The Relic Keeper by N David Anderson

nutrients that you could possibly ask for in there. It’s all critical stuff. And you can feed a lot of people with just a few fishes. You should know that.”
    “Yeah, but it doesn’t taste of anything.” The porter tilted his head but made no reply. “It doesn’t matter,” carried on Mathew.
    “Do you want me to try to get you something special? I can get anything.” He lowered his voice and bent down to Mathew’s ear, as if he suspected that they were being listened to. “I can get you anything you want, just ask, but keep it secret.”
    Mathew felt a small rush of anxiety run though him. He briefly thought about the first time a friend’s older brother had brought them hash when they were 14. It was a strange feeling.
    “What could you get?” he asked, curiosity getting the better.
    “Anything,” came the vague reply.
    “I’ll let you know,” he whispered, sensing that the promise was somewhat hollow.
    “Let me know,” echoed the porter as he turned to leave.
    “I tell you what I would like,” yelled Mathew after him as he reached the door. “Some music. Rei promised she’d get some, but she never brought any. Could you do that?”
    “Yes sir, I can get music.”
    “Thanks, err, sorry, I never caught your name.”
    “James. James Peacock.”
    “Well thank you James. You could be my saviour.”
    “No problem sir. You could be mine.”

18
    Sometimes a story comes to you; others you have to go out and find. Philip’s first ever editor caste this pearl to him, and he’d always remained conscious of it. A good story could appear right before your nose, and a promising lead could vanish into thin air. It was the nature of the job. If he’d stayed with the armed forces, like he intended when he left university, he’d be on good money, with a secure position, probably have travelled, he’d have a pension, and chances are a much better social life than he had now. That was a laugh. He had no social life. There were no friends, just acquaintances, and he spent most of his time either locked in the condo or out chasing stories that vanished like ghosts into the ether. Every time we watched the ethervision images from his c-pac disappear he was reminded of that. Not that he minded as such. And he did make a living – just. But that’s the nature of freelancing. And of course it had to be remembered that most people were prize fucking shits and he was better off without them. God, they really didn’t see the big picture, did they? And it took journos like him to at least try to educate them. A little story about the great foreign world, the industrial East, the collapsed Americas, and you could drop in a few lines about history. Each story let you drip a fraction of education to the ill-informed public, and that had to be good. Didn’t it? Yeah, facts were the panacea to the opiate of the masses. But you had to remember that each morsel that arrived at your c-pac was just a part of the big picture and it may just up and go leaving you nothing to relate to. You just had to be able to tell it apart from the titbits that grew into real gems.
    “Bollocks,” Philip said as he drained the last of the malt. He looked around and remembered the bottle of blended he had in the bathroom, in case of emergencies. The story was going nowhere. A whole religious community blasted out of existence. Two survivors; both of whom had vanished, understandably. And some encrypted message to the police from some Islamist group. Then nothing. The key to this had to be with the two survivors. Nasreen had been a radical Muslim, and if she’d seduced this Deon character into joining her, well, between them they had the ability and background to arrange something like this. It was a bit above their previous escapades, but violence, arson and anti-Christian behaviour were quite possible with them. But why no follow up or direct admission. This was out of keeping with the type of attack he’d come across before. This sort