Thanks for reviewing, Bee and Sam. Responses forthcoming, promise. =) Edited.

54: Throttle and Bottle

Nova Scotia, floating on a seething morass of timber and muck-

Misusing his chest-mounted safety beacon had been quite difficult in the midst of a surging fluid avalanche, especially while wearing a fully-inflated survival suit. Climbing into the rescue basket was no joke, either.

Always, there was the threat of further quake and inundation, or of being pinned and rolled under by shifting grey trunks and torn branches. The suit's buoyancy protected him somewhat, its almost un-pierceable toughness, still more. Many times he'd been dragged underneath, staring helplessly upward through roiling murk and tangled black shadows; jabbed and smashed at, scrabbling after a still-open pathway to sunlight and air.

Finally, he'd been able to clamber on top of the flood-wrack and stay there. No easy process. The surface he rode on tilted and swirled. Winds whipped overhead, moaning past the cove's high walls; past a rock-face stark grey and slashed where its tall pines and bird-streaked boulders had been shorn clean away.

Overhead, Thunderbird 2 slewed and bobbed, having some trouble holding position. Even from here, Scott could see that her forward control surfaces had been damaged; one steering rocket unable to rotate, two others flaming out like 4th-of-July sparklers. On the whole, it was a testament to Gordon's flying ability that he was able to maneuver the injured Bird at all, much less drop her in close to the rocket-plane.

'Good stick-and-rudder man,' Scott thought approvingly, watching through scratched, muddy plastic as 2 settled in and the basket dropped lower.

The blue-black shadow of one cliff had crept halfway up the other side, by the time 2's rescue basket reached Scott. Everything took longer, because Gordon was flying by himself in a damaged and oddly-configured aircraft. Ordinarily, Thunderbird 2 had her pod in place when performing a difficult rescue. She was not meant to fly long distances and execute aerodynamic miracles while missing half of her mass and her streamlining hull.

Not convinced? Sounds easy to you? Imagine driving along the freeway in a big, powerful luxury sedan and then having it convert all of a sudden to a motorized shopping cart with one balky, squeaking wheel. Now imagine you had a chain-handled butterfly net, and one vital egg to scoop up from the surging and buckling roadside.

Yeah… Gordon was taking things slowly. Thunderbird 1 hung beside him like a tail-heavy, silvery dart, locked to Scott's suit beacon. She'd come so terribly close to being no more than a drifting tombstone, but the comically puffed, mud-grey and yellow figure below was alive; still able to tap out advice and encouragement. And then, when the basket pendulum-swung just low and slow enough to be caught, to clamber within it.

Glimpsed on the flickering view screen (antenna and cameras had taken some damage, too) Scott first seized hold of the tilting basket's metal-mesh side, then heaved himself over, spinning and swinging above the piled, rushing tree trunks. Then he collapsed to the bottom of the rescue basket, looked up and waved. Gordon waved back, though Scott couldn't see him.

The rest was a cautious, steady retrieval, made with one eye on his altitude and collision-alert sensors, the other on his eldest brother's transmitted image. Certainly, important events were happening elsewhere: in Lima, Interpol was setting a careful trap. In London, Lady Penelope had learnt of her hostaged servants' location, and was calmly preparing to signal John Tracy. In Manhattan, Brains had conceived of a sleek new drill design. While over in Houston, Dr. Bennett heard certain news, grew pale and sat down, knocking several framed pictures and a stuffed toy cat off her desk.

But all of that was elsewhere and somewhat scattered in time. Here, now, Thunderbird 2 winched up her basket; pulling Scott Tracy those last few meters to safety. Spinning beneath the noisy green cargolifter, he'd seen her whirling around overhead like a giant, elongated donut. It was weird, peering up through her missing gut at the clouds and reddening sky. Weird… and a little upsetting. She seemed wounded, somehow.

The basket jerked and vibrated upward, drawn through a yawning hatch and then locked into place with a mechanized chorus of rattles and pings. Devices hummed, and the doors beneath him swung closed, blocking out a rumbling torrent of mud and uprooted trees. Only then, when the hold-light glowed red all around him, and the farthest he could fall was ten, fifteen feet, did Scott deflate his survival suit. It released with a weary and wavering hiss; just like his sternly-pent tension.

He heard and felt Thunderbird 2 start to move. Upward, he thought, and a little bit sideways; the closest she could come to a banking turn in her current, eviscerated condition. Thunderbird 1 would fly alongside, he knew, remotely piloted by John or their father.

Scott piloted himself (a little unsteadily) removing his helmet just in time to hear:

"Son? Scott…? Can you hear me? Are you all right? We're not getting any telemetry from your suit."

"Yeah, I hear you, Dad. I'm okay," answered Scott, though it was an awfully loose interpretation of the facts. Truthfully, he felt like something hell had finished with, bagged up and chucked out the window. "What about Virge and Alan? They still in one piece?"

"Alive, yes," his father reported grimly, as Scott maneuvered his way out of the basket and onto a vibrating metal gantry. "Unhurt, no. Alan's been injured, but he's conscious and aware of his surroundings. On the other hand, Virgil believes that these quakes were some kind of deliberately triggered assault."

Scott's dark, heavy eyebrows climbed skyward.

"An assault?" he repeated. "That… would be awfully serious, if it's true, Dad."

…but he hoped to God that it wasn't.

"You want us to head over, pick up the pod and the Mole?" Scott suggested, ignoring a whole chorus of aches, pains and sprains as he shuffled along the gantry to Thunderbird 2's rear crew cabin and locker room.

"Not yet, Son. There were a number of hikers and campers caught in the earthquake who need a quick airlift to safety. Civilians are priority, always. Then, Virgil and Alan."

Cut in John,

"The pod's gone and so are two of the lifting legs. Severe damage to the others. Rough takeoff."

Scott nodded absently, glad that at least Gordon had managed to save Thunderbird 2. Glad that his brothers were safe, with or without the d*mn pod. Mere hardware could always be replaced.

"We've all had a few of those," he responded, thinking of rough takeoffs and barely-survived rescues. "Trick is not to get caught the same way, twice."

And that meant stopping the Hood's vicious thugs, something no one was sure how to do, yet. They were working on it, though. Long and hard and ferociously.

All things considered, it was a grim and battered Scott Tracy who went forward to join Gordon in the cockpit; dropping into the copilot's seat with a low and exhausted grunt. After a moment, he switched a few instruments on and transferred partial control. Their coffee pot lay on deck in a thousand sticky brown shards, or Scott would have taken the strongest, darkest cup pourable. But at least there was water, and a functioning head. Small favors, you know?

"Thanks for the rapid pick-up, Gordon," he said. "That was some first-rate flying, back there."

Put out a hand, too, which Gordon accepted and shook.

"Reeling in brothers is becoming my specialty," the redhead responded with a brief, crooked smile. Scott smiled back.

"Well, it's catch and release," he said, "so you're gonna be busy for awhile."

"Yeah…" countered Gordon, eyes once more on his instrument panel and flight controls. "Probably get my picture on the cover of Field, Stream and Rescue, too."

"The magazine for American millionaire nut-jobs," Scott chuckled, rubbing the back of his own aching neck. "God, I wish we had coffee… or a few beers, at least."

"Pretty rough, down there?" Gordon ventured, glancing at his weary and grimacing brother. Scott's helmet-bruised face was illuminated by reddening twilight and instrument glow.

He could have said a lot of things; might have joked, or told the whole, frightening truth. Instead, Scott compromised, reaching over to correct 2's drift with a bit more starboard rocket.

"Had a couple of close calls, but I'm still here to bitch about it, so I guess everything's straight and level." Could have been worse, he didn't say aloud. Could've been a lot worse.

Gordon nodded understandingly, and together they got back to flying their hollow, half-crippled Bird. The job wasn't finished yet, rest and bandaids a long way off.

XXX

Nova Scotia, above ground, by the sea-

Unloading his pitiful cargo of rescued quake victims took almost no time at all. Sea and sky were just beginning to darken, the sun still piling up gold and rubies away to the west, when Virgil shook hands with Bill and a Coast Guard lieutenant at the end of the Mole's boarding ramp. Virgil wore his scuffed yellow survival suit and darkened helmet (though in Bill Eberhardt's case, that didn't much matter).

"Thanks for the help," he told them both, and the gathered Red Cross personnel. Had to speak up to be heard over the clattering med-evac helijets, but his audience got the message.

"Thank you," said Lieutenant Aaronson. "There's no way we could have gotten to those people in time. Not without better equipment."

He squinted past Virgil as he said this, trying to make sense of the drill's vaporous, rippling outline.

"Speaking of equipment, sir," said an approaching medic, followed by a couple of worn, grubby rescue workers, "Coop and Suresh, here, think that the lightning-machine's getting set to cut loose, again."

She had everyone's attention at that point; from Virgil and Alan to Bill and her fellow rescue workers.

"Lightning-machine?" Virgil repeated, feeling his muscles bunch and tense like he was back in a three-point stance on the football field; listening to a loud, hurried snap-count, staring through the bars of a helmet at someone who wanted him beaten and down.

The medic turned from her officer to face Virgil.

"Yes, sir," she told him, "right over there."

Lifting one arm, the bloodied brunette pointed to a dusty, ground-hugging device that had once more begun to vibrate and spark. Virgil had been too busy to notice, before. Couldn't take his eyes off it, now.

"We figured it might be TA equipment, except why would they try to steal their own earthquake device? Why would they build something like that, in the first place?"

"You're saying it triggered the quakes?" Virgil asked her, quietly pressing his suit's comm switch.

"Seems like it, yes, sir. Coop and Suresh accidently got too close and triggered the thing. So it…"

"Generated some kind of massive lightning bolt," supplied Cooper, shaking his head at the memory. "And right after that, we had the next temblor. Figure if the ground'd been wet, we would've been killed. Bad enough, anyway, trying to dodge all the trees and debris."

Right. For some serendipitous reason, Virgil thought of the med-scanner. Giving the civilian rescue workers a swift nod, he strode up the booming steel ramp and back to the Mole. There he seized a med-kit, racing back to scan and image the flickering quake-machine. Transmitted the data straight back to Island Base, too.

"Don't get too close, eh?" warned short, wiry Suresh. "It goes off on its own if you come within ten meters."

Sam Cooper nodded his blond head emphatically, clutching at a recently splinted right arm. He owed Krishna Suresh his life, and a couple of beers, besides.

Virgil was more than willing to heed good advice. He stood well back, using the med-scanner's extreme biohazard/ radiation-threat setting to image and scan the earthquake machine. Then, as it really did seem to be sparking faster, its ground-affixed cables beginning to quiver and hum, he said,

"Everybody off. I mean now. Back to your ship or the helijets as fast as you can."

Fortunately, Dreadnought had survived the tsunami, and Battle-Axe was just now rounding the point. Better yet, a few med-evac helijets were still present, circling overhead just in case someone turned up another survivor. Aaronson signaled Dreadnought while the medic beckoned those clattering, swooping support choppers. Then,

"Mole," snapped Jeff Tracy's taut voice, sharp as a whip through Virgil's helmet comm. "Thunderbird 2 is on her way. Get all civilian and Coast Guard personnel the h3ll off the premises, and prepare for emergency pick-up. Thunderbird 5 is at work on a disarming protocol, but under no circumstances are you to touch or approach that device!"

Thunderbird 5...? But their numbering system had always stopped with the rescue sub, Thunderbird 4. Some kind of code phrase for Brains, or John, maybe?

"Copy that, Base," Virgil responded through a sandpaper-dry mouth. "Evacuation in progress, standing by for the cavalry."

XXX

Midworld-

At last… after oaths and feasting, boasts of their valor and mighty deeds… the roistering war-band grew quiet. Drunk, mostly, or taking noisy comfort in fair, gold-ringed arms. As their new lord, Gawain had been expected to keep up; drinking horn after horn to the gritty dregs and eating twice as much as anyone else but Glud and Arnulf.

Made several trips to the garderobe and muttered a string of sobriety spells, but still felt tipsy and bloated. By the time Arnulf stopped singing to thump his shaggy blond head on the scarred wooden table beside Emma, Gawain was fairly well pickled, himself.

He had to weave his way out of the hall and bury his face in a glittering snow-drift to regain any sort of alertness. Glud cheerfully helped out by thrusting a big handful of new-fallen snow down the back of his tunic, which Gawain meant to avenge whenever the world ceased its perilous spinning.

"Soon's I can see straight," he gasped wrathfully, "'m takin' both y'r damme heads off."

The half-orc grinned, displaying sharp, boar-like fangs… and if he saw two images of the same half-orc, did this make one whole, treacherous blighter? Must've said something to that effect, because Glud laughed and then re-stuffed his already cold, sodden tunic.

"I would say that you're drunk as a lord," remarked Drehn, slipping away from a clot of wavering, torch-cast shadows, "if that wasn't beating and stripping a corpse."

"Still awake, at any rate," Gawain mumbled. He leaned upon the stone wall for support, since his supposed friends were all back-stabbing wretches and sons of their mothers. Thankfully, the drow was able to clear his head somewhat. Not with a spell, but a sip of that horrible, gut-searing potion.

"Villanous stuff," Gawain snapped, thrusting the silver-chased flask away with a shudder.

"Gets the job done," his friend shrugged. "Which is more than I can say for spells and sigils, these days. Now… Milord… if you're through outperforming your noble troops…?"

Gawain's face and hands were scratched and wet from the snow bath. Didn't mean he couldn't scoop up and hurl a fast snowball, though… or that Drehn couldn't easily dodge it. The impromptu weapon crunched harmlessly against the rim of a carven stone arch, causing the nearby torches to flicker and hiss. On the bright side, his vision had snapped back into perfect focus, and he was no longer thinking through many warm, fuzzy layers of mead.

Sensing this, the half-orc and drow escorted their comrade to the armoury, where Frodle waited with Allat, Voreig and Lady Anelle (who was supposed to be safely abed). It was a cluttered and low-ceilinged place; lit by mage-glow and ritually shielded by Frodle, whose own magicks might be weakening, but whose mind remained sharp as an icicle.

Anelle sprang forward to greet her young husband, then paused, nose wrinkling at the scent of spilt mead and spiced ale.

"Not drunk," he informed her, adding honestly, "any longer."

Nevertheless, his lady leaned forward delicately, hands lifting her rose-velvet skirts from the dust. One brief kiss she gave him, on the cheek, because he'd turned his head just a bit. Not until Anelle and Britte were each free in their own bodies would he accept more. Well, married life was certainly off to a rousing-fine start…

He took his seat upon a stack of leather-cased shields, waiting until Drehn had shut and warded the door to say,

"I thank you f'r comin'. A great deal has happened in these last two days… an' my head's still reelin' because of it. Too much, too soon, with more t' come, if I'm not gravely mistook… but y'r presence makes everythin'… that is t' say…"

He lacked the proper words. Frodle smiled, anyhow, saying,

"You're quite welcome, Friend Gawain, but thanks are not necessary. What else would we have done? We seem to have formed a family, of sorts; strong, for all that it wasn't created through accident of blood or race."

"But we're also not blind, or stupid," the elf cut in, jerking his head at Anelle. "What do you mean to do with Her Ghostly Highness, over there? Let her keep hold of the love stricken girl-child?"

Though the snow-sting had faded, Gawain flushed red. He also surged to his feet, clear of head and icily furious. But,

"Gawain," Anelle murmured softly, touching a tightly clenched fist, "he has the right to ask what is questioned by all… And, yes, the girl loves you, who have shown nearly all of the warmth and kindness she's ever known. Also, she loves because I do. This will not change, so long as my spirit quickens her body."

Beside them, the halfling's round face went all scrunched with concern. Without using instruments, this time, he studied the possessed, lovely girl.

"I'm sorry," he said at last, running a hand through his curly dark hair, "Sorry for all of you. But this matter cannot be simply or quickly resolved."

Gawain resumed his seat on the creaking shield-pile, pulling Anelle down beside him. Their linked hands rested upon the girl's knee, interlaced in a complex and loving knot, his larger, sword-roughened one uppermost.

"What must we do?" asked the knight. "'Tis bound I am t' meet Bretnoth, an'… and I've had a message from th' God of my Order… but Milady needs help, and I'll not neglect her or Britte. Tell me how this spell may be undone, Sir Scholar."

Frodle shook his head.

"It can't, not by me or by any Midworld spell-caster, anyhow. Not without killing young Britte and the others attached to this web. If Her Majesty leaves their bodies, she becomes free to take another, but those abandoned shall certainly die."

Anelle's head bowed and her slim, velvet-clad shoulders began to shake. She did not weep loudly, but Gawain nevertheless placed a protective arm around her.

"There is always a counter-spell. A way out," he insisted. "Cost matches th' deed, whatever… But f'r somethin' like this, I'd be willin' t' give up my own life, or…"

"NO," Anelle ordered, drawing sharply away to glare at him. "Gawain of Espan, Orkney and Falkirk, by the blood and love between us, you'll offer up no such thing! Not a hair of your head, nor a day of your life! Do you not understand, even yet? If your thread were cut, I should survive, but never again truly live… Only drift through a bitter eternity of longing and grief. You are part of the bargain, My Heart, or I shall not bid."

And then, though he still smelt strongly of mead and smoke and the feasting hall, she embraced him, burying her face in Gawain's broad shoulder. It was Voreig, speaking with difficulty, who rasped,

"Your god… appear? Give quest?"

Gawain pulled his face away from the top of Anelle's head to look at the half-orc and nod.

"Aye. He did, that."

"Then…" the hulking, weirdly man-like creature continued. "Do bidding. Ask boon."

Drehn stepped away from a wooden spear-rack he'd been lounging beside, saying,

"He has a point, Gawain. Earth gods and Those-below are bound by the magick of the elements, but sky gods follow their own twisted logic, and have more power, besides. Comes of having deposed and stripped the Old Ones. Your deity, if caught in the right mood, could certainly change the rules, saving everyone."

Off to one side, Glud patted his younger brother's muscular shoulder approvingly.

"Voreig talks little, but thinks much," he grunted. "The reason he is sent on journeys of trade. Not easily tricked in the marketplace or bazaar."

"Almost… slave-sold there," rumbled his brother, feeling words escape as emotion built up; raw as a stitched, oozing wound. Voreig's head turned to regard Gawain.

"Friend-ness between us, always."

"Accepted," responded the Cross-Knight, smiling briefly. "And many thanks f'r th' notion. I didn't precisely take his meanin', but I'll tell you what Milord commanded, since He says I'm t' bring you along."

That got everyone's sudden, vital attention. Even Allat ceased clinging to the ceiling in dragonet form to drop down and listen, munching an ancient bronze short-sword.

"Right. I was commanded t' ride forth, rejoin m' brother knights and… an' this part makes little sense as yet… use a link with "another-world self" t' find somethin' called "simulator room", bearin' th' lot of you with me. There, I'm t' slash th' bond between Midworld and a dyin' mirror-realm, savin' us all from takin' their fate."

Gawain frowned, then, because some of those details he'd have sworn sprang up new-forged and unbidden.

"So, there you go, Sir G!" Allat crowed brightly, spitting forth ingots. Hating silence, the shape-changer went on to say, "Just head out, collect dad and the boys, shift us all to parts unknown, chop a golden anchor chain or something, and put a big smile on His Holiness. He'll have to grant you a wish then, right? Or even three. I'd definitely hold out for three, buddy. Can I use one of them? Or two? I've got a zillion ideas!"

Gawain patted the shape-changer's jeweled scaly head.

"Y'll have t' speak with the others," he said. "If three wishes there are, then one must be used t' safely draw Milady from Britte, Kel an' Laney… another t' bring me a second go at Faerie's usurper, but th' last one you five surely deserve, t' use howsoever you will."

Frodle stroked his chin, intrigued. The gift of a god was a thing to be sought for, and very carefully used. Poorly chosen, such wishes had toppled kingdoms, sparked heroic fable and ignited terrible wars.

"We'll consult," the halfling decided aloud, glancing at Drehn, Voreig and Glud, "and try to come up with a proper group wish. There's no point in getting excited, though. We have no assurance that the Lord of Battle and Flame will offer any reward whatsoever… though the stars are right, and there have been precedents…"

His voice trailing off to a mumble, the scholar summoned and opened his leather-bound tome. The others fell to talking amongst themselves, suggesting this or that wish-possibility. But Anelle, somewhat white-faced, drew her husband aside.

"The planes alongside us are hazardous, Love," she whispered. "And I shall not be present to guide you. Once out of Falkirk, my soul and substance must sink back into the children, again. But this, I may do, like any fairy-maid wailing for her young mortal lover."

Reaching up, she took his face in her hands. One kiss she gave him upon the forehead.

"Receive the strength of ten, Love, for the space of a year and a day."

Then, she kissed his unshaven right cheek, slightly scraping her full, rosy lips. Warm breath soft on his face, she said,

"Receive the Sun's Bond, for a similar span, that you may wax in power with Him, ever rising anew from the darkness."

Now his left cheek was caressed by her hand and mouth.

"Receive, most of all, the Blessing of a fled, deposed queen. One who would count all the rest well lost, were her love to return safe from battle."

Each kiss had brought with it a soundless, internal wrenching as something within him was changed. He stumbled a bit, bursting with unaccustomed power.

"Be careful of handclasps and doorways, Love," she advised him. "The strength of ten can wreak dreadful havoc, if not well contained. 'Ware nightfall, as well. You'll be weakest at sunset, nearly immortal at noon."

…Or somesuch. Her words and face would keep fading and flickering, blaze-like. As though the spirit within was scorchingly close to the surface, now.

"Against mortals, even those of another plane, these gifts may shield and assist you. Against fairies or gods, not as much. Be wary, Love; but mostly, be safe."

Anelle drooped against him, then, and they both collapsed to a seat on the shield-stack. He, over-filled, she, drained nearly powerless. Once again, Gawain pulled her onto his lap, hardening his heart against whatever might dwell in that vampiric other-realm. You see… This time, he had to win.