Catalyst

fiction by michael werneburg

"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!"