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
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基因囚笼觉醒的前夜3
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原始脚本
第三章，子宫解放运动。 艾莎把最后一件折叠婴儿床塞进回收箱时，楼道里的广播突然响了，是社区 AI 的电子音，平和的像一层薄冰。 通知，本周合成蛋白配额已到账，每户3.2公斤，含维生素 B12强化剂。 另，火星农业展全息票已发放至个人账户，建议家长带儿童观看，培养星际视野。 他顿了顿，指尖还残留着婴儿床塑料边框的毛刺感。 这张床是三年前买的，那时他还是个全职母亲，这个词现在听着像古董。 去年人造子宫普及法案通过后，社区专员敲开他家的门，递来一张转型培训通知书。 女性应从生育中解放，参与社会生产。 0~3岁儿童统一由摇篮中心托管，费用由社会福利承担。 解放，艾莎扯了扯嘴角走进电梯。 电梯壁的全息屏正在播放新闻，镜头扫过月球基地的玻璃穹顶，机器人在里面培育着绿油油的蔬菜。 主播的声音亢奋的发飘。 月球农场第三季收成超预期，将为地球提供30%的新鲜蔬菜。 电梯门打开，一股劣质空气清新剂的味道涌进来。 艾莎住的向日葵社区，是10年前盖的福利房，墙壁的合成材料已经开始发黄。 楼道里永远堆着邻居们舍不得扔的旧物，掉了轮的悬浮椅、屏幕花了的全息投影仪、被 AI 判定为低效的手动搅拌器。 他的新工作在家庭服务 AI 维护中心，说白了就是给出故障的机器保姆换零件。 今天上午，他刚修好了一台型号较旧的看护3000。 机器里掉出来一张揉皱的购物小票，上面列着进口草莓500克，天然棉婴儿服一件，日期是5年前。 艾莎盯着那行字看了很久，现在超市里的草莓都是分子模拟口味，咬下去像嚼冻住的糖浆。 而天然棉早已被列为非必要资源，只有星际开发人员才能凭配额领取。 艾姐，发什么呆呢？同事小雅凑过来，手里拿着半块合成巧克力。 刚听规划局的人说，下个月要给摇篮中心的孩子加抗压基因，说是为了适应火星的重力环境。 艾莎接过巧克力，甜味在舌尖化开，带着一股金属的腥气。 他们连孩子都不放过，他低声问，不然呢？小雅耸耸肩，你没看新闻吗？上周一艘货运飞船在月球坠毁，载的全是高强度合金，据说够盖三个火星基地。 可我们呢？连超市的合成肉都要限量。 他凑近艾莎耳边，声音压得很低。 我妈说，她年轻的时候，谁家没个阳台种点花？现在倒好，连胶囊公寓的窗户都是假的，外面的蓝天是全息投影。 你说那么多资源都飞哪去了？艾莎没说话，她想起儿子小雨在摇篮中心住了快一年。 上次视频时，他指着屏幕里的虚拟火星说，妈妈，老师说我们以后都要住 住在这里，那里的房子是用真石头盖的。 小雨的眼睛亮晶晶的，像盛着星星。 可艾莎却觉得心里发寒，她才5岁，已经开始憧憬一个她从未见过的真实世界。 下午的抗议集会在社区广场举行，自然孕育阵线的横幅在风里飘着，上面写着，我的子宫我做主。 领头的是个叫梅的女人，她的胚胎上个月被强制植入了深海作业基因，理由是全球深海资源开发需要储备人才。 他们说解放我们，其实是把我们变成多余的。 梅的声音嘶哑，机器能生孩子，能照顾孩子，能干活，那我们呢？我们活着就是为了给火星培育种子吗？人群里有人喊，资源都去了太空，我们在这受苦，他们在那边盖宫殿。 艾莎站在人群后面，看着广场中央的全息广告牌，上面正播放着人造子宫的宣传片。 无菌的舱室里，胚胎在营养液中缓缓转动，配文是高效、精准、无痛苦的新生命旅程。 阳光透过稀薄的云层照下来，在广告牌上投下淡淡的影子，像一个巨大的、沉默的问号。 集会散场时，艾莎收到一条摇篮中心的通知，小雨今日表现优异，已通过火星植物认知初级测试，奖励虚拟火星石一块。 他点开附件里的图片，一块亮晶晶的红色石头，边缘光滑的没有一丝瑕疵。 回家的路上，他路过超市，门口的电子屏滚动着库存信息，合成蛋白剩余20%，模拟牛奶剩余15%，星际特产限购0。 一个老人站在屏前叹气，喃喃自语，都说日子越来越好，怎么连口像样的饭都吃不上了？艾莎走进电梯，按下15楼。 电梯壁的新闻换了画面，一艘巨大的飞船正缓缓驶离地球轨道，尾焰在黑色的天幕上划出金色的弧线。 主播说，开拓者7号将携带1000个人造子宫胚胎前往比邻星进行殖民实验，这是人类文明的又一大步。 电梯门打开的瞬间，艾莎好像听见远处传来一声闷响，也许是货运飞船起飞的声音。 她抬头望向窗外，蓝天依旧，白云缓缓流 流动，逼真的像一场永远不会醒的梦。 只是这梦里，每个人的口袋里都揣着一块虚拟的火星石。
修正脚本
第三章，子宫解放运动。 艾莎把最后一件折叠婴儿床塞进回收箱时，楼道里的广播突然响了，是社区 AI 的电子音，平和得像一层薄冰。 通知，本周合成蛋白配额已到账，每户3.2公斤，含维生素 B12强化剂。 另，火星农业展全息票已发放至个人账户，建议家长带儿童观看，培养星际视野。 她顿了顿，指尖还残留着婴儿床塑料边框的毛刺感。 这张床是三年前买的，那时她还是个全职母亲，这个词现在听着像古董。 去年人造子宫普及法案通过后，社区专员敲开她家的门，递来一张转型培训通知书。 女性应从生育中解放，参与社会生产。 0~3岁儿童统一由摇篮中心托管，费用由社会福利承担。 解放，艾莎扯了扯嘴角走进电梯。 电梯壁的全息屏正在播放新闻，镜头扫过月球基地的玻璃穹顶，机器人在里面培育着绿油油的蔬菜。 主播的声音亢奋得发飘。 月球农场第三季收成超预期，将为地球提供30%的新鲜蔬菜。 电梯门打开，一股劣质空气清新剂的味道涌进来。 艾莎住的向日葵社区，是10年前盖的福利房，墙壁的合成材料已经开始发黄。 楼道里永远堆着邻居们舍不得扔的旧物，掉了轮的悬浮椅、屏幕花了的全息投影仪、被 AI 判定为低效的手动搅拌器。 她的新工作在家庭服务 AI 维护中心，说白了就是给出故障的机器保姆换零件。 今天上午，她刚修好了一台型号较旧的看护3000。 机器里掉出来一张揉皱的购物小票，上面列着进口草莓500克，天然棉婴儿服一件，日期是5年前。 艾莎盯着那行字看了很久，现在超市里的草莓都是分子模拟口味，咬下去像嚼冻住的糖浆。 而天然棉早已被列为非必要资源，只有星际开发人员才能凭配额领取。 艾姐，发什么呆呢？同事小雅凑过来，手里拿着半块合成巧克力。 刚听规划局的人说，下个月要给摇篮中心的孩子加抗压基因，说是为了适应火星的重力环境。 艾莎接过巧克力，甜味在舌尖化开，带着一股金属的腥气。 他们连孩子都不放过，她低声问，不然呢？小雅耸耸肩，你没看新闻吗？上周一艘货运飞船在月球坠毁，载的全是高强度合金，据说够盖三个火星基地。 可我们呢？连超市的合成肉都要限量。 她凑近艾莎耳边，声音压得很低。 我妈说，她年轻的时候，谁家没个阳台种点花？现在倒好，连胶囊公寓的窗户都是假的，外面的蓝天是全息投影。 你说那么多资源都飞哪去了？艾莎没说话，她想起儿子小雨在摇篮中心住了快一年。 上次视频时，他指着屏幕里的虚拟火星说，妈妈，老师说我们以后都要住在这里，那里的房子是用真石头盖的。 小雨的眼睛亮晶晶的，像盛着星星。 可艾莎却觉得心里发寒，她才5岁，已经开始憧憬一个她从未见过的真实世界。 下午的抗议集会在社区广场举行，自然孕育阵线的横幅在风里飘着，上面写着，我的子宫我做主。 领头的是个叫梅的女人，她的胚胎上个月被强制植入了深海作业基因，理由是全球深海资源开发需要储备人才。 他们说解放我们，其实是把我们变成多余的。 梅的声音嘶哑，机器能生孩子，能照顾孩子，能干活，那我们呢？我们活着就是为了给火星培育种子吗？人群里有人喊，资源都去了太空，我们在这受苦，他们在那边盖宫殿。 艾莎站在人群后面，看着广场中央的全息广告牌，上面正播放着人造子宫的宣传片。 无菌的舱室里，胚胎在营养液中缓缓转动，配文是高效、精准、无痛苦的新生命旅程。 阳光透过稀薄的云层照下来，在广告牌上投下淡淡的影子，像一个巨大的、沉默的问号。 集会散场时，艾莎收到一条摇篮中心的通知，小雨今日表现优异，已通过火星植物认知初级测试，奖励虚拟火星石一块。 她点开附件里的图片，一块亮晶晶的红色石头，边缘光滑得没有一丝瑕疵。 回家的路上，她路过超市，门口的电子屏滚动着库存信息，合成蛋白剩余20%，模拟牛奶剩余15%，星际特产限购0。 一个老人站在屏前叹气，喃喃自语，都说日子越来越好，怎么连口像样的饭都吃不上了？艾莎走进电梯，按下15楼。 电梯壁的新闻换了画面，一艘巨大的飞船正缓缓驶离地球轨道，尾焰在黑色的天幕上划出金色的弧线。 主播说，开拓者7号将携带1000个人造子宫胚胎前往比邻星进行殖民实验，这是人类文明的又一大步。 电梯门打开的瞬间，艾莎好像听见远处传来一声闷响，也许是货运飞船起飞的声音。 她抬头望向窗外，蓝天依旧，白云缓缓流动，逼真得像一场永远不会醒的梦。 只是这梦里，每个人的口袋里都揣着一块虚拟的火星石。
英文翻译
Chapter 3: The Uterine Liberation Movement. When Elsa stuffed the last folding crib into the recycling bin, the corridor's broadcast suddenly went off—the electronic voice of the community AI, calm as a thin sheet of ice. "Notification: This week's synthetic protein quota has arrived—3.2 kg per household, fortified with Vitamin B12. Also, tickets for the Mars Agricultural Exhibition have been distributed to your personal account. Parents are advised to bring children to cultivate interstellar vision." She paused, her fingertips still feeling the rough plastic edge of the crib. This crib had been bought three years ago, back when she was still a full-time mother—a term that now sounded like an antique. Last year, after the Universal Artificial Womb Act was passed, a community officer knocked on her door and handed her a notice for career transition training. "Women should be liberated from childbirth and participate in social production. Children aged 0–3 are uniformly cared for by the Cradle Center, with costs covered by social welfare." "Liberation," Elsa muttered with a wry twist of her lips, stepping into the elevator. The holographic screen on the elevator wall was playing the news, showing a sweeping view of the glass dome of a lunar base, where robots were cultivating lush green vegetables. The anchor's voice was unnervingly buoyant. "Season 3 of the Lunar Farm has exceeded expectations, providing 30% of Earth's fresh vegetables." The elevator doors opened, and a wave of cheap air freshener flooded in. Elsa lived in Sunflower Community, a welfare housing complex built ten years ago. The synthetic wall materials were already yellowing. The hallway was perpetually cluttered with old items the neighbors couldn’t bear to throw away—a hoverchair with a broken wheel, a holographic projector with a cracked screen, a manual blender deemed inefficient by the AI. Her new job was at the Home Service AI Maintenance Center—in simple terms, replacing parts for broken robot nannies. This morning, she had just repaired an older model of the Caretaker 3000. From the machine fell out a crumpled shopping receipt, listing 500 grams of imported strawberries and a piece of natural-cotton baby clothing. The date was five years ago. Elsa stared at the line of text for a long time. These days, the strawberries in the supermarket were all molecular-simulated flavors, tasting like chewing frozen syrup. And natural cotton had long been classified as a non-essential resource, available only to interstellar development personnel through quotas. "Sis El, what are you spacing out for?" Colleague Xiaoya came over, holding half a piece of synthetic chocolate. "I just heard from the planning bureau that next month they’re going to add stress-resistance genes to the children at the Cradle Center, supposedly to adapt to Mars’s gravity." Elsa took the chocolate. The sweetness melted on her tongue, carrying a metallic tang. "They won’t even leave the children alone," she murmured. "Otherwise what?" Xiaoya shrugged. "Haven’t you seen the news? Last week a cargo ship crashed on the Moon, carrying a full load of high-strength alloy—enough to build three Mars bases, they say. And us? Even the synthetic meat in the supermarket is rationed." She leaned closer to Elsa’s ear, lowering her voice. "My mom says when she was young, every family had a balcony with flowers. Now? Even the windows of capsule apartments are fake—the blue sky outside is a holographic projection. Tell me, where did all the resources fly off to?" Elsa said nothing. She thought of her son Xiaoyu, who had been living at the Cradle Center for almost a year. During their last video call, he had pointed at the virtual Mars on the screen and said, "Mom, the teacher says we’re all going to live there someday. The houses there are made of real stones." Xiaoyu’s eyes sparkled, like they were filled with stars. But Elsa felt a chill in her heart. She’s only five, and already she’s dreaming of a real world she’s never seen. The afternoon protest rally was held in the community square. The banners of the Natural Gestation Front fluttered in the wind, bearing the slogan: "My Uterus, My Choice." The leader was a woman named Mei. Her embryo had been forcibly implanted with deep-sea operation genes last month, on the grounds that the global development of deep-sea resources required a reserve of talent. "They say they’re liberating us, but actually they’re turning us into surplus," Mei’s voice was hoarse. "Machines can give birth, machines can raise children, machines can do labor. So what about us? Are we just here to cultivate seeds for Mars?" Someone in the crowd shouted, "Resources go to space; we suffer here while they build palaces over there." Elsa stood at the back of the crowd, looking at the holographic billboard in the center of the square, which was playing a promotional video for artificial wombs. In a sterile chamber, an embryo slowly rotated in nutrient solution. The caption read: "A new journey of life: efficient, precise, painless." Sunlight filtered through the thin clouds, casting a faint shadow on the billboard—like a giant, silent question mark. As the rally dispersed, Elsa received a notification from the Cradle Center: "Xiaoyu performed excellently today, passed the Mars Plant Cognition Basic Test. Reward: one virtual Mars stone." She opened the attached image—a shiny red stone, its edges smooth without a single flaw. On her way home, she passed the supermarket. The electronic screen at the entrance scrolled inventory updates: "Synthetic protein: 20% remaining. Simulated milk: 15% remaining. Interstellar specialties: purchase limit 0." An old man stood in front of the screen, sighing and muttering to himself, "They all say life is getting better and better, but I can’t even get a decent meal." Elsa stepped into the elevator and pressed floor 15. The news on the elevator wall had changed. A giant spaceship was slowly departing Earth’s orbit, its exhaust painting a golden arc against the black sky. The anchor said: "Pathfinder 7 will carry 1,000 artificial womb embryos to Proxima Centauri for colonization experiments—another great leap for human civilization." The moment the elevator doors opened, Elsa thought she heard a muffled boom in the distance—perhaps the sound of a cargo ship taking off. She looked up at the window. The blue sky remained, clouds drifted slowly, vivid as a dream that would never wake. Only in this dream, everyone carried a virtual Mars stone in their pocket.
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