The chick swallowed the artemisia leaf, shook its head, and clucked. Chen Hao stared at the monitor screen, about to say something, when Nana's voice sounded behind him: "An anomaly detected in granary area B."
He didn't move.
“Didn’t we just finish dealing with parasites?” He looked down at the notepad in his hand, the pen still hovering over the line “feeding amount 3.0 grams”. “Can you let me finish writing this sentence? I haven’t even finished writing the words yet.”
“No.” Nana’s optical lens swept across the data stream. “Infrared thermal imaging shows that there are dense, minute vibrations deep in the grain pile, with a frequency of 120 to 140 times per minute—which is consistent with the characteristics of rice weevil larvae’s swarming activity.”
Chen Hao sighed and slammed the pen on the workbench. The pen rolled twice before falling into a crevice in the feed trough, but he didn't bother to pick it up.
"Again?" He grabbed his work jacket draped over the back of the chair, putting it on as he walked out. "These days, insects can endure longer than people. They start work at three in the morning without even asking for leave."
The outer walls of the granary were stained with mud left from last night's spraying. The lock was a bit stiff; he had to kick it to open it. A blast of cold air rushed out, carrying the musty smell of damp grain. He wrinkled his nose: "Who says grain can last a thousand years if stored properly? I think a bunch of them would have to be fired in three days."
Nana followed, and a holographic model unfolded on her shoulder projection. Dense yellow dots were embedded in the lower half of the grain pile, like a pot of sesame paste that was half-cooked.
“The depth is 3.2 meters, which is beyond the reach of conventional screening,” she said. “The fumigation process requires a 72-hour seal, and the residue may affect the safety of subsequent poultry feed.”
"Then let's not fumigate them." Chen Hao looked up at the row of old speakers on the ceiling. "Anyway, no one listens to music, so let them do their job."
"You're planning to use sound waves to repel insects?"
“What else? Should we hold a meeting to persuade them to give up?” He walked to the control panel and ran his finger along a dusty knob. “The high-frequency sound will make the insects dizzy, and they will naturally climb upwards. We can wait on top and catch them all at once. It’s environmentally friendly and convenient.”
Nana retrieved the database: "15 to 20 kHz can interfere with the nerve conduction pathways of insects, but the critical value for the resonance of the steel frame of this building is about 17.6 kHz. Approaching this frequency band may cause structural fatigue."
"Got it." Chen Hao had already turned on the power. "We won't touch the red line, just a little off. Let's try 18 first, and if that doesn't work, we'll lower it."
"It is recommended to conduct local testing first."
“It’s too late.” He pressed the start button. “Look at those yellow dots. In two more days, they’ll be having a celebration party.”
Buzz—
A low-frequency probing sound swept across the space, and a few specks of dust drifted down from the beam. Then, a high-frequency sound wave cut in, causing a barely perceptible tremor in the air, like someone gently scratching glass with their fingernail.
At first nothing happened.
Three minutes later, the surface of the grain pile began to bubble and churn. Tiny black specks climbed along the grain towards the edge, some even swirling around, as if they had drunk too much.
"It's out!" Chen Hao grinned. "Everyone says music cultivates character, turns out even insects love high notes."
"Pay attention to the amplitude," Nana reminded.
The alarm light flashed suddenly. The sensor readings below the control panel fluctuated, and the stress curve tilted slightly upwards.
“The steel frame has started to resonate.” She quickly pinpointed the location. “There is a slight harmonic overlap in the support column on the left front. If it lasts for more than ten seconds, it may cause micro-cracks in the metal.”
Chen Hao immediately turned down the power and switched off the two sets of speakers on the west side.
“Disperse your firepower,” he said. “Don’t let the noise cluster together.”
Nana adjusted the output distribution to spread the sound field evenly. Chen Hao put one earbud in his ear and held the other in his hand, tilting his head to listen to the ambient echoes.
"It doesn't tremble anymore," he said. "The tingling sensation from before is gone."
“The current main frequency has dropped to 14.8 kHz, and the structural amplitude has returned to a safe range,” Nana confirmed. “The escape rate of the insects remains above 67 per minute, and the efficiency has not decreased significantly.”
“That’s good.” He put on one earbud and said, “This is what we call science based on intuition and using experience to determine parameters.”
For the next two hours, they used a zoned rotation method to advance the operation. The grain silo was divided into four sectors, and only the acoustic device in one sector was activated at a time, switching after fifteen minutes to allow the equipment time to cool down.
A layer of grayish-black particles gradually accumulated on the ground, making a slight crunching sound when stepped on. Chen Hao swept a pile into the sample box with a shovel, then looked at it closely: "They're all alive, but they're completely stunned."
“The sound waves interfered with its balance organs, causing motor incoordination,” Nana explained. “It takes about four hours after it leaves the affected area for it to regain its mobility.”
“That’s perfect.” He closed the box. “When they wake up and find themselves packed up, I don’t know if that counts as end-of-life care.”
Before the third round of work began, Chen Hao leaned against the control panel, munching on compressed biscuits. Crumbs fell onto his chest, but he was too lazy to brush them off.
(English words are automatically filtered here)
"Why do you think these bugs always choose to hide at the bottom?" he asked, chewing on a hard, dry biscuit. "The air is fresh and well-ventilated up there, so they insist on burrowing deeper. Do they think they're underground agents?"
“Deep grain piles have higher humidity and more stable temperatures, which is suitable for egg laying and hatching,” Nana replied. “And with less human intervention, the survival rate increases by about 83 percent.”
"I understand." He swallowed the last bite. "They're even lazier than me, always choosing places where they can't move."
When he restarted the system, he noticed that the data feedback in the southeast corner was sluggish. The swarm there was moving significantly slower than in other areas.
"Is it because the sound can't penetrate?" He stroked his chin. "That side is piled up the thickest, maybe it's formed a sound shadow zone."
After scanning, Nana confirmed: "The grain pile density in this area is 12% higher than the average, and the sound wave attenuation is severe. If the irradiation time is extended, it may cause the surrounding equipment to overheat."
“Then let’s finish it off.” He removed a portable megaphone, connected a spare battery, and said, “I’ll manually send it a short distance in, like a mobile launch tower.”
“The risk factor has increased,” Nana said. “You don’t have anti-slip equipment, and the internal terrain is complex.”
"I'm not going to dance the tango." He walked inside carrying a megaphone. "I'm just walking a few steps and playing some music. Do you expect the grain to applaud me?"
The edges of the grain pile were soft, and when you stepped on it, you sank up to your ankle. He moved forward, holding onto the support next to him, and placed the megaphone on top of a pile of sacks. After adjusting the frequency, he pressed play.
The vibration sensation changed immediately.
It sounded like someone was drumming from outside, the rhythm growing closer. The once quiet corner began to stir, and more and more small black dots surfaced.
"It's working!" he shouted into the walkie-talkie. "Make a note of it—portable speaker, the patent name will be 'Field DJ'."
On his way back, he slipped and fell sideways into a pile of grain. Grains poured into his collar with a whoosh, making him shiver from the cold.
"Get up." Nana reached out and pulled him up. "His right trouser leg has absorbed 312 grams of moisture from the wet food, increasing the resistance to walking."
"Could you please stop giving specific numbers?" he said, patting the rice grains off his clothes. "It's like the scale has come to life."
Back at the console, the first round has ended. Data shows that internal heat sources have decreased by 76%, and the collected comatose rice weevils have filled three sample boxes.
"It's under control for now." Chen Hao sat down, took off his shoes, and poured out a handful of broken rice. "Shouldn't we send out a notice next, telling the remaining bugs: those who know what's good for them should move out now, or they'll be killed without mercy?"
"I suggest maintaining monitoring." Nana kept refreshing the frequency map. "There are still sporadic activity signals, concentrated above the drainage ditch in the northwest corner."
“Let’s do another round.” He picked up the notepad again and drew a smiley face in the “Tomorrow’s Plans” column. “And while you’re at it, fix that broken speaker. It got stuck halfway through playing the humming music.”
The two continued adjusting the parameters. Chen Hao hummed a tune off-key while recording the data, trying to imitate the rhythm of the sound waves. Nana occasionally corrected the frequency deviations, her tone as calm as if she were reporting the weather.
The control room was dimly lit, and the equipment fans whirred. The display screens on the wall kept showing new values, and the green curve slowly climbed.
Chen Hao yawned and rubbed his sore eyes.
"Do you think we can be considered a new type of farmer?" he muttered. "We don't work in the fields, we don't fertilize, and we just spend all day adjusting the volume on the machines."
Nana did not answer.
She was focusing on a set of unusual fluctuations—the insect swarm activity in the northwest region suddenly stopped, and all signals disappeared in the same second.
Chen Hao noticed her stillness.
"What's wrong?" He sat up straighter. "Did you go on a group vacation?"
Nana's camera zoomed out slightly, and the data stream accelerated.
“No,” she said. “The life signals aren’t fading away, they’re…synchronous stagnation.”
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