go by. “Perhaps,” he began acidly, “one of you would like to sit on the edge of Mike’s bunk and take a note of every moan, groan and slurp?”

The Twins gave him a look of elaborate hauteur. A looked flashed between them. “It’s in my wallet,” said Cory mysteriously. “In my shorts, which are down below.”

There was another impatient bellow from Chef.

“Phantom?”

“Yes, Todd?”

“Is there such a thing as a Radio Shack in this one horse town?”

******

Ryan awoke with a tightness in his groin and a grumbling tummy. He was lying flat on his back in one of the two beds in the Sick Ward, his naked body covered with a starched white sheet. He raised his head and looked around, then lifted the sheet, almost dreading what he would find. What he found was that his recently circumcised penis was wrapped in surgical gauze with just the head of it exposed. It seemed bigger, but he supposed that was due to the bandage wrapped around it. The head seemed very red to his eyes.

He felt none of the excruciating pain promised by Doctor Phelps. In fact all Ryan felt was a tightness in his penis, as if something was pulling it downward. He reached down and lifted his bandaged appendage. The gauze wrapping was snow white with no red marks and certainly no sign of massive haemorrhage, likewise threatened by Doctor Phelps.

What he did feel was hungry. Rob had been so insistent that he get his ass over to Sick Bay that they had both missed breakfast. Since Ryan had spent at least three hours before the surgery, and at least an hour having the surgery, it was no wonder his tummy was grumbling. He heard a footstep on the rubber tiled deck and quickly dropped the sheet. He looked up and saw Doc grinning at him.

“And how are you feeling, young fellow?” asked Doc.

“Hungry!”

Doc chuckled and walked to the end of the bed. He began turning the crank that raised the bed up. “Let’s get you sitting up and then we’ll have a chat. After that I’ll ring the Mess Hall galley and have them send over tray.” With Ryan in a sitting position Doc sat on the side of the bed. He took Ryan’s hand. “Now then, how do you really feel? Any pain?”

Ryan shook his head decisively. “It just feels, ah, tight. Like someone is pulling down on it.”

Doc chuckled. “There will be none of that, young man, for at least three weeks.”

Ryan grimaced. “That long? What happens if . . .?”

Doc reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small vial. He held it up for Ryan to see. “Amyl nitrate. A few sniffs and any erectile function dissipates.”

“Huh?”

“If you get a hardon, and you will, because you’re at the age, you take a few whiffs of this stuff and down it goes,” explained Doc. Then he looked seriously at Ryan. “You must not, under any circumstances, tear out your stitches,” he added.

Ryan sighed. “For three weeks, yes?”

“Or four,” replied Doc. “It depends on how fast you heal. It was a very straightforward procedure, so I do not expect any complications at all.”

“So I can go back to the barracks?” asked Ryan with enthusiasm. He started to push back the sheet covering his body.

“Not so fast!” Doc leaned forward and rearranged the sheet. “You’ll be staying here until tomorrow.” Seeing the look on Ryan’s face Doc hurried to explain. “It’s just normal post-operative care. I want to make sure that there is no residual bleeding or oozing. Tomorrow I’ll remove the bandages and take a wee look. If everything is fine, then you can return to your bed and your friends.”

Ryan groaned. “The other guys! What do I tell them?”

“Whatever you please. The truth usually works. You are going to have to explain why you’re coming over here every day in any case.”

“Here? Every day?”

Doc nodded. “I’ll want to monitor your incision. You’ll also have to come over here to take very carefully monitored showers. We have a hose and nozzle attachment fitted to the shower here. You can scrub all but your genitals. Those you wash very gently every day, twice a day. When you urinate you will use a cotton swab to clean the glans, which is the head of your penis. You’ll keep that up until the stitches fall out. In about a week, I should think.”

Doc got off the bed and pulled another small vial from his pants pocket. He nonchalantly tossed it to Ryan.

“What’s this?” asked Ryan as he examined the flap of skin in some sort of clear liquid.

“Your foreskin,” replied Doc with a straight face. “I thought you might want to keep it as a souvenir.”

“YUCK!” Without thinking Ryan flipped the vial away. It flew onto the floor and rolled into a corner.

Chuckling, Doc retrieved the vial. “I had thought of putting this in a copper bowl and making a sacrifice of it to the gods. We could take it out to the parade square, put feathers and beads in our hair and dance in a circle naked while we burn your offering.”

Ryan giggled then winced. “Jeez, Doc, please don’t make me laugh.”

“Sorry, I shall try not to make you laugh.” Doc held up the vial. “From your less than enthusiastic response I take it then that you would have no objection to my sending this off to the Dermatology Department of the University of Victoria?”

“Well I sure don’t want it!” Ryan lowered his brow. “What are they going to do with it?”

“Research,” replied Doc. “Someone has come up with the idea that given the number of foreskins available for research, rather than just destroy them, perhaps there might be some use they can be put to. Your donation will advance medical knowledge and you never know, your foreskin just might be the cause of a great discovery in medical science!”

While he was impressed with Doc’s exaggerated pomposity, Ryan had something more than the future of his foreskin on his mind: food! “I guess you can send it down to Victoria,” said Ryan. He grinned. “It beats feeding it to the ship’s cat!”

Doc choked back a laugh. “That would be illegal and unethical. You’ve been hanging around with the Twins too much.”

Ryan’s stomach fortuitously chose this moment to grumble loudly. Doc, chuckling, went off to order some food for his patient.

Matron bustled in, took his temperature, warned him to watch his fluid intake (he more or less figured out that he wasn’t supposed to drink too much), bustled out, and then came back with a small bed table. Kevin, carrying a large tray covered with a napkin, followed her.

After placing the tray in front of Ryan, Matron left the small room. She had been around the horn a time or three and knew that at times a boy needs another boy and women were patently not wanted on the voyage.

After fussing a bit, helping Ryan with his napkin and taking the cover off the plate of food, Kevin pulled up a chair. He had a little time to sit and chat before he had to get back to the galley. While he and Ryan were hardly bosom buddies, he had a feeling that at times like this a guy needed a guy. “So, how are you feeling?” he asked tentatively as he watched Ryan making his way through the plate of grilled chicken, green peas and pan-fried potatoes. “And how’s the food?”

Ryan grinned around a huge forkful of potato. “Great,” he nodded enthusiastically. “And I feel okay.”

“Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Naw, just a dull ache. Sometimes, when I move the wrong way, it sort of feels like someone is pulling on it, but Doc says that’s just the stitches.”

“Wow! How many stitches?”

Ryan thought a moment. “I didn’t ask, and I can’t take off the bandage until tomorrow.” He opened the half-pint carton of milk and drank deeply. Then he belched. “Gotta watch the old fluid intake,” he giggled. “Can’t be pissin’ like a racehorse.”

Kevin laughed. “Guess that would really hurt, I mean, peeing and, well . . .”

Ryan returned Kevin’s laugh. “Don’t know yet. But Doc gave me some cream to put on the end of my dick.”

Seeing that Ryan was finished Kevin gathered up the tray and placed it on the floor. “Ray didn’t know what to cook, ’cause nobody said what you could eat. You didn’t eat your Jell-O.”

Ryan leaned forward. “I hate Jell-O,” he whispered. “Every time I got sick my mother used to make me eat it.” He laughed aloud. “I think she had stock in the company.”

“What would you like for dinner, then? Chef will make you something special for sure.”

“How about a steak smothered in pork chops?” Ryan joked. Then he began squirming, trying to get a little more comfortable. The problem was not his recently circumcised penis. It was his bare butt, which was being chafed by the starched sheet.

“What’s the matter? You hurting?” asked Kevin genuinely concerned. “You want me to get Matron?”

“Not unless she has some underwear in her pocket,” replied Ryan. “This sheet must be made of burlap - it’s ripping my ass to rat shit!”

Kevin could not help giggling. “How about I get you some. What do you want, boxers or briefs?”

Ryan thought a moment. “Boxers definitely will be looser.” Then he frowned. “Shit, all mine are dirty.”

“Not to worry, my man,” assured Kevin. “I’ll get you some.”

“You will?”

“Sure.” Kevin looked thoughtfully at Ryan. “They’ll have to be big, I guess, I mean you don’t want your drawers rubbing against your, um, whatever.”

“Incision,” provided Ryan. “If Rob was here I could borrow some of his. He likes ’em big and baggy, you know.”

Kevin didn’t know, living as he did in another barracks from the cooks’. He considered the size problem then his face brightened. “I know, I’ll steal ’em from Chad. He’s got tons and he’s about the same size and shape as Rob.”

“Well, don’t do it on my account. I wouldn’t want Chad getting pissed off at you.”

Kevin grinned and waved his arms in a dismissive gesture. “Chad’s okay. He won’t mind. I’ll bring them over in a little while.” He bent down and picked up the tray of dirty dishes. “I’ll pick out a nice steak for you, then I’ll raid Chad’s locker and come back.”

Ryan smiled shyly at Kevin. “Thanks, I really mean that.”

Kevin blushed and gave Ryan an Aw, shucks look. “You’d do the same for me. All the guys would.”

“Where are the guys? It’s awfully quiet.”

“Everybody’s in town. Except for a couple of guys on the Duty Watch and the galley staff.” Kevin paused at the door. “Probably checking out the babes and having a hell of a good time.”

******

After fast-talking Chef into letting them stay in town and catch the bus back to Aurora with the rest of the Shore Party, the Twins waved good bye as the vehicles rolled down the street and made the turn that would take the Work Party back to the ship. They walked in silence for a while.

It was only two blocks to the downtown section of the small town and before they knew it they were there. The Phantom had given the Twins directions to the Radio Shack and they went directly there, made their purchases and decided to goof off a bit. They sat at one of the small tables outside of a café and sipped iced tea. They would have preferred a beer but the waitress was no fool.

“I do not like this, Cory, I do not like it at all,” said Todd as he sipped his tea.

Cory nodded his agreement. “There’s not much we can do about it, Todd. Phantom has this bee up his ass and he is not going to back away.”

“True. He is so goddamned stubborn at times!” sighed Todd. “Short of tying him up and waiting until The Gunner gets back there is not a fuck of lot that we can do!”

Cory agreed. “The Gunner will not be pleased at all. Remember the lecture he read us on Texada, about not being afraid to take a chance?”

Todd nodded, The Gunner’s words returning to him: “I want you two to grow up, to have fun, to be yourselves.” Todd grimaced and said slowly, “He also said that while we should not be afraid to take risks we should not take stupid chances! And what Phantom is proposing to do comes under the heading of stupid chances, damn it!”

“The Gunner said that we had to understand the consequences of our actions.” Cory pushed aside the glass of iced tea. “I wish he were here. He’d talk some sense into Phantom, because I really don’t think that Phantom has thought this through.”

Todd frowned. “Well, The Gunner isn’t here and we seem to be getting nowhere fast.”

“For all that we’re damned handsome, have pride and presence and, according to The Gunner, we are a hell of a lot smarter than he will ever be,” replied Cory, his voiced tinged with sarcasm. He leaned back in his chair and grinned. “We also have brains and talent and as much as I do not agree with what Phantom is doing, we are going to going to help him.”

Todd held up the Radio Shack bag holding their purchases. “We’ve already started.” He stood up and pushed back his chair. “We can pull this off, if we play our cards right and if we think about what we are going to do.”

They walked along the Esplanade toward the Laundromat and Market Square where the buses would pick everybody up and take them back to Aurora.

“In the day of the Armageddon, at the last great fight of all, that Our House stand Together and the pillars do not fall,” quoted Cory.

“You remembered!” said Todd with a slight gasp. Cory’s receptive and retentive memory amazed his brother at times.

“Yes, I remembered the quotation,” replied Cory with a sad sigh. “We have to stand together, no matter what.”

“We stay the course, no matter what, then?” asked Todd.

“Yes. And bear the consequences and the wrath of The Gunner when he finds out about Phantom’s bonehead play,” said Cory ruefully.

Todd gave his brother a long look. “And what makes you think The Gunner will find out about it? I am not about to tell him.”

“Neither am I,” replied Cory calmly. “Phantom will do it.”

Todd stopped abruptly. “Phantom will tell him? Why would Phantom tell him that he went and popped Little Big Man’s puppy?”

“For the same reason you tell me everything you do. No matter how bad it is, or how scaly the guy was, you tell me.” Cory grinned impishly. “You can’t help yourself. You love me and you don’t want to hurt me.” He shrugged expressively. “So you tell me. Sort of ask for forgiveness and absolution.”

“Which is more than can be said for you,” griped Todd.

“Not so,” returned Cory. “I do tell you everything.” He paused and grinned. “Eventually.”

“So eventually Phantom will tell The Gunner everything?” asked Todd as he raised a sceptical eyebrow.

“Without doubt, Todd,” replied Cory with certainty. “Phantom is an honest human being. He loves The Gunner desperately and when he realizes that his actions could, eventually, cause The Gunner hurt and pain Phantom will tell him. His conscience won’t let him do otherwise.”

“The Gunner will sure as shit have hurt and pain if Phantom ever tells him about his little visits in the middle of the night,” opined Todd as they approached the doorway to the Laundromat.

“Which means we will have to be in standby mode for Phantom when he does tell The Gunner because there will be a whole lot of hurt and pain coming his way because The Gunner is not going to . . .” began Cory. He did not have a chance to finish his thought because at that moment a dark-haired, bare-chested figure came flying out of the door of the Laundromat to land flat on its back in a cloud of dust.

The Twins looked up and saw Brian looming in the doorway. He was breathing heavily. His eyes were flashing and his fists were clenched.

Todd looked at Cory, who smiled and snickered, “Well, it do seem somebody has made a new friend!”

******

Logan Hartsfield had woken in his fetid bedroom in the squalid trailer he called home. The small room - it was barely large enough to hold his bed and a small dresser - was baking in the mid-afternoon sun. He lay on his bed sweating profusely, the sheets, which had not been changed in a month, wrapped around his feet. From the waistband of his briefs his skin-covered penis protruded largely. He roughly shoved his offending member into his once-white briefs and crawled from the bed. In the process his shoulder bumped the dresser and two brightly coloured brochures fell to the floor with a plop. He looked down and saw ‘There’s No Life Like It!’ emblazoned across the photomontage of handsome young people in green uniforms that made up the cover of the recruiting booklet.

“Yeah right!” Logan snorted with disdain at the not so subtle hints the old man had left for him. He could hear the old bastard lumbering around in the front end of the trailer, and a series of muttered, slurred curses told him that the crazy son-of-a-bitch was half in the bag, which for his father was a normal state of affairs.

Logan stripped off his underpants and, naked, walked to the small shower next to his room. He turned the water on and stepped under the tepid dribble that barely flowed from the showerhead. “Fucking Water Company,” he muttered as he soaped up. There was plenty of water for the rich folks downtown, but the poor people up here, in the trailer parks, they could go and whistle. He washed his body, for once not lingering on the sheathed tube of flesh hanging between his legs.

Logan hated this dick, almost as much as he hated the town he lived in, the man who supported him and the bitch that had insulted him last night. He had closed up the Laundromat after that snot-nosed Lascelles kid had picked up all the laundry he had left earlier, and gone in search of a chick that would swing on his dick. He’d had enough gas in his rust-eaten Dodge convertible so he drove out to the burger joint near the high school, where all the kids hung out.

As he tried to work up a lather Logan hefted his substantial balls and nodded firmly. He was a stud. He was lean and mean (in his mind) and not at all bad looking, given to tight black jeans that showed off his basket and a white T-shirt that showed off his chest. He kept his hair moderately short, and combed his black curls over his brow. He gave the girls the eye and more than a few gave him the eye right back. Not that it got him anywhere. He had been threatened by half the guys in town with the loss of vital organs if he went anywhere near their sisters with that Indian dick of his.

Logan had laughed off the threats, but still tried to be careful. He did not doubt that in a stand-up fight with one of the other guys he would win. He was very good with his fists and feet, but he had to live in the one-horse town - until he could raise the cash to head south - and antagonizing the local studs was not a very good idea. Not only did they have sisters, they were also his best customers. They might despise him as trailer trash, but he was the one they came to when they wanted a little Okanagan Gold, or the two-four of Molson’s that they didn’t want their fathers to know about. Logan was in with the right people, and could, when he wanted to, and the price was right, cop a dime bag, or a mickey of rye, or a case of brews.

No, he reasoned, his fists, which he used as needed, would keep most of the jocks in line, although that and two bucks would get him a beer at the Legion so far as most of the girls were concerned.

Last night had been a case in point. Logan had been horny! He hadn’t been laid in months, the last time by Annette Steiner, a combined Christmas present and going away memory. She wasn’t bad in the sack, even if everybody knew the only reason she wore knickers was to keep her ankles warm.

With Annette gone south to Victoria and richer climes, Logan had gone out looking for some action, gravitating, as always, to the burger joint, which had been packed, as was normal, since the kids had no other place to go. He had bought a Coke and studied the terrain, his eyes lighting on Amy Jensen. He had heard the rumours about her and Greg Langston - hell, the whole town had - and figured that a blowjob would fix him up and cure his ills.

Amy Jensen was a pretty, tiny, well-endowed brunette. She liked boys but did not put out. She liked making out, and she had learned that she could keep the beasts at bay by giving the guy she was with a hand job, which tended to be messy, the dirty pigs, or a blow job, so long as he didn’t squirt in her mouth. She had been sitting with two of her friends, gossiping about the cadets out at Aurora and wondering if there would be a beach barbecue this year, when Logan Hartsfield, full of bluster and masculinity, strutted in.

Logan had hiked up his jeans and tried to put the moves on Amy, who was not at all interested. She allowed him to buy her a Coke and refused his generous (to his mind) offer of a burger. Logan was not bad looking, but he just wanted one thing, and that she was not about to give up to him. For an hour Logan had worked on Amy, and while he managed to cop a feel of her left tit, and worked himself into such a state of frustration that he would fuck the crack of dawn if he could, he got nowhere. Finally, angry, he asked her why she’d gone up to the reservoir with Greg and sucked his dick, why was she suddenly so picky? A dick was a dick, wasn’t it? Just what did Greg have that he didn’t?

Amy looked Logan up and down, and then sniffed regally. It wasn’t what Greg had, but what he didn’t have, she said with an acid sneer.

“And what’s that, bitch?” he had spat at her.

“All that skin!”

******

“The cock-teasing cunt!” snarled Logan as he gave the water knob a vicious turn. He stepped out of the shower. The only towel on the rack was filthy, which wasn’t surprising. The whole fucking trailer was a garbage dump. His old man never cleaned anything, including himself. The place was littered with empties and bits and pieces of things Logan didn’t want to think about.

Back in his room he pulled on the cleanest clothes he had, then filled a green plastic garbage bag with his dirty laundry. One of the few perks he had working in the Laundromat was that he could do his laundry for free. He didn’t even have to buy soap or bleach, as the tourist ladies were always leaving their boxes of laundry soap behind.

He scooped up his bathing suit - a red Speedo - and left the trailer. He threw the bag of laundry onto the back seat of his car and with a squeal of tires and a cloud of exhaust fumes, took off, leaving the trailer park behind, heading for Miracle Beach. He’d have a swim, catch some rays, and maybe get lucky. If he did not connect at the beach he could always cruise on over to Harkness Bay, an isolated cove south of town where, if the price were right, he would let one of the queers suck him off.

Harkness Bay was an open secret, a sandy cove frequented by what passed for the local gay population, always transient, and also tourists who liked to sample the local talent.

The cops knew about it, of course, but they didn’t need the hassle so they more or less left the place alone, except for Harry Jensen, Amy’s father. He hated faggots and, even though the bay was outside of town limits, cruised by once or twice a shift just to let the butt-fuckers know who was boss. Logan suspected that the only reason the town jail wasn’t full of tourists up on morals charges was that a fifty-dollar bill went a long way in Comox. How else could a beat cop afford that new pool in the Jensen’s backyard?

Miracle Beach was a bust. It was Friday afternoon and the place didn’t really fill up until the weekend, so he left and drove on down to Harkness Bay. There were a few single guys lying on the sand so Logan stripped off and walked slowly down the beach, letting the punters know that there was a fine piece of primo meat available, if the price was right.

As he strolled the bay Logan saw that as usual the sunbathers fit one of two categories: young, hung and good looking, and either selling or with another guy and not interested in paying for it, or older guys, always alone, who were. It had been the same last year, the first time he had gone to the cove, and he’d made enough money to buy the Dodge. Today was the first time he’d been back since. There were about six likely candidates sunning themselves on the beach and with luck he would make enough this time to shut the old man up.

Logan walked by an older guy, fat, and bald. The guy looked up and smiled at him. Logan stopped, reached down, gave his thick, sheaved five-inches a squeeze, pulled back his foreskin to reveal the purple head, and smiled back.

******

Sixty dollars and an hour-and-a-half later, Logan was tooling down the highway heading back to town. Sixty bucks was not a bad day’s pay, considering all he’d had to do was to stand there and let some faggot service him. He’d had his dick sucked before, but what the three guys he had picked up had done to him had left him reeling. The third guy, who was younger, had been the best of the three and Logan’s dick still tingled from that encounter.

Between the second and third blowjobs he had been propositioned by an older fucker who had offered a cool hundred if Logan would fuck him. Logan had refused. It was not that he hadn’t been up the chocolate highway before. He had, but it had been a long time ago and the guy was long gone from Comox. The guy he had fucked back then had been young, a year younger than Logan, and Logan knew him from the trailer park. This old guy though, well he was old and Christ only knew who or what had been travelling up his four-laner. In the event, the younger guy had come along, interrupting negotiations.

Logan had gone off with the new guy, whose mouth had manipulated him so well that he had seen stars and his toes curled when he came.

The episode at Harkness Bay left Logan puzzled and a little afraid. He knew all about guys doing guys (or thought he did) and his conscience did not bother him about getting three blowjobs and being paid for them. What did bother him was the niggling feeling he felt deep down that maybe he had enjoyed it just a little too much. What bothered even more was that he would have taken the hundred if the younger guy had offered it. He tried not to think about the conflicting feelings reeling through his brain and pulled into a roadside joint for something to eat. He was hungry so he ordered a hotdog which, with his usual greed, and determined to get his money’s worth, he piled high with relish and onions and mustard.

Logan leaned against his car and took a bite from the dog, for some reason wondering what it would be like to be on the other end of a blowjob. He had just had a mind-blowing experience and wondered what it would be like to be on the other end, to suck another guy’s cock, what it would taste like, how the guy would react.

He tried to convince himself that what he was thinking was just sex. He knew that even thinking about being with another guy was supposed to be wrong. Which led him to wonder why it was okay for a girl to give a guy mouth-to-dick resuscitation but an unspeakable horror if a guy did it to another guy. Not that he would ever get to know about it, not in Comox. He did not dare try anything with the guys he knew. Word would flash around town quicker than the speed of light and if that happened . . .

High-pitched giggling brought Logan back to reality. He looked and saw two little girls, their hands over their mouths, staring at him and giggling. One pointed at his chest so he looked down and saw that a huge glob of mustard and relish, bright yellow and green, had fallen out of his lunch and onto his T-shirt. He had been so engrossed in what he’d been thinking about that he hadn’t noticed it. He had been so lost in thought that he had idly rubbed the mess into his shirt, which was bad enough. What was worse was the long, tube-like bulge down the inside of the right leg of his jeans.

Cursing silently Logan hurried to his car, hopped in, and drove away, hoping like hell the little girls were laughing at his mustard bath and not at his hardon. Once on the road he cursed aloud, trying to tell himself that he was cursing because now he had to stop off at the Laundromat and do his washing, yet in reality knowing that he had gotten a hardon while thinking about giving a guy a blow job!

******

The Park Ballroom of the Four Seasons Hotel had been transformed. The grand Edwardian reproduction furniture had been replaced by 70 plain, wooden desks and 70 high-backed chairs upholstered in deep purple velvet, thirty-five arranged on either side of the long, wide room and separated by the expanse of the patterned palette of mauve, green and rose carpet. The damask wall-coverings and oak panelling accented with emerald glass that lined the high walls were all but hidden by draperies, again a deep purple, that hung from the canopy over each desk and chair.

At the far end of the room was a raised platform on which stood a plain, undecorated table. On the table stood a small, gold box. Below the altar-like table were arranged two tables, each with three chairs behind it. Here would sit the four Scrutineers and two Infirmarii, six knights who, together with the Dean of the Order, would supervise the election.

In strict order of precedent the Knights took their places at the desks, standing until the opening ceremonies were ended. The Gunner, feeling much the drab Wren in the nest, and most junior of the Knights, took his place, the last desk in the row of desks lining the left side of the room. He felt decidedly out of place in that every other man in the room wore a dark, and obviously expensive suit, the overall drabness of the assembled Knights broken only by the gold and bejewelled collars worn by the High Officers of the Order, and the ebony and gold-topped staff carried by Rick Maslen, Dean of the Order.

When the Elector Knights were in position Rick, flanked by Infirmarii, took up his position in front of the altar table. He looked down the room then looked at Michael, who nodded. Rick bowed to the assembled Knights, first right, then left. He then thumped his Staff three times on the carpeted floor. “Extra Omnes,” he bellowed in his best parade ground voice.

The Secretaries and Pages who had been hovering and fluttering about the room (except for Laurence, who had other duties to perform. The Gunner had also told him if he caught him fluttering or hovering he would make a Jenny Wren out of him) began filing out of the room.

Rick began to walk slowly down the length of the room, still flanked by the two Infirmarii, looking right and left as he walked, ensuring that the room was empty of all save Knight Electors. He stopped at the door leading into the anteroom. Directly in front of Rick was Major Meinertzhagen, Constable of the Order. Laurence and Nigel flanked him, Laurence to his right, Nigel to his left. They had been asked by the Major to attend him and add some panache.

The three men, who would act as guards and ensure that no unauthorized person entered the ballroom, were dressed in full regalia. The Major, feeling slightly foolish and looking as if he were a refugee from a particularly stylish fancy dress party, wore a black, watered-silk, Court uniform complete with knee britches, black hose and silver-buckled patent leather shoes. At his throat, held in place by a white bow tie, he wore a jabot of delicate, antique, Belgian lace. In his hand he held a long, ivory wand. At his side hung an ivory-hilted sword in a gold and black leather scabbard.

Laurence and Noel were wearing their formal livery of black, brass-buttoned tailcoat, black trousers and red waistcoats. Their eyes (Laurence’s a deep brown, Noel’s blue-grey) danced with laughter they dared not express aloud. The sight of the normally formal, staid, Major dressed up in his tights and pantaloons was almost too much for them.

The Major returned Rick’s bow and then nodded to Laurence and Nigel. They stepped forward and slowly closed the double doors as they left the ballroom.

The elections could now begin.

******

Much to Logan’s annoyance the Laundromat was packed. The place was full of clean-cut, shorthaired boys, big boys, little boys, boys of all shapes and sizes. They were all dressed exactly alike: loose navy blue shorts, white T-shirts shirts piped with navy blue banding at the neck and edging the sleeves, white ankle socks and black and white high tops. For a moment Logan thought that the Vienna Boys Choir had hit town.

Miss Margaret and Miss Doris were running around, twittering and giggling, helping a chattering horde of small boys to fold their freshly washed and now dried clothing. Near the counter a huge, older boy with black hair and an awesome smile was laughing and teasing the boy standing near him, who was about the same age, only with dark brown hair, and from the look of his well-muscled chest and legs, an athlete. For some reason the larger boy kept making scissoring motions with his fingers and laughing uproariously, which did not please the brown-haired boy at all.

Logan cast a quick glance at the small crest that was on the left chest of every T-shirt in the place save his. He knew what it was, of course, the ship’s crest of HMCS Aurora. The Sea Cadets were back in town!

The only free washing machine was the first in the long row of machines that stretched along the wall toward the counter and was closest to the door leading to the street. The machine next to it had just finished its washing cycle and a slim, muscular boy was transferring wet laundry to the dryer on the other side of the room.

At first Brian paid the no attention to the newcomer, who was, by his clothing and haircut (or rather, lack of one), obviously a “townie”. While there was no hard and fast rule against associating with townies, experience had shown that there was a very real tension between the young people of Comox and the Cadets of Aurora. This view held particularly true among the teenaged males of the town.

Logan was typical of the Comox teenagers. As far as he was concerned the cadets were snobbish, and stuck up, too regimented in their thinking, too clean and too clean-cut to associate with the town kids. They were always unfailingly polite, “sir-ing” and “ma’am-ing” all over the place. Their hair was always cut, their uniforms - and do not get him started on what effect the uniforms had on the chicks - were always ironed (his association with an iron was negligible at best), their boots were always highly polished.

The cadets always travelled in well-supervised groups. They never gave trouble, and most of them looked like they wouldn’t say shit if they had a mouthful. Most of them didn’t smoke, and as for using drugs, forget it. Last year he had tried to sell a couple of joints to one of them and the kid had reacted as if he’d been stabbed!

The kid beside him was typical of the cadets. He had that clean cut, well-scrubbed look that they all seemed to have. His shorts and T-shirt were smooth and obviously ironed. His auburn hair was cut high and tight on the sides, with just enough on top to make a part to the left. The kid looked and smelled, well, healthy.

Logan began pulling his dirty clothing from the bag he’d stuffed it in and tossed the loose shirts and shorts into the washing machine. What really pissed him off was that the cadets were always being shoved in his face as perfect examples of what “good” boys should be like. It did not help that there was a Cadet Corps in town, RCSCC Port Augusta. They had a band, which participated in every parade. The local cadets were always involved in any and every fundraiser, from the K of C to the local chapter of the B’Nai Brith.

When there was a public emergency, the cadets were there, smiling, happily working, not moaning or complaining about the amount of work that needed to be done. They just, as they put it, got on with the grunt.

Most galling of all was the way the girls acted. They primped and simpered, twitching their tails, all but doing a mating dance in the middle of the street. On Saturdays, when the cadets came into town to shop and swim in the town pool, the girls’ shorts always seemed to be shorter, and those who didn’t wear a halter top seemed to be wearing a bikini bra.

Logan had caught their act two weeks before when he had been goofing off on the Esplanade, trying to put the make on Louise Metcalfe, Amy Jensen’s best friend, when the bus from Aurora had pulled up. Amy and Louise had all but wet their panties at the sight of forty, in their opinion, hunks, all dressed up in starched white uniforms.

The two girls had drooled their way through each and every one of the cadets, from the oldest, a redhead with a killer ass well packed into his white trousers, to the youngest, a dark-haired, dark-eyed almost beautiful boy who smiled shyly at them and blushed when they frankly admired him. Logan had stalked away in disgust, snorting that the cadets didn’t look all that great without their uniforms on, because he had seen them in the pool changing room, and besides, hadn’t Louise raised hell last year after getting to first base with one of the so-called cadet studs only to have him spurt off in two strokes?

The thought of the pool change room caused Logan to return to the reason he was pissed off in the first place because 99.9 percent of the cadets did not have to worry about getting gob-smacked by Amy Jensen, the cock-teasing bitch!

******

Brian did not know what the newcomer’s problem was, or why he seemed to have declared war on his laundry. The boy was slamming everything he owned into the machine, including the mustard and relish-smeared T-shirt he had been wearing. Brian gave a quick glance at the youth and decided that he was not all that bad looking, actually.

The townie had a trim body, with a smooth chest, a slim waist and a decent butt, packed into black jeans that hung low on his hips, showing a good inch of his underpants, which, after glancing a second time, were not grey at all, simply unacquainted with bleach since they had come out of the factory package.

What really attracted Brian to the guy was his tattoo, a masterpiece if ever there was one, a galleon in full sail, a sepia coloured work of art that filled the whole right half of the guy’s chest. Beside this wonder Brian’s own tattoo, the Zodiac sign for Libra, paled into insignificance. Even Dylan’s tattoo, a Superman logo strategically placed just beside his dick and balls, was small potatoes compared to the beauty the guy had just unveiled.

Brian was about to mention the tattoo when he noticed what the guy was doing. He watched as the guy stuffed whites and greys and blues and odd-colours into the washing machine. He hesitated to say anything. He knew the type, from the Brylcreemed, slick-back hair to the low-slung black jeans and white T-shirt with the rolled upped sleeves. The guy was a punk, street wise and cocky, quick to take offence and even quicker with his fists and feet.

Brian knew the type well because he had been one himself, strutting around North Bay in the same outfit, with the added attractions of scuffled, square-toed motorcycle boots and a long chrome chain draped down his leg and attached to his wallet, which was stuffed into his hip pocket. The boots, jeans and chain had gone the way of all flesh when the Judge offered Brian a choice of 30 days in Juvie Hall (with every chance of being beaten or raped, or beaten and raped) or enrolling in one of the town’s three Cadet Corps. Brian had chosen the Sea Cadets and had never looked back. The only reminder of those days was his wallet, which, no matter how much he kneaded and bent it, still retained the curve it had developed from being pressed into his hip pocket for so long.

So Brian hesitated. He wanted no trouble and would not have said anything until the guy pulled the last article of clothing from the green garbage bag: a pair of fire engine red cotton underpants. With the memory of Kevin’s pink drawers fresh in his mind Brian spoke. “Uh, hey guy, I know it’s none of my business, but I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said slowly, and quietly. The townie might be a punk but he still deserved a little respect and there was no need for the whole place to know he had red underpants.

Logan, his eyes flashing, turned and glared at Brian. He looked Brian up and down, taking in the navy shorts and white T-shirt and the haircut. “You got that right,” he snarled, “it ain’t none of your business.”

The cadets had been warned time and again not to start anything with the townies. Brian backed away. “Just trying to help, mate,” he said as pleasantly as he could.

“I ain’t your mate!” returned Logan. He reached for the box of laundry soap that somebody had left on the shelf above the washing machine. He began pouring the soap into the machine, muttering under his breath.

Brian distinctly heard the word faggot. “I beg your pardon?” Brian’s voice was low, and icy.

Logan turned and sneered. “I said, why don’t you go and fuck yourself, faggot.”

Brian rocked slowly back and forth on his heels. He had been challenged. There had been no need for the name-calling. He regarded the boy through lowered eyes. A head taller, maybe twenty pounds heavier, good muscles. But what was the point of fighting this cretin? It would not prove anything.

Brian’s fingers twitched, aching to form a fist. It wasn’t that the pejorative was unknown to him. It was a common tactic in street fighting; call your opponent a thing so insulting, so abominable that he flew into a red, unthinking rage.

What pissed Brian off was that it was always the same. It was always faggot, queer, butt fucker, bum boy, bone blower. The names were always called in the most sneering, insulting, denigrating manner possible and the meaning was clear: a queer was lower than whale shit.

Brian’s fingers curled into a tight fist. “Actually, I don’t need to fuck myself,” he began with a clarity he never knew he possessed (and later admitted that was what he got for hanging around with the Twins). He looked the stranger, the street punk, dead in the eye. “Not when I have a queer like you around who would bend over and purr like a kitten while I slipped my bone into him.”

Logan, blind with rage, raised his fists and growled low. No one else had seen or heard the exchange between Brian and the strange boy who had come into the shop. They did hear the animal-like growl that rose from the boy’s throat and they did see his fists come up.

Logan was fast, but Brian was faster. There was a blur of tanned arm and blue and white sleeve and his fist connected, hitting Logan’s chin.

******

Logan lay in the street, stunned his head spinning. His hand shook as he reached up and felt his chin. He ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth. No teeth missing, broken or loose. Holy SHIT! That fucking cadet might be a scrawny prick but his fist packed a wallop that would stop a horse. Logan was shaking his head, trying to clear it, when from above came a clear, tenor voice. “Well, it do seem somebody has made a new friend!”

Logan looked up and saw a pair of tanned legs standing on either side of him, which led to two pairs of baggy blue shorts. As he looked two blond heads appeared over him. “Are you all right?” asked one of the heads.

Logan struggled upward, resting on his elbows, glaring at the cadet who had hit him. The cadet was standing in the doorway, silently daring him to get up and continue the fight. As was to be expected, a small crowd had gathered behind the cadet.

Logan felt a hand on his shoulder as he began to struggle to his feet. “Before you get up to rejoin the fray I should warn you that he has a black belt in grab-a-sackee,” said a voice similar to the first speaker’s.

Logan sat up and looked around. The two boys beside him, cadets from they way they were dressed, and brothers, because they looked alike, were staring back at him. “He also has one hell of punch,” observed the boy who appeared to be the older of the two.

At least the second cadet seemed older to Logan. He was just a touch heavier than his brother, though with the same golden hair and startling blue eyes. Despite himself, Logan drew in a sharp breath. “You got that right,” he growled. He glared at his antagonist, who was still standing, motionless, in the doorway of the Laundromat. He looked at the boy’s face, which was calm, a determined set to his jaw. He looked into the boy’s eyes and suddenly Logan did not want to fight the boy. Something had happened to him the moment he set eyes on the other boy’s face and Logan knew that the last thing he wanted to do with the guy was to fight him.

Unfortunately, the Code of the Street said otherwise. The other guy, the cadet or whatever he was, had challenged him, decked him a hell damner of a deck, and the Code said that he had to retaliate. He struggled to his feet, reluctant but ready to defend his honour. He was saved by another, louder, and more authoritarian voice.

“All, right, hold it right there!”

Logan turned to see an older man hurrying up. He was obviously an officer. Logan saw that his shoulder straps bore one stripe and at his approach the cadets stiffened to attention.

“Just what is going on here, Chief Arundel?” demanded Andy.

“Why, I really don’t know, sir,” replied Todd. “We only just got here ourselves and we found this civilian on the deck. We think perhaps he fell down.”

“Really?” drawled Andy. “And I suppose Petty Officer Venables just felt like standing in the doorway of a Laundromat looking like the Avenging Angel?”

“Why, he does, now that you mention it,” returned Cory. “He does look a little upset.”

Andy sighed. They were at it again. “Chief Arundel,” he looked at Todd, who smiled broadly. “Chief Arundel,” he looked at Cory who assumed the air of innocence that only he could assume.

“Sir?” asked the Twins in unison, bracing and looking straight ahead.

Andy knew that they were covering up something and was having none of it. “Do I by any stretch of your somewhat limited imaginations give the impression that only this morning I tumbled off a turnip truck?”

“A turnip truck?” began Todd, assuming a perplexed air. “Why, no, sir, definitely not a turnip truck . . .”

“A tumbrel, perhaps,” continued Cory. “Yes, definitely a tumbrel.”

“A WHAT?” yelped Andy. He stared, amazed, at Cory.

Cory began to wax whimsical. “Standing in a tumbrel, dressed in a somewhat soiled, but still magnificent satin suit - no a blue and white and gold Naval uniform, surrounded by your fellow aristocrats, the drums beating before and the Jacquerie lining the street, a sort of Ronald Coleman figure without the moustache though, because while you do have very fine features, sir, a moustache really would not suit you, no offence meant, standing tall, facing your destiny, going to a far, far better place as the cart rumbles through the tunnel toward the light of salvation and grace . . .”

“Wrong movie, you idiot,” growled Todd out of the corner of his mouth. Really, Cory’s flights of fancy were getting out of control.

Logan could not quite believe he was hearing what he was hearing. It was like watching one of the farces the local drama club put on or maybe a Three Stooges movie.

“ENOUGH!” Andy held up his hand and glared at Cory. “Somebody had better start talking and explain to me exactly why a civilian was flat on his back in the dust and why he has the beginnings of a hell-of-a bruise on his chin! And no nonsense!”

“Well, in that case, I really can’t help, you, sir,” pouted Cory.

Andy turned to Todd. “Well?”

“He was already playing in the dirt when we got here, sir,” replied Todd weakly.

Defeated by the Twins, Andy rounded on Brian. “Well, Petty Officer Venables?” he asked evenly.

Brian looked at Logan’s expressionless face and knew that the townie was not going to give up anything, for the Code said you never, ever, no matter the threat or promise, told authority - whether a cop or a Sea Cadet officer - anything. Littl