Catalyst

fiction by michael werneburg

"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.

"Welcome back, viewers, to our coverage of the eighteenth annual free cycle race in Dusylin. A stunning development this morning, as an unknown entrant has just crossed the first marker!"