Catalyst

fiction by michael werneburg

2001.12.09

"Oho!" cried one of the commentators. "What a pile-up. It's been years since we've seen a mess like that."

"That's right, Dan, the last time we had something like this would have been back in 2212, but of course, that was on a different course and with a much smaller field of entrants."

"Well, we knew going into this that the course was chosen for its difficult grades and often narrow route. But that's why this race has already secured record viewing, Jim. We're getting the numbers in now, and it seems that we're looking at some 2.1 billion viewers around the world!"

"That's great news for city and race officials, great news for today's primary sponsor, Symbicorp Medical, and great news for us at Megalomedia Entertainment. And you'll see that's reflected on the stock markets, Dan. Symbicorp is up two percent already, and Megalomedia six!"

I watched the alleyway draw nearer, and saw with delight that there was a large gap in the crowd at that point. In Dusylin, it paid to develop an aversion for standing in the street. No medical insurer covered behavior like that.

Way in the distance—maybe two hundred meters ahead of me already—I saw a pack of maybe fifty riders in a thick wedge, pumping like mad down the course. I saw another racer—much closer to me than to the leaders—lose control of his bike on the steep incline, and slam into the crowd on the far side of the four-lane 'official course'. Probably another desperate loser like me on a commuter bike.

Hanging a hard left into my intended alley, I moved off of the ridiculous course chosen by the race's demented masters, and started to really pedal. The alley I'd chosen was lined with cars on one side but was free on the other. There weren't any pedestrians—thank the Goddess—because everyone was already lining the raceway. In fact, it looked like fairly smooth sailing as I picked up speed.

"Moving to the head of the pack, we've got a familiar list of names. These are the real competitors in today's race. In fact, I'd say it's safe to say that on such a short track, the podium will be manned by a handful of these very leaders. Wouldn't you say, Jim?"

"If recent years have been any indication, chances are good that if you're in the top twenty at this stage, you're going to stay there. Once all of the crackpots and amateurs have fallen off, it's clear sailing for the next twenty or thirty kilometers. It's only once we get into the Old Town's narrow streets—when the end is in sight—that contestants will begin to jockey for position."

"Right. And pull out the weaponry."

Ducking some of the worst holes in the alley's surface, I nodded my agreement. I was glad that this race was held in a relatively new city. Dusylin was a recently formed city-state, having been born in the uncertain times following the fall of the Second Dynasty in distant Jakarta. Whatever country this had been before those imperial times, that country had been forever altered by the migrations that had occurred during the Dynasty. Left to pick up the pieces was a handful of jostling corporations and the odd royal hanger-on. One such gang had banded together in a small town on the edge of the Pacific ocean once the seas had stopped rising. They had declared sovereignty and zero taxation for corporations, and watched the dollars—and migrants—roll in. Thirty years later, the thriving libertarian city-state of Dusylin stood on the site of that small town.

The announcers were counting down the leadership, naming some twenty names and trading remarks on the various riders. I ignored them.

Once I'd left the steep plunge of the official course, my route followed a gentle downward grade. The official course spent all of its altitude in that first frantic rush, then followed a long flat stretch along the shore; I was following the long, low slope of a ridge with gravity behind me the whole way.

I blew through intersections sure that there would be no traffic. With half the city indoors watching the race and the other half actually attending its 40-km route I had this off-course route to myself. I brought up my HUD, and accessed the map once more. The map showed a solid blue dot that was drifting along a narrow course; that was me.

All of the red dots—and they already stretched out over a space some 500 meters long—were my competitors. And they were all heading in a different direction. I mentally breathed a sigh of relief. No one had twigged to my plan.

"Okay Dan, it seems we have reports of some jostling in the middle of the pack!"

"That's right, and if we look at the footage, we see that rider #48, one Andrew Wheeler of New Seattle, took a hit from what appears to have been a spike?"

"Yes, you can see the other rider, #278—one of the team from Elysium, I believe—raises his arm right here, and brings it down. Then Wheeler's front tire locks up, and he's ass over tea-kettle -"

"Too right. His bike's in pieces, his race is over. But what's really surprising is his reaction."

"A competitor like Wheeler has earned his place at this race, Jim. And if he's been taken out by more aggressive opponents, perhaps a needle-gun is his only way of making his mark in the race at this time."

"Ah, see how some of the rider's he's hit are pulling over? They know there's a chance they've been infected. Remember, in Dusylin, they still don't prescribe retrovirus weapons."

"Which means that the intentional use of a retrovirus with a needle-gun is fair game. Yes, I'd be pulling over, too."

I shook my head. Number 48! I'd been standing right next to that asshole at the start line. I made a left and rejoined the route of my original plan. I was about half-way to the first marker. As the map showed, the vast bulk of the remainder of the field was following the official course out along the point. And though some of them were making excellent time, there was no way they'd catch me before I got to the first marker. They were, in essence, taking a twenty-five-kilometer route to cover a space I'd be closing in only five kilometers, and I was already halfway there.

It was only once I'd show my hand by turning up at the marker that I'd draw attention. And with some of the psychotics I was competing with, the last thing I wanted was attention.

"Dan, we're going to the international surf-hunting competition underway on the Great Barrier Wastes. We'll continue to bring live updates from Dusylin as they occur."

I blessed the Goddess on that count, and swerved to avoid a motor vehicle that appeared out of nowhere. The driver blinked at me through his armoured windshield, and I gave him the finger. Internal combustion for Christ's sake!

Focusing on my cycling, I tried to keep cool. What I was doing was clearly within the scope of the race. I wasn't worried about being tossed out of the race; I was just worried about rising to the lead. If I couldn't stay out of sight during the race I'd be in real danger. And staying out of site would be effectively impossible with the map.

I passed Elizabeth street, and reached up into the pouch behind my neck. Tucked into the space between my helmet and the back of my racing shirt was a small tent-like structure of fabric that completed the aerodynamic shape the of the helmet. I'd stuck my camera in there. After fiddling with the fastener, I pulled it out. It was about the size of a Ping-Pong ball; little more than the housing for the lens and a shutter-release button. I palmed the thing, and watched the approaching intersection ahead. It was free of spectators, mercifully, so I was able to chose my angle of approach as I shot across the broad street selected for the official course.

With a lot of shouts coming up from the crowd, I sailed across the four lanes of the main course, and reached out with my camera. I depressed the shutter release, and recorded the entire segment of road by taking a couple hundred shots. Sure I'd captured the marker, I reached up and placed the camera back in the triangular fabric space behind my neck.

Then someone told the commentators.