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4
视频
音频
原始脚本
第四章，工厂化育儿的裂痕。 丽娜第一次在摇篮城的探视屏上见到儿子时，他正被机器保姆抱在恒温舱里。 屏幕下方的电子标签闪烁着，编号 A734，农业工程师定向培育，当前基因匹配度98.7%。 小家伙闭着眼，睫毛像细小的羽毛，鼻尖微微上翘，那是马克的基因片段，规划局特批保留的父系特征。 莉娜的手指贴在冰冷的玻璃上，隔着一层真空，仿佛能摸到他温热的皮肤。 他会是最好的火星农夫。 马克在他身后说，声音里有刻意压下去的激动。 探视区的其他家长也在隔着玻璃指指点点，有人举着全息相机拍照，有人对着屏幕里的孩子轻声唱歌。 育儿中心的广播循环播放着今日重点培育项目，耐辐射小麦基因适配训练、大型收割机操作模拟。 丽娜却想起上周的新闻，月球自动化农场实现100%机器人管理，效率超人类农妇37倍。 主播的声音还在耳边回响，未来5年，火星基地将全面推广无人耕种系统，仅保留5%的人类监督岗位。 他把这话说给马克听时，他正对着育儿指南研究给孩子选什么虚拟课程。 指南上的职业前景分析图花花绿绿，农业工程师纳兰用加粗的绿色标注着需求稳定，晋升通道清晰。 新闻都是噱头，马克头也不抬，规划局说了，机器人再先进也需要人类做决策。 你看这指南上写的，2160年火星殖民地人口将达50万，需配套农业工程师1.2万名。 我们的孩子刚好赶上。 莉娜没再说话，她在社区的旧物回收站工作，每天都能收到一堆被淘汰的东西。 十年前流行的太空厨师培训芯片，五年前滞销的星际导游全息教材，甚至还有几台崭新的月球采矿模拟器，标签都没死。 据说采矿机器人的 AI 算法升级后，人类操作员的反应速度根本跟不上。 三个月后摇篮城召开中期培育家长会。 规划局的专员站在全息投影前，展示着孩子们的技能图谱。 小远的植物病害识别天赋值达到89分，土壤改良潜力评级 A 加，唯独艺术感知被标了红色的 F。 这是好事。 专员推了推眼镜，非必要天赋会消耗过多大脑资源，不利于核心技能的强化。 他顿了顿，语气轻快的补充，告诉大家一个好消息，火星超级农场项目提前竣工，预计明年就能接收第一批定向培育人才。 台下响起稀稀拉拉的掌声，丽娜旁边的女人突然低低的哭了。 他的女儿被定向培育成深海勘探员，上周却收到通知，深海机器人已实现自主决策，勘探员岗位缩减70%，建议申请基因召回，更换为海底生态观察员。 召回这个词像根细刺，扎在每个家长心里，所谓的基因召 召回，就是对已植入的职业基因进行二次编辑，听起来像产品售后。 可谁也说不清被反复修改的基因链会不会像被揉皱又展开的纸，留下永远的痕迹。 那天回家的路上，丽娜路过未来职业博物馆，橱窗里陈列着各种已消失的职业。 有实体书店的店员，有人工客服，甚至还有基因编辑师的早期工具。 据说现在连编辑基因的工作都由 AI 根据大数据自动完成了。 小远3岁那年，摇篮城突然通知农业工程师培育计划调整。 莉娜和马克赶到中心时，发现不少家长正围着专员争吵。 什么叫调整？一个男人红着眼问，我们的孩子都按小麦培育编了基因，现在说要改种太空藻类。 专员的脸色有些僵硬，全息屏上的火星农业规划图正在快速刷新，原本标着人类工作区的地方，正被一个个蓝色的机器人图标覆盖。 这是最新的评估报告。 他说太空藻类的产量是小麦的5倍，且完全可由 AI 控制。 那我们的孩子怎么办？莉娜的声音发颤，他们的基因里根本没有藻类培育的片段。 可以申请紧急召回，专员的声音低了下去，我们会免费植入新的基因序列。 只是可能需要压缩一些非必要生长周期，比如让他们提前进入青春期，尽快适应工作。 提前进入青春期，丽娜想起社区里那个被召回的男孩，才10岁就长了喉结，说话瓮声瓮气，眼神里却带着孩童的茫然。 有人说那是基因被强行加速的后遗症。 走出摇篮城时，天已经黑了。 悬浮车的灯光在地上投下长长的影子，像一个个被拉长的问号。 马克突然停下脚步，指着远处的太空港，那里正有一艘货运飞船升空，尾焰照亮了半边天。 你说，他的声音很轻，他们是不是早就知道这些职业会过时？莉娜没回答，她想起小远昨天在虚拟课堂上画的画，一片红色的土地上，没有机器人，没有农场，只有一个小小的人影，手里拿着一朵他从没见过的花。 育儿中心的广播又响了，这次是通知新一轮职业基因匹配开始，建议3~5岁儿童优先选择星际垃圾处理、太空电梯维护等新兴方向。 丽娜摸了摸口袋里的育儿指南，封面已经被她摩挲得发皱，上面的农业工程师几个字在夜色里模糊不清，像一个被遗忘的梦。 而他的孩子还在恒温舱里熟睡，对自己即将被召回的命运一无所知。
修正脚本
第四章，工厂化育儿的裂痕。 丽娜第一次在摇篮城的探视屏上见到儿子时，他正被机器保姆抱在恒温舱里。 屏幕下方的电子标签闪烁着，编号 A734，农业工程师定向培育，当前基因匹配度98.7%。 小家伙闭着眼，睫毛像细小的羽毛，鼻尖微微上翘，那是马克的基因片段，规划局特批保留的父系特征。 丽娜的手指贴在冰冷的玻璃上，隔着一层真空，仿佛能摸到他温热的皮肤。 他会是最好的火星农夫。 马克在他身后说，声音里有刻意压下去的激动。 探视区的其他家长也在隔着玻璃指指点点，有人举着全息相机拍照，有人对着屏幕里的孩子轻声唱歌。 育儿中心的广播循环播放着今日重点培育项目，耐辐射小麦基因适配训练、大型收割机操作模拟。 丽娜却想起上周的新闻，月球自动化农场实现100%机器人管理，效率超人类农妇37倍。 主播的声音还在耳边回响，未来5年，火星基地将全面推广无人耕种系统，仅保留5%的人类监督岗位。 她把这话说给马克听时，他正对着育儿指南研究给孩子选什么虚拟课程。 指南上的职业前景分析图花花绿绿，农业工程师栏目用加粗的绿色标注着需求稳定，晋升通道清晰。 新闻都是噱头，马克头也不抬，规划局说了，机器人再先进也需要人类做决策。 你看这指南上写的，2160年火星殖民地人口将达50万，需配套农业工程师1.2万名。 我们的孩子刚好赶上。 丽娜没再说话，她在社区的旧物回收站工作，每天都能收到一堆被淘汰的东西。 十年前流行的太空厨师培训芯片，五年前滞销的星际导游全息教材，甚至还有几台崭新的月球采矿模拟器，标签都没撕。 据说采矿机器人的 AI 算法升级后，人类操作员的反应速度根本跟不上。 三个月后摇篮城召开中期培育家长会。 规划局的专员站在全息投影前，展示着孩子们的技能图谱。 小远的植物病害识别天赋值达到89分，土壤改良潜力评级 A 加，唯独艺术感知被标了红色的 F。 这是好事。 专员推了推眼镜，非必要天赋会消耗过多大脑资源，不利于核心技能的强化。 他顿了顿，语气轻快地补充，告诉大家一个好消息，火星超级农场项目提前竣工，预计明年就能接收第一批定向培育人才。 台下响起稀稀拉拉的掌声，丽娜旁边的女人突然低低地哭了。 她的女儿被定向培育成深海勘探员，上周却收到通知，深海机器人已实现自主决策，勘探员岗位缩减70%，建议申请基因召回，更换为海底生态观察员。 召回这个词像根细刺，扎在每个家长心里，所谓的基因召回，就是对已植入的职业基因进行二次编辑，听起来像产品售后。 可谁也说不清被反复修改的基因链会不会像被揉皱又展开的纸，留下永远的痕迹。 那天回家的路上，丽娜路过未来职业博物馆，橱窗里陈列着各种已消失的职业。 有实体书店的店员，有人工客服，甚至还有基因编辑师的早期工具。 据说现在连编辑基因的工作都由 AI 根据大数据自动完成了。 小远3岁那年，摇篮城突然通知农业工程师培育计划调整。 丽娜和马克赶到中心时，发现不少家长正围着专员争吵。 什么叫调整？一个男人红着眼问，我们的孩子都按小麦培育编了基因，现在说要改种太空藻类。 专员的脸色有些僵硬，全息屏上的火星农业规划图正在快速刷新，原本标着人类工作区的地方，正被一个个蓝色的机器人图标覆盖。 这是最新的评估报告。 他说太空藻类的产量是小麦的5倍，且完全可由 AI 控制。 那我们的孩子怎么办？丽娜的声音发颤，他们的基因里根本没有藻类培育的片段。 可以申请紧急召回，专员的声音低了下去，我们会免费植入新的基因序列。 只是可能需要压缩一些非必要生长周期，比如让他们提前进入青春期，尽快适应工作。 提前进入青春期，丽娜想起社区里那个被召回的男孩，才10岁就长了喉结，说话瓮声瓮气，眼神里却带着孩童的茫然。 有人说那是基因被强行加速的后遗症。 走出摇篮城时，天已经黑了。 悬浮车的灯光在地上投下长长的影子，像一个个被拉长的问号。 马克突然停下脚步，指着远处的太空港，那里正有一艘货运飞船升空，尾焰照亮了半边天。 你说，他的声音很轻，他们是不是早就知道这些职业会过时？丽娜没回答，她想起小远昨天在虚拟课堂上画的画，一片红色的土地上，没有机器人，没有农场，只有一个小小的人影，手里拿着一朵他从没见过的花。 育儿中心的广播又响了，这次是通知新一轮职业基因匹配开始，建议3~5岁儿童优先选择星际垃圾处理、太空电梯维护等新兴方向。 丽娜摸了摸口袋里的育儿指南，封面已经被她摩挲得发皱，上面的农业工程师几个字在夜色里模糊不清，像一个被遗忘的梦。 而她的孩子还在恒温舱里熟睡，对自己即将被召回的命运一无所知。
英文翻译
Chapter 4: The Cracks in Factory Child-Rearing. The first time Lina saw her son on the incubator's screen at Cradle City, he was being held by a robotic nanny in a temperature-controlled pod. The electronic tag at the bottom of the screen flickered, displaying number A734, targeted cultivation for agricultural engineer, current gene match rate 98.7%. The little one had his eyes closed, eyelashes like tiny feathers, the tip of his nose slightly upturned—a fragment of Mark's genes, a paternal trait specifically approved for retention by the Planning Bureau. Lina pressed her fingers against the cold glass, separated by a layer of vacuum, as if she could feel his warm skin through it. "He'll be the best Mars farmer." Mark said from behind her, his voice carrying a deliberately suppressed excitement. Other parents in the viewing area were also pointing at the glass, some holding up holographic cameras to take photos, others softly singing to the children on the screens. The nursery's broadcast looped the day's key cultivation projects: radiation-resistant wheat gene adaptation training, large harvester operation simulation. But Lina remembered last week's news: the lunar automated farm had achieved 100% robotic management, 37 times more efficient than human farmers. The anchor's voice still echoed in her ears: "Over the next five years, the Mars base will fully implement unmanned farming systems, retaining only 5% human oversight positions." When she told this to Mark, he was studying the parenting guide to choose virtual courses for their child. The career prospect analysis chart in the guide was a riot of colors; the agricultural engineer column was marked in bold green: "Demand stable, promotion path clear." "News is all hype," Mark said without looking up. "The Planning Bureau said no matter how advanced robots get, humans still need to make decisions." "Look at what the guide says: by 2160, the Mars colony population will reach 500,000, requiring 12,000 supporting agricultural engineers." "Our child will be just in time." Lina didn't say anything more. She worked at the community recycling station, where every day she received piles of outdated items: Space chef training chips popular ten years ago, interstellar tour guide holographic textbooks that went unsold five years ago, and even several brand-new lunar mining simulators with their tags still attached. Word had it that after the mining robots' AI algorithms were upgraded, human operators simply couldn't keep up with the reaction speed required. Three months later, Cradle City held a mid-term parenting conference. A Planning Bureau specialist stood before a holographic projection, displaying the children's skill charts. Xiaoyuan's plant disease identification talent scored 89, his soil improvement potential rated A+, except for artistic perception, which was marked with a red F. "This is a good thing," the specialist said, pushing up his glasses. "Non-essential talents consume excessive brain resources, which is detrimental to strengthening core skills." He paused and, with a light tone, added, "Let me share some good news: the Mars Super Farm project has been completed ahead of schedule. It's expected to receive its first batch of targeted cultivated talent next year." Sparse applause rippled through the audience. The woman next to Lina suddenly started crying softly. Her daughter had been targeted for cultivation as a deep-sea explorer, but last week she received a notice: deep-sea robots had achieved autonomous decision-making, reducing explorer positions by 70%. Recommending applying for a gene recall to switch to submarine ecologist. The word "recall" lodged itself like a tiny splinter in every parent's heart. So-called gene recall meant a second editing of the already implanted career genes—sounding like product after-sales service. But no one could say whether repeatedly modified gene chains would leave permanent marks, like paper crumpled and smoothed out again. On the way home that day, Lina passed the Museum of Future Professions. In the display windows were various extinct occupations: A physical bookstore clerk, a human customer service representative, and even early tools of gene editors. Rumor had it that even the work of editing genes was now fully automated by AI based on big data. When Xiaoyuan turned three, Cradle City suddenly announced adjustments to the agricultural engineer cultivation plan. When Lina and Mark arrived at the center, they found many parents arguing with the specialist. "What do you mean by adjustments?" a red-eyed man demanded. "Our children had their genes edited for wheat cultivation, and now you want to switch to space algae?" The specialist's face stiffened. On the holographic screen, the Mars agricultural planning map was rapidly refreshing; areas originally marked as human work zones were being covered one by one with blue robot icons. "This is the latest assessment report," he said. "Space algae yields five times that of wheat, and it can be fully controlled by AI." "What about our children?" Lina's voice trembled. "Their genes don't have any fragments for algae cultivation." "You can apply for an emergency recall," the specialist's voice dropped. "We will implant new gene sequences for free. It just might require compressing some non-essential growth cycles—for example, advancing them into puberty earlier so they can adapt to the work as soon as possible." "Advancing into puberty?" Lina remembered the recalled boy in her community: he had developed an Adam's apple at just ten, his voice deep and muffled, but his eyes still held the bewilderment of a child. Some said it was a side effect of forcibly accelerated genes. When they walked out of Cradle City, it was already dark. The lights of hovercars cast long shadows on the ground, like stretched question marks. Mark suddenly stopped and pointed to the distant spaceport, where a cargo ship was lifting off, its tail flame illuminating half the sky. "Do you think," he said softly, "they knew all along that these professions would become obsolete?" Lina didn't answer. She remembered the picture Xiaoyuan had drawn in yesterday's virtual class: a patch of red land, with no robots, no farms, only a small human figure holding a flower he had never seen. The nursery's broadcast sounded again, this time announcing the start of a new round of career gene matching, recommending that children aged 3–5 prioritize emerging directions like interstellar waste processing and space elevator maintenance. Lina touched the parenting guide in her pocket. The cover had become worn from her fingers; the words "agricultural engineer" blurred in the darkness, like a forgotten dream. And her child was still sleeping soundly in the temperature-controlled pod, completely unaware of the fate awaiting him—to be recalled.
back to top