wasn’t there. Now. No…
now
he had to give in. Not yet… surely now. Now, now, now, any second; surrender to this awful black vacuum inside
him… he had
to breathe…
now!
Before he had time to open his mouth he was smashed against the wall—punched against the stones as though some immense iron
fist
had slammed into him. He blew out the stale air from his lungs in one convulsive breath. His body was suddenly cold,
and every part of it next to
the wall throbbed with pain. Death, it seemed, was weight, pain, cold… and too much light…
He brought his head up. He moaned at the light. He tried to see, tried to hear. What was happening. Why was he breathing.
Why was he
so damn
heavy
again. His body was tearing his arms from their sockets; his wrists were cut almost to the bone. Who had
done
this to him.
Where the wall had been facing him there was a very large and ragged hole which extended beneath the level of the cell floor.
All the ordure
and garbage had burst out of that. The last few trickles hissed against the hot sides of the breach, producing
steam which curled around the
figure standing blocking most of the brilliant light from outside, in the open air of Sorpen.
The figure was three meters tall and looked vaguely
like a small armored spaceship sitting on a tripod of thick legs. Its
helmet looked big enough to contain three human heads, side by side. Held
almost casually in one gigantic hand was a plasma
cannon which Horza would have needed both arms just to lift; the creature’s other fist
gripped a slightly larger gun. Behind
it, nosing in toward the hole, came an Idiran gun-platform, lit vividly by the light of explosions which Horza
could now feel
through the iron and stones he was attached to. He raised his head to the giant standing in the breach and tried to smile.
“Well," he croaked, then spluttered and spat, “you lot certainly took your time."