"Durm, wake up! It's time for patrol!"
In the haze of sleep, Durm's body jolted violently, as though caught in a sudden earthquake.
When he opened his eyes in alarm, he found only a three-year-old boy shaking him.
"Oh, it's you, Nagul."
Durm grimaced, his eyes still heavy with drowsiness. "Can't you let me sleep a little longer?"
"Today's your patrol shift!" The boy kept shaking him relentlessly.
"I know, I know, but it's still early for the shift change!"
Even so, Durm sighed in resignation and rubbed his tired eyes.
"I'm going now."
Nagul yelled out, "I'm coming too!"
Durm frowned, his tone firm. "No. Did the Teacher approve?"
Nagul pleaded urgently: "Father said yes!"
Durm said, "I'll go ask the Teacher."
He paused, softening his voice. "It's not that I don't trust you, but Babel has rules. Without the Teacher's permission, I have no authority to make decisions on my own. You wouldn't want me to get expelled for breaking the rules, would you?"
Nagul nodded, "Then let's go!"
Durm did not see any sign of guilt in Nagul's demeanor, but rules were rules. Without rules, there would be no order.
In this school, which Caelan had named Babel, the Teacher was the one who made the rules.
Durm left the dormitory area and slowed his pace as he crossed the central hall.
Following Corridor 6, Durm stopped outside the office beside the library.
Knock knock!
Durm rapped gently on the office's stone door, producing two muffled thuds.
Everything in Babel was made from local materials. Wood had all but vanished on Cthonia, but stone was plentiful.
"Enter."
"Teacher."
The moment Durm pushed open the door, Nagul squeezed past him, his small face brimming with excitement: "Father! Tell Durm, you said I could go on patrol, right?"
Caelan looked up, his gaze falling on the boy, a hint of fond exasperation in his eyes. "Yes, I agreed. Take him along, Durm. It's time the child got some experience."
Caelan turned to Durm. "No special treatment. Treat him just like anyone else, same as you would on any normal patrol."
Durm nodded. "Understood, Teacher."
Caelan looked at the boy. "Nagul, you must listen to Durm in everything. Understood?"
"I know, Father."
"Durm, when do we go on patrol?" Nagul grabbed Durm impatiently the moment they left the office.
Durm said, "First, we need to eat. Patrolling on an empty stomach is irresponsible for everyone's safety!"
Nagul hung his head, unable to argue.
They passed through Corridor 3. The cafeteria's promethium lamps were already lit.
A dozen small girls were moving back and forth between the warehouse and the cafeteria, stacking crates of corpse-starch bars into little mountains.
"Nila, Basini, watch the steps!"
The older girl whispered a reminder, her damp bangs clinging to her flushed cheeks.
Behind her, a three-year-old girl and another girl struggled with a half-crate of corpse-starch bars, stopping and starting all the way.
The heavy bars were a considerable burden for their slender arms, but they carried on happily.
Everyone here had their own tasks.
More work meant more pay; less work meant less pay; no work meant no pay. No one got something for nothing.
This was the first rule the children learned upon entering Babel. Schooling was free, but only work earned reward.
Several other girls were tending bubbling stone pots, in which fragrant meat soup simmered.
Fresh rats caught the day before had been deboned and diced, boiling with grey mushrooms harvested from the underground river.
In the eyes of nobles, this steaming pot of soup might be disgusting, but to them, it was a rare delicacy.
The little girls leaned close to the pot, inhaling deeply, squinting against the steam yet feeling utterly content.
Durm greeted, "Good morning, Sonya."
Sonya stood on tiptoe at the counter. "Good morning, Brother Durm. Are you going on patrol?"
She tilted her head, her eyes bright, completely different from when she had first arrived three years ago.
Durm nodded, pulling a crumpled ration ticket from his pocket. "Give me two corpse-starch bars, please."
Sonya pointed toward the kitchen. "Could you wait a little? The meat soup is almost ready, and we added fresh mushrooms today! But it needs to cook longer; raw ones are poisonous."
Durm glanced at the kitchen, where the acrid smell of burning promethium wafted out.
Yet amid that pungent odor, the faint aroma of meat still lifted his spirits.
His Adam's apple bobbed, but he shook his head. "No, we need to leave soon."
He glanced at Nagul, whose eyes sparkled with anticipation.
Sonya asked in surprise, "Little Nagul is coming on patrol too?"
Durm scoffed. "He must have pestered the Teacher until he gave in just to get some peace."
Nagul's face flushed bright red, veins bulging on his forehead as he clenched his fists and argued loudly: "That's not true! Father recognized my ability!"
Then came a stream of hard-to-understand words, something about "Primarchs may be small," and "brothers", which made everyone laugh. The cafeteria filled with cheerful, easygoing laughter.
But it was no wonder Nagul was so eager for recognition, because he had no name.
"Nagul" was not a real name. It came from the dead language of Cthonia's first miners, a meaningless placeholder.
It meant, essentially, "Nameless."
Everyone else had a name. Only he was Nameless.
In the underworld, all children had to earn their killing name by taking a life upon reaching adulthood.
In Babel, this ancient and savage tradition had been completely abolished.
The Teacher taught them: killing was for protecting comrades, for liberating the oppressed, not for twisted honors like earning a killing name.
Yet Nagul was the sole exception.
The Teacher had named him Nameless.
In the underworld, such a name was an insult, used for children without parents.
But no one believed the Teacher meant any disrespect toward Nagul. It symbolized a test and expectation.
He wanted Nagul to earn his own name.
He had to understand who he was.
The Teacher did not tell him how to earn his name, he had to discover it himself.
But the Teacher had already told Nagul his true name: Horus Lupercal.
Yet Nagul had to find out for himself how to transform from Nagul into Horus Lupercal, otherwise, he would forever remain Nagul.
Nagul understood his father's expectations, so he never complained. He simply wanted to improve too badly.
He had to earn the name Horus Lupercal, or prove himself worthy of it.
So, even at only three years old,
He insisted on joining the patrol. He saw it as a trial.
It was a test he had set for himself.
Durm's squad gradually assembled in the cafeteria. Including him, there were five others.
Holmes and Braj came from underground, Holmes's parents were gang members; Braj's were meat-men.
Nate was from the outskirts; Kalon and Montoya were underhivers.
But in Babel, whether they were gangsters, junkers, or outcasts, they were all the Teacher's students.
The Teacher treated everyone equally.
And they should, no, they must, do the same.
Durm stopped at Corridor 5, raising his promethium lamp to illuminate the map painted on the wall. "Listen up, today's route is Sector C1-B5. The tunnels there are as tangled as a maze."
"If anyone gets lost, even I might not find the way back. So no matter what you see, do not wander off, do not run, do not act on your own, and no lone-hero heroics. Understood?"
"Understood!" Nagul's voice was loud.
Durm winced, looking at the boy with mild exasperation. "Don't shout. You'll deafen us."
Nagul lowered his head sheepishly. "Sorry."
Durm smiled gently. "It's okay, just remember next time."
Nate said, "Durm, you're mimicking the Teacher again!"
Durm ignored him, not even lifting an eyelid, letting out a soft hum through his nose.
He had always set the Teacher as his goal, what was wrong with learning from him?
Patrol was no mere formality. They had to leave Babel and sweep through the cold, dark underground labyrinth, checking for intruders and guarding Babel's safety.
The work was dangerous and tedious, yet also the most arduous and challenging. Only the strongest and bravest children over twelve were eligible for the patrol teams.
In the eyes of Babel's other children, they were admired and envied heroes.
Every patrol member was issued a lasgun. Their warehouse was stacked to the brim with ammunition, more than enough for everyone.
Aside from cultural lessons, Babel's children also received military training.
All children could learn to assemble and disassemble a lasgun within six months and hit every target in shooting drills.
Lasguns had almost no recoil, and the targets were stationary, point and shoot.
If one missed, they must be blind.
But lasguns were still too large for small children. Though they weighed only 2 kilograms, they were cumbersome for young arms. Only the taller kids could handle them fully.
Nagul was too tiny, the lasgun was taller than he was. He could not use one.
Forcing a lasgun on him would only risk him harming others.
So he was the only member of the squad without a weapon.
But he would still be safe on patrol, patrols generally did not venture too deep.
And everyone else had guns, a true rarity underground.
The under-dwellers only had crude homemade firearms; no one had ever seen such finely crafted lasguns.
They feared no one!
"Who's there?"
Durm raised his lasgun abruptly, aiming into the darkness of the tunnel, his finger on the trigger.
"Captain, don't shoot! It's me!" A stooped figure emerged slowly from the darkness, raising his hands in panic.
"Stop! Who are you? I don't know you!" Durm frowned, shining the underslung flashlight of his lasgun at the man's face. The blinding beam made him squint; beneath the harsh light was an unfamiliar face.
Durm was certain, he did not know this man.
"I'm Singh! Don't you remember me? I'm from another squad…" The man explained urgently, stepping forward again.
Durm shouted, "I said stop! Put your hands where I can see them!"
"I'm one of you!" The man ignored him and took another step.
A crimson beam shot through the darkness, striking the man's right shoulder precisely, vaporizing bone, muscle, and nerve on contact.
His half-severed arm fell to the ground. High heat had cauterized the wound, sealing the blood vessels, no blood sprayed, only charred flesh.
The man stumbled forward and collapsed with a thud.
The lasgun beam had not only vaporized his arm but also grazed his chest. Even that incidental damage stopped his heart completely.
Durm watched the man's pupils begin to dilate, a flicker of regret passing through him.
He had aimed too low, should have aimed higher to take a prisoner.
But too high, and he might not have stopped the man.
As for mercy, Durm was not that foolish.
The underworld was a world of cannibalism, Babel the sole exception. They could not afford to trust others naively.
All patrol members knew each other. Even if a stranger joined, word would have been passed beforehand. There were no surprises.
Even if an unannounced newcomer did appear, they would know to stay put and not repeatedly ignore warnings.
In the underworld, hesitation meant death.
By the time Durm fired, the other five team members had already trained their muzzles in other directions.
They were at a five-way intersection; danger could lurk in the dark depths of every tunnel.
The man had not been alone, otherwise, how dare he ambush a patrol squad?
A normal person encountering a fully armed patrol would run.
Yet this man had advanced rather than retreat. His accomplices had to be nearby!
That was basic tactical sense.
And this area was Babel's territory. In the underworld's gang code, trespassing into another gang's turf meant declaring war.
If you died, you deserved it.
"Get them! Kill them all!"
A sudden roar erupted from the darkness, and dozens of thugs surged from every tunnel.
Brandishing rusty cold weapons, they lunged at the patrol with savage expressions.
But the patrol was already ready.
They were nothing but target practice.
Lasgun muzzles flared with blinding light, torrents of crimson beams pouring down like rain.
The tunnels were straight and narrow, the thugs had nowhere to hide.
Each power pack held 150 shots, and with three backup packs per member, the patrol could fire relentlessly without fear of running dry.
The front line of thugs was instantly vaporized by the concentrated crimson fire, leaving only chaos in their wake.