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This story received the ‘Highly Commended’ award in the 2022 Boroondara Literary Awards.

Steven was not a special man. Born on the starship Idun, he served alongside thousands of other able-bodied men and women of the janitorial class. He rose every morning to the white light of the ship’s simulated diurnal cycle, he fulfilled his maintenance quota, and he slept at the call of power-down. It had always been this way for Steven, as it had always been on Idun, now in its 200th year of continuous, manned space flight. However, Steven’s role was envied amongst his people. His allocation was one of a proud tradition; a path celebrated by his ancestors. 

Steven was a Painter.

In the Auditorium, he showcased his craft. With a steady hand, he applied smooth lines of regulation, static-dissipative white paint. He searched for signs of leaked coolant, covering the yellow bruising uniformly. He took great care with his work, just as his caretaker had taught him, using his paint roller to flatten the seams between old and new coats. Once he was done, there was no indication that the wall had been touched at all. The mark of a great paint job – perfect preservation.

While Steven marvelled at his work, hundreds of teenagers were gathered behind him. They were members of Idun’s Auditor training program, and they sat enraptured in silence before a podium. They listened to the Chief Auditor, Larry, a man with long, grey hair, uncut for decades, speaking in  rising tones of passion. Larry’s speeches always stirred a sense of duty within Steven, and he took a moment to catch the end of his sermon.

In Idun, the fruit bearer

The Third Wave will be received 

We nourish them with our sacrifice

So that they may descend upon a new land

To re-sow the seed of mankind

With the final incantation spoken, the silence broke into excited applause. Many came up to Larry to shake his hand, effusively bowing. To all, he smiled warmly, making his way through the crowd and toward the freshly painted wall. Steven straightened his posture as he approached.

‘I hope I didn’t disturb you, Steven.’ Larry always made a point of showing he knew your name. He placed a hand on Steven’s shoulder and took in the flat white surface, ‘Excellent work, as usual.’

This made Steven smile. It meant a lot to receive a compliment from the Chief Auditor, even more so from the father of data conservatism. Even now, Steven remembered how Larry had taken charge when the first of Idun’s hard drives began to fail. How he had saved the wisdom of their ancestors by stopping the reckless accessing of the digital archives. It was thanks to Larry that they still had the partial histories. 

‘Painters have always been good men,’ Larry continued. ‘Your commitment to preserving Idun is commendable.’

Steven broadened his shoulders. ‘For the Third Wave.’

‘For the Third Wave.’ Larry stared thoughtfully at the ground, deciding on his next words. ‘Tell me, how old is the middle child now?’

‘Daniel? He’s 10, just started Education.’

‘A good age. I want you to take him on as a protégé.’

‘Already? My caretaker didn’t teach me until I was 18.’

‘You’re of good stock, Steven. Painters always have been. I fear that some might be questioning our sacrifice. We need more like you.’ Larry turned Steven’s shoulder so that the pair stood eye to eye. ‘Pull him out of school. Start tomorrow.’

***

Steven shared his quarters with a complete family unit. He and his partner, Susan, had been paired based on genetic diversity. They had been assigned as caretakers of three children, who now sat around a grey, oval table – a moment of  familial bonding during their evening allotment of leisure. 

Opposite Steven sat Bobby, an Auditor-in-training and the eldest at 17. He had only six months left of mandatory domestics before he officially started his service. The youngest was a newborn girl, swaddled in cloth and cradled in Susan’s arms. She had come full term in vitro not long ago, so had not yet been through name designation. Daniel, the middle child, sat poring over a maths textbook, his homework for the week. Bobby narrowed his eyes as Daniel grabbed for the page ears with his fingers.

‘Be careful with those pages.’ Bobby warned.

Daniel looked up to Steven pleadingly. 

‘Bobby’s right. Don’t wear them out. Make sure you’re not reading that book more than you need to.’

Daniel slumped into his chair and closed the textbook.

‘Actually, I’ve got good news, Daniel. You’re not going to need to read at all anymore. You’ve been cleared to work with me from now on.’ 

Susan leaned over and stroked Daniel’s hair. ‘Did you hear that, Daniel? You’ve got a job as a Painter. You’re a very lucky boy.’

‘Sure, if you want to stay on the lower deck.’ Bobby scoffed. 

Steven let the comment slide. He didn’t have custody of Bobby for much longer. It wasn’t worth arguing over now. 

 Daniel shifted forward, ‘I’ll be a Painter, like you?’

‘Yes, Daniel. Like me.’

The machine chirping of a new message alert cut through the conversation. Steven rocked back to check their wall-mounted monitor. 

‘Maintenance request in the Lower Sector.’

He was met with silence. It wasn’t unusual for Steven to be called out after hours, especially for the Lower Sector, whose residents seemed to take pleasure in resisting curfew.

‘I best be off, then.’ 

He grabbed the painting kit by the door as he left.

Situated next to the engine rooms, the Lower Sector was another section of living quarters for the janitorial class. It was a notorious problem spot for Painters as the heat and engine fluid led to frequent discolourations, plus the vibrations made it difficult to apply an even coat.The halls were dimly lit, but even still Steven could make out the unsightly yellows and blacks flowering through the ancient coats. It was in the seediest, most unpainted section that he found the living quarters for which the request had been lodged. Inside a woman sat at a grey, oval table, her arms crossed.

‘I’m the Painter. There was an Auditor request for a child’s room?’

The woman turned her head away, she was not cooperating. Fortunately, Steven was a professional. He rested his kit by the door and took out his painting tools. All Lower Sector quarters had the same layout, so he walked confidently to where the children’s rooms would be. When he entered, though, he paused – the back wall had been scribbled over in light blue crayon, patches of white left untouched to crudely impersonate clouds. It was similar to the pastoral diagrams shown to History classes. On the floor were the discarded crayon culprits, worn down to the nub. An appalling waste of resources.

The woman’s voice interrupted Steven’s shock, ‘How can you do this?’

Steven turned to see her now standing at the doorway. A small boy held tightly onto her leg, warily peeking an eye out. He couldn’t have been more than five years old. 

‘It’s my duty.’ Steven turned back to the wall and wet his paint roller. In broad, clean strokes he recovered the wall with regulation white paint.

***

‘This is the mixing room. The heart of it all.’ 

Daniel and Steven stood on a walkway that leant over an enormous paint churning vat, its twin blades folded layers of white paint and sent dull vibrations through the metal frame. Daniel liked the way it made his teeth chatter when he rested his chin on the railing. 

‘It holds 375 cubic metres of paint.’ Steven recalled the words his caretaker had first said to him. ‘That’s 375 000 litres. Have you learnt about volume yet?’

Daniel shook his head. ‘What’re those?’ He asked, pointing past the vat to shelf after shelf of airtight, metal canisters.

‘They’re pigment cans.’ Steven gestured to a large opening in the vat, ‘Technicians combine them with a base in the vat. The labels tell you what colour you’ll get if you mix it. You need to pay close attention to how many parts per million are listed on the label, you don’t want to go over -’

‘Can we make blue?’ Daniel’s face had a vibrant look that Steven had never seen before. ‘Blue’s the colour of sky. I learnt about it at school.’

Steven laughed at Daniel’s naiveté. ‘I’ve been to school too, Daniel. Remember, we only use what we need. For the Third Wave’

Daniel mumbled the mantra of Idun, ‘For the Third Wave…’

‘C’mon, let’s get to work.’

***

In the Upper Sector, the pair painted the walls of the Gallery, a place that held all the curios of the First Wave. A request had been made to recover the Picture Hall. Here, paintings hung in heavy, metal frames, starkly out of place. It annoyed Daniel how they got in the way. He holstered his roller into his work belt and sat down in a huff.

‘Why are these here?’ he asked.

‘The first Painters made them. They’re from Earth.’ Steven explained.

‘Painters made these?’ Daniel read the plaque beneath the painting in front of him aloud.

‘De Goya…He’s a bad Painter.’

Steven examined the painting himself. Saturn Devouring His Son the plaque read. An ugly image. On the canvas, waves of pigment were blended wastefully in asymmetrical strokes. No care had been taken to hide where the roller had touched the surface, visible brush strokes could be found all over. Steven frowned.

‘This is awful.’

‘See! We should just paint over them.’ Daniel pouted.

Steven had never thought about that. The only advice his caretaker had given him was to make sure every wall, hall, and room was uniform. His duty was to preserve, but there was no sense in maintaining shoddy craftsmanship. What was important was ensuring that the Third Wave could forge on with the resources left to them. Steven took his roller and painted a large, white line down the middle of the painting. Peaks of the original pigment poked through; it would take many more coats to get a nice, flat surface. Daniel’s pout eased into a smile. He picked up his roller and rushed to Steven’s side, eager to cover the terrible painting. 

‘I’m glad you don’t paint like that.’ Daniel said, grinning.

Steven ruffled Daniel’s hair. The pair wet their rollers and got to work.

That night, Steven received a message of praise from the Gallery Auditor. The Picture Hall had never looked so organised, they said. A warm sensation filled his chest – a Painter’s pride. For both himself, and for Daniel.

***

The Auditorium was due for another coating. Chief Auditor Larry was again delivering a speech while Steven and Daniel worked. Larry had taken to wearing a robe made of surplus bedding these days. 

We labour, so that they may be free.

As he applied fresh coats to the areas Daniel couldn’t reach, Steven coached him through proper roller technique. He had improved a lot since their first day together. Steven hadn’t expected someone so young to have the commitment required to be a Painter. It made him glad to be Daniel’s caretaker.

We go hungry, so that they may eat.

The sound of someone clearing their throat interrupted the pair. It was Bobby. Several months had passed since he had become a full-time Auditor. Steven had not spoken to him since. He nodded a greeting and spoke, reading off a clipboard. 

‘At the request of the Chief Auditor, a global recall on rubber has been issued.’

Steven slipped his shoes off and kicked them toward Bobby. ‘Sure, I know the drill.’

Bobby lingered. ‘And the child?’

‘Bobby, please. Isn’t he too young?’ 

‘Need I remind you that refusing an Auditor request is a direct violation of Material Scarcity Law?’

Steven stood there dumbly. Deep in his gut he felt something hot and fierce. It spread into his arms, making his fingers twitch. He wanted to act, but what could he do?

Bobby addressed Daniel directly, ‘Take off your shoes.’

Daniel carefully slipped off his shoes and placed them, heels together, in front of Bobby. Then he took a step back, head down, to take his place against the wall. The surge in Steven’s gut dissipated into a dull tingling sensation as Bobby hooked his forefingers into Daniel’s shoes and held them up for scrutiny. He inhaled sharply through his nose and wrote on his clipboard.

‘There’s signs of wear on the rubber sole. As his caretaker, Steven, make sure you monitor his activity more closely.’ Bobby took both pairs of shoes under his arm. ‘Redistribution will be handled in a week’s time. Make sure you complete your requisition form.’

We preserve. We conserve. We live for the Third Wave.

That night, Steven watched Daniel from the doorway as he got into bed. He looked so small. The grey covers of his bed swallowed him right up to the neck, and his breathing was thin against the mechanical droning of the ship’s HVAC systems.

***

Work began in the mixing room that morning. Requests had been made for the Mess Hall and Leisure Centre, meaning they would need four buckets of regulation white. Two each, though Steven planned to carry three so Daniel wouldn’t tire out his roller arm. While Steven tasked Daniel to fill the buckets from the vat, he reasoned with an Auditor conducting a routine check.

‘What about pens? Just one blue pen.’ Steven asked the Auditor, who looked to be around Bobby’s age. Auditors seemed to be getting younger.

The Auditor deferred to his clipboard, ‘There’s a freeze on all inks at the moment.’

‘Do you have any books? Daniel used to like reading them.’

‘We only distribute books to Education, I can’t clear them for personal use.’

‘Daniel works for the ship! He’s a Painter. Doesn’t he deserve something…anything?’

‘As a juvenile, all requests go through the –’ 

The Auditor’s recital of requisition protocol was cut short by a loud metallic crash. 

Steven looked over and saw an opened canister of pigment rolling down the metal stairway, coughing up brilliant blue gobs of paint with each step it struck. Steven pushed the Auditor to the side and sprinted to the walkway. His bare feet slid through the blue slick as he jumped up the stairs to the lip of the churning vat. He looked down with wordless terror. 

He saw Daniel only one last time, bobbing to the surface with wide eyes. Two inky black circles in a sea of white. A thick bubble expanded around Daniel’s mouth as he tried to force a scream through the viscous paint. But the vat’s blades rotated, unperturbed, folding layer upon layer of heavy liquid over Daniel until he sunk deep into an undisturbed, white abyss.

It was far too late by the time the technicians came. The body came out of the vat rigid, eyes and mouth painted tightly shut. He looked just like a plastic figurine, a toy made of a once living boy. Steven couldn’t bear to look. He sat at the bottom of the stairs, staring into the dried blue stain. He couldn’t shake the image of Daniel’s pleading eyes. He felt a familiar stirring in his gut, but this time it forced an action. It tore at his insides, exploding outward with painful heat. Steven vomited onto the floor. 

Chief Auditor Larry was discussing the events with the attending Auditor. It was noted that no attempt was made to rescue the blue pigment. Larry collected the tail of his robe and sat beside Steven, placing a consoling hand on his back while he spat up stomach acid and bile. 

‘A shame, Steven. How do you plan to forge ahead?’

Steven leant back and closed his eyes. The image of his son, the fragile, lifeless doll, stung his retinas. Larry guided the conversation. 

‘I’ll tell you how. You’re going to paint. You need to paint. Idun gave you that roller and now you need to show a Painter’s strength. A tragedy, yes, but we need to think beyond the individual.’

Steven cleared phlegm from his throat. ‘I’m going to paint.’

‘Good man, Steven.’ Larry stood up and straightened his robe. 

‘We’ll need to remix the white. There might be contamination.’ Steven continued, on autopilot.

‘Ah, yes, I spoke to the technicians about that. The vat had only just been refilled, had it not?’

‘375 000 litres.’

‘We can’t throw that much away. Everyone on this ship makes sacrifices, we can’t be reckless with our wastage.’

‘What do you mean?’ Steven felt like throwing up again.

‘We have to use that paint. We all agree that the contamination will be minimal. We can’t afford to replace it.’

Steven let his vision lose focus as he listened to the low, continuous rumbling of the churning vat. He rested his head on the railing and felt the vibrations rattle through his teeth. He knew what had to be said. 

‘Of course. For the Third Wave.’

Larry smiled his usual, warm smile. ‘For the Third Wave.’

With that parting affirmation, Larry left Steven with his duty.

***

He had been given bereavement leave for a week, but Steven returned to work that night. He worked well past power-down, painting in the dark. He made unscheduled visits to the Lower Sector, covering the blemishes that had bled through the engine rooms. He worked without sleep, without concern for himself. He worked with a Painter’s strength, pushing on as his hands blistered and his legs trembled from fatigue. It wasn’t until morning that he laid his roller to rest, his job done.

And, when the white light washed through the halls again, Idun’s people saw what Steven had created. From floor to ceiling, in perfect strokes, every surface was covered in brilliant, sky blue. The colour that comes from just a small contamination to a batch of regulation white.