The light bulb in the chicken coop flickered, as if the wiring had been damaged by the rain. Chen Hao sat against the toolbox in the corner, his shoelaces still wet. The chick at his feet had stopped pecking, glanced at him, and then went to rub against the wing of another chick.
He moved his fingers and found he was still clutching an empty bottle—he hadn't let go of it since the serum injection procedure. His wrist was stiff now, as if someone had secretly tightened a screw.
"System confirmed the cleanup is complete." Nana stood in front of the control panel, her voice flat and monotone, like she was reporting the weather. "The vital signs of the antibody-bearing chickens are stable."
“That’s good.” He threw the bottle on the ground with a clatter. “Finally, I’m not a human insulated box anymore.”
She didn't reply. The optical lens swept across the chicken coop, and data streams rolled across her field of vision. A few seconds later, a holographic projection popped out from her shoulder, and a comparison image floated in the air: chickens on the left, quails on the right, and a bunch of numbers jumping around in the middle.
"Based on existing resource calculations," she said, "quail farming has a 68% higher overall benefit than chicken farming. It has a shorter egg-laying cycle, higher feed conversion rate, and better space utilization."
Chen Hao looked up: "So?"
"I suggest phasing out non-antibody chickens and converting them into standardized quail farming modules." She paused, "Efficiency should be the priority in long-term survival strategies."
He stared at the picture for three seconds, then suddenly burst out laughing: "Are you trying to optimize the variety? This isn't a beauty pageant."
“This is not an aesthetic issue.” She pulled up a set of curves. “Currently, antibody-treated chickens only account for 12% of the total, the rest are ordinary broiler chickens. They have no special value, but consume the same amount of resources.”
“But they can lay eggs,” he said.
“Quails lay twice as many eggs as chickens per day,” she replied crisply.
“But quail eggs aren’t as tasty as pancakes.” He stood up, his legs still a little numb, and leaned against the wall for support. “And…” he pointed to a chick flapping its wings in the corner, “they saved my life. Without them, the serum would have been useless.”
The air went still for a moment.
Nana didn't refute, but simply switched the projection to the 3D structural diagram of the ventilation system. "The new breeding area can be expanded on the east side," she said. "The basic construction is expected to be completed within seventy-two hours."
Chen Hao shook his head: "I don't object to raising quails. But I won't touch these chickens."
She paused for a few seconds, then slightly adjusted the angle of the robotic arm. "A logical conflict," she said. "Maintaining an inefficient species within a limited space will reduce the overall survival probability."
“Sometimes living isn’t just about calculating probabilities.” He rubbed his temples. “Do you remember the rain yesterday? If I had followed your ‘optimal plan,’ I would have been stuck in the mud waiting to die. Some things can’t be measured by data.”
She didn't say anything more, and the optical lens slowly retracted.
A slight vibration came from outside the chicken coop, like the sound of an incubator starting up.
Half an hour later, the first batch of quails hatched.
When Nana went to check, she found three chicks with sparse feathers and reddish skin. She took samples and scanned them, and the microscopic images immediately showed abnormalities.
"External parasite eggs were detected." Her voice changed. "They are active and capable of airborne transmission."
Chen Hao was feeding the antibody-positive chickens when he heard this, his hand trembled, and feed spilled all over the floor. "What? They were born with a disease?"
"It may be due to cross-contamination in the storage environment of hatching eggs." She quickly switched to monitoring mode, "and has identified an antibody-bearing chicken with feather loss on its back."
Chen Hao rushed over, grabbed the portable microscope, and aimed it at the chicken's feather roots. In the magnified image, several sesame-seed-sized creatures were wriggling, gnawing at the layer of fat, like a group of miniature excavators.
"This thing eats chicken fat?" He frowned. "It's quite picky."
"If no intervention is taken," Nana's deductions revealed, "within two weeks, the integrity of the flock's feathers will drop below the critical value, and the mortality rate from hypothermia in winter will exceed 80%."
He put down the instrument and turned to turn the manual valve on the ventilation duct. The metal knob was rusted, but he gritted his teeth and applied force, finally turning it into place with a click.
“The pathway is cut off,” she said. “The spread path is temporarily blocked.”
"Temporary?" He leaned against the wall, panting. "You call this temporary?"
“We currently have five known infected individuals,” she said, pointing to the surveillance footage. “The trend is exponential.”
He stared at the screen; the little chick that had pecked at his shoelaces was now huddled in the corner, its wings drooping slightly. He suddenly remembered something: "Allicin worked really well against locusts last time, could we give it a try?"
Nana quickly modeled: "Garlic essential oil has a paralyzing effect on arthropod ganglia. At a concentration of 0.3%, the inhibition rate is expected to reach over 70%."
“Let’s do it.” He pulled out the concentrate from the stockpile. “We can’t just watch them go bald over the winter.”
The two worked together to prepare the spray. Chen Hao put on protective clothing, carried the spray bottle, and went into the chicken enclosure. After passing each chicken, he stopped and shone the UV light on it, marking the location of any reflective spots.
One chicken was particularly restless, jumping up and almost knocking over the watering can. He cursed and reached out to grab it, only to be pecked on the back of his hand.
"Is it crazy?" he asked, waving his hand.
"It's a reaction to stimulation of the nervous system," Nana analyzed. "It might be inflammation caused by secretions from the insect."
Before evening, the first mist barrier was completed. They installed timed nozzles at the entrance and set up a one-way passage rule. As long as the chickens walk out of the clean area, they will pass through a thin layer of mist.
The effect was immediate.
Monitoring showed that the insect's activity frequency had decreased by nearly half. The chick that had been bald in one spot also started rubbing itself to grow new down.
Chen Hao sat on his toolbox, took off his protective suit, and his arms ached so much he could barely lift them. He was still clutching an unopened vial of concentrated garlic extract, the label wrinkled from sweat.
“They’re adapting,” Nana suddenly said.
He looked up: "What?"
“The latest scans show that some insects are exhibiting avoidance behavior.” She pulled up a heat map, “The movement trajectories of the insect swarms at the edge of the spray area have shifted, suggesting that they may have evolved a primary tolerance mechanism.”
Chen Hao stared at the picture for a long time before slowly tearing open the packaging of the concentrate.
“Then increase the dosage,” he said. “Anyway, it’s not the first time we’ve experimented on living organisms.”
He stood up and walked towards the watering can.
Nana's robotic arm hovered above the control panel, its optical lens locked onto the latest sample's movement. A night breeze slipped in through a crack in the broken window, causing the light bulb to flicker.
The chick shook its wings at the edge of the foggy area, its downy feathers getting covered with fine water droplets.
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