The muzzle of the Ancient Suture Lance pressed firmly against the shaking silver-steel housing of the chimera’s void pump. Arthur Vance stood with his boots braced wide amidst the pooling black blood of the fallen titan, his breathing steady, his hands unmoving.
Surrounded by fifteen sea-weights of Titus’s nearby gravity ward and shielded by Grimm’s relentless jaw grip, Arthur was the total master of the running field.
Through the test monocle over his right eye, Arthur watched the countdown timer on the void pump’s overload cycle tick down to zero-point-four seconds.
He didn’t hesitate.
Arthur pulled the trigger.
THWUMP.
The air-powered firing gearwork discharged with a dull, heavy report that echoed through the hollow chamber of the lance.
The six-inch heavy dark metal needle punched through the fractured silver-steel casing, burying itself dead center in the main fluid pool of the void pump. Instantly, four hundred drops of refined sub-zero ice-slow marrow surged into the white-hot organ under three crushing deep-sea pressure of crushing pressure.
