Chen Hao stared at the chick on the screen, incessantly pecking at the glass, his fingers picking at the bits of tape on his knee, his mind racing with a jumble of thoughts. Was it already sick? Had all that effort we put into building this quarantine area just resulted in a grave for it?
Just then, a burnt smell entered my nostrils.
He paused for a moment, thinking it was just his imagination because he hadn't showered in a long time. But the smell grew stronger, with a pungent, burnt plastic odor, creeping up the wall.
"Nana—"
Before he could finish speaking, he caught a glimpse of black smoke rising from the gap in the control panel. Then, with a soft "pop," a flame shot out from the connector, like a red tongue licking the cable tray.
"Fire!" He sprang up and scrambled toward the carbon dioxide fire extinguisher in the corner.
"Cut off the backup power!" he shouted as he pulled out the safety pin, grabbed the fire extinguisher, and rushed toward the fire.
Nana didn't speak, but the vent above the control panel opened instantly, letting in cold air and blowing the smoke to the east. Her movements were incredibly fast; in a flash, the robotic arm physically severed the battery pack connection.
The flames, having lost their continuous power supply, receded temporarily, but the alcohol vapors continued to evaporate, and an unseen danger lingered in the air.
Chen Hao aimed at the fire and pressed the handle hard, causing white dry ice spray to hiss and cover it. The flames struggled for a moment, bounced twice on the insulation, and finally went out.
He took a half-step back, panting heavily, only to realize that his back was completely soaked. In that brief moment, countless unfortunate images flashed through his mind: the motherboard exploded, all the data was lost, the chicken convulsed and died in the quarantine box... and then he could only hold the charred hard drive and lament, "I don't even know if it has any antibodies."
"The fire is under control." Nana's voice was as calm as if she were reporting the weather. "There are no signs of reignition. We recommend that the damaged modules be removed immediately."
Chen Hao wiped his face: "You make it sound so easy. These days, you're afraid to even touch this thing for fear of it sparking."
He crouched down and carefully disassembled the control panel. Inside, it was a mess; several wires were charred and curled, their connectors melted into a sticky mass. The main screen was still connected, but the image flickered violently, like an old television infected with a virus.
"Can it still be saved?" he asked.
"Some functions can be restored." Nana handed over an external handheld terminal. "Activate the emergency system and prioritize access to the life monitoring network."
"Okay, you take charge, and I'll be the assistant."
She accessed the offline database and began rebuilding the basic interface. Chen Hao followed the instructions and worked simultaneously, cutting off the burnt wire ends and wrapping the exposed copper wires with insulating tape. He burned his finger with the high temperature, wincing in pain, but didn't utter a sound. He simply pulled out a tube of ointment from his pocket, applied it, and continued working.
“Reconnect the third interface on the left,” Nana said.
"I accepted it."
"Reinforce the second one on the right to prevent it from loosening."
"It's all done."
"Restart the home screen".
He pressed the power button. The screen flickered a few times before finally settling down and displaying a rudimentary user interface. Environmental monitoring, temperature and humidity, airflow pressure... data gradually resumed and refreshed.
"How's the isolation box?" he asked, staring at the image of the chicks.
"Respiratory rate is stable, body temperature is normal, and no further neurological abnormalities have been observed." Nana paused. "The alcohol vapor concentration in the buffer zone has dropped below the safety line, and the ventilation system is functioning normally."
Chen Hao let out a long breath, plopped down on the ground, and leaned against the wall, not moving. This night had been like a battle; first, preventing leaks, then converting the room to negative pressure, followed by firefighting and emergency repairs. He felt like he was being squeezed dry like a mushroom.
"Tell me... is it alright?" He looked at the little guy on the screen, his voice a little hoarse.
Nana didn't answer, but suddenly brought up a cached log.
“We found that the test record was not uploaded,” she said. “Sample ID#chK-01, IgG antibody test result—positive.”
Chen Hao blinked.
"What?"
"Repeat: The chicks have produced specific immunoglobulin G, indicating that they have a preliminary immune response to the h5N3 virus."
He froze for a few seconds, then suddenly jumped up from the ground and kicked over the empty bucket next to him.
"Really?!"
"The data is authentic and comes from the automated analysis process after the last sampling. It could not be displayed synchronously due to a system interruption."
Chen Hao rushed to the screen, his eyes wide as if they were about to be glued to it. The green "positive" indicator lay quietly in the upper right corner of the test report, with a line of small print next to it: **Immune response confirmed, signs of antigen memory cell activation present**.
He punched the wall and laughed like a madman.
"Even burning like this couldn't be stopped? Ha! My luck is incredible! This isn't a fire, it's God giving me some good news!"
As Nana watched him bouncing around, she slightly adjusted the focus of the optical lens.
"Your emotional fluctuations are beyond the scope of normal emergency response."
"I don't care about you!" He grabbed the surviving storage module and held it high. "This is proof that we survived! From now on, if anyone says there's no hope in the apocalypse, I'll slap them in the face with this!"
He turned around, about to say a few more words, when he suddenly noticed a flashing notification box in the corner of the main screen.
"Huh? What's this?"
"System residual logs are being cleaned up," Nana said after scanning. "An encrypted transmission request was found, with a timestamp of 20 minutes ago. The destination address is unknown."
Chen Hao stopped what he was doing: "Wait, do we have any other signals we can send out?"
“It’s not an active transmission.” She pulled up the data stream. “It’s an automatic reporting protocol triggered by antibody test results, which is part of the remote backup mechanism originally set up in the ecosystem.”
"What does that mean? Someone can receive this data?"
"Theoretically, if an external receiver exists and the frequency band matches, then the information has been transmitted."
Chen Hao was stunned.
He looked down at the storage module in his hand, then looked up at the green indicator on the screen, his mind buzzing.
They had always thought this was a closed world, where all their struggles echoed only within this room. But now, an invisible thread was quietly sending their efforts out into the world.
"Then... who is the other party?" he murmured.
Nana remained silent for a moment.
“It cannot be traced,” she said, “but the protocol response code shows that the data has been received.”
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