Eogan had been doing pull-ups on the uppermost bar of his cell when the walls began to move. His initial, panicked thought was that he was about to be matched, that death had come for him even sooner than he’d feared.
Please, no. I’m not ready. Not yet. Not ever.
When the reconfiguration stopped and nothing happened, Eogan felt a wild surge of relief, followed immediately by a sense of shame so overpowering that it drove him to the floor of the cell, where he lay motionless, hating himself for his cowardice. What would his father have thought of him, head down, praying to whatever gods might be listening that he would not have to fight, not now, not ever?
“Eogan?”
He jerked his head up at the sound of the haggard voice and looked around to see Jagannath standing there. The Zabrak was holding something in his arms like a bundle of laundry. It took a moment for Eogan to realize that the bundle was a man and that the man was, in fact, his father.
“Father?” His gaze flew up to the Zabrak, hot and accusatory. “What did you do to him?”
“I did nothing, boy,” Jagannath said. “I found him like this.”
“Eogan.” Artagan Truax gazed at his son through dazed and bleary eyes. His skin had gone the color of old flimsiplast, the flesh so pale so that the blue tracery of his veins was clearly visible in his cheeks and on the bridge of his nose. Eogan regarded the swollen stump where the old man’s leg had been, sensed the fever radiating out of his father’s face and the foul smell of infected tissue, and knew what it all meant before the Zabrak could say the words.
“He’s dying.”
Jagannath nodded. “He contracted blood poisoning from the wound.” Lowering Artagan Truax to the bunk, he said, “He won’t talk to me. You need to question him. About Iram Radique and the Bando Gora.”
Eogan shook his head. “I don’t know what that—”
“Listen to me, boy. There’s no time for excuses. I saw Iram Radique. I need to know anything else your father can tell us about Radique’s relationship with the Bando Gora. They are the ones who are going to take possession of Radique’s most destructive weapon, a proscribed nuclear device. This is my mission.”
“But I’ve never heard of the Bando—”
“It’s a death cult. Your father told me that he used to fight alongside them, that they tried to kill Iram Radique and he saved Radique’s life.”
“My father would never join a cult,” Eogan said. “He doesn’t know what he’s—”
“Gora!” the old man shrieked, his face twisting into a mask of terror. His hands flew up to hook and claw the air. “All hail the skull beneath the hood! Flay the skin and drink the blood!”
Eogan took a startled step back. “I’ve never heard him talk like this before.”
“I need to know what he knows,” Jagannath said. “I have urgent business to transact between them and Iram Radique. If he can tell you anything about how to contact them—”
“No!” All at once the old man lunged upright, seizing his son by the shoulder and pulling him close. Sudden clarity had descended over his face, and his pupils sharpened, fixating on Eogan. “Iram Radique will never do business with the Gora. Never.”
“Ask him how to reach the Gora,” the Zabrak said to Eogan. “Ask him how we can contact them. Get him to talk.”
“I—I’ll do what I can,” Eogan said. “But there’s another match coming. What if I have to fight?”
The Zabrak glared at him. “You’ll die.”
Eogan opened his mouth and closed it again. There seemed to be no reasonable response to the words, and he didn’t attempt one.
“Everything here,” the Zabrak said, “everything you see around you, is a test. Make no mistake. If you lack the strength or ability to survive, the Hive will break you.” He stepped closer to Eogan. “At his core, your father was strong enough to survive and protect you, but you don’t have his heart. Even the way he is now, in this wasted state, you’ll never be half the man that he is.” He jerked his head at the old man groaning and muttering to himself on the bunk. “Now make yourself useful and get him to talk.”
Eogan said nothing. His jaw trembled. “Father, it’s me. It’s Eogan.” Glancing back up at the Zabrak, he said gently, “We need to know about Iram Radique.”
The old man’s eyes fluttered and closed. All strength fled from him and his mouth fell open, his face going slack. For a terrible instant Eogan thought he’d died. Then he saw the chest rise and fall, a shallow and halting breath, but a breath just the same, followed by a few brief, barely coherent words.
“What was that?” Jagannath stared at Eogan. “What did he say?”
“He said ‘Zero.’ ”
“Zero? What about him?”
Eogan frowned up at the Zabrak.
“He said …” The boy glanced down at his father, then back up at Jagannath, blinking in confusion. “He answers to another name.”