CCP VIRUS MEMES PIX LOL

Demon Turds .

Demon Turds

BY CRAIG J. BURT/Jimmy Boom Semtex

Sitting in the toliet

Praying & praying

For this roughness to go away

Face grimacing

Wailing & wailing

How long is this going to take?

A turd as big as a dog / Waiting inside to come put / Chicken curry the night before / Same colour as a turd / Damn CCP virus will end you quicker / But there there we go / Demon turd plops free...

Hushed Gore

Hushed Gore

The forest deep carries the biggest gunners

Those who do the most damage

That you remember the most and worst

The school bully who nobody could master

The boxer that no opponent beat

The soldier who loved to fight

The woman who stepped on men

These people carry the biggest guns

And walk thru the darkest glade

Enormous trees surround them

Here there is little or no sunlight

Even on the brightest days

They belong to that world and rule it

We are mere spectators and guests

Visiting them now and again

When their worlds collide with ours

Gaining a glimpse on how they work

And what they do in hushed gore

I jog on by unless gripped from behind

from 

Gatoros and Crocos: Lower Case Murky Poems and Ditties Book 2

Nick Armbrister and other writers

from the forthcoming anti war book Europa IV – The Long Night Goodbye

from the forthcoming anti war book
Europa IV – The Long Night Goodbye

out soon

Nick Armbrister and Andy N
Missing Pilot
The girl was very nice
She had a little daughter
And was married

But that was fine
She was open minded
And liked other guys

And some gals too
I knew she liked me
No introductions were needed

We got together inside the hangars
By the sleeping planes
We did a different type of sleeping

Taking our time for it mattered
Our love was there without words
Leaving only memories known to us

I’ll keep her name secret
And just exactly what we did
But know this and know it well

She made my journey easier
For if I never came back
At least she would remember me

And always love me
Even if she belonged to another
He did not even figure

In what we did or were
We kissed before I climbed the ladder
Of my Lockheed P-38 Lightning

She was there to see me off
When I arrived in theatre
I’d name my plane after her

If I died in foreign skies
I now had a real reason
Other than for ‘freedom’...

Weight Training

PENIS BREAD 2020 JIMMY BOOM SEMTEX

Weight Training I feel the weight of centuries on my back They all came back full of holes They were the toughest of the tough Then the dragons arrived You slip between the lines Get rid of the machine guns I smell the car exhaust and know my dad is near

Obsessed

Incident Report 74399 2020 JIMMY BOOM SEMTEX

Obsessed Obsessed with speed I was that Round the dial Engine fucking screaming Me racing them Or just myself Not ever stopping After we collided Something about movement Positive insane velocity I could drive Surely the best Crap limited cars Only slowed me Past all limits How I grin My workmate screams Watch the lorry!!! I swerve by We speedily escape Till the crash Which patiently waits To painfully end All my fun Floor the pedal Skid swerve race I refuse slowness Pushing one litre Risking old banger Put me there Behind the wheel I'll fucking drive A man possessed By my shadow So much speed Don't dare worry For little me Or my casualties Eat my dust Hear tires squeal Smell rubber burn There goes Jimmy Crazy fucking nutter! Passionate to race Open road track Safety not included An opponent needed Or just myself Again cheating death For how long?

hell six

hell six

triple 6 hellcat

mother trucker

painted midnight blue

devil bird 6 50s

give me such a bird

Cold War Strange Erotic Times By Nick Armbrister

Cold War Strange Erotic Times

By Nick Armbrister

Nick Armbrister has put together a collection of erotic stories set in the Cold War and 21st Century. Love, sex, tattoos, weapons, conflict all feature here. From soldiers to weapon factory workers, via the national leaders, it is all here. Everybody makes love especially in war. Other stories feature tattoos. Watch out for volume 2 and 3 in this series.

http://www.lulu.com/shop/nick-armbrister/cold-war-strange-erotic-times/ebook/product-24511618.html

A Tribute To Voice Of The Beehive

A Tribute To Voice Of The Beehive I first heard of you In the hot heat of ’88 I was in love My world full of bliss. But the love Died on the vine And I was lost And alone but I had The songs of the Beehive to protect me. I’ve been to your city With my friends I’ve walked your earth And yes, it’s my home, My only home. I’ve been the lover, The barbarian And the moon All in my short life On this earth. I thought the Beehive Had died But in ’91 And finally ’96 you finally Came alive again. I thank Tracy And Melissa for The best music In the world And that timeless gig in ’91. from Her Name is Hope – Life Force

FADE INTO FOCUS, FOCUS INTO FADE Nick Armbrister early poems

FADE INTO FOCUS, FOCUS INTO FADE Nick Armbrister

THE OLD COTTAGE

It stood at the base of the mountain for two centuries, unchanging and so very permanent.

Shepherds of times gone by used to live here but now it belongs to a young woman called Emma.

Her friends from the city said, “Oh, Emma, why do you live here?”

She replies, “Just look at it all, isn’t it beautiful?”

Her friends don’t think so. They’d miss the electricity, the busy city and all the

nightlife.

Here Emma is totally at home, all alone on the moor.

IT ALL STARTED AS FUN

When we were both fifteen years old, just kids, we were messing around with one thing or another. We made a small bomb. It was more of a firework, really, all sparks and heat.

We did this all for fun, then we blew up a phone box with a pipe bomb, two years later.

That was a laugh, two kids being idiots. Soon we went our separate ways, ten long years ago.

Now, watching the news after coming in from work, I can’t believe it, I saw your face.

A photo of my old friend and a plane down, over 200 dead.

Oh fuckin’ god, this cant be true. Did you do it? Really, did you bring down the plane?

DREAM SUNLIGHT

A twilight sun shines down colouring the sky with every shade of colour from red to black, blowing your mind away.

We drive our car over the winding moor road, stereo on full blast, eating up the miles like it was fading to zero.

Our car is old but we are young, in our prime, enjoying life, making every moment go on forever.

We come to the town, all quiet in the coming darkness.

I think of how many people have walked over the town square, how many have kissed, fought, dreamed…

Then we are away, leaving the town behind…

ENDLESS SUMMER

This is the endless summer of our youth

a time of music and of fun.

A time of blue skies and cold beer

in pubs in the country.

The sky is always free of clouds

and we fall in love, so heart achingly, to last forever.

Special times, trips to the coast.

It is a time for you and me.

Our friends are always there for us

when we see music festivals, song for our lives.

I met you in a bar, we walked barefoot

through the sand, in our own world.

We may grow older but we’ll

never forget the times we had,

in that endless summer so long ago

in our youth, passionate young lives.

THROUGH MY EYES

I have seen many things through my eyes.

I see magic, mystical places, angels and fighter planes.

I see the magic of a summers day high in the mountains.

I see surreal dreamers flying through the rarefied air.

I see Gothic maidens dressed in long black dresses

dancing under the moon.

I see a Spitfire turning on a knife-edge,

sun reflecting off its wing.

I see Julianne singing crystal songs that shatter

the twilight dawn.

I see a quartz crystal cast a halo of colours.

I see the beauty of the written word through poetry.

I see the heartbeat that is the life of the moon and of

planet earth and I see the beauty of love and the

violence of war.

THE GREY BLACK NIGHT

The grey leaden sky covers the land casting a shadow over this sombre place.

Shadows leap from every tree and boulder until they seem to dance

everywhere you look.

Trees stand in stark silhouette against the sky, the wind makes them sway

and creek like skeletal limbs askew.

This is the gothic night of the beautiful colour of grey.

Grey skies make way for black, darkness starts to colour

the land leaving ghosts and shadows all as one.

Now not even the trees can be seen as everything is coloured black,

the night has come at last…

BOULDER

The massive boulder sits in the lea of the moor; it has been here for a million years

and seen everything that has ever happened.

So many tons of stone made up of all of the elements which make up the very

planet itself.

This piece of stone has been here longer than Man himself and it has seen so many years

come and go, from the harsh cold of winter to the boiling heat of summer, this boulder

has felt them all.

Seasons crack your outer layer with freezing cold and ice, then bake your heart

with the fire of the sun.

You will be here until the weather grinds you down to grains and then the whole

process starts all over again to make a boulder once again.

A COLD WINTER’S MORNING

The air is so clear, you can see for miles.

Clear landscape stands out in stark silhouette

against the icy crystal clear blue sky.

Yellow cold sun stands just above the horizon as the last

of the stars disappear and the moon fades from view.

A cold frost covers the grass making it springy underfoot,

it coats the boughs of the trees glistening silver jewels

before your eyes.

There is nothing quite like a cold Winter’s morning when

everything is still.

As the sun shines over this sleepy world long shadows are

cast over the countryside, along the lanes and fields and villages.

When you walk down a country lane in December, stop to

enjoy the beauty.

SPEEDING ROCKET

Standing huge and massive on the launch pad, so many tons of power

wait to be primed, one way ticket to the stars, waiting to be launched.

It will circle the planet and then land safely, but it wants to go so much further.

This will be the ride of our lives for not many people will do this.

Now as we launch the hot fire pushes us skyward; further we go every second,

the sky goes blue, fading to purple, then black. We can see the stars and the

curve of the earth before us as we fly into space, majestically.

We are as free now as we will ever be on our speeding rocket, spearing through

the heavens, freedom.

RAGING INSOMNIA

Go to bed tired, so tired you want to die,

you’ll kill someone for sleep, oh yes you will.

Just lying there all night just watching the hours

crawl backwards.

Oh God, I’m going fucking insane, please let

me lose consciousness and get away from this

hell of insomnia.

It’s the third day of this and I can’t take it

Anymore, Ill pray for death over insomnia anytime.

I never want to be a prisoner of insomnia again.

I would rather be dead.

THE FARMER

Mr Palmer is a grouchy old farmer; he says, “Get orf my land!”

He carries two barrels of the best British lead in his 12 bore.

He ain’t afraid to use it, oh no. He sells cowpats and horseshit,

twenty pound for a fiva.

Mr Palmer can’t read or write but he can drive a tractor.

He puts horseshit in his wellies so that he can reach the peddles,

yes he does.

He says “’ello” and then he stares at you through his jam jar glasses.

He is now 95 but he has plenty more spunk left in him.

He says, “My dad drove this tractor and Ill leave it to my son

when I have one.”                                         

 

FIRING THOSE ROUNDS OFF

Feel the recoil of the fifty calibre in your gut as the Messerschmitts dart past,

you hit or miss, this is a game of Russian roulette. You’re a gunner in a B-17

shooting shells off to save your soul, kill the Nazi cunts!

You’re a gunner in a Huey gunship blasting the Vietcong – it’s you or them.

The recoil of your gun makes you violently happy as you scythe Charlie down.

You want to rape Dantes’ mistress against the recoil, all those tracers

cutting through the night. Just like July the Fourth.

Heavy calibre bullets mince your guts and wreck your plane, so the wise man says

don’t get in my way or else you’ll pay the price.

MISSILE LAUNCH

Radar lock on, a growl in your ear means the missile sees the Mig,

now a 6 g’s turn and press the tit, see the Sidewinder dart towards the

enemy. For this is his time to die, his seconds tick away like so many

grains of sand in the hour glass.

As the solid fuel rocket motor speeds the missile to Mach 3 the Mig,

your Mig, flies for his life. A crazy turn into range seals his fate,

g-force building up, horizon tumbling madly, this time he gives it his best.

Will American or Russian technology win or lose? Will a pilot and plane die?

The Mig defeats the missile in his life-saving gamble but two more are on the way.

Only his faith in an outlawed God can save him now.

AROUND THE CHIMNEY

Three Messerschmitts fly in formation on this tragic day in Germany’s history,

they’re in formation so fragile and so deadly.

Then the Mustangs strike, fast and without warning. Left and right the wingmen go;

a fuel tank explodes and its jettisoned, saving both pilot and plane.

Deadly chase is now on; lower and lower the 109 and Mustang go, pilot skill counts,

so close to the ground, all that speed. Over the village the 109 hurtles, turning on its wing,

fifty feet above the brewery chimney, four g’s in this gut-wrenching turn.

Then the Mustang’s guns strike home, mortal hit. A third of an aileron flies off the 109.

Flicking upside down, will he die? With so much coolness he flies his plane upwards,

inverted flight, gaining height.

Mustang pilot sees this and waits to claim his kill. With German coolness, the 109

rolls upright and the chase continues – for a while. Force landing his damaged the plane,

the kraut is beaten but alive, skilful and lucky.

TEMPEST PILOT

The world’s best low level piston engine fighter plane flew low and fast with 21-year-old John Andrew at the controls. He was chasing the 190’s over open country.

He had got two and now the third was nearly his when he hit a tree with his wing.

He bailed out of the speeding and tumbling plane with God on his side, alive!

His chute opened and then he was on the ground,

his plane coming down like a fuckin’

meteor in the French churchyard demolishing half the church.

In a dreamlike haze he pulled himself off the ground with nothing but cuts and

Bruises, then passed out.

When he awoke he was in a soft bed with a beautiful young girl gazing deeply at him,

She was called Louisa and in an instant both had fallen in love in the blink of an eye.

So in three weeks John from London, Tempest pilot, had married Louisa, French peasant girl, in the remains of the shattered church where his broken plane lay.

This is one wartime love story, so true and one of hope. Out of the ashes comes re-birth. Wise men say, always fall in love in war.

GHOST DANCERS

Ghost dancing through the night so haunting and so mystical,

ghosts are all around you if you know where to look.

Mysterious ghost ships sail on dark eternal seas forever and ever.

Ghostly figures prance through the dark slender trees on a Winters’

moonlit night.

Maybe one day we too will be ghosts if we die in the right way

but now we can never know.

Some people said they saw a hazy plane on the horizon but when they

looked back it had gone. Who’s to say what it was?

Ghosts maybe amongst us now in all the old houses and castles,

so do prepare when you go to those places.

If you see one, look and remember what you see as you are

the only one to see that special sight.

RELIANT ROBIN

There are forty seven thousand of these plastic pigs on our roads,

if you put four fully equipped Marines in them you have your own

fully equipped invincible army and no one will dare mess with you.

The way forward is with fibreglass and three wheels, the stuff of

legend, an English legend which people will remember forever, just like the Spitfire.

Reliants have sailed over lakes and driven over deserts and had digital computers,

sat nav installed to take them on their quest. They have reached 103 mph and

been fitted with a 1.3 litre engine – come and catch me copper!

Everyone should have one just to be different and to enjoy driving a plastic pig.

Go and get one today.

GRYPHON WARPLANE DESCRIPTION

SUPERB WRITE UP OF A BEAUTIFUL DEVASTATING FRAGILE WARPLANE BY MY FAVE EVER AUTHOR - read on...

GRYPHON WARPLANE DESCRIPTION

ELIZABETH HAND AESTIVAL TIDE

There were twelve of them. Each faced the outside of the dome, where the translucent polymer was etched with spray and salt, and the outlines of the skygates glowed cobalt against the bright sky. Once there had been hundreds of these biotic aircraft, a fleet powerful enough to subdue entire continents. Over the centuries, provincial rebellions and incursions by the Emirate and Balkhash Commonwealth had destroyed many of them. The bibliochlasm alone had resulted in a score being torched like mayflies to burn in the skies above Memphis.

But most of the Gryphons crystals and fluids necessary to establish the controlling link between pilot and craft, and carry the canisters of nerve gas or virus or mutagens dispatched in the Ascendants’ rains of terror. Not until the Second Ascension and the establishment of the NASNA Academy were the lost arts of biotic aviation restored. Then the first generation of Aviators were trained in the arcane methods of controlling fougas and aviettes and man-powered Condors, the solex-winged shuttles of HORUS and, most beautiful and lethal of all, the Ninth Generation Biotic Gryphons, all that remained of the imposing defense structure of the short-lived Military Republic of Wichita.

Of that squadron, only these twelve had survived. Formally, they belonged to the Ascendant Autocracy; but in truth each answered only to its Aviator—the dozen finest of the Ascendants’ troops. And while their pilots were faceless and nameless, grim histories hidden behind their sensory enhancers, the Gryphons were not. Skittish and deadly by turns, it was as though they absorbed into their very fabric—half biological material and half machine—the natures of the men and women who did not control them so much as give them impetus and inspiration for flight.

And so they had been given heroes’ names, and heroines’: Astraea and Zelus and Mjolnir, Argo and Kesef and Tyr, Chao-is and Cavas and Hekatus, Ygg and Nephele and Mrabet-ul-tan. And like heroes between their labors they waited in restless sleep, until Need came to wake them.

As ziz approached the Gryphons stirred, swiveling on their slender metal-jointed legs until their sharp noses faced her. Filaments lifted from their foresections, silvery threads with a pale rosy blush where microscopic transmitting crystals coagulated in a nucleic broth. They wafted through the air above ziz’s head like the nearly invisible tentacles of a seanettle, and for an instant she felt one brush her temple. From the front of the Gryphon nearest her an optic emerged on its long tether, and scanned her silently. She stopped, suddenly afraid.

Once when they were children Nasrani and Shiyung and an Orsina cousin had come here and entered one of the aircraft. ziz had been with them. She was usually the bravest; but something about the Gryphons made her lose heart. At the last minute she refused to join the others as they crept into the cockpit. Instead she stood watching as first Shiyung’s and then Nasrani’s face appeared in the curved glass foresection of the craft, and as they waved at ziz she yelled back, threatening to call their parents; but then Shiyung had fled shrieking from the craft. Nasrani and the feckless cousin had followed her a moment later, pale and shaken. Minutes later when they sat side by side in the gravator Nasrani giggled uncontrollably, exhilarated by the experience; but he never did tell her what had happened inside.

Now ziz stood gazing up at the first Gryphon: a machine that resembled nothing so much as a huge and delicately appointed insect. Its sides were a silvery blue that would disappear when in flight; its solex wings were retracted, folded in upon themselves like a bat’s. She could hear the soft churning of its biogenic power supply, feeding from the narrow tanks behind its legs. As she stared at it the others moved closer to her, clicking loudly. Their legs scraped the concrete, their wings rustled with a papery sound that belied their strength. She smelled the ozone smell from their solex shields, the soupy odor of power supplies. In a minute they would circle her and she would lose her nerve. Abruptly she turned to the nearest one, raised her hand and cried aloud a single word command, a name. The other Gryphons did not stop, but the one she faced obediently bent its legs and lowered a small metal ladder for her to climb.

Once inside she realized she should never have used the ampule. She felt as though her heart would explode inside her; she knew her contact with the Gryphon would be affected by the drug. But she couldn’t waste time now. Outside the ledge shook precariously from another tremor, even as she crouched to sit in the cockpit and the other Gryphons clicked noisily, their legs moving up and down asthey sought to keep their balance.

Inside there was barely enough room for the standard crew of three. She took the pilot’s seat, cradled in warm leather as it folded about her. In front of her the windshield curved above the Gryphon’s pointed nose. A simple array of instruments was set beneath the window—visual altimeter, old-fashioned computer astrolabe, a line of blinking green lights. The color of the lights seemed an evil omen to ziz, but she refused to contemplate that either. Instead she pulled her hair from her face, stared at the ceiling with its shining meshwork like webs of frozen rain, and commanded the Gryphon to join her.

She winced as a web floated down to cover her face. It felt cool and slightly moist, and her cheeks and temples prickled as it settled there. Her nostrils filled with the smell of ozone, so strong that she sneezed. Other webs descended to touch her wrists and throat. If she had been an Aviator wearing proper flight attire they would have affixed themselves to her genitals and thighs as well, so that every gesture, every throb of need or desire, would feed back into the craft’s control system, and the Gryphon would calculate all of this in a nanosecond before responding to any command.

If ziz had been properly interfaced with her craft, it probably would not have responded to her at all; would have dismissed her as not being flight-ready. But ziz had come armed with a few purloined commands, and these the Gryphon did not refuse.

A moment when ziz knew nothing. There was a rushing in her head that grew to a roar, then faded. She had a nearly uncontrollable impulse to flee, but thought of Nasrani—he would not have fled!—and grit her teeth. Then,

OrsinaGoAltitudeDestinationTimeFlightNexusKesefOhFourNineteenHoursKesefWaitingWaitingWaiting

She cringed, pressing herself deeper into her seat’s leather folds. Blood filled her mouth where she had bitten the inside of her cheek. The barrage of words and commands continued, along with a stream of images burning across her mind’s eye: clouds, a slash of ocean, flames, and a face black behind its enhancer. Kesef was the Gryphon’s name; the unknown words cues for flight setup and takeoff. ziz’s mind reeled as the Gryphon began another query loop—

KesefOrsinaLevelTwoWindsFiftythreeKnotsSoutheastSolarActivityRangeOhSevenOhDangerousCraftAlertKesefWaitingWaitingWaiting

An impossibly blue sky filled her mind, fringed with green that reminded her of her dream. Her mouth filled with the muddy taste of nucleic fluid, her eyes burned from trying to focus on the incomprehensibly alien presence she was linked with. Without realizing it her hands clawed at her face, and she felt part of the web tear beneath her fingers, fragile as silk, and felt the Gryphon’s voice grow dimmer. She would go mad if she stayed like this—

She groped at her side until she found a pocket, slid her fingers inside, and drew out a morpha tab. An instant later and she had slapped it clumsily onto her wrist, ripping a piece of the web. The image of green mountains grew faint, then a moment later flared back again. Another moment and she felt the morpha’s first warm calm waves lapping at her spine; a minute later and she could breathe easily once more.

“Kesef.”

She pronounced the name thickly, was rewarded with a spurt of pleasure that nearly overwhelmed the morpha. She knew it wasn’t necessary to speak commands aloud, but when she tried to think them the Gryphon’s presence overwhelmed her.

“Kesef—I need—meet you—hour’s time by Lahatiel Gate—east face—tell no one—”

The shining vision of mountains vanished. After a moment she saw the Lahatiel Gate, the eastern face where a small balcony jutted above the beach, barely large enough for a Gryphon to land. She focused on the image, concentrating until she felt Kesef’s response—

OrsinaKesefOhFiveSeventeenLockgridFiveLevelTwoSecurePathZeroClearedKesefNextCommand

“That’s all!—”

ziz gasped, tried to clear her mind of the Lahatiel Gate, flashed for a second upon the Compassionate Redeemer pacing in its cage, bit her lip, thought of nothing but blackness, whispered aloud, “Finished— finished—done—”

Her mind went blank. A jolt as she felt the seat gently pushing at her; she had been unconscious. She blinked her eyes open to see the web wafting up from her face, the others floating toward the ceiling like a fine gray mist. Her cheeks felt warm and stung as though she had been slapped. Outside grayish sunlight slanted in long bars across the ground. As she clambered from the Gryphon, struggling with the ladder as her legs wobbled on its narrow steps, the other crafts once more sent their filaments through the warm air to dart abouther face. She swiped at them feebly, her head still thick from morpha, and staggered to the gravator that would bring her to the Lahatiel Gate. She did not look back to see the Gryphon Kesef unfurl its great shining wings, raising them in arcs of ebon-gold and green to feel the morning sun.

But ziz was very careful. In the center of the balcony the Gryphon Kesef waited, its wings tucked tightly against its sides, its nose drawn in as it crouched against the floor. Rain gusted in sheets across the open space, dashing against the Gryphon’s legs. As the margravine crept onto the balcony her boots crunched against something solid; glancing down, she saw the surface pied with hailstones like rice pearls. She cursed, sliding on the ice; caught herself and inched forward again. In a few minutes she had reached the Gryphon.

The howling wind had risen to a shriek. She could not hear herself as she shouted the command, could not hear if the aircraft responded. But a moment later the Gryphon rose unsteadily on its jointed legs, the slender metal stairs descended, and she was climbing them, clinging to the narrow struts as the wind battered her. Then she was inside.

Gasping, she flung herself into the seat. The leather molded itself around her and she felt a prickling warmth as auxiliary enhancers sent a soft surge of endorphins and nutriments into her veins. She blinked, stared up to where the webs began to descend in a gray haze; shut her eyes as they touched her face and she could feel the strange patterns tracing themselves onto her cheeks, temples, the inside of her wrists.

OrsinaKesefNineTwelveCycloneSystemGradeOneRescueAdvisoryOverriddenUnitRecalledLockgridFiveLevelTwoWaitingWaitingWaiting…

ziz cried out. Across her mind’s eye crimson lines formed an intricate crosshatch, a grid bisected with green and glowing blue spheres. She could hear the fluting voice of the thing called Kesef, the Gryphon that waited for her command; she could feel the ground shuddering beneath it. She clenched her mouth shut and tried to focus, concentrating until she brought up an image, the figure of an Aviator silhouetted against the domes of Araboth. Then she willed away the domes, tried to imagine what one of the frontier outposts might look like, ended up with the Aviator’s silhouette and a hazy blue background. Go there, she thought, then said the words aloud in a croak.

“Where they are—the Aviators—find them—” There was a crackle of static electricity, a blinding light outside and then a crash. She could feel the Gryphon fighting her, trying to override her command as it sent warning messages blaring through her mind—

CycloneTsunamiHurricaneGaleSamielDangerDangerDanger

—but she repeated her command, again and again, each time the image growing clearer in her mind, until finally with a shudder she felt the aircraft move around her. Then it was as though the flesh had been sheared from her face: all around her she felt the raw wind, the rain like razors slicing against her skin; but of course that was the Gryphon and not her, and it was the Gryphon’s voice keening like a brazen bell as it soared from the balcony, up and up into the whirling storm until she could feel nothing, not even the shafts of light spearing along its wings as the gale tossed it and the Gryphon fought to make its way inland, while the woman who had commanded it lay unconscious in its grasp, beset by evil dreams. She did not realize until later, when she woke, that she had unconsciously given the solitary figure of her voiceless command the stooped bearing and ruthless pale eyes of Margalis Tast’annin, the Aviator Imperator.

He had always thought it would be exciting to fly in one of the Aviator’s biotic craft; but then he had thought it would be exciting to see clouds, too, and mountains. Now Hobi knew that one grew accustomed to things Outside very quickly.

He felt queasy at first, as the Gryphon accelerated impossibly fast and burst into the air like a flame. There was only one biotic hookup, for Tast’annin. Hobi and Nefertity sat in two narrow seats behind him, and peered out a series of round windows at the tor receding beneath them in a rush of gray and brown. Then the Gryphon banked and shot out over the ocean, seeming to bounce across cusps of air like a rickshaw over uneven transway. Hobi bit his thumb and hummed nervously. After a minute or two he felt easier, and leaned closer to the windows.

Below them the ocean purled almost gently against sheer rock, all that could be seen of the precipice that had once sheltered Araboth. Of the domeshe could see nothing; only a few bits of flotsam floating in the dark water. As they skimmed above the coast the rock gave way to sandy beach, nearly as smooth as the water itself. There was nothing here either, save for uprooted trees, a torn length of white cloth wrapped around a spar, two sodden bags that almost looked like bodies…

“Hey!”

Hobi yelled so loudly he was surprised the Gryphon didn’t halt, the way a rickshaw would. The Aviator scarcely stirred where he reclined in front of them, only raised a single finger warningly.

“Hey,” Hobi repeated, a little desperately now, “I think those are people there—”

Beside him Nefertity leaned to gaze out her window, then without a word placed her hand upon the Aviator’s shoulder. Abruptly he sat up, glanced down at the beach, then back at Hobi. Still saying nothing he settled back into his seat; but the Gryphon immediately began to descend.

Hobi held his breath, waiting for the jolt when it landed; but he felt nothing, was stunned when the floor slid sideways beneath his feet and the airy steps unfolded. “Wait here,” the Aviator commanded, and climbed out.

Hobi crossed and uncrossed his legs. A gust of warm air shot up from the opening in the craft. If he slanted his head just right he could see one of the Aviator’s booted feet and what might have been the ragged hem of a linen garment. Then abruptly the Aviator’s grim form filled the opening. Hobi crouched back as the rasa climbed inside, carrying something in his arms. The nemosyne slid from her seat onto the floor, folding her long legs under her.

“Move,” the Aviator said sharply, shaking his head at Hobi. The boy hunched into a corner beside Nefertity. The rasa lay a slight figure on the seat where Hobi had been, then silently turned and went back outside. He returned after another minute, this time with an even smaller form that he set in Nefertity’s seat. Without another word he slipped back into his place. The steps slid up and disappeared. With a heart-stopping rush they were airborne again.

When Hobi was sure the Aviator was linked with the Gryphon he leaned forward. In his seat lay a slender figure. At first he thought it was a boy, a boy with shaven head; then with a grimace he drew back.

Through the small windows on the other side of the Gryphon he could glimpse green, shivering blades of green and blue as they soared above the coast and the setting sun speared the sides of the craft. Then, looking back through the window where Reive pointed he could see the ocean, so tranquil now that it all seemed a dream—Ucalegon, Araboth, the evil margravines, his father and mother and Nasrani, everything but that endless sweep of turquoise a dark and fitful dream from which he had just awakened. He might almost fall asleep again, now, with his head resting against the cool glass, only someone was jostling his elbow and crying in a shrill voice, “Look! Look!—”

—and pointing to where something moved through the gentle swells, something that even from here he could see was ponderously huge and dark. Only there wasn’t just one; there were four of them, and they seemed to be playing, great clumsy things somehow taking to the air of this new green world just as he was, twisting in impossible arabesques as they swam in and out and between each other—

“—he was right,” Reive was babbling as the Gryphon banked to the west and she craned her neck to see the last of them, four vast creatures leaping and crashing back into the sea with a bellow they could hear even from this distance; “he said they were waiting for him, he said his sisters would come and they did, oh, they did!”

And wondering, Hobi pressed his face close to hers against the glass, watching the great whales until they were gone, swallowed like the rest by the sea.

GRYPHON NAMES FROM AESTIVAL TIDE BY LIZ HAND-

And so they had been given heroes’ names, and heroines’: Astraea and Zelus and Mjolnir, Argo and Kesef and Tyr, Chao-is and Cavas and Hekatus, Ygg and Nephele and Mrabet-ul-tan. And like heroes between their labors they waited in restless sleep, until Need came to wake them.