Little Pink Starfish

Even a mushroom knows that these three words aren’t good words.

But An Zhe couldn’t refute them.

He passed through the gate; the guard at the post witnessed this scene, wearing an expression of indignation but not daring to speak.

An Zhe understood them.
Although the rank of “Judicator” wasn’t the highest in the military, its authority in killing was the greatest—no one wanted to offend Lu Feng.
—He didn’t either.

So he said, “Thank you, Colonel.”
“No need,” Lu Feng said, “Take the afternoon off.”
An Zhe: “…Huh?”
Lu Feng lazily lifted his eyelids and said calmly, “Come with me to the Lighthouse.”
An Zhe: “For what?”
Lu Feng: “Dr. Ji wants to see you.”

An Zhe was a little suspicious of the truth in that statement. Why would Dr. Ji want to see him?
For a moment, he suspected this was just an excuse for Lu Feng to arrest him and bring him into the Lighthouse. But he felt his performance that morning had been flawless, even Ceylan had spoken up for him.
An Zhe: “.”
He suddenly realized—in Ceylan’s eyes, he might not be very smart.

But even if he wasn’t a smart human, he was at least a rational mushroom. Going to the Lighthouse was actually something he had been hoping for.
He said, “Okay.”

Lu Feng gave a soft “mm” and turned to leave.

*

While the children were being trained by the military instructor, An Zhe sat on a bench to the side, accompanying them. When the instructor needed help—like timing or fetching things—he would be called.
With nothing else to do, and the office lacking any reading material he found interesting, he picked up a manual on weapon operation.

Colin didn’t sit with him, instead choosing another bench to chat with a new friend—a language and literature teacher from the neighboring class, a boy around twenty years old.

At that moment, the open book in An Zhe’s hands detailed a large aircraft model named “PL1109.” It was a masterpiece of human technology during the magnetic field chaos era, equipped with top-level radiation shielding, engines, and an unmatched autonomous navigation system that could locate coordinates even in magnetic field voids.
—It sounded impressive, but An Zhe had no interest. Sleep-deprived, he began to nod off.

To his right, Colin and the language teacher had finished exchanging names and were chatting. Their conversation drifted into An Zhe’s ears with the wind.

“Do you like the main city?” Colin asked.

An Zhe immediately sensed it—Colin was about to start preaching.

“Why wouldn’t I like it?” the boy said. “The main city gave us a stable life.”
He seemed like a talkative person—he continued without pause: “We’ve been in the main city for a month now, right? How do you feel about it?”
“I wouldn’t say I like it,” Colin said.
“Why not?” the boy said. “Not having to work as a mercenary and risk death—that’s something I never even dreamed of. I thank my mother every day for forcing me to complete three courses. She mainly wanted me to study language and economics, so I could get a job at a supply station and avoid outdoor life.”

Colin paused, then asked: “What about your mother?”
“She died outside,” he said. “They adopted me for only a few years. My father disappeared first, and then she was gone too.”
“Sorry,” Colin said.

“It’s fine,” the boy shrugged. “I’m used to it. What about you?”
“My mother was killed by a Judicator. My father… stayed in Zone 6 when we came to the main city.”
“Sorry,” the boy said again.

But the exchange of their pasts seemed to bring them closer quickly. After a short silence, the boy looked at the kids training in the field, crossed his arms behind his head, and sighed: “After spending so long in the outer city, we forget we all used to be from the main city.”

“I remember pretty clearly,” Colin said. “When I was five or six, I wanted to be a biologist. My grades were good, but I still couldn’t stay in the main city.”
“I wanted to be an officer,” the boy said. “But during the final assessment, I fell and the military rejected me.”

Colin: “Fate is fickle.”
“Try to stay positive. We weren’t qualified enough, and even if we stayed, we would’ve been miserable.” The boy sighed again. “Staying in the main city doesn’t guarantee happiness. I heard someone who wanted to archive human data ended up stuck calculating trajectories at the Lighthouse for life because of a math talent. Imagine if you wanted to be a biologist but the base decided you were more suited for linguistics, and you had to translate documents forever—how painful. I’d drop dead.”

“That’s why I don’t like the base,” Colin said. “It’s like a cold, heartless machine.”
“Your genes are your model number, determining what department you work in. It’s kind of fun.”
The boy said, “We language folks are better at metaphors.”

“But humans aren’t parts. The base claims to serve human interest above all, yet it keeps losing the essence of humanity.”
“Otherwise, how else could freeloaders justify themselves? They need to be useful,” the boy stood up, looking at the children.
“I’m happy,” he said. “I love this job. Who knows—maybe one day, I’ll teach a genius.”

He turned serious: “I better prep my lessons well.”

An Zhe rested his chin in his hand, watching him with curiosity, then glanced at Colin.

Colin didn’t speak again. An Zhe thought, this time he hadn’t succeeded in recruiting a comrade.
In the outer city, Colin held signs like “Oppose the Judicators.” In the main city—what would he hold? An Zhe guessed maybe “Oppose Humanity’s Dominance” or “We Want Freedom.”

His thoughts grew muddled and sleepy. He tried to focus on the military illustrations, flipping past the aircraft section, and skimmed the weapons section. Various types of bombs and uranium shells—any of them could blast a mushroom to bits. But he wasn’t afraid. Humans, unlike the abyss, were predictable. As long as he followed the rules, he could survive.

—And so passed his morning. By noon, the children finished training. Some had bumps and bruises. Others thought the training was too hard and wouldn’t go eat. They surrounded him on the bench, whining.

While gently applying a bandage to one child, An Zhe comforted a short-haired girl who said the training was too hard: “Hang in there. Once you pass training, you can become an officer.”

The girl said: “Can’t I just drop out?”
An Zhe: “You can’t.”

He thought—even if they couldn’t stay in the main city, they should train well. Otherwise, when they grow up—if the outer city ever recovers—kids who aren’t fit, won’t get adopted, no mercenary team will want them, they won’t get civil jobs in the municipal or supply stations. They’ll be sent to the third underground level—boy or girl.

He had spent a month there—he knew life there was terrible.

So he said: “You all must train well.”

The girl clung to his arm: “But officers have to train every day.”

An Zhe patted her head and thought: “But you get to wear a good-looking uniform.”

A boy looked at the soldiers in the training ground and said: “It’s ugly.”

“Their rank isn’t high enough,” An Zhe said seriously. “When you get promoted to… colonel level—it’ll look great.”

“Really?” one child asked.
“Is it as good-looking as that guy?” another child asked.

An Zhe: “Which one?”

The child pointed behind him.

An Zhe turned around.

—Two or three meters behind him, leaning on a pole, stood a colonel in a black uniform. So close—and the children weren’t afraid.

Perhaps it was because the colonel was looking at An Zhe with slightly raised eyebrows and a hint of amusement.

An Zhe: “.”

Everything he’d just said had probably been heard.