Free Dead Space: Catalyst by Brian Evenson Page A

Istvan’s head and shoulders just a few steps above him.
    All I have to do is get to him, thought Jensi. If I can get to him and touch him, I’ll be able to coax him out of doing whatever he’s thinking of doing.
    But even as he thought this, Istvan lifted his head and began to move.
    “Don’t you think—” a new reporter began to say, and then stopped when she saw Istvan suddenly dash toward the podium. The security man nearest to him had been caught napping, too, and by the time he’d uncrossed his arms and begun to react, Istvan had kicked him hard in the knee. Even from where he was, pushing desperately forward through the crowd to try to get to his brother, Jensi heard the snap of the bone.
    The man went down in a heap, with an unearthly cry. The other guard turned and rushed forward. He was now grappling with Istvan, trying to pull something out of his hand. Someone in the crowd started screaming and suddenly everyone was fleeing down the stairs and away, the flood of moving bodies carrying Jensi along with it. He tried to resist the current, then turned and fell. Someone stepped on his hand, hard, and somebody else stumbled over him and careened farther down the steps, and then he had scrambled to his feet again and was rushing forward. He saw Istvan head-butt the guard he was struggling with. The man let go, stumbling back a little bit before falling down. Fischer now was crouched behind the podium, cowering, protecting his head with his hands. Istvan spun and pointed what was in his hand at the man, and Jensi realized it was a gun.
    “Istvan, no!” he shouted.
    But Istvan didn’t seem to hear him. He had a strange grin on his face—strange because it did not seem malevolent or malicious, but only like the grin of someone who was playing a joke.
    And then he pulled the trigger and there was a roar and Councilman Fischer’s head broke apart to spatter the podium. For a moment the body swayed there and then all the joints went loose and it collapsed. Istvan’s face had changed: he was no longer grinning. Instead he seemed genuinely shocked. He turned the gun around and brought it close to his face and stared into its barrel, as if it could tell him something. Then he lifted his head and suddenly met his brother’s gaze and this time seemed to see him. Shaking his head, he said, “This is not my purpose.”
    “Put the gun down,” said Jensi. “Please.”
    But Istvan kept holding it. “Brother,” he pleaded, “help me.”
    Jensi took a step forward, but it was already too late. The second security guard had regained his feet and plowed into Istvan, knocking him down, the gun clattering away. Istvan didn’t resist. He allowed the man to force his head against the concrete and hold it there while he zip-tied first his arms and then his legs. And Jensi, watching all of this, remembered above all else the way that Istvan’s expression remained puzzled, confused.
    “Who are you?” shouted out one of the reporters who had remained behind. But Istvan didn’t answer.
    Jensi tried to get close but the security guard waved him back and, when he kept on coming, pulled out a pistol, threatened him. “If I need to, I’ll have you taken away along with him,” he said. The other security guard was still lying on the ground, groaning, holding his leg.
    “Why did you do it?” asked one of the few people who had stayed, apparently a reporter.
    “No vids!” said the security guard brandishing the gun, but more than a few people were already taking them with their mobiles.
    This time Istvan did speak. He licked his lips and said, softly enough that Jensi himself could barely hear. “My purpose. But no, it wasn’t … it was wrong.”
    “What was that?” asked the reporter. “Speak up.”
    “Shut up,” said the guard, and kicked Istvan in the ribs.
    “Who gave you your purpose?” asked Jensi.
    “They did,” said Istvan.
    “I told you to shut up,” said the guard.
    “What is it you want to tell