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  So, I decide to get a bunk mate for him and retry the experiment with a cockroach named Archy.7 I replicate the surgery days later—this time with hot glue—and let Archy rest overnight. But even with secured wires, the roach, perhaps with the help of Billy, has pulled them out. Tenacious creatures indeed. Deciding not to put them through any more RoboRoach surgeries, I vow to augment my RC bug another time.

  * * *

  Others have succeeded where Archy, Bill “Fucking” Murray, and myself have failed. This similar repurposing of cockroaches is under way at North Carolina State University, where backpacked roaches will become responders to disaster zones. The idea is to use them to swarm and explore areas where GPS can’t penetrate, mapping out the detail of, say, the rubble in a collapsed building—tunnels, gaps, voids—using radio waves emitted from their sensors. Randomly scavenging dark places is nothing new to the roach. The reason some engineers have studied terrestrial insects as potential for biohybrids for 25 years is their deft access to the inaccessible and adaptability to various topographies.

  “In engineering,” says Professor Alper Bozkurt, the electronics whiz behind the project, “the first thing you do is look at nature and find out how [problems] are solved.” Tiny robots that mimic insects are ideally what cyborg roaches aim to be one day. But, as Bozkurt points out, their current physical limitations prevent meeting that micro scale and, even more so, micro power supply. With bionomics, however, we’ve seen remarkable examples of the marriage between biology and modern technology, he tells me. Cochlear implants. Cardiac pacemakers. Bionic limbs. That’s why insect bionics, harebrained as the idea may sound, is so attractive. You’re dealing with a nimble, resilient creature. “You have a biological organism,” he extols, “that can survive a lot of challenges, environmental predators … So we’re trying to overwrite their instinct.”

  Directing the movement of cockroaches (or preventing them from dislodging wires from their heads) is as hard as it sounds. Bozkurt’s colleagues at NCSU are figuring out a way to prevent their neurological assimilation—a point where their deep-rooted instincts kick in, thus returning them back to free-moving cockroaches. Over time, their response to electrode stimulation gradually loses efficiency. Bozkurt says it fizzles out anywhere from 10 minutes to 10 weeks later. So the methodology requires some tweaking. One includes liquid metal electrodes, which he compares to the T2000 in Terminator 2. “We open up a small hole in the antenna, and inject a liquid metal inside. Sometimes if the tissue dries, you don’t have a good connection.”

  Yet Bozkurt’s team has managed to assimilate an entire group of roaches. In a demonstration, they steered the micro herd on a circular platform. Each was controlled individually, but to the audience it appeared to be a swarm. While a real-life deployment of their roaches may be three or four years down the line, Bozkurt’s inbox is flooded by the eager requests of various search-and-rescue operations and military organizations. By then, Moore’s law should scale down the tech, creating systems lighter in weight and giving his team of roaches more maneuverability.

  But Frankenstein-like biohybrids are merely a step toward biomimicry.

  Cockroaches as search-and-rescue teams are nothing new to Robert Full. For over 25 years, Full has studied animal locomotion for the sole purpose of building highly adaptable robots for various topographies: climbing slick walls, navigating surface debris without having to slow down, paddling on top of water as if taking a leisurely stroll. The Berkeley-based Poly-PEDAL Lab named their ever-evolving, bug-like construction RiSE (Robot in Scansorial Environments). It integrates aspects found on the ever-elastic cockroach, like bendy spines, toes, claws, as well as the dry adhesives found in a gecko’s foot pads used to climb and support itself without magnets. Full has run cockroaches through simulations that mimic explosions and earthquakes, as well as over vibrating gymnastic high bars, further exploiting their moxie. Scientists, including Erich von Holst, have made great headway on studying insect gaits since the 1930s. They have discovered their legs are “governed by independent control systems,” writes biologist Holk Cruse, “each step with its own rhythm.” This grants extraordinary freedom of movement, which is why so many inspired engineers are applying such mobility to robotics.

  Insect elasticity inspired Danish zoologist Torkel Weis-Fogh to study the wing inertia of locusts in the 1960s and ’70s. Although he initially analyzed their aerodynamics in 1951, his later experiments employed nascent stroboscopic light and high-speed cameras. Fogh captured the “clap-and-fling effect” of bug flight, which is crucial to understanding the low-pressure pockets their motions make for thrust, lift, and drag. Such motions cause wake capture—an aerodynamic force built off of the wing’s previous rotational stroke. And fruit flies, a recent study showed, can bank turns at 5,000 degrees per second. A PLoS paper coauthored by zoologist Simon Walker describes how their “dramatic flight maneuvers” are attributed to the “13 pairs of steering muscles” discovered in blowflies using microtomography (read: a fancy X-ray, 3-D-generating computer camera). “Deformations of the [fly’s thorax] wall,” the paper concludes, “are not only responsible for transmitting forces from the power muscles to the wings, but are also important in accommodating qualitative changes in the modes of oscillation of the wing articulations.” These deformations might influence future flight design.

  It’s no wonder the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA) is funding the development of micro air vehicles (MAVs). The MAVs have come far from the dive-bombing, insect spaceships of the arcade classic Galaga. DARPA intends for these centimeter-long, agile MAVs to one day recognize faces, hover, detect biochemicals,8 and swarm and kill—ahem—subdue enemy targets completely unmanned, claims one Air Force promo. “They’ll help ensure success on the battlefields in the future,” says the stark voiceover to heighten the drama. “Unobtrusive, pervasive, lethal … MAV, enhancing the capabilities of the future war fighter.” Alper Bozkurt’s bionic approach to MAV was less intimidating; it involved 72 MHz AM transmitters implanted into tobacco hornworm moths. According to his 2009 paper, super-regenerative receivers were surgically inserted into pupae. Later, the adult emerged with an “adopted implant” in its thorax and the moths were tied to helium balloons. The crazy thing is that it worked. The balloon helped with the payload of additional power sources, cameras, and sensors—all while the moth was controlled remotely. It’s questionable how efficient this might be in terms of mass production. But it’s an impressive step toward a long-term goal: autonomous flight synchronized by a unified system.

  If the early tech adopter in you wanted a MAV, engineers at Air Force–supported TechJect offer one based on dragonflies. The desire to mimic dragonfly flight rests on one obvious feature: two sets of wings. Because of this “improved aerodynamic efficiency,” dragonflies can hover, fly backward, and travel in air at low speeds, all while reducing the energy of normal insect flight by 22 percent, says a 2008 study. TechJect has produced new MAV iterations every year since 2012. Their goal was to build a one-ounce, pocket-sized, four-winged drone capable of things like aerial photography and security monitoring. The crowdfunded project was hit with a couple of complaints from supporters after failing to deliver in a timely manner. It ended in 2015, though similar ventures often spring up.

  Success and a giant leap toward the ideal vision of MAV biomimicry can be found in a Harvard lab—the Promethean birthplace of the RoboBee. The 2013 Scientific American article “Flight of the RoboBees” puts the achievement succinctly: “Their tiny bodies can fly for hours, maintain stability during wind gusts, seek out flowers and avoid predators,” write the researchers. “Try that with a nickel-sized robot.” It’s mainly composed of two flapping wings and a flat carbon-fiber airframe cut from ultraviolet lasers and then folded into shape like a “children’s pop-up book,” describes Harvard professor Robert Wood. It weighs 80 milligrams, less than an actual honeybee. It is the result of nearly two decades of progress, largely inspired by the massive bee die-offs occurr
ing still today. The hope is that thousands of them will mimic an actual colony and even go on rescue missions—possibly in tandem with cockroach ground patrol.

  RoboBees copy, in a way, the same “wing-thorax mechanism” as the aforementioned blowflies. But the researchers encountered a couple of snags, including brittle actuators and, like Alper’s roach backpacks, voltage issues. This is why the RoboBee currently requires wires to tether it to an external power source. The upside to this is that the dynamics of the actual “brain” of the robotic insect can be crafted, including prototyping different camera systems to one day reach the same optic flow visual recognition bees use. A more recent advancement using electrostatic adhesion has enabled the robotic insects to perch on leaves, wood, steel, brick, glass, and other surfaces. This downtime can perhaps allot a battery recharge in between flights, just as insects do. By the time you read this, RoboBees will undoubtedly have learned new tricks.

  Engineered biomimicry, bioinspiration, and bioreplication of insects is for the most part a recent development. That is surprising, considering their intuitive design. Remember the ventilation ingenuity of African termite mounds from chapter 2? The subterranean South African nest has a closed-off chimney capable of releasing the humidity from breeding (which can range from 90 to 99 percent). These thermoregulation constructs are a true marvel, with numerous “porous” holes on their sides permitting cool breezes to enter. As wind wraps around the structure, a vacuum emerges, sucking out the warm air and helping maintain the nest’s temperature at 87 degrees, a temperature optimal for the termites’ cultivated fungus. Architect Mick Pearce copied that design for Zimbabwe’s Eastgate Shopping Centre. Over a five-year period, the self-cooling structure built in 1996 saved $3.5 million in electricity costs.

  In his book The Shark’s Paintbrush, Jay Harman goes into some of the bug-inspired devices that have developed rapidly over the past 10 years. San Diego–based Qualcomm is attempting to utilize the crystalline structures found on vibrant butterfly wings to create remarkably energy-efficient TV sets. Panelite designed insulating glass with honeycomb-mimicking hexagonal structures, which can be found at JFK Airport, to diffuse light and reflect solar heat and thus lower air-conditioning costs. Companies like Bolt Threads and Spiber Technologies are racing to perfect biomaterials that will re-create the durable and strong web material of spiders.

  Consulting groups like Biomimicry 3.8 and PAX Scientific, of which Harman is CEO, are thrusting those bio-inspired inventions into the everyday, taking cues from nature for industrial designs. Bugs, once ignored, are now innovating improvement in a number of sectors. To name a small fraction: one group of researchers built 180 microlenses into one new camera lens for undistorted, 180-degree images inspired by insects’ hemispheric eyes. And it turns out that the exoskeleton scales on beetles scatter visible light wavelengths. Mimicking such fibers can give us whiter teeth.

  But while sparkly smiles are nice, I’m tipping my hat to mosquitoes for my favorite invention to emerge from this biomimetic trend. You never feel them suck your blood. Perhaps you feel their spindly legs on your skin, but serrated parts in the proboscis minimize contact with nerves, making for painless blood withdrawals. Kansai University mechanical engineer Seiji Aoyagi draws inspiration from mosquitoes. The jagged surface of his silicon-etched hypodermic needle mimicks the mosquito’s “stinger.” It has two outer shanks to penetrate the skin, while the 0.1-millimeter, vibrating needle slides smoothly to take blood undetected. Aoyagi says the needle is still “brittle” so human clinical trials haven’t happened just yet. But for the 20 percent of Americans with needle phobia—yo!—this offers the potential for enormous relief. And it’s one of many advances that may hit the marketplace soon.

  Technology and medicine are literally emerging from the cracks. How could biomimicry and insect derivatives not? Insects’ ingenious designs have evolved over 400-million-plus years. So of course they are lending their six or eight legs in helping us to create better TV sets, surveillance drones, and antibiotics and are guiding the hands of surgeons. With bugs, discoveries and monetary benefits abound. The show-and-prove moment is no longer necessary. Need proof still? Just ask the plethora of businesspeople who’ve made billions off these buggy assets.

  Eight

  Executives of Big Bug Biz

  “Mothra oh Mothra.”

  These words are the first line of prayer sung by teeny twin demigods in the eponymic 1961 film Mothra, named after a fictional Japanese monster, aka kaiju, capable of blasting hurricane winds and spewing destructive silk. Sayōnara, Tokyo. But history has shown that the praiseworthy, winged goddess—who later became Godzilla’s ally (why not?)—also holds significant roots in Japan. How deep are those roots? Esteemed entomologist Nan-Yao Su points our attention to a group of people in a village around 644 CE in the eastern Shizuoka Prefecture who worshiped and performed rituals of song and dance … to a caterpillar.

  The ancient book Nihon Shoki referred to this caterpillar as “Tokoyo no Mushi.” The phrase means “Insect of the Everlasting World.” It was this green-colored, citrus tree–crawling caterpillar that villager Ōfube no Ō advised his fellow neighbors to praise. Local witches proclaimed that “those who worship … will, if poor, become rich, and if old, will become young again.” This makes me wonder just what other animals or objects were ousted from the deity list before the villagers arrived at a caterpillar. Throughout history societies that attribute mystical progressive technology to others have been known as cargo cults. They consist of groups of people responding to immigrants from “more advanced culture[s],” writes Nan-Yao Su. The catalyst in the case of Tokoyo no Mushi bore a symbiotic relationship with citrus trees brought from China. Praying to the plant’s caterpillar, imbued with this “magical potency to produce wealth and prestige,” would in turn advance the primitive Japanese cult.

  “Insects play a big, big role in symbolizing a certain kind of emotion and aspect of Japanese life,” Su tells me. Why they chose the caterpillar as their deity mascot1 is tied to the Shintō religion’s “animistic belief” that spirits live within objects found in nature. This characteristic, Su points out, is seen in Hayao Miyazaki movies like Princess Mononoke in which wise wolves and deer evoke spiritual connections. Other animistic traditions still practiced today include a festival called mushi oi matsuri to ward off crop-damaging insects. In a procession akin to a funeral march, a line of farmers wave torches. Afterward, a memorial service for the dead bugs known as mushi kuyoo is held as lantern balloons ascend into the night. Whether or not people attended any observance for Ōfube no Ō is debatable. My own guess is the highly revered caterpillar failed to deliver on its promises, hence the villagers’ “cast[ing] away their possessions.” Because of this discord billowing throughout the cult, Ōfube was executed by a rather ticked-off Hata clan chief.

  But Japan’s prestige and wealth would arrive 1,200 years later through its dedication to another worm.

  “Mothra!” Su roars, munching on pizza. “When Mothra came out, I was like, ‘Oh, yes! My insect.’” Its gargantuan dimensions and scope is appropriately sized considering the impact silkworms had on the country in the late 1800s. “Silk single-handedly saved Japan from being colonized,” exclaims Su. “The reason is because [the Japanese]”—like a moth—“were able to transform themselves very quickly. Because of the silk! Silk saved Japan.” Like the poor followers of Tokoyo no Mushi, nineteenth-century Japan was comparatively left in the dark ages. The Shogun ministers realized as much toward the end of the Edo era in the 1860s as US Commodore Matthew Perry forced open their ports to trade. With the Meiji Restoration came the national government’s Charter Oath, which declared that “knowledge shall be sought throughout the world.” After this declaration, importation began and machinery, industrial weapons, and foreigners introduced new technology. “The minute they realized how advanced European technology was,” says Su, “BOOM! They change their opinion overnight.”

  Simultaneously, Europe’s silk-p
roducing caterpillars (Bombyx mori) were hit with a contagious microsporidian disease called pebrine. The disease toppled the industry in France and Italy. Although the economic threat was later subdued by findings from Louis Pasteur’s new microbiology studies, at that moment, the silk industry needed saving and fast.

  We tend to overlook the economic positives bugs provide: Successful industries like shipping butterflies and exotic bugs to botanic gardens and zoos across North America, farming crickets in giant warehouses, or airdropping pests into foreign agricultures as biological warfare.2 The aphrodisiacal qualities found in some insects, like the fungus yartsa gunbu, which is grown from the heads of Himalayan caterpillars, can also spark successful industries. (The fungus’s popularity—traced back to fifteenth-century Tibetan scrolls—and price tag, about $50,000 per pound, have led to the occasional theft and murder.) The caretaking of insects has a long history, evidenced in cockfight-style cricket matches in seventh-century China. Still, that doesn’t touch the potential goldmine raw, insect-derived materials exhibit.

  In the twentieth century, East Asia became our foremost source3 for silk. In terms of the global market, Japan became the top exporter by the 1930s, comprising 80 percent of the share. “In 1873 China exported three times as much raw silk as Japan,” writes economic historian Debin Ma. But this would change. A Frenchman by the name of Paul Brunat proposed a plan to the Meiji government in 1870 to build what would help, in part, advance Japan into the technology giant it is today: the Tomioka Silk Mill. Soon there’d be an increase in the number of local sericulture farmers rearing silkworms. “From 1926 to 1933,” writes Ma, “the share of cocoons sold through this system grew from 12.5 percent to 40.1 percent.” As China’s conservative government with its Self-Strengthening Movement—the polar opposite of Japan’s new philosophical approach—stifled the growth of its silk industry, Japan entered the modern world through its devotion to insects.