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6
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第六章，执照暴动与性别战争。 马克站在生育资格审核中心的大厅里，指尖把号码条捏的发皱。 屏幕上滚动着最新的生育执照分级标准。 A级，首都圈，需个人信用分900以上，加年度纳税额超50万信用点，可申请全能型基因优化。 B 级，区域中心，信用分800家纳税30万，现基础职业基因包。 像他这样住在蜂巢社区的，信用分刚过700，纳税常年在10万徘徊，只能拿到C级执照，定向基础职业，无基因召回优先权。 下一个，马克张。 窗口后的 AI 专员抬起头，电子眼扫过他的脸。 您申请将儿子 A 734的农业工程师基因包升级为星际生态观察员。 对吗？系统显示您的年度纳税额未达标，差额22万信用点。 马克的喉结动了动。 22万，他现在在虚拟仓储中心做分拣督导，月薪3万，扣掉房租和合成食品配额，每月能存下的不足5000。 要补上这个差额，至少需要4年。 可小远的基因锁在6岁前不解除，就会永久固化。 不能通融吗？他听见自己的声音在发抖，我可以多加班，或者，规则面前人人平等。 AI 专员打断他，屏幕上弹出一则广告，首都圈精英生育计划火热报名中，符合 A 级标准者，可享名人基因片段优选服务，让您的孩子赢在基因链上。 广告里的孩子眼睛像宝石，笑容像被算法精修过的阳光，背景是火星基地的玻璃穹顶，那是马克只在新闻里见过的真实天空。 走出审核中心，广场上聚着一群人，男人们举着标语，生育权不是富人的特权，凭什么用纳税额衡量父爱？领头的是个穿工装的壮汉，他昨天在直播里撕了自己的 C 级执照。 我儿子因为我没缴够钱，连视力优化都申请不到，现在看虚拟屏都要戴矫正镜。 可那些住在首都圈的孩子一出生就带夜视基因，这叫公平？人群里炸开了锅。 有人骂规划局是富人的傀儡，有人吼，把运去太空的资源分我们点。 还有人举着全息牌，上面是火星基地的最新照片。 机器人在铺设黄金色的光伏板，旁边配文，耗资2000亿信用点，为未来公民打造阳光浴场。 他们把好东西都运走了，一个戴眼镜的男人突然喊道，他是数据分析师，我查过货运记录，去年有300吨稀有金属运去月球，说是建星际逃生舱。 可我们连社区的空气净化系统都3年没换过滤芯。 马克挤在人群里，心里像堵着一团火。 他想起莉娜偷偷去黑市买自由基因包的事，那天他回来时，手心的针剂凉的像冰，万一失败了怎么办？他问过。 丽娜没说话，只是把她的手按在自己肚子上，那里曾揣着小远的胚胎，一个被规划局标上农业工程师标签的小生命。 骚乱是从下午开始的，一群男人冲进了审核中心，砸碎了 A 级执照的展示窗。 全息屏上的精英宝宝被换成了蜂巢社区孩子的照片。 有的因为基因缺陷罗圈腿，有的眼睛因为长期看劣质虚拟屏布满红血丝，却都笑的比阳光还亮。 马克没冲进去，他站在广场边缘，看着防爆机器人举着电击枪围过来，看着男人们被按在地上，标语被撕碎。 一个戴手铐的男人路过他身边时时，突然喊，想想你们的孩子，他们凭什么生来就该当机器的替补？这句话像锤子砸在马克的心上。 他掏出手机，点开老八发来的加密信息。 明晚3点，废弃工厂，聊聊公平的事。 屏幕的光映着他的脸，一半亮一半暗。 回家的路上，全息广告在播首都圈婚恋市场报告。 女性更青睐持有 A 级执照的男性，彩礼标准以上涨至100万信用点加一套火星虚拟房产。 马克突然想起他和丽娜结婚时只花了5000信用点领了张电子证，婚房是政府分配的胶囊公寓，墙壁薄的能听见邻居的呼吸声。 丽娜在门口等他，眼睛红红的。 摇篮城来通知了，他说小远的农业基因开始激活了，他现在看绿色的东西会过敏。 机器老师说这是适应火星红土的正常反应。 马克没说话，只是走过去抱住她。 窗外，太空港的方向又亮起了火光，一艘货运船正缓缓升空。 他想起老八说的话，他们把地球当垃圾场，把我们当垃圾，只捡些有用的基因装到火星的瓶子里。 黑暗中，他摸了摸口袋里的加密芯片，那是老八给的入门券。 也许明天他该去那个废弃工厂看看，毕竟他不想让儿子长大后问，爸爸，为什么别人的基因能选，我的不能？而答案他编不出来。
修正脚本
第六章，执照暴动与性别战争。 马克站在生育资格审核中心的大厅里，指尖把号码条捏得发皱。 屏幕上滚动着最新的生育执照分级标准。 A级，首都圈，需个人信用分900以上，加年度纳税额超50万信用点，可申请全能型基因优化。 B 级，区域中心，信用分800加纳税30万，限基础职业基因包。 像他这样住在蜂巢社区的，信用分刚过700，纳税常年在10万徘徊，只能拿到C级执照，定向基础职业，无基因召回优先权。 下一个，马克张。 窗口后的 AI 专员抬起头，电子眼扫过他的脸。 您申请将儿子 A 734的农业工程师基因包升级为星际生态观察员。 对吗？系统显示您的年度纳税额未达标，差额22万信用点。 马克的喉结动了动。 22万，他现在在虚拟仓储中心做分拣督导，月薪3万，扣掉房租和合成食品配额，每月能存下的不足5000。 要补上这个差额，至少需要4年。 可小远的基因锁在6岁前不解除，就会永久固化。 不能通融吗？他听见自己的声音在发抖，我可以多加班，或者，规则面前人人平等。 AI 专员打断他，屏幕上弹出一则广告，首都圈精英生育计划火热报名中，符合 A 级标准者，可享名人基因片段优选服务，让您的孩子赢在基因链上。 广告里的孩子眼睛像宝石，笑容像被算法精修过的阳光，背景是火星基地的玻璃穹顶，那是马克只在新闻里见过的真实天空。 走出审核中心，广场上聚着一群人，男人们举着标语，生育权不是富人的特权，凭什么用纳税额衡量父爱？领头的是个穿工装的壮汉，他昨天在直播里撕了自己的 C 级执照。 我儿子因为我没缴够钱，连视力优化都申请不到，现在看虚拟屏都要戴矫正镜。 可那些住在首都圈的孩子一出生就带夜视基因，这叫公平？人群里炸开了锅。 有人骂规划局是富人的傀儡，有人吼，把运去太空的资源分我们点。 还有人举着全息牌，上面是火星基地的最新照片。 机器人在铺设黄金色的光伏板，旁边配文，耗资2000亿信用点，为未来公民打造阳光浴场。 他们把好东西都运走了，一个戴眼镜的男人突然喊道，他是数据分析师，我查过货运记录，去年有300吨稀有金属运去月球，说是建星际逃生舱。 可我们连社区的空气净化系统都3年没换过滤芯。 马克挤在人群里，心里像堵着一团火。 他想起莉娜偷偷去黑市买自由基因包的事，那天她回来时，手心的针剂凉得像冰，万一失败了怎么办？他问过。 莉娜没说话，只是把她的手按在自己肚子上，那里曾揣着小远的胚胎，一个被规划局标上农业工程师标签的小生命。 骚乱是从下午开始的，一群男人冲进了审核中心，砸碎了 A 级执照的展示窗。 全息屏上的精英宝宝被换成了蜂巢社区孩子的照片。 有的因为基因缺陷罗圈腿，有的眼睛因为长期看劣质虚拟屏布满红血丝，却都笑得比阳光还亮。 马克没冲进去，他站在广场边缘，看着防爆机器人举着电击枪围过来，看着男人们被按在地上，标语被撕碎。 一个戴手铐的男人路过他身边时，突然喊，想想你们的孩子，他们凭什么生来就该当机器的替补？这句话像锤子砸在马克的心上。 他掏出手机，点开老八发来的加密信息。 明晚3点，废弃工厂，聊聊公平的事。 屏幕的光映着他的脸，一半亮一半暗。 回家的路上，全息广告在播首都圈婚恋市场报告。 女性更青睐持有 A 级执照的男性，彩礼标准已上涨至100万信用点加一套火星虚拟房产。 马克突然想起他和莉娜结婚时只花了5000信用点领了张电子证，婚房是政府分配的胶囊公寓，墙壁薄得能听见邻居的呼吸声。 莉娜在门口等他，眼睛红红的。 摇篮城来通知了，她说小远的农业基因开始激活了，他现在看绿色的东西会过敏。 机器老师说这是适应火星红土的正常反应。 马克没说话，只是走过去抱住她。 窗外，太空港的方向又亮起了火光，一艘货运船正缓缓升空。 他想起老八说的话，他们把地球当垃圾场，把我们当垃圾，只捡些有用的基因装到火星的瓶子里。 黑暗中，他摸了摸口袋里的加密芯片，那是老八给的入门券。 也许明天他该去那个废弃工厂看看，毕竟他不想让儿子长大后问，爸爸，为什么别人的基因能选，我的不能？而答案他编不出来。
英文翻译
Chapter 6: License Riots and Gender War. Mark stood in the hall of the Fertility Qualification Center, his fingertips crumpling the number slip. On the screen scrolled the latest birth license grading standards. A-grade: Capital Ring, requiring a personal credit score of 900 or above, plus annual tax payments exceeding 500,000 credits, eligible for all-around genetic optimization. B-grade: Regional Hub, requiring a credit score of 800 and tax payments of 300,000 credits, limited to basic occupational gene packages. For someone like him, living in a Hive Community, his credit score barely passed 700, and his annual tax hovered around 100,000—only enough for a C-grade license: designated basic occupations, no priority for gene recall. "Next: Mark Zhang." The AI specialist behind the counter looked up, its electronic eyes scanning his face. "You are applying to upgrade your son A-734’s agricultural engineer gene package to that of a Stellar Ecological Observer. Is that correct? The system shows your annual tax payment does not meet the requirement, with a shortfall of 220,000 credits." Mark’s Adam’s apple moved. 220,000 credits. He worked as a sorting supervisor at the virtual warehouse center, earning 30,000 a month. After deducting rent and synthetic food quotas, he could save less than 5,000 each month. To cover that shortfall would take at least four years. But Xiao Yuan’s gene lock would permanently solidify if not unlocked before age six. "Can’t there be any leniency?" He heard his own voice tremble. "I can work overtime, or..." "The rules apply equally to everyone," the AI specialist cut him off. An advertisement popped up on the screen: "Capital Ring Elite Fertility Plan—Enroll Now! Those meeting A-grade standards can enjoy celebrity gene segment optimization services, giving your child a head start on the gene chain." In the ad, a child had eyes like jewels, a smile like sunlight algorithmically refined, with a background of the Martian base’s glass dome—real sky Mark had only seen in the news. Leaving the center, he found a crowd gathered in the square. Men held up signs: "Reproductive rights are not a privilege of the rich! Why measure fatherhood by tax payments?" The leader was a burly man in work clothes who had torn up his C-grade license on a livestream yesterday. "My son couldn’t even apply for vision optimization because I didn’t pay enough. Now he has to wear corrective lenses to watch virtual screens. But kids in the Capital Ring are born with night-vision genes—is that fair?" The crowd erupted. Some shouted that the Planning Bureau was a puppet of the rich; others yelled, "Give us some of the resources shipped to space!" Someone held up a holographic sign showing the latest photos of the Mars base—robots laying golden photovoltaic panels, captioned: "A 200 billion credit sunbath paradise for future citizens." "They’ve shipped all the good stuff away," a man in glasses suddenly cried out. He was a data analyst. "I checked the freight records: last year, 300 tons of rare metals were sent to the Moon, supposedly for building interstellar escape pods. But our community hasn’t replaced the air purification system’s filter in three years." Mark squeezed through the crowd, a fire stuck in his chest. He remembered Lena secretly buying a free gene package on the black market. When she came back that day, the needle in her palm was cold as ice. "What if it fails?" he had asked. Lena didn’t answer. She just pressed her hand against her belly, where Xiao Yuan’s embryo had once nestled—a tiny life the Planning Bureau had labeled with the tag "agricultural engineer." The disturbance began in the afternoon. A group of men stormed the center, smashing the display window for A-grade licenses. The holographic screens showing elite babies were replaced with photos of children from Hive Communities—some with genetic defects like bow legs, some with bloodshot eyes from staring at cheap virtual screens too long, yet all grinning brighter than sunlight. Mark didn’t rush in. He stood at the edge of the square, watching as riot robots armed with stun guns closed in, watching as men were pinned to the ground and their signs were torn apart. A handcuffed man passing by him suddenly shouted, "Think of your kids! Why should they be born as spare parts for machines?" The words hit Mark’s heart like a hammer. He pulled out his phone and opened an encrypted message from Old Eight: "Tomorrow at 3 a.m., the abandoned factory. Let’s talk about fairness." The screen’s glow lit his face, half bright, half dark. On the way home, a holographic ad aired a report on the Capital Ring marriage market: "Women increasingly prefer men holding A-grade licenses. The bride price standard has risen to 1 million credits plus a virtual Mars property." Mark suddenly remembered when he and Lena got married—they had only spent 5,000 credits on an electronic certificate. Their wedding home was a government-assigned capsule apartment, with walls so thin they could hear their neighbors breathing. Lena was waiting at the door, her eyes red. "The Cradle City sent a notice," she said. "Xiao Yuan’s agricultural genes are starting to activate. Now he’s allergic to anything green. The robot teacher said it’s a normal reaction to adapting to Martian red soil." Mark didn’t speak. He just walked over and hugged her. Outside the window, another flame lit up from the spaceport—a cargo ship slowly rising. He remembered Old Eight’s words: "They treat Earth like a dump, treat us like trash, only picking out useful genes to bottle up for Mars." In the darkness, he touched the encrypted chip in his pocket—the ticket from Old Eight. Maybe tomorrow he should go to that abandoned factory. After all, he didn’t want his son to grow up and ask, "Dad, why can others choose their genes but I can’t?"—and have no answer to fabricate.
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