我的征尘是星辰大海。。。
The dirt and dust from my pilgrimage forms oceans of stars...
-------当记忆的篇章变得零碎，当追忆的图片变得模糊，我们只能求助于数字存储的永恒的回忆
作者:黄教授
手机视频列表
基因囚笼觉醒的前夜2
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原始脚本
第二章，生育执照与配额时代。 马克把最后一块合成肉塞进嘴里时，莉娜正对着光屏上的生育执照发呆。 执照编号是2142杠734，烫金的字体在昏暗的胶囊公寓里泛着冷光，像一张判决书。 发什么愣？马克抹了把嘴，合成肉的油脂在指尖凝成粘腻的薄膜。 他以前在汽车厂拧螺丝时，手上的油污至少带着金属的温度。 现在做虚拟仓储分拣员，每天对着屏幕滑动手指，连汗都出的敷衍。 丽娜没抬头，光屏上的文字她已经读了第37遍。 根据全球人口与资源匹配法案，你与配偶马克张获批生育配额。 胚胎培育需遵循农业工程师定向基因优化方案。 相关技能基因片段，耐贫瘠土壤、植物病害识别、大型农机操作适配性将强制植入。 非必要天赋基因，如艺术感知、空间想象力，将进行静默处理。 非必要天赋，这五个字像针扎在丽娜的太阳穴上。 她想起自己15岁那年，音乐老师说她的嗓音是被天使吻过的。 后来呢，音乐学院的录取通知书被父亲扔进垃圾桶，学那玩意能当饭吃？再后来 AI 作曲软件普及，连酒吧驻唱都换成了全息投影的虚拟歌手。 他的天赋早就成了抽屉里蒙 陈的旧磁带。 要不跟规划局说说？丽娜的声音发飘，就说我们想留个音乐感知的片段，不占多少基因位的。 说不定说不定他们把执照收回去。 马克打断她。 起身去够柜子顶上的酒瓶，廉价的合成酒精喝多了头疼，但总比清醒着看这四壁逼仄的胶囊公寓强。 三个月前他们在全民生育摇号里中了签，整个社区只有三户人家摇中。 那天丽娜抱着马克哭了半夜，说终于能有个孩子，能让他活得比我们像样点。 像样点，这话现在听着像笑话。 他们住的蜂巢社区，每间公寓只有6平米，床能折叠成沙发，桌子展开就是灶台。 窗外永远是灰蒙蒙的天，悬浮车的尾气在空气中凝成淡紫色的雾。 全息广告牌上循环播放着农业新星球开发计划，机器人在火星土壤里插苗，镜头扫过一行大字，未来属于能喂饱人类的人。 你以为就我们想留？马克灌了口酒，喉结 滚动的声音在安静的公寓里格外清晰。 楼下王婶家儿子摇中了矿工配额，想加个夜视基因，规划局说矿工不需要额外耗能的视觉优化，直接驳回了。 他掏出手机，点开一个加密论坛，里面全是像他们这样的父母。 有人求偷偷保留绘画基因的渠道，有人晒孩子被强制植入深海抗压基因后的超声波图，评论区一片至少能活着的自嘲。 莉娜的指尖划过光屏上农业工程师几个字，突然想起马克的爷爷。 老家相册里，那个扛着锄头的老人，手掌粗糙的能卡住麦粒，却会在田埂上哼自编的小调，夕阳把他的影子拉得老长。 那时候的农民种的是地，也是日子，谁会给过日子编个基因代码？我只是不想他跟我们一样。 李娜的声音 带了哭腔。 你还记得吗？我们第一次约会，在废弃的音乐厅，你说以后有了孩子，要教他弹钢琴。 马克的动作顿了顿，他当然记得。 那座音乐厅的穹顶裂了道缝，月光漏下来，照在积灰的琴键上。 莉娜哼了段月光奏鸣曲，跑调跑的厉害，却比任何 AI 合成的音乐都好听。 可现在，钢琴，虚拟钢琴游戏里，AI 的弹奏准确率是99.9%，人类的情感误差成了缺陷。 规划局的人说了，马克放下酒瓶，声音沉得像灌了铅。 农业工程师是安全配额，就业率100%，退休后能分到火星殖民地的优先居住权。 你想让他干什么？学音乐？跟你一样，现在只能在怀旧直播间唱老歌，打赏购买半份合成肉吗？丽娜没说话，她的直播间确实冷清，每天只有几个老头老太太进来，听她唱那些 AI 不屑于模仿的，跑调的老歌。 昨天有个老头打赏了一块虚拟蛋糕，付言，像我孙女小时候唱的。 他现在是星际物流调度员，忙的三年没回过家。 光屏突然亮了一下，弹出规划局的通知，请于24小时内确认基因方案，逾期视为放弃配额。 下面附着一行小字，当前全球农业人才缺口147万，艺术行业过剩人口3200万。 过剩，丽娜苦笑，原来连活着都分必要和过剩。 马克走过来，从背后轻轻抱住她。 她的肩膀比以前窄了，后背的骨头硌得她生疼，那是长期窝在胶囊公寓里的形状。 就按他们说的吧，他说，声音里有他熟悉的妥协。 至少他不用像我们这样，摇一辈子号，抢一份非必要的工作。 莉娜闭上眼，光屏的光透过眼皮变成一片模糊的红。 她仿佛看见一个孩子在火星的红土上种着改良过的麦子，手指粗糙，眼神专注，却永远不会知道他的基因里曾经藏着一段被静默的旋律，像被埋在土壤深处的种子，永远不会发芽。 公寓外的全息广告换了画面。 虚拟歌手穿着银色的裙子。 唱着 AI 写的歌，我们的未来是精准的代码，每颗星都有它的坐标。 莉娜抬手关掉了光屏，黑暗里马克的呼吸声很轻，莉娜想，或许这样也好，至少他们的孩子不会像她一样，抱着一个非必要的梦，在平庸的日子里疼得喘不过气。 只是那首没唱完的月光奏鸣曲好像永远卡在了喉咙里。
修正脚本
第二章，生育执照与配额时代。 马克把最后一块合成肉塞进嘴里时，莉娜正对着光屏上的生育执照发呆。 执照编号是2142杠734，烫金的字体在昏暗的胶囊公寓里泛着冷光，像一张判决书。 发什么愣？马克抹了把嘴，合成肉的油脂在指尖凝成粘腻的薄膜。 他以前在汽车厂拧螺丝时，手上的油污至少带着金属的温度。 现在做虚拟仓储分拣员，每天对着屏幕滑动手指，连汗都出得敷衍。 莉娜没抬头，光屏上的文字她已经读了第37遍。 根据全球人口与资源匹配法案，你与配偶马克张获批生育配额。 胚胎培育需遵循农业工程师定向基因优化方案。 相关技能基因片段，耐贫瘠土壤、植物病害识别、大型农机操作适配性将强制植入。 非必要天赋基因，如艺术感知、空间想象力，将进行静默处理。 非必要天赋，这五个字像针扎在莉娜的太阳穴上。 她想起自己15岁那年，音乐老师说她的嗓音是被天使吻过的。 后来呢，音乐学院的录取通知书被父亲扔进垃圾桶，学那玩意能当饭吃？再后来 AI 作曲软件普及，连酒吧驻唱都换成了全息投影的虚拟歌手。 她的天赋早就成了抽屉里蒙尘的旧磁带。 要不跟规划局说说？莉娜的声音发飘，就说我们想留个音乐感知的片段，不占多少基因位的。 说不定说不定他们把执照收回去。 马克打断她。 起身去够柜子顶上的酒瓶，廉价的合成酒精喝多了头疼，但总比清醒着看这四壁逼仄的胶囊公寓强。 三个月前他们在全民生育摇号里中了签，整个社区只有三户人家摇中。 那天莉娜抱着马克哭了半夜，说终于能有个孩子，能让他活得比我们像样点。 像样点，这话现在听着像笑话。 他们住的蜂巢社区，每间公寓只有6平米，床能折叠成沙发，桌子展开就是灶台。 窗外永远是灰蒙蒙的天，悬浮车的尾气在空气中凝成淡紫色的雾。 全息广告牌上循环播放着农业新星球开发计划，机器人在火星土壤里插苗，镜头扫过一行大字，未来属于能喂饱人类的人。 你以为就我们想留？马克灌了口酒，喉结滚动的声音在安静的公寓里格外清晰。 楼下王婶家儿子摇中了矿工配额，想加个夜视基因，规划局说矿工不需要额外耗能的视觉优化，直接驳回了。 他掏出手机，点开一个加密论坛，里面全是像他们这样的父母。 有人求偷偷保留绘画基因的渠道，有人晒孩子被强制植入深海抗压基因后的超声波图，评论区一片至少能活着的自嘲。 莉娜的指尖划过光屏上农业工程师几个字，突然想起马克的爷爷。 老家相册里，那个扛着锄头的老人，手掌粗糙得能卡住麦粒，却会在田埂上哼自编的小调，夕阳把他的影子拉得老长。 那时候的农民种的是地，也是日子，谁会给过日子编个基因代码？我只是不想他跟我们一样。 莉娜的声音带了哭腔。 你还记得吗？我们第一次约会，在废弃的音乐厅，你说以后有了孩子，要教他弹钢琴。 马克的动作顿了顿，他当然记得。 那座音乐厅的穹顶裂了道缝，月光漏下来，照在积灰的琴键上。 莉娜哼了段月光奏鸣曲，跑调跑得厉害，却比任何 AI 合成的音乐都好听。 可现在，钢琴，虚拟钢琴游戏里，AI 的弹奏准确率是99.9%，人类的情感误差成了缺陷。 规划局的人说了，马克放下酒瓶，声音沉得像灌了铅。 农业工程师是安全配额，就业率100%，退休后能分到火星殖民地的优先居住权。 你想让他干什么？学音乐？跟你一样，现在只能在怀旧直播间唱老歌，打赏购买半份合成肉吗？莉娜没说话，她的直播间确实冷清，每天只有几个老头老太太进来，听她唱那些 AI 不屑于模仿的，跑调的老歌。 昨天有个老头打赏了一块虚拟蛋糕，附言，像我孙女小时候唱的。 他现在是星际物流调度员，忙得三年没回过家。 光屏突然亮了一下，弹出规划局的通知，请于24小时内确认基因方案，逾期视为放弃配额。 下面附着一行小字，当前全球农业人才缺口147万，艺术行业过剩人口3200万。 过剩，莉娜苦笑，原来连活着都分必要和过剩。 马克走过来，从背后轻轻抱住她。 她的肩膀比以前窄了，后背的骨头硌得他生疼，那是长期窝在胶囊公寓里的形状。 就按他们说的吧，他说，声音里有他熟悉的妥协。 至少他不用像我们这样，摇一辈子号，抢一份非必要的工作。 莉娜闭上眼，光屏的光透过眼皮变成一片模糊的红。 她仿佛看见一个孩子在火星的红土上种着改良过的麦子，手指粗糙，眼神专注，却永远不会知道他的基因里曾经藏着一段被静默的旋律，像被埋在土壤深处的种子，永远不会发芽。 公寓外的全息广告换了画面。 虚拟歌手穿着银色的裙子。 唱着 AI 写的歌，我们的未来是精准的代码，每颗星都有它的坐标。 莉娜抬手关掉了光屏，黑暗里马克的呼吸声很轻，莉娜想，或许这样也好，至少他们的孩子不会像她一样，抱着一个非必要的梦，在平庸的日子里疼得喘不过气。 只是那首没唱完的月光奏鸣曲好像永远卡在了喉咙里。
英文翻译
Chapter Two: The Era of Birth Licenses and Quotas. As Mark swallowed the last piece of synthetic meat, Lena stared blankly at the birth license glowing on the screen. The license number was 2142-734, its gold-embossed characters gleaming coldly in the dim capsule apartment, like a verdict. "What are you spacing out for?" Mark wiped his mouth, the grease from the synthetic meat forming a sticky film on his fingertips. Back when he used to tighten screws at the car factory, the grime on his hands at least carried the warmth of metal. Now, as a virtual warehouse sorter, all he did all day was swipe his fingers across a screen—even his sweat felt half-hearted. Lena didn't look up. She had read the text on the screen for the thirty-seventh time. According to the Global Population and Resource Matching Act, you and your spouse, Mark Zhang, have been approved for a birth quota. Embryo cultivation must follow the agricultural engineer's directed genetic optimization plan. Relevant skill gene fragments—resistance to poor soil, plant disease identification, compatibility with large agricultural machinery—will be forcibly implanted. Non-essential talent genes, such as artistic perception and spatial imagination, will undergo silent processing. "Non-essential talent." Those five words stabbed into Lena's temples like needles. She remembered that when she was fifteen, her music teacher had said her voice was kissed by an angel. Then came the day her father threw the music academy acceptance letter into the trash. "Can you eat that?" he had sneered. Later, AI music composition software became ubiquitous, and even bar gigs were replaced by holographic virtual singers. Her talent had long since become a dusty old cassette tape shoved in a drawer. "What if we talked to the Planning Bureau?" Lena's voice drifted. "Just say we want to keep a fragment of music perception—it won't take up much gene space. Maybe... maybe they'll take the license back." Mark cut her off. He got up to grab the bottle of alcohol from the top of the cabinet. Cheap synthetic booze gave you a headache if you drank too much, but it was still better than staying sober and staring at the cramped walls of this capsule apartment. Three months ago, they had won the lottery in the universal birth draw. Only three families in the entire community had been chosen. That night, Lena had cried in Mark's arms for half the night, saying, "We can finally have a child—let him live a better life than ours." A better life. That phrase now sounded like a joke. They lived in the Hive community. Each apartment was only six square meters. The bed folded into a sofa, and the table unfolded into a stove. Outside the window, the sky was always gray. The exhaust from hovering cars condensed into a pale purple mist in the air. Holographic billboards looped an advertisement for the Agricultural New Planet Development Project—a robot planting seedlings in Martian soil, with a line of bold text scrolling across the screen: "The future belongs to those who can feed humanity." "You think we're the only ones who want to keep something?" Mark took a gulp of the alcohol, the sound of his Adam's apple bobbing unusually clear in the silent apartment. "Downstairs, Aunt Wang's son won a miner quota. He wanted to add a night vision gene. The Planning Bureau said miners don't need extra energy-consuming visual optimization and rejected it outright." He pulled out his phone and opened an encrypted forum, filled with parents just like them. Some were asking for black-market channels to secretly preserve painting genes. Others posted ultrasound images of their children after forced implantation of deep-sea pressure-resistant genes. The comment section was filled with self-mocking replies: "At least they'll survive." Lena's fingertip traced the words "agricultural engineer" on the screen. She suddenly remembered Mark's grandfather. In an old family photo album, there was a picture of that elderly man carrying a hoe, his palms so rough they could catch wheat grains. Yet he would hum his own little tunes on the ridges of the fields, the setting sun stretching his shadow long. Back then, farmers cultivated not just the land, but life itself. Who would ever think to encode life into a genetic sequence? "I just don't want him to end up like us." Lena's voice cracked with tears. "Do you remember? On our first date, in the abandoned concert hall, you said that if we ever had a child, you'd teach him to play the piano." Mark paused mid-motion. Of course, he remembered. There was a crack in the dome of that concert hall. Moonlight poured through, spilling onto the dusty piano keys. Lena had hummed a bit of the *Moonlight Sonata*—way off-key, but more beautiful than any AI-synthesized music. But now? The piano. In virtual piano games, AI's accuracy was 99.9%. The emotional deviation of humans had become a flaw. "The people at the Planning Bureau said," Mark set down the bottle, his voice heavy as lead, "that agricultural engineer is a secure quota. 100% employment. After retirement, you get priority residency on the Mars colony. What do you want him to do? Study music? End up like you—singing old songs on a nostalgia livestream, scraping together tips to buy half a portion of synthetic meat?" Lena said nothing. Her livestream really was cold. Only a few old men and women dropped by each day to hear her sing those off-key old songs that AI disdained to imitate. Yesterday, an old man had tipped her a virtual cake, with a note: "Reminds me of when my granddaughter sang as a child. She's an interstellar logistics dispatcher now—too busy to come home in three years." The screen suddenly flickered, popping up a notification from the Planning Bureau: "Please confirm your genetic plan within 24 hours. Failure to do so will result in forfeiture of the quota." Below it, a line of small print: "Current global agricultural talent shortage: 1.47 million. Surplus population in the arts industry: 32 million." "Surplus." Lena gave a bitter laugh. So even living was divided into "essential" and "surplus." Mark came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her gently. Her shoulders were narrower than before, her back bones pressing hard against him—the shape of someone who had been cooped up in a capsule apartment for too long. "Let's just do what they say," he said, his voice carrying that familiar note of resignation. "At least he won't have to, like us, spend his whole life entering lotteries, scrambling for a 'non-essential' job." Lena closed her eyes. The light from the screen filtered through her eyelids, turning into a blurry red. She seemed to see a child planting improved wheat in the red soil of Mars—rough fingers, focused eyes, never knowing that his genes once held a silenced melody, like a seed buried deep in the earth that would never sprout. Outside the apartment, the holographic billboard switched to a new ad. A virtual singer in a silver dress crooned an AI-written song: "Our future is precise code—every star has its coordinates." Lena reached up and switched off the screen. In the darkness, Mark's breathing was very soft. Lena thought, maybe this was for the best. At least their child wouldn't be like her—clinging to a non-essential dream, gasping for breath in a ordinary life. But that unfinished *Moonlight Sonata* seemed forever stuck in her throat.
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