Cybug

Tom held the beetle between his thumb and forefinger, while Bill inserted a needle through its exoskeleton.

“This girl hot? She givin’ out?” Bill made a series of tiny holes over the brain and at the base of the optic lobes. “If it starts flapping, shove it back in the ice box for a minute. Knocks it cold. Some people use roaches but these are better fliers. And big enough to carry the camera. Imported from Africa somewhere. When’s this exam?” 

“Week Thursday. I’ve no chance, without those questions.” 

“No problem, it’s sorted.” Bill threaded a thin steel wire into each hole.

Tom watched the work intently, all his hopes riding on this one wild scheme. 

Bill picked up the controls. “Now the test.” He moved the joystick and the beetle lurched forward, moved to the left, to the right. 

“Bloody hell,” Tom muttered. “Who invented this?” 

“Military, been using it for years. Let’s see if this bug can fly.” 

He made adjustments, clicked his controls, the beetle spread its wings and launched into the air. The low hum of insect wings mingled with the purr of computer cooling fans and the sound of taser fire from across the city. In the street below, a child screamed. 

Bill steered the bug twice around the room, brought it back to the table and landed it, expertly, on Tom’s shoulder. 

“Now the tricky part,” Bill said. He held up a piece of shiny black metal the size of a pea. “Camera, microphone, GPS, all in one. These things aren’t cheap, if anything goes wrong, you’re paying, got the money?” 

Tom put a thousand credits on the table. “This better work. If he finds out…”

“Don’t worry, what’s one beetle flapping around a house gonna mean? And teacher’s are dumb.” 

“We could go to the chair for this, cheating on an exam.” 

“You could. I’m not involved, no names.” Bill dabbed glue onto the beetle’s back and stuck the camera down firmly.  

“If they find the bug, can they trace it back to you?” 

“No barcodes on a beetle.”

“Who else has these things? The police? You think?” 

“Nah, we’d have heard.”

 Bill turned to his computer, machine-gunned the keyboard. The Beetle took off and Tom watched himself on screen, the back of his head, Bill crouched over the desk. The beetle flew into the next room, landed on the coffee table, on a pack of cards scattered face up. “Zoom is here,” Bill said, pointing to the on-screen controls. The camera focused on the queen of hearts, face stern and disdainful, the image so sharp Tom could make out crackles in the cardboard. 

“Reckon it’s ready,” Bill said. “When you want to do this? Gotta be soon, I’m going away. It’s Worldcon.” 

Tom swallowed, his throat tight. He could still back out. But Josie kept getting A grades, and that meant she’d go up a stream next term, and he’d go down one, with his lousy Cs and Ds. And the segregation laws were even harsher than Josie’s scorn. They’d be kept apart, and she’d go on to her privileged life. He’d be left on life’s dumpster. An image flashed into his mind. Her blonde hair, her green eyes. Her face, so cute. Her skin, her legs. Oh god, her legs. Her ass. He had to have it. One day, she’d come round. That gorgeous ass. 

“Let’s do it,” he said. “Now. Give me the bug. We’re going in.” 

*****

The flower beetle, Mecynorrhina torquata, perched on the window-ledge, the Spring sunshine glinting off its livid green back. It felt a shock to its antennae, and felt the urge to spread its wings. It knew only that it must fly, in this direction, a primal urge sending it forward, left, right, around the room, through a doorway. The beetle hovered.