Journey to RPC-V

by Mo Daniel

Chapter One:

Syntra scanned the old brown and green map hanging on the kitchen wall with interest. Her brother, Zell, had discovered it in the dilapidated remains of a house several miles outside Regional Population Center-VII and had brought the dirty thing home. After a few repairs and a thorough cleaning, the map revealed its details and could divulge much about the history of the surrounding wastelands.

At the time the map had been constructed, many of the areas the Global Alliance now labeled wastelands were green and thriving. Many of the large and small cities that dotted the map teemed with people scurrying about living their ordinary lives. Either they didn’t know or didn’t care what the future held for them. Syntra wondered how they could not even worry about the future of their children.

The cartography of today didn’t begin to match the precision to which the old map was drawn. Regional Population Centers were labeled and drawn with great accuracy, but the frontiers where fewer people lived were not even drawn to scale and lacked features save a mountain or two. The planet’s major ruling authority, the Global Alliance, promoted the idea that the wasteland contained nothing and no one of any importance. Most people Syntra knew believed the lie or at least said they did.

“If that map begins to speak to you one day, Syntra,” said her father as he walked into the kitchen and poured his morning coffee into a handle-less ceramic cup, “please let us know the magic it espouses.”

“Oh, certainly, Dad. Right now, it’s warning me of sarcastic visitors from the East.”

“In this tiny windowless flat, how can you possibly ascertain which direction is east? Anyhow, I wasn’t being sarcastic. I simply wondered if your mind might join us here on the planet. You won’t be here with me much longer, and you’re already out . . . there,” her father pointed toward the small bank of white cabinets, “or whichever direction your uncle lives.”

“Sorry, Dad,” said Syntra. “Zell and I aren’t looking forward to leaving without you. You know that.” She blinked hard to keep the tears back as she touched her father’s arm.

Her father looked up at her and smiled warmly.

“I do know, Syntra. I’m being a bother, of course.”

“With mom gone, you mean the world to us.” Syntra lifted his hand and pressed it against her cheek.

“I’m sorry, Syn.” Her father brightened slightly. “Your plan makes sense. There’s nothing for you here in Seven. Nor for Zell, I’m afraid.”

Now that her mother, Ardez, had died, Syntra had no relative in Regional Population Center #7 to sponsor her continuing education. Her father would have done so if he could, but Merant was not a level one, two, or three worker, which the government required for sponsorship. No exceptions.

“By the way, where is Zell?” asked Syntra.

“He’s sleeping over at Shin’s. You know Zell. Not one for staying put long.”

“I should think Shin’s father would be tired of Zell by now,” laughed Syntra.

“No. I think he welcomes any and all company with open arms since his wife . . . you know.” Her father stared wearily into his coffee.

Syntra wished she hadn’t reminded her father of Shin’s mother’s passing just two years ago. The same virus had taken Syntra and Zell’s mother back when they had lived in Liberty more than eight years before. Young and middle-aged women were so vulnerable to the ailment, the citizens had dubbed it “Mother’s Disease”. Syntra’s mother, Ardez, had meant everything to her father.

“I need to head to work,” said her father, an official state photographer. which was unnecessary to point out since anyone snapping photo shots worked for the state . Merant worked 10-12 hours a day six days a week since his wife had died. Syntra and Zell begged their father to work less, but he said he needed to make more money to support the family now. His children knew that work helped him to keep busy and keeping busy helped him to think of other, less painful things.

After her father left, Syntra stepped into her tiny bedroom, kneeled on the floor and pulled out a small box from under the bed. She set the box on an end table in the living room and removed the lid. Inside the box lay a red and white Pneumonic 3, a small storage device. It was on this device that Syntra had placed all the intelligence files she and Zell would need when they arrived at RPC-V in two weeks. She admired the shiny, metal RPC-Transit tickets needed to ride the rapid transit system to her destination more than a thousand kilometers away. She laid them on the table. They had been difficult to obtain and had required the Transportation Minister’s signature and stamp.