Catalyst

fiction by michael werneburg

2001.12.09

"Did he get a camera?" I asked.

"Doesn't look like it. Looks like he's hunting one of the survivors that escaped."

The doctor's husband said, "Are you still carrying your camera?" When I nodded, he said, "Hand it to me, you'll get it back when you come to the clinic. No sense in getting killed for it when you don't need it."

"I don't need it?" I asked. "I thought I had to take a photo at the finish line."

The woman with the screen said, "No, they've said that you don't, actually. Your photos have been uploaded, you just need to cross that finish line on your bike."

I finished the water and stood. I was already feeling noticeably better. I handed over my camera and wiped sweat from my face.

"Someone found your pannier on the expressway and is selling it online," said screen lady. "The bidding's at five figures."

I winced. The prize money I was looking for was in that range. "This whole thing has gotten completely insane," I gasped.

"How are they going to know you're not carrying your camera?" she asked.

I realized the answer. I took off my helmet and shirt and handed it to her. "Thanks for your help. Maybe you can auction this for a fortune?" She looked at the soaked shirt dubiously but took the items. "I'll hold them for you," she told me. I gave her my contacts, and told her, "Please do, I'd like to see you again."

But we were now at the dock. I grabbed my bike and headed to the bow half naked and still half stunned from the exhaustion and drugs. Everyone parted as I went. From the deck above, I could hear an angry voice. It seemed Harami was getting a different response from the crowd. I noticed his ultra-expensive bike standing rigidly 5-locked to the railing. How would I escape him?

The ramp went down and I was off. Moving now in open daylight without a map I just took the most direct route I could think of for the finish line.

I heard a whirring noise and knew that I'd been picked up by Megalomedia's drone. I took a path between the airport's sprawling property and the water. It took me a moment to cross the first quarter of the remaining distance, but as I neared the corner of the airport's fenced-in grassy space, I slowed. I didn't know where Goss was and I would need to make the final approach with care. I was pretty sure the man would kill me out of hand.

Rounding the corner at a glide, I made my bike light over a rough patch, standing and pushing the handlebars forward. My bike rattled disconcertingly and then I was riding on brick. Scanning frantically at the various benches, trees, utility sheds, and public washrooms I realized what a mess this approach would be. Between me and the finish line was an expanse of grass. No way I'd get mired in that, I'd be a sitting duck. Then I saw motion.

It was Goss, crouching low without a bike and following a low hedge row, crossing my path right to left. I veered to the right to circle him on a paved path that ran across the grass. There was almost no way that he wouldn't hear me.

When Harami crashed into me I didn't even hear it. I'd later see footage of him approaching me on the same paved trail, his futuristic bike silent and his muscled form moving like some kind of big cat from before the climate collapse. He'd leapt from the bike to tackle me.

We hit the ground together, and I knew who it was. "No camera!" I shrieked. "I've got no camera!"

Cold steel was at my throat, and he held my hair in his fist. I could hear the whine of the Megalomedia drone, it must be right on top of us. "How are you going to place without a camera?"

I grasped the man's hand that was holding my hair. "That's enough! Get off me. The commentators said that you don't need a photo of the finish line. My photos of the markers are already uploaded. I just want to cross in the top ten. I've got nothing you can use, kill me or get off me!"

Harami said nothing but kept me fixed with an enraged glare then looked up to scout the area. He cursed and got off me.

I sprang to my feet. Goss stood only about four meters away. He still had that goddamn club in his hand. Then Harami grabbed me again, holding me in front of him with the knife at my throat again. Using me as a shield!

"Give me your cameras," Goss said.

"This guy says he doesn't have one." Harami told him, "And you're not getting mine."

"Is that right," Goss said, closing to no more than two meters and looking me in the eye. "No camera?"

"The photos are uploaded. I've got nothing. Look, pants, shoes, bike. No pouches, no panniers."

"Smart. You've run a smart race."

"I just want to place t-top ten." My teeth were chattering.

"Enough!" Harami said. "That's far enough Goss."

There! I'd seen Kuan, way over on our left. Who knows where she had come from. She was covered in blood and soot and looked like she'd just climbed out of hell. Something in her hand. The nerve weapon? My brain, in overdrive, seized on its name: Hawkins. But now she was hidden by an ornamental hedgerow. She'd crossed the open space so fast -- had Harami seen her? I was going to die here.

"Shut up," Goss told Harami. "They're calling you a catalyst, Tilescu. Say you've set off some kind of thing in the city."