The boy blushed and stopped playing with the loose thread on his T shirt, and looked upwards attentively. A few of the other boys giggled, but were silenced by a look from the chief instructor.

“Now this week’s activity is survival skills. It comes with a health warning. In the past we have sadly had several deaths in this activity. Usually from boys who do not take it seriously enough.”

The chief instructor stopped talking, and silently cast his eyes around the group – holding one boy’s gaze and then another.

“Last Monday we instructors were treated to a farce, as you useless little pricks started acting like the children you should no longer be. If I had my way I would have deselected the lot of you and started again with a new group.” The boys cringed under the withering glare as the instructor went on. “Happily we deselected the worst perpetrator of Monday’s nonsense. But let me make it quite clear: if you boys do not take the survival training seriously, there is a real possibility some of you might not survive.”

Tristan gulped and started pulling at his thread again, unwinding it nervously.

“The exercise this week starts on Thursday. Until then, we will be teaching you important survival techniques …”

*

Thursday morning was wet and miserable. Rain was drizzling down and all the gutters seemed to be full and overflowing, so that water splashed noisily against the windows of the hall, as the instructors read out the groupings. The survival exercise was to be held in groups of three or four – with 17 boys remaining it was not possible to have all groups equal size. Tristan heard his name called, and then groaned when he realised that he was with Skippy and Jacob.

Jacob was friendly enough. Since they had collaborated to get Nathan deselected, they had got on well together. But he knew that Jacob had only come to him with his plan because Nathan had annoyed him. Jacob was a dangerous friend. Skippy, on the other hand, was just dangerous. Everyone had watched him push Nathan off the raft for no reason other than Nathan had argued with him. So now here he was paired with the two most scary boys on the programme.

The rules of the survival challenge were simple. Each team would be dumped in a different area of the open moorland with a minimal survival pack. They had to find their way back. On Sunday, anyone not back at base would be picked up and either the last team back or else the team furthest from the base at the time of the pickup would lose. One boy would be deselected from the losing team. Lewis had asked how the loser would be chosen, but the trainers would not be drawn on that.

They picked up their survival pack, and looked through what they had. There was one piece of plastic sheeting, a knife, three bottles of water, a watch (containing the homing transmitter if they needed pickup) and a bar of chocolate. That was not much. Despite the late summer rain and miserable conditions, they still were only allowed the regulation programme shorts and T shirt, and running shoes. All in all, they were not well prepared for up to three nights on open moorland.

Tristan looked at the meagre supplies and felt a terrible sick feeling in his stomach.

*

I had to stop writing for a while, I was so sore. It is like all my joints are on fire and I have been running a temperature. The school medic just told me that was normal. It showed that my bones are reacting to the treatment and fusing.

I just had to lie still for a while but now I can write again. This next bit I am guessing at. No one I spoke to knows what the trainers were thinking, but it’s the only thing that makes sense of what happened next. So yes, I am putting words into the trainer’s mouth, but I bet he said something like this.

*

“So where do we drop team five?” The pilot asked. All the teams were dropped on the moor by helicopter – a prospect that held considerable excitement for the children of helots, who only ever rode on machines used for their parent’s jobs. A boy who had only ever sat in a tractor or forklift truck, or maybe never touched a vehicle before would hardly have dared dream of flying in a helicopter, and the idea took most of the edge off the expectation of being lost in the moors with just a bar of chocolate to share for several days.

“Team five is special.” The chief trainer looked at the names on the team list. Jacob the serial cheat, Skippy who had, in full view, pushed a boy off a raft to make him fail, and Tristan, who turned out to be a schemer too, having thrown his lot in with Jacob and deliberately removing many of Nathan’s pieces in the final challenge last week. The trainer looked at the map carefully and then selected the location. “Drop them here”.

The pilot looked at the indicated location in surprise.

“You are sure, sir? That has to be twice as far as everyone else, and the terrain there is dangerous. You know that the gorge is where we lost a boy a few years ago?”

“I know what I am doing. We will be deselecting one of these three this week.”

“Yes sir.” And the pilot saluted and left.

*

“So what kind of stupid name is Quintilian then?”

Skippy scowled at Jacob and Tristan giggled. “Ooh Quintilian!” he said, his voice mockingly posh.

Jacob snorted. For the past 24 hours Skippy had been a constant source of annoyance to the other two boys, demanding to hold the pack, insisting he knew the direction to go in and generally trying to be in charge. It would not be so bad if he was not so obviously wrong most of the time, and right now the boys were picking themselves through a nasty sucking bog, making extremely slow and messy progress, miserable, damp and fed up. All because Skippy had argued that the open ground was quicker than the woodland.

At least they were heading south now. There had been a stand up row between the boys when Skippy insisted that he knew where south was, pointing closer to east. Fortunately Tristan had been listening in the training sessions and had demonstrated to Jacob how to find south using a watch and the sun. Jacob had explained it to Skippy with a right hook, and after a brief ruck in which everyone ended up with nose bleeds, Skippy had reluctantly conceded that point.

“Quintilian is a Roman name.” Skippy huffed, pulling a leg from a large puddle it had just found with a squelching noise, and cursing as his running shoe came off. He leaned over and fetched it out

“A Roman name? Helot names not good enough for your family eh?”

Skippy scowled at Tristan and reattached his shoe.

“My dad made the grade for the programme. My mum did for the girl’s programme. But their families did not let them enrol. They always felt they missed out and so they married and said that one of their children would join the elite one day.”

Tristan frowned. He did not really want to know about Skippy’s family expectations. What he really wanted was to get back to base and have a nice warm cocoa.

“Well it’s a stupid name.”

Skippy stuck out his tongue and the boys fell silent, trudging through the bog, three forlorn looking figures.

*

That evening they bivouacked on the edge of a small copse. For the second night running they had failed to light a fire with sticks and ivy vine and the three boys huddled close together for warmth. They had finished their chocolate that morning, and had tried eating leaves but decided they were really not that desperate yet.

As they lay huddled together, Tristan lay his head on Jacob’s chest. He heard the boy’s heart beating. Felt the meagre warmth of his body shared with his own and sighed. He absently played with his shorts, feeling his body reacting to his own touch. Trying not to let on what he was doing.

Jacob seemed to be asleep. Skippy was making occasional huffing noises. Huddled next to Jacob’s other side, but turned away as though to show he was only close to the boy out of extreme necessity. Tristan kept stroking himself. He liked that feeling. He liked lying on Jacob too.

And then, very gently, Jacob moved his hand, placed it on Tristan’s, and started to help him. Tristan’s eyes went wide as his cock reached a new level of hardness and he thrilled with pleasure at the touch. He took his hand away, and looked at Jacob as best he could in the gloom, lit only by moonlight filtering through the bivouac. The boy still had his eyes shut, but he was smiling. Slowly he found the top of Tristan’s shorts and slipped his hand down their front, and under his bikini briefs too. Then he started rubbing Tristan again and the boy moaned.

Skippy looked around and Tristan blushed, but he did not seem to see what Jacob was doing. After a second he turned away again and Jacob carried on rubbing gently. Tristan explored Jacob’s body with his fingers, and was just playing with the waistband of the boy’s shorts when Jacob started rubbing him more firmly and he nearly gasped. That good feeling was getting more intense than ever now, and he gritted his teeth, closed his eyes and willed himself not to make a noise, as much as he willed Jacob to keep going.

And then it was like some kind of explosion inside. There was no other way to describe the sensation as something amazing happened in his cock. It throbbed and pulsed into Jacob’s hand and Tristan experienced his first dry orgasm, as wave after wave of intense pleasure swept through him. He couldn’t help it, he moaned and grunted in pleasure and was left panting and sweating and feeling much warmer.

Skippy sat up. “What’s the matter with you?”

Tristan was glad the darkness hid his blush.

“Oh,er…I had a cramp. Sorry.”

He could feel Jacob’s chest quivering in silent laughter, and the boys waited until Skippy was asleep before Tristan removed Jacob’s shorts and returned the favour.

*

By all objective measures the next day should have been terrible. There was no food, the weather was turning to rain again, they had no idea where they were or how far they had to travel, and they could not help but think some of the teams had probably made it home by now.

But none of this mattered to Tristan. He was with Jacob. They had shared something special last night and then he had slept in the boy’s arms. He couldn’t help smiling and even Skippy’s jibes and infuriating delusions of grandeur could not get him down. The boys picked their way further south, and by degrees they edged closer to home. Tristan kept smiling at nothing until Skippy nearly exploded, infuriated that Tristan was not taking his misery seriously enough.

Late morning they found some wild blackberries and stuffed themselves. Shortly after they found the river gorge.

Jacob swore.

Crossing this would take one huge detour, but climbing down and up would be hard work. The slopes were steep and littered with loose scree. Before he could stop him though, Skippy set off down the slope.

“This way!” He shouted, scrambling down, kicking screed won the slope as he slipped and slithered.

“No! We have to go round!” Jacob yelled. He was not sure they did, but he was certain that it was better to think before climbing into a gorge they may not be able to get out of. How were they supposed to cross the river anyway?

But too late, Skippy was vanishing down the slope.

“Fuck!” Jacob swore again, and kicked some scree after the descending boy.

Tristan gave Jacob an awkward smile and then said. “Ok. Seeing as we are alone!”

“Huh?”

But before Jacob could work out what he had meant, Tristan was lowering Jacob’s shorts.

“Oh!” and Jacob giggled.

*

“Are you gay then?”

The boys had followed Skippy down eventually and found him sitting by the river, where he had been throwing large rocks in an attempt to create stepping stones to cross it.

“Huh?” Jacob asked, but Tristan’s blush gave him away in an instant.

“When you didn’t come down, I climbed back up to see what was keeping you.”

Tristan didn’t know if that was true or whether he just guessed well, but his blush turned a deeper crimson, and he instinctively held Jacob’s hand.

“Just my luck to get saddled with a couple of fag boys on a sleep out!”

Tristan growled.

“It would do the world a favour if you both get your balls cut off.”

Jacob rounded on him angrily.

“And how are we supposed to get across the river then, Quintilian?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“What? Quintilian? Ok then. How about prick?” Jacob snarled. “Come on prick, how are we going to cross this river? Did you spend any time thinking about that, oh glorious leader?”

Skippy snarled. “We swim, of course.”

Tristan looked at the river, swollen with the recent rain. Maybe Skippy only swam in public pools and lakes, but anyone could see the current was too strong in this river.

“I don’t think…”

“Prick!” Jacob snarled. “We can’t swim that. We needed to go round. I told you we did, and if you fucking well climbed back up again, then you fucking well should have stayed up and waited until we worked out the best way to go.”

Skippy launched himself at Jacob and they were pummelling each other hard. Tristan watched, and when Skippy got on top of Jacob and started hitting his face, he grabbed him round the neck and dragged him off.

“Get off me, lover boy.” Skippy snarled and threw himself forward. Tristan fell forward, pulled and toppling over the boy and sprawled in the dirt, and then Skippy was heading for the water.

“Wait, you can’t swim that!” Jacob shouted.

Whether Skippy would have done or not, the boys would never know. But as he went towards the water’s edge, and made ready, an enraged Tristan, fuelled by ever sly word and jibe from the last 48 hours, launched himself at the boy. His momentum launched Skippy forward into the water, and as he landed he hit his head with a sickening thud one of the rocks he had been throwing in earlier.

The current snatched the boy away and as Tristan got to his knees in the shallows, the boys watched the body being washed away downstream in the churning waters. There was no way they were ever going to catch up with him.

“Fuck!” Jacob whispered. And this time it did not enter Tristan’s head to offer to do so.

*

The helicopter found all three of them that evening, a couple of miles down river. Skippy’s body had become entangled in some vegetation at the river edge, but he was cold and stiff by the time the boys had made their way that far downstream. They dragged out the body, and just sat watching it.

All the other teams had returned to base, so the pickup had been sent out to fetch them.

The boys spent the evening in the medical wing being treated for mild exposure and shock. Despite their near exhaustion, neither boy slept that night.

*

Fourteen boys sat assembled in the hall, as Jacob and Tristan were marched in to the assembly the following morning. The chief trainer looked grim. Tristan had just endured the very worst interview of his life as he was asked exactly what had happened – how Skippy had died. The icy menace of the chief trainers voice left him in no doubt about the seriousness of what had happened and the likely consequences, as he admitted it was he who had pushed the boy in.

The trainer started to speak to the assembled boys. It was his sad duty, he told the assembled boys, to inform them that Quintilian Skipton had died in an accident on the survival training. There was a lecture then about taking the programme seriously, and actions and consequences and how everyone would miss Quintilian. This last part seemed like an order, because no one was going to voluntarily miss the prick.

“In view of yesterday’s events, it will seem hard to understand that the training must go on, but you were all warned of the risks on this programme, as were your families. That being the case, we must deselect one of these two boys in front of us.” He indicated the boys standing at the front between the trainers. Jacob was looking fixedly at the wall but Tristan’s head was bowed in shame.

“Usually we ask the boys on the losing team to fight it out at this point, and make the point that fighting is part of survival training. But these boys have been fighting more than enough, the last few days. We have decided that the boy to be deselected should be the boy who is responsible for Quintilian’s death.

“Tristan, you pushed Quintilian to his death. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Trystan cringed. He looked regretfully at Jacob, wondering if he would ever see him again. His cock seemed to jump and throb and get hard, and he wondered if he had already had his last orgasm. All eyes were on him, and he fidgeted nervously with his T shirt.

“Good luck Jacob.” Was all he managed and then he pulled off his shirt, and kicked off his shoes. He had dropped his shorts to some subdued laughter before the deputy trainers grabbed him and helped him with his black briefs.

Tristan waited to be led away, but the deputy trainers made no move.

“Tristan Stanton, you are hereby deselected from this programme. You also stand accused of causing the death of Quintilian Skipton through your negligent actions. Do you contest that charge?”

Tristan shook his head miserably.

“You must answer yes or no, Tristan.”

“No, sir.”

“Very well,” the trainer continued. “In that case, to satisfy the demand for justice, and to underline the gravity of your actions, your castration will take place here. It will be recorded and a copy will be sent to Quintilian’s family, and we will NOT be using anaesthetic for you, boy.”

Tristan’s face went from shamed crimson to petrified white at the last words, and at last, Tristan tried to struggle free, but far too late. He was lifted up onto the top table, and then his arms were fastened above his head to table corners with the straps, The same was done for his legs.

“You will notice, boys,” The trainer said, as though instructing a class, “that this boy is not to be given the luxury of a gag. Some of you may wish to block your ears in a few minutes.”

Fourteen seated boys and Jacob watched on, horrified at what they were seeing. Tristan had given up struggling now, but had turned to begging.

“Please…please… I am so sorry… it was an accident … I didn’t mean to…”

Jacob felt his eyes prick with tears as he watched Tristan babbling and a doctor inspected the prone boy. It was not, presumably, the doctor’s preferred method of working. He had to bend over a little to get a good look at the ball sac, and the table was a little low for him. He taped the semi hard cock to Tristan’s stomach as the boy sobbed and kept pleading for mercy.

“Make it hurt!” The chief trainer whispered to the doctor, just loud enough for Nathan to hear. The doctor nodded, his mouth hidden behind a surgical mask but his eyes looking grim.

And then he sliced the boy’s scrotum.

He deliberately left the scrotum hanging on by a thread of skin, before pulling it away, tearing that thread.

Tristan screamed.

Fifteen boys gasped and crossed their legs, several of them turning away, One of them threw up. Even the deputy trainers winced, and only the doctor and chief trainer remained stoic.

Tristan kept screaming, his body taught, his back arched in agony as the pain in his balls spread through him, consuming him. He screamed himself hoarse, as the doctor took one of his newly exposed testicles and sutured the cord. The testicle was blood red, as the ripped scrotum was bleeding more than usual, and the doctor had to squeeze it tight to maintain a firm hold as he slid his scalpel through the cord and dropped the testicle in a jar.

Tristan’s screams continued, his body contorting in agony as the other cord was sutured. The agony of his mutilated balls had spread through his stomach as a terrible deep ache. He breathed, moaned and then screamed again as the doctor squashed the other ball, cutting it away and dropping it in the jar.

The doctor pushed a swab to the wound, and then stitched things together, as Tristan sobbed and moaned, and 15 boys wanted desperately to be anywhere but here. Tristan at last passed out.

He came around in the medical facility, lying on his front. The tattooing had to be done in the facility because the equipment was not portable, but it had still been recorded and added to the public record. There was a terrible ache in his stomach and sharp pain between his legs but he could also feel the smarting soreness where he had been numbered, and a tightness below that which would be his smartchip. He knew what the first record on that smart chip would tell any prospective buyer about the type of slave he was.

440 lay still and cried.