Catalyst

fiction by michael werneburg

"That's right, Dan. Not only an unknown, but he's some twenty kilometers ahead of the pack, as measured on the racecourse."

"We're tracing this up-start's route now. Ah! See, here, he just left the course at the outset! Surely, Jim, he'll be disqualified?"

"That's not the word I'm getting from race officials, Dan. Seems that as long as he turns up with all three markers photographed, he might avoid disqualification. I believe they're still confirming that fact, though."

"This is turning the race right on its head, Jim. He's blown the whole race right open! On the screen is the profile of the man we're looking at right now. His name is Cyrus Tilescu, and he's a local boy! From right here in Dusylin, these last three years, he's an unemployed paramedic originally from the Free Nations. Lists an address in the Old Town."

I gritted my teeth and started the long ascent to the second marker. If I stayed here on Thurlow, it would take me right to it. Five kilometers of gentle up and down grades, ending in a two-kilometer uphill course. The official course had everyone circling out to the Northwest, through the central business district. I supposed no one would be heading that way, now.

As if to confirm my thoughts, the announcer came back, saying, "Utter chaos has broken out in the pack. Everyone has abandoned the main course, and they are making their way through the streets along whatever direct route will take them to the first marker!"

"It's chaos for sure, Dan. We've got reports of spectators down all along the official route. The riders just ran them down and in some cases there were weapons involved. And look at this; it's what was the leaders, once well ahead of the field. They're now behind the main group of cyclists, and it doesn't look like they're taking it well!"

"Too right, Jim. They were farthest from the first marker when Tilescu crossed. We've got three riders down, now, in the one-time leader's pack. Douglas Forth is out, there is a report that he was hit by a Hawkins nerve bolt. We've got Cong Hufnagel down, apparently. And Sonya Welch is out, do we have the footage?"

"Yes, Dan, it's coming up. Here she is, riding just ahead of Larisa Kuan, and—oh!"

"No doubt about it, Jim, Kuan took her down!"

"I hope she's got an emergency airlift waiting for her at the finish line, because Welch is a member of the royal family, as we all know. We remember what happened last year when that unfortunate fellow from the American Midwest accidentally clipped her."

"Right, Michael Harrison of St. Louis. The insurance company has officially ruled his disappearance during a sailing trip on the Tasman Sea as an accident..."

"So, Kuan's clearly on a tear! We'll have further updates on the ouster of Welch, Hufnagel, and other leaders as we get more details."

I didn't need further urging. I dug in. The going wasn't particularly hard, but the coverage wasn't terribly encouraging. I'd never participated in any real sports event before, but I'd certainly watched enough to know that players at Kuan's level didn't fool around. I'd also picked up the odd survivor of a Hawkins nerve bolt on the job, back as a paramedic in New Vancouver. I was sweating pretty hard. Then I spotted a Megalomedia craft sailing low over the buildings just ahead. They were recording my progress now. I passed through an intersection against the light, and heard the squeal of tires as a motorist came to an abrupt halt. That was when I knew the fear was getting to me. Someone yelled at me from the middle of the street. They running out into the street to watch as I went by.

"Here's our leader, making steady progress up Thurlow. It seems he's making a bee-line for the second marker, Dan."