“Ah, Estragon.”
“Morning Vladimir.”
Estragon continued mopping the metal floor as his colleague shuffled toward him, broom in hand.
“And how has your night been, old one?” said Vladimir.
“Old one he says. Listen to him. As if he's the spring chicken.” Estragon licked his lips. “You're catching up, you know.”
“I'm catching up? And how's that possible dear Estragon, answer me that?”
“Hm?” said Estragon, ear pointed toward his colleague.
“I said, how is that possible?”
“How's what possible?”
“How is it possible that I'm catching up? In age, I mean.”
“Oh, that's easy,” said Estragon. “It's well known that you age faster as you get older. You can't tell me a day today is the same as it was in your youth, old man.”
“Old ma-” Vladimir choked on the phrase. “And that's beside the point, if we aged as we got older, you'd be getting older faster than me. Which would mean, ipso facto, you will always be winning the race.”
“The race? Where are we racing now?” said Estragon.
“The race to the end.”
“What end? Where are we going? Argh, we're always going somewhere.”
“No, not somewhere,” said Vladimir. “The end isn't somewhere. It's more an...idea.” He leant his chin over the long broom handle as he brushed aside the debris of the corridor.
“We're headed for an idea?” Estragon removed his bowler hat and, through thick blonde hair, managed to scratch his scalp.
“Well, something like that. I forget the details.”
“And what is this idea? Can I hear it?”
“I said I forget the details. It doesn't matter.”
“It does,” said Estragon. “I'd like to know where we're going.” He mopped one portion of the floor, the wet fibres only managing to give his holy shoes a clean. “Where did you hear this?”
“Oh, I don't know,” said Vladimir, straining his gaunt face. “Everyone's heard it, at one time or another. You've heard it, the-”
“I've heard it?” said Estragon. “When did I hear it?”
“When you were younger, perhaps.”
“Younger? You're not too far off me, you know, in the age department. And you're gaining.”
A heavy jolt almost knocked Vladimir off his feet. “And what are they doing now?” he said, steadying himself.
“Ah, I'm wondering that myself. They've been at it off and on all night.”
“Who has? The flight crew?”
“Hm?” said Estragon.
“What's been off and on?” said Vladimir, louder. “Are they shooting targets out there?”
“Could be, could be. You might be on to something. All I know is that I've barely been able to get a nap in.”
“Do you think they know where to aim? That they're not meant to shoot the ship?”
“Oh it's all their hair,” said Estragon. “The roots get too long and infect the brain.”
“You're one to talk,” said Vladimir.
Estragon blew the long blonde locks out his eyes. “No, not me, them,” he said. “No offence.”
“And what does that mean?”
“Well with the, you know,” said Estragon, his hand wavering a finger toward his colleague's head. “No offence meant.”
Vladimir squashed down his own bowler hat. “Yes, well, I'm getting older you know.”
“I knew it! I told you!”
“You told me what?”
“You're getting older. Like I said.”
“Well done. You win.”
“Not another race?” said Estragon. “To be honest, I'm a bit too tired for races.”
As he was speaking a din grew in the distance, followed by a swarm of soldiers each with clean and ironed uniforms of blue, stamping their boots with vigour across the clean wet floor.
“Hey, hey, watch it!” said Estragon.
They were already buzzing away when Vladimir let out a half-hearted addendum, saying, “He's only just done that bit.”
“Thanks for your help,” said Estragon.
“What? I called out. I did my bit against the evil imperialists.”
“Oh yes, you showed them.”
“You already did that part of the corridor. I know. I told them. It's all sorted out now.”
“Thank you my brother. What else will you do for me? Feed me grapes in my parlour? Hold me up when I go to the toilet? Clean my shoes?”
“Your shoes get a good cleaning at any rate,” said Vladimir, nodding at the wet tattered fabric.
“Hm?” said Estragon, believing that scrunching his face would improve his hearing.
“What? Hey? Where? When?”
“Oh alright then, make fun of me. You're such a sprightly one. Full of vigour and such. Well done you.”
“Just don't collapse on the floor and make me carry you some place. I don't think my muscles could take it.”
“Oh yes, that's it!”
“That's what?” said Vladimir.
“That's it, that's what.”
“What's it?”
“What I was trying to remember. You interrupted me. The soldiers that went past – they were soldiers, right?”
“I cede to your greater sight,” said Vladimir, adjusting his glasses.
“Ah yes. The soldiers. They shouldn't be running like that. It's a health and safety issue. What would have happened if one of them slipped and fell backwards? Oh I know, they've got a gun, and that makes them important; so important that they couldn't possibly slip on a wet floor and crack their head open.”
“That's the problem. Permanently in a hurry. Did I ever tell you that when I was younger I designed the interior of a colony class ship, and improved the internal transportation methods, cutting down on end-to-end journey time by thirty percent?”
Estragon stopped mopping and stared dully at his colleague. A smile slowly formed as a crease amongst many on his cherub face. “You did not. You didn't design anything.”
“I did! I designed even this one, I think.”
“Designed this one?”
“Or one like it. They're all pretty similar I suppose.”
“You didn't design this one.”
“I did! Read the plaque if you don't believe me.”
“Plaque?” said Estragon. “What plaque?”
“The one on the ship. Don't you always read the plaque?”
“Where is this plaque?”
“Depends on the ship. But it's in lots of places. Depends on the ship, of course.”
“Like where? Somewhere near here?”
“I suppose,” said Vladimir. “Down a corridor is as good a place as any to put a plaque.”
Estragon looked around. “On the wall, do you think? Or somewhere else?”
“On the wall, sure. On the wall. Or somewhere else.”
Estragon mopped his way to the angled metal corridor wall, saying, “About eye level?”
“Eye level. Aye.”
“Hmmm. There's something here.” Estragon scratched at the surface, leaning in with a squint. “This colony class vessel internals designed by Becky Sams.”
“Ah, Becky Sams. A good designer. Good.”
“You know her then? This Becky Sams?”
“Know her? She's a good designer, very good. The ship is in good hands.”
“So you're not Becky Sams?”
“I'm not Beck- Of course I'm not Becky Sams. Do I look like a Becky Sams?”
Estragon raised his hat, leant in, and peered at Vladimir. “No,” he said, at last. “So you didn't design it?”
“Design what?”
“This ship. You didn't design it.”
“Oh no, not this ship. Stands to reason. I would have done a much better job if I'd designed it. No doubt. Those soldiers wouldn't have needed to jog or run or walk or whatever is was they were doing.”
“So dangerous,” said Estragon. “Imagine all the crew downtime with all the injuries. Just imagine!”
The corridor shook with a jolt and the sound of crumbling beyond the walls.
“It's short term thinking, that's what it is. You know what they did? They had to add an extension to the port wing. An extension! All the new civilisations we're picking up and they didn't think they'd need a place for them to stay.” He hissed out his nose before wincing in pain at a cut on his finger.
“Why do they do that, then? No planning ahead?”
“They just get younger every year, brother. Youth breeds ignorance, if nothing else.” But he was focussed on his finger more than the words out his mouth.
“What'd ya do there?”
“Just a cut,” said Vladimir. “Only just noticed it.”
“When did you do it?”
“Only just noticed it, like I said. And why is it that I did it? Wasn't it done to me?”
“Hm?” said Estragon. “We're all purveyors of our own future. It all has to start somewhere. Stands to reason.”
“Why can't it just happen?” said Vladimir. “Like in those old dice games, you know the ones. Why can't it be like that? A quick throw, let go, see where the cookie crumbles.”
“What dice games?”
“Oh, you know the ones. What's-it and who's-it. The names aren't important.”
“If names aren't important, I've got a few I can call you. Names aren't important, he says!”
Vladimir sucked on his cut finger. “They aren't. If this was called a komboobally instead of a finger it wouldn't matter a smidgen.”
“Is it?”
“It is what?”
“Called a komboobally. Is that what they call it?”
“What who calls it?”
“I don't know, one of the other species. There are many, you know. They each have their own language. That's something they aren't interested in sharing. At least not at first.”
“It's not what anyone calls it. I just made it up.”
“A komboobally, you say? Not bad, not bad. Bit long. Way too long. But not bad. Gives a better feel for the joints, for all the bits that move and bend. Far better than finger.”
“Psh,” said Vladimir. “Now you're just playing the devil's.”
“Not infected, is it?” said Estragon with an upturned nose.
“I only just did it.”
Estragon noticed a chink and went for it, saying, “Ah-”
“I mean, it was only just done to me. Before you start again.”
“You're not one of the important ones, you see; not important without a gun. So it's not worth it for them to help you. They can ignore your arthritic legs and tennis elbow and your cut and your Alzheimers.”
“Alzheimers?” said Vladimir. “Who's got Alzheimers?”
“Never mind.”
“No, what do you mean Alzheimers?”
“Ah, you've forgotten. Never mind, never mind.”
“They think we're just cogs in a wheel,” said Vladimir.
“Who does?”
“They think anyone can come in and clean this place just as well.”
“Who thinks that?”
“They do, they! Now who's the one with Alzheimers?”
“You know, you should get it checked out,” said Estragon. “The finger, I mean. Not the Alzheimers.”
“No,” dismissed Vladimir, rubbing any excess blood on the torn shreds of cloth he wore.
“You should. Really. They have to write it down, put it in a report. Shows how dangerous the job is. We might even get danger pay.”
An ostentation of pilots, with red pin stripes and gelled blonde hair, crashed through Vladimir and fled away down the corridor, woollen hoods bouncing against their backs.
“No, you need a nice uniform for that,” said Vladimir, looking past the stained beige blanket his colleague wore. He slowly lowered his head and went back to sweeping.
After a moment Estragon clutched his grumbling stomach. “Been a long shift,” he said after noticing Vladimir's accusatory stare.
“Have you tried the Xinghoola?”
“Are you still talking about your finger?”
“No, not the komboob-something, the Xinghoola.”
“So it's food, then? Nice, is it?”
“Sure it's nice. I wouldn't bring it up if it wasn't nice. They only have it in the mess upstairs.”
“Ugh. Too far to travel,” said Estragon, out of breath. “Too far. A pity. What does it taste like?”
Vladimir put on his thinking man's pose, resting his chin on his hand on his broom pole. He twisted his head one way, then another. Finally he opened his mouth and answered, “Chicken.”
As if laughing from an incredibly funny joke the corridor shook with a larger jolt, dislodging debris from the rafters. A single soldier, racing toward them, slowed to keep his balance.
“Heyo!” said Estragon. “My friend! I haven't seen you in such a long time.”
The man, for that is what he clearly was despite the vulgar attire, exhibited a shocked expression, which slowly straightened as realisation dawned. “Estragon,” he said, hesitating. “Nice to see you.” The corridor and his own uniform seemed to attract his attention more than the large old cleaner.
“Yes, yes, good to see you up and about,” said Estragon. He nodded toward the insignia on the man's shoulder and added, “You've had improvements, I see. Pushed up. You've been pushed up.”
In response to the man's confused stare, Estragon added, “They've bumped you up to Chief Petty Officer now.”
“Uh, yeah. Look, I gotta-”
“Nice, nice,” said Estragon. “Chief Petty Officer Pozzo. Has a nice ring to it. Your mum must be proud, I'm sure.”
“She is, yeah,” said Pozzo.
“How is she, your old mum?”
“Good. Good, yeah. Look, I really have to-”
“Ah, good,” said Estragon. He grabbed Pozzo by the arm and said, “Before you go – always in a hurry, I know – before you go, what's going on around here?”
“What's going on where?” said Pozzo.
The lights momentarily dimmed as the corridor shook violently with great comic timing.
“That,” said Vladimir, joining in.
“Oh,” said Pozzo. “Yeah, apparently Captain Nichols played a game of cards with the Nulu's. They accused him of cheating and now we're in an all-out war.”
“Not very lucky, then, this Captain Nichols?” said Estragon.
“So it's not our own long-haired lot practising?” said Vladimir. “It's a proper war going on out there?”
Pozzo's eyes widened as he said, “Yeah, it's a proper damn war. I've gotta go.”
“Make sure to say hi to your mum for me!” said Estragon to the shrinking figure.
“Another war, hey?” said Vladimir.
“Another one,” said Estragon. “When was the last, do you think?”
“Not long. Not long ago. It never is. They don't need much of an excuse to drag out the weapons. Then they can trot out the same lines, always about peace and-”
“They! They! There he goes talking about they's again. Who are these they's?”
“It's them, obviously,” said Vladimir. “I mean clearly. If it's not them, then who is it exactly?”
“Them who?” said Estragon.
“Oh, I forget exactly who. But you know who they are. Everyone does.”
“And they want peace, do they?”
“Not peace as such, no. They want to always be striving for peace, yes, definitely always striving. That's what they aim for. That's their goal. To always be striving for peace.”
“But they don't actually want peace?” said Estragon.
“Oh no, what would be the point in that? How can you keep striving for peace when you've already got it? Stands to reason.”
The lights dimmed again, this time to be replaced with a dim red. The P.A. crackled in anticipation as a monotone female voice said, “Red alert. Red alert. All essential personnel to positions immediately. Red alert.”
“All essential personnel. Essential, is that how it is?” said Vladimir.
“We're all essential, brother,” said Vladimir. “That's what they don't get. The ones who make decisions. The ones who roll the dice. You need everyone for a ship to run smoothly. Everyone. Especially out here in deep space.”
“Oh, if only. If only they knew that. The ones who make decisions. If only they knew that you need everyone. I see your point now, yes. Not thinking, that's their trouble. Not thinking at all.”
“Not caring,” said Vladimir. “It's the apathy that spreads itself out like tentacles. Like the tentacles of an octopus. Out to everyone.”
The P.A. continued to blurt out the same instructions, saying “Red alert. All essential personnel to positions.” It then added something new: “Please stand by for an important announcement.”
“Here we go,” said Vladimir, already looking up at the tiny monitor poking out from the wall.
“An announcement, did it say?” said Estragon. “What'd'ya think it'll be?”
“It'll be about fighting for peace, no doubt,” said Vladimir with a sigh. “Always striving. That's our goal: to strive.”
The scrolling Red Alert text on the monitor was replaced with the head of a clean-cut, sharp haired figure.
“Who's that?” said Vladimir, to a shrugging Estragon.
“All Personnel,” said the figure, “All personnel.”
“Did he just say all personnel?” said Vladimir. “That's us!”
“Your attention please. Your attention please.”
“Hm?” said Estragon, leaning his ear closer to the monitor.
“We've, uh, got ourselves embroiled in a bit of a conflic-” said the figure, quickly drowned out by an explosion and a large beam dropping between Vladimir and Estragon.
“Bit of a conflict?” said Estragon.
“But we need to pull together. All for one and one for all.”
“D'ya think that's the captain?” said Vladimir.
“One of the bigwigs,” said Estragon. “Definitely one of the bigwigs. Doesn't really matter which.”
The figure continued, saying, “It's at times like these I like to think about Earth and how important our mission is, out here in deep space. Just the other day I-” Distracted by whispering off screen, the figure shared his attention in quick flutters.
“You need to speak up!” yelled Estragon.
“I, uh...” said the figure, along with “well...” and “we need to strive for...” before the monitor went dead.
“Inspiring,” said Vladimir.
“Rousing,” added Estragon. “Just the tonic we need, oh yes.” He went back to mopping the floor under his feet. “Oh, look at the boot marks. They certainly aren't mine! What do they walk on?”
Vladimir peeked over Estragon's bulky frame, saying, “You'll never get that out. Not in a million years.”
“Ah well,” said Estragon, tightening his bulbous jaw. “Too bad. They'll have to put up with it.” He said the last part with a wink to his colleague.
“Yes, exactly, if they want it clean they can do it themselves. Stands to reason.”
Distant screams and sounds of gunfire interrupted, followed by a shrill whistle and the synthesised voice of the P.A. saying, “Sections C and D, make your way to escape pods in orange chamber. Sections C and D, make your way...”
“Well that escalated quickly, did it not?” said Estragon.
“If it means I can skip my shift, I'm happy to go along with their little plan,” said Vladimir with a yawn.
“We won't even get a spot on those things, you know. I've seen this before. Back on the last ship. They'll put women and children first. Then all those essential personnel who couldn't even repel a wave of...what were they called?”
“I forget. Something with a U in it, I think. Or a Z. But if I can take a seat while we wait-” Vladimir stretched his stiff back “-they can call themselves whatever they want. We could be waiting for a long time, brother - all day I imagine - by the time they sort themselves out.”
“Yes, looks like we'll be waiting a while yet.”
© 2014 Ben Safta
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.
