Rebecca and the Peacekeepers

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The cold bedchamber reminds me of a mausoleum. When I find Mr. Cranston on the floor face down in his pajamas, I think the billionaire is dead, but he just fell. I struggle to get him back on the bed. He’s two hundred pounds. I weigh one forty-five.

I’m the country type, raised on a farm. No bioengineered powers for me like my sister Raven, but I’m biogenetically strong for a girl, which makes me good at home healthcare.

“Mr. Cranston,” I prepare him for the next tug, “I’m gonna strap this gait belt ‘round your waist. When I pull, use your feet and legs to push up off the floor.”

“Okay, Bessie.” My name is Becky, short for Rebecca, but I don’t correct him the way I did three other times.

“You can brace your back against the bed,” I suggest. “You might use your hands to push off the floor, too.”

He fell reaching for something in his nightstand’s drawer. Lord only knows what. His speech is slurred from a stroke, and I can’t always make out what he says.

When Mr. Cranston tumbled, I was on my evening break in one of his greenhouse gardens, watching monstrous plants devour freshly dead body parts.

Bioengineered, the vibrant green plants grow up to ten feet. They have teeth. The carnivores love to tear into flesh and bones, and they’re always hungry. Their hardy leaves are like arms and hands, ready to grab anything that smells like meat. The BioGardener’s no fool. From a distance, he uses mechanical arms and hands to feed them.

Though the carnivores usually stand still to fool live potential prey, those babies can whip into grab position in seconds.

Years ago, after the BioWar, the Peacemaker and Council Elders commissioned greenhouse farms to eliminate land being used for graves. Dead bodies, before and after burials, had started a plague. Land barons were enlisted to build greenhouse body disposals, which were also biology labs with government scientists as BioGardeners. Mr. Cranston’s greenhouses cover three hundred acres.

“Mr. Cranston, try not to grab me again, sir. But if you must steady yourself on me, go for my arms. Okay? Stay away from my neck, please.”

“Okay, Bessie.”

My orange jumpsuit has long sleeves. My two other bedridden patients clutch them for dear life. But once, I was helping a frail grandma off her bed to a wheelchair. Suddenly, she panicked and grabbed around my neck, thinking she was falling. Whew! Grandma was stronger than she looked. She nearly choked me to death. I had fingerprints and scratch marks on my throat for days.

“Mr. Cranston, I’ll count to three. One, two, THREE.”

Success! He’s back on the bed, looking miserable and trying not to cry.

“It’s alright, sir.” I try to comfort him, but I’m fifteen. What do I know about being a sixty-year-old man who’s had a stroke?

Where’s his home nurse, anyway? I was assigned to work with her by Council Elders. I’m supposed to “assist” the nurse. But on my first day here, she disappeared after fifteen minutes of what she called training. I never see her, except when she dispenses Mr. Cranston’s scheduled meds.

“Okay, sir. How about you get under the covers and rest since you finished your therapies.” His team of therapists–physical, occupational, and speech–work with him every weekday.

I tuck him in the way I would a child, and I’m ready to go home. Mom’s waiting in the old, blue Chevy truck outside.

For weeks, I changed Mr. Cranston’s diapers when he went through an incontinence period. I hated it–more than I hate getting up every day at 4:00 to feed animals before work, the gym, or church–but I also felt sorry for the old man.

I deadlift 300 pounds in a community gym on Saturdays. I love any kind of sport lifting. Despite the exhilaration of using my muscles, I only find myself lifting seniors because Council Elders make me. I appealed their order to have me permanently placed in the senior care industry.

I remember my special hearing as if it was yesterday, though it’s been two months now. The Council Elders looked like hanging judges. I recognized each of them. Their pictures brood in libraries over circulation desks.

On the afternoon of my appeal, I dressed in a special Council Hearing robe with a velvet hood. That turned out to be the best part of my day.

My hearing went like this:

“Ms. Rebecca Blackstone,” the Council Head’s bass voice rumbled through my tensed body, “in the history of the Great Meetings, no one has appealed a Council decision–until you.”

Meetings started twenty years ago.

“Do you know why no one has appealed?” the Head asked, as he peered over the top of eyeglasses. He certainly was a serious dude, and the other two were no joke either. Coincidentally, I couldn’t tell who, if any, were bioengineered.

“Yes, sir ... Mr. Council Head, sir,” I croaked.

Of course, I knew. All children recite the foundation for “why” every school day, from kinder to eighth grade when we graduate. (I’m a recent grad.) The Council is feared as well as revered.

“Good,” he replied, as if reading every thought in my mind. “Now, recite ‘The Divine Peacemaker History and Ode of Gratitude,’ both parts, Ms. Blackstone.”

The original “History and Ode” were hand scripted on papyrus rolls. Now, they are housed under lock and key in a secret location. Schools get photocopies to torture innocent children.

I felt so alone. My parents had been forbidden to appear with me. I was hot in my velvet robe. Sweat soaked my blonde dreadlocks, streamed down my face, and stung my hazel eyes. The robed Council Elders looked smugly cool.

I took a deep, shuddering breath and did as told, for once. I recited what I secretly thought of as the “Submit to Subservience or Die Edict”:

Part 1

The Divine Peacemaker heard our cries and saved our warring world from annihilation.

(Thank you, Peacemaker. We are forever grateful.)

War raged throughout the land, Biogenetics against Bioengineereds.

Bombs rained on land and sea; death and casualties were indiscriminate.

Viruses birthed in labs thrived in homes.

And the people wept.

(Thank you, Peacemaker, for hearing our cries. We are forever grateful.)

The Divine Peacemaker sent The Great Cleansing: Worldwide conflagrations, televised, killed tens of thousands.

The Burning Ones–men, women, and children–had been spontaneously chosen and sacrificed to save millions.

The sacrifice saved millions.

It seemed cruel, initially, but we came to understand that The Peacemaker ended all wars forever because It loves us.

(Thank you, Peacemaker. We are forever grateful.)

Part 2

The Divine Peacemaker selected the best of humanity, Council Elders, to love all people–all Bios–Biogenetics and Bioengineereds.

Guided by love, Elders serve as peacekeepers among the nations, and chart individual paths to The Collective Society’s achievements.

We are all elevated through individual sacrifice.

Because I was a farm girl, but Jamestown had enough farmers, the Council Elders decided I should take care of people instead of animals. That would’ve been alright if the people selected for me were Special Needs kids. I was drawn to them, maybe because I felt like a Special Needs kid–secretly scared and anxious, always, as if something was wrong with me from birth.

I continued the lengthy recitation:

The Divine Peacemaker’s origin and exact nature are unknown, but the mysteries matter not, for The Peacemaker loves us.

(Thank you, Peacemaker. We are forever grateful.)

The Divine Peacemaker gives us Paths of Enlightenment. Each path defines a faction of society. Millions of men and women perform essential acts in twenty-three sacred major industries. Thus, human life is sustained.

Heading each faction is a group of wise rulers known as The Council or Council Elders. The Peacemaker grants these sacred ones ultimate power to rule and guide all individuals in all things.

We accept the Loving Wisdom of The Council and The Divine Peacemaker.

(Thank you, Peacemaker. We are forever grateful.)

Selah.

Finally, I finished.

The Council Head smiled. It was chilling. “Very good, Ms. Blackstone,” he nodded. “We of the Council shall assume you will immediately start the Nurse Internship program, and with the first patient We have chosen for you. He is an esteemed Council loyalist who has served The Council for decades.”

“But, sir,” I immediately answered, “I wanna work with Special Needs kids. I think The Divine Peacemaker would be very pleased with me–and approve my request, instantly. Why don’t You ask It?”

Dead silence.

Now, I understood that weird phrase my older brother Michael used one day, a year ago. He had shattered a living room window while playing with a baseball inside the house. He said when our parents got home and he told them, there was dead silence. For a month after that, he was grounded–couldn’t drive the family car or see his girlfriend.

In the Council Chamber, at that moment, silence felt deadly.

After surviving, and leaving the chamber with a mere seven-day fast imposed on me, I started work with Mr. Cranston.

Months later, here I am trying to get out of the old man’s room without suffering negative consequences.

“Goodbye, Mr. Cranston,” I wave and start to leave at 7:00 p.m. according to my watch. His fancy wall clock is busted and says 1:51. I helped him eat breakfast at 7:00 a.m.

I have no idea who takes over after I end my Monday and Wednesday shifts with him. His wife is frequently away on State business, and his only child, a twelve-year-old son, is at a rich boarding school. Oh, rich kids are never ordered into careers. Instead, they choose their paths with options to be future World Rulers as Council Elders.

“Did you hear me, Mr. Cranston? I’m leaving now.”

Mr. Cranston surprises me. He sits up and leans back on his mountain of pillows. He’s a big man with greyish brown hair and sad brown eyes. His king-size bed is huge. His bedroom is bigger than half the house where I live with my mom, dad, and siblings. Almost everything in this room is beige. Even his pajamas are beige.

My right hand is on the ornate glass doorknob.

“Becky?”

Did he just get my name right?!

“Becky, thank you for helping me.”

I am speechless. He keeps talking.

“My daughter’s name was Becky, short for Rebecca.”

My mouth drops open.

“Before you leave,” he asks clearly without a slur, “would you reach into my nightstand drawer and get something for me?”

I nod yes, without saying a word, and close my mouth. I move to the stand and open the drawer. One thing is in it: a beautiful gold locket. Mr. Cranston reaches for it.

I place the locket in his outstretched hands. He holds the heart in one hand and the end of the long chain in the other. Tears roll down his face as he clutches the heart to his chest.

“Thank you, Becky,” he whimpers. “This belonged to my daughter. She died six months ago. Today, my sweet girl would’ve celebrated her fifteenth birthday.”

Floored, I am sincere when I finally speak. “I am so-o-o very sorry, Mr. Cranston. Is there anything I can do for you?”

What a dumb question! Of course, I can’t.

Again, I am surprised. He answers, “Yes, you can sing ‘Happy Birthday’ with me in memory of my daughter.”

In shock, I stumble to the beige chair beside his bed, and I sit. We sing “Happy Birthday.”

I should leave the poor man in peace to grieve. I get up. My hand is on the glass doorknob, again.

“Mr. Cranston, sir, how did your daughter die?”

Tears rim his reddened eyes.

“My lovely daughter, Becky, was in one of the greenhouses,” he hoarsely says. “She was fascinated by the plants. The BioGardener was away. Becky got too close. The plants are always hungry.”