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."