Catalyst

fiction by michael werneburg

"I seriously doubt that," said one of the officials. She was monitoring a screen with headphones on and looked tense. "You two are today's only finalists," she added.

"What happened to Kuan and Goss and Harami?" I asked.

"Kuan and Harami were going at it when some drone turned up. Armed with a .22 caliber rifle. Explosive rounds. Both are dead."

I stared at the woman in shock. "What is that about?"

"Someone wanted the race over. Wanted the killings and violence and destruction over-with."

"The Prince?" I asked, uncertainly.

Two tight-lipped frowning faces regarded me. Not a word was said. I looked back and fretted. What about Goss. It sounded like he'd been left there and I thought that maybe the race officials had miscalculated badly on that score.

"And at the bridge?" Samson asked, as her faced was mopped of most of the blood.

"We've collected the survivors. There weren't many."

"But Bernie?"

He's in intensive care," the woman told Samson. "Wound up at the bridge not long after the microbomb. Got caught in the crossfire between Goss and Kuan."

"But we've got bigger problems," said the fellow who'd been taking care of Irene. "We're getting you to the winner's podium right goddamn now. And when we get there you two are going to stand in front of the cheering crowd and appeal for calm."

"Calm?" I asked.

"You know what's happening in the city!" The woman told me.

"No, I disabled my connection to go offline twenty-thirty minutes ago. Haven't been back."