Catalyst

fiction by michael werneburg

2001.12.09

"What's more, he's avoided some of the worst street surface conditions in the Old Town by avoiding the harborfront on the one hand, and the West End on the other. He'll be making a left at Thomas Street, then a right onto Garland Boulevard. Then he's got the right of way all the way down Garland to the palace, and to the third marker."

I blinked in surprise. It was beautiful. Much better than my route, actually. With the reduced traffic, I could take Garland for once in my life. I zipped into the left lane, and watched for a hole in the traffic. Given the conditions, it wasn't hard. I just cut off the next motorist, and was on Thomas. Just two blocks to Garland, and no more motor vehicles emerging from side-streets, no more speed bumps, and no more traffic signals to ignore.

"Well! It looks like you called that one right, Doctor."

"Yes, Dan. Like I say, he is a local boy," the Doctor responded dryly.

Approaching Garland, I had to wonder. Was the Doctor—and by extension, the city planning department, or perhaps even the Mayor or the Prince himself tipping me off? I braked hard to avoid some asshole who ignored a stop sign, and turned right onto Garland. I caught a glimpse of the camera crew following me on their platform half a block back.

"Now, back to the second marker. We'd hoped to have someone at the marker, but with things moving as quickly as they have, that won't be an option. So let's review what's happened; Dan?"

"Right, Jim. We've just witnessed what has to be the sloppiest turn-point in the history of cycle racing. As you'll see, a large pile-up occurred when the pack reached the second marker. Security personnel on site are clearly having difficulty containing the crowd, which has gone wild with the day's events. The first cyclist managed to find a path into the intersection, but the next few riders weren't as lucky. Watch here, as we slow it down, as no fewer than eight of the cyclists slam into the crowd after the first cyclist passes."

"That's terrible; what happened?"

"Well, it just looks like the crowd—mostly young men, as you'll note from the casualty report -"

"Right."

"Well, the crowd just seemed to be pushing and shoving, and they simply failed to make way for the cyclists."

"Bad news for the crowd, but good news for the leader, Cyrus Tilescu?"

"Not entirely, Jim. It seems that during the long climb to the second marker, a number of experienced riders managed to make up for lost time and then some. They actually gained a kilometer or so on the leader. Now, as we saw, with his clearly obsolete bicycle and evident lack of conditioning, Tilescu is actually no match for some of these riders in speed or endurance."

"Right. But I believe that even after the crowd parted and let the remaining field of forty-odd competitors through, there were some significant delays?"

"That's right. It seems that the first rider to make it through, #50 from the Coign team, can't find the marker. He's circled the area, but spectators are actually covering the marker."

"What's this, is the crowd delaying the pack?"

"It seems that they've thrown themselves behind Tilescu!"

"In Dusylin, that could mean many things, but I'm smelling money!"

"You said it, Jim. Anyone who placed bets on Tilescu before the race could stand to make more than he will!"

On hearing this, a knot formed in my stomach. I didn't want to know that I had people placing bets on me. That's all I'd need, to get my kneecap broken by some punter who'd lost his wages should I fail.

"Now other riders have arrived at the marker," announced the anchor, "and—oh my God! A rider has plowed into the spectators covering the marker. He's off his bike and is beating spectators with a baton. It could only be, yes: It's #302! Warren Goss has reached the second marker. And he's off, and that's #23, Homer Norris from Christchurch right behind him. Where are they going, Doctor?"

"It seemed that Goss was heading for the same route that Tilescu took, but he seems to have changed his mind and followed Norris. They've selected a rather steeper route to the third marker -"

"I'll say they have, they're both heading right down the famed 400 stairs of Dusylin," exclaimed the anchor. "Doctor, what lies at the bottom of the stairs?"

"Well, it's a residential part of the Old Town. Not a particularly good neighborhood. In fact, you may recall that when the race passed through in 2207, a teenage boy with an antique rifle-"

"The sniper. Reginald Collins, the sniper who went on to star in the Exocide movies," gushed Dan.

"That's right," the Doctor said. "Now, there are no bad neighborhoods, just opportunities to expand certain projects-"

"Hold that thought, Doctor! So, we've got two inexperienced cyclists heading down one of the longest sets of stairs in these islands, and after that passing into the neighborhood where no professional cyclist has dared tread these last ten years. Where will it all end. Dan?"

"Well, Jim, I've got to say those guys have guts! They'll knock off some of Tilescu's lead for sure, but I wonder if the riders on the expressway aren't more of a threat?"

"Right, let's have a look at the remaining leaders. We've seen Tilescu make good time through the Old Town, we've seen fellow unknown, Homer Norris—the second man to reach the first marker—take a dangerous route with a killer on his heels. And now, we've got some twenty cyclists on the route that Tilescu took, and rather more on the expressway. Doctor, tell me about the expressway."

"It's the longest, but surest route to the Prince's palace," the Doctor surmised. "Not much traffic, certainly no decisions to make along the route. That's certainly the route I'd take if I were unfamiliar with the city. Or driving," he added.