Читать книгу War/Peace - Matthew Vandenberg - Страница 28

'So annoying,' I say, lifting a hand off the handlebar to shoo a fly from my nose.

'They're smart though, in a sense. Imagine what we could do if we could control them,' Shaun says, twisting on his blades.

'The fly?' I ask.

'Yeah.' - Shaun skates backwards towards the high side of the large station car park at Gosford. He's blading on the road and I'm riding along the footpath.

'Come off it. These freaks are bumping into things all the time.'

'Wanna feel what it's like to be a fly? I'll race you through the car park, down the levels. Let's go.'

'You're fuckin' crazy Shaun!' I yell. 'Oh, it's on.' - I switch the gears on my bike up a couple and cycle fast towards the car park entrance. Shaun jumps a curb, spinning in the air and landing with both feet pointing at the large entrance, then he rolls ahead, fast as a bowling ball. 'How fast do you wanna go?!' I yell.

'All about keeping your eyes open,' Shaun says. 'You know, if you stimulate a part of the insect brain that's between the left and right optic lobes with very quick electrical pulses then you can make it beat its wings and adopt the appropriate flight posture*. Like clock-work – like the hands of a mental clock that don't know which ways which –' - Shaun jumps another small concrete stub and spins in the air - 'the wings are moving rapidly up and down, up and down, fast like the wings of a hummingbird, almost vibrating . . .'

'Vibrating?' - I skid my back tire as I reach the bottom of the first ramp and I make a sharp right.

'Yeah. You're thinking it now, not me. So yeah, stimulate the right part of the brain with many quick electrical pulses and the insect starts flapping its wings, but stimulate the same part with one long electrical pulse and it stops flapping*. So make the pulses short then long, short then long, and the insect will flap then stop, flap then stop, so it will still be flapping just not as much. It's thrust will be down*.' - Shaun presses a heel into the ground as he takes a corner. I think I see a spark as the rubber brake rubs, roughly, the asphalt. I pass him, and spin my bike on the front wheel so that I'm facing him as he passes me.

'So you control it's thrust?'

'Damn straight,' Shaun says. 'And this conversation has more levels than this car park when it comes to meaning.'

'Meaning?'

'Never mind.'

'Don't miss the turn!'

'Right,' Shaun says, spinning in the air before rolling down a ramp to the right. 'To make the bug turn you gotta apply 10 millisecond electrical pulses to the right and left basalar muscles*. Simple. So you've got yourself a remote-control fly or beetle. Just need thin silver wires you can implant into their brains, a microcontroller with a built in radio and a tiny battery*.'

'Fuckin' awesome!'

'Your bike broken or what? We're still racing dipshit!'

I pedal fast and take the last corner like I'm a fly under remote-control of a scientist who knows exactly what he's doing – possibly God. Then we're both on the final straight. It's eight wheels against two, eight tiny fly-wing wheels against two large wheels the shape of breasts. I keep my gaze straight, fine, pointed like a laser beam. Together we rush ahead. We're in line, moving straight as arrows, and then I push down hard on the pedals, as Shaun whips ahead as though cutting into the asphalt with his blades. Hacking at the floor. I push again and then . . .

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!

'Shit! The cops!' I yell.

Now we race ahead faster than we ever have. We clear the car park, take a left and roll down the road like two pebbles. The cops don't put the sirens on but we know they're on our tails.

'Like they give a shit about us,' Shaun says. 'We ain't south-siders. They're after the south-side pussies for sure, not us!'

'Let's not risk it,' I say. 'Do you hear that?'

'What?'

'At the stadium? Who is that? I know that voice? Let's head there. Fast as we can. Keep it straight at the round-about.'

'No. Take a left. It'll be harder for the cops to follow.'

'Split!' we say in unison.

Shaun takes the left and I continue down the street on the bike, pedaling as fast as I can. The large Gosford Blue-Tongue stadium is to my left and someone's talking, putting on a show. I fly down the hill, looking left. I can't believe it! It's Wil Anderson! He's standing in the center of the field, performing in front of a full stadium. 'He's here to calm us down,' I say. 'Here to keep us from raging war against the south. No doubt, laughter's the best medicine in these times.'

I notice the cops have chosen to take my tail. I raise a fist in the air, and turn my wrist so they'll see the giant 'N'. They beep the horn twice and drive past.

'Just take it to the ramps dipshit!' one cop yells out the window.

Totally lax for sure. The cops couldn't care less about a couple teens blading or cycling through the city streets. They're clearly on the look-out for south-siders. Of course, we usually need to stick to the ramps.

'The ramps are the Gosford skate park and surrounding areas,' I say, nodding at the camera. 'Nowadays it's too dangerous to venture into the Cross each and every night so my clients meet me at the ramps or I simply hang there with mates sometimes. Nightly, we have parties, with loud thumping music, and everyone gets totally wasted and maybe totally laid by the ramp, or under the nearby bridge. These parties are off the fuckin' roof now that the south-siders have all but left. The fuckin' floor is ours and we're dancing on it every night.'

******

References

1 *Maharbiz, M. M., & Sato, H. (2010). Cyborg Beetles. Scientific American, 303(6), 94-99. doi: 10.1038/scientificamerican1210-94

2 It Can Wait – Illy and Owl Eyes

3 All Star – Smash Mouth