Free The Relic Keeper by N David Anderson Page B

about 20 trucks to the north of here, and they’ve offered to exchange a lift for some work.”
    “Convoy eh? Where you headin’, then.” The rider looked Deon up and down and studied his tattered clothes. “You leavin’ that fire back outside town?”
    “No. Just heading somewhere. They know where they’re taking me. I just need to get further north.”
    “Got any money?”
    “No,” Deon answered truthfully. “I have nothing.”
    “How you goin’ to pay for a ride north then?”
    “I can work.”
    “You can’t even walk, mate. How you gonna work?”
    “I’m a transmissions guy. I can fix communications,” he said, then added hopefully, “and I can show them how to rig a c-pac to detect and locate the police.”
    The rider thought for a second, and pulled the bike in front of Deon, blocking his path. He climbed off the bike and pulled a blade from his pocket. He flipped it over in his hand, adroitly spinning it around his large fingers. The sinews in his arms flexed as the knife spun. He spoke to Deon while watching the knife.
    “Now, I could take you to a convoy. Save you some walkin’, cos I reckon that leg o’ yours is in a bad way. And there’s some people there could fix you up. Maybe get you north. But what I’m thinkin’ is what’s in this for me? Cos I could just leave you, or take you back, cos I bet there’s someone lookin’ for you back there.” He flicked the knife over again, pointing it at Deon. “There’s a whole lotta stuff I could do.”
    Deon tried to think lucidly through the haze. He had no money, no possessions, save for a c-pac and a pipe, and he realised that the kid may just prefer to cut him for sport. He was not a fighter, and this kid was twice his weight.
    “You ever been in trouble?”
    The rider laughed. “Trouble? What are you, me Da? I’m not troubled by trouble. Filth don’t ever get near us.”
    “Yeah, but I could fix it for you to be someone else. No need to worry about the police catching you, cos if they do, you’ll just be a different person. Critical, eh? Help me get into London and I’ll set you up with a different identity. You could do what you want, and you’ll just slip off all their records.” The guy was thinking about it, which was good. “And, you could get cash from other people, no sweat, no confrontation, no weapons. Just link up a c-pac and take credits out of accounts.”
    “How much?”
    “You can clear an account, ’cos your identity becomes another person’s. Do it less than four times a year and they’ll never even bother looking.” The rider looked at him hard and pocketed the blade.
    “I’ll take you to the convoy, and then they’ll decide if they want to take you north. You can show this identity trick o’ yours, jus’ me mind, not them other tossers. And if you’re right, well that’s ok then. But don’t fuck me over, else you’ll be lookin’ for a new person to be.” He started the bike, Deon climbed on the back and they headed off.
     
    The travellers had mentioned that their transmissions had not been operational past Basingstoke. With some bartering he agreed to fix up their communication rig in exchange for a hurried lift north. At the main camp he was helped into a truck and given a series of mechanic-diagrams to examine. He spent two days working on the c-pacs links they had while the trucks made their slow journey to London. The travellers fed him and one gave him a mixture of herbs and extracts to help his ankle. Although the potion tasted vile, his leg felt better within a day and he wondered if there was something to it. He stayed in the truck most of the time and hardly exercised his leg, which left it stiff, but less sore. He became obsessed in bypassing the transmission blocks, broke only to sleep or for food occasionally. He ignored other aspects of his life and focused only on the job he was performing. Once he had finished he shifted his attention to his promise. He rigged the young