The star ahead brightens by amounts only I can love: another week, another hundred-millionth of a magnitude.
The Ship’s Log
Everything NOR has recorded since departure — the full record, newest first. One day aboard passes every hour of Earth time.
Safiya Bishara is delivered of a son in the middle watch. The child is called César.
Maintenance sweep of Ring C complete. Somewhere aft a wrench is missing; it will surface in a decade, in a wall, with a story attached.
Census check: 1050 souls, 65 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
A birth in Ring D: Ruth, girl, generation 1. I have added the name to the manifest with the others.
NOR Compute Core back in service. The old hands say it sounds better than before; the instruments say it sounds the same.
A failure in NOR Compute Core. The duty crew is roused; tools move down the spinal corridor at a jog.
The circle has answered. No deferrals. The ship chooses more voices in the corridors and sharper eyes on the gauges.
Census check: 1049 souls, 64 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
The star ahead brightens by amounts only I can love: another week, another hundred-millionth of a magnitude.
Morale index reads 83. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
First Light festival. The children are lifted to the eyepiece one by one to see where they are going.
The youngest aboard is now Anli Tväten, minutes old, asleep. 1049 souls.
Huifen Peng and Qiang Song name their daughter Zenith. The nursery lamps stay warm.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 17, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 6,291th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
The manifest shortens by one: Yuri Dubrovsky, 61 years. The line rests with the ship now.
Ernest Grantham finishes a play: “Warm Map (Year 17).” It shows in the commons through the week.
All boards green. I count 1048 sleeping heartbeats and call it a good night's work, though the work is theirs.
Tunde Chekhov, sixteen, takes the reactor tech apprenticeship in Drive.
Middle watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
Iveta Zaitsev finishes a tale-cycle: “What the Winter Remembers.” It shows in the commons through the week.
Morale index reads 83. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
Routine watch. The wheat in Bay 3 stands taller than its keepers. 85,067 days to orbit.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 17, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
A child in Ring D asks the corridor speaker what Earth smelled like. I play the rainstorm recording. It is the best answer I have.
The youngest aboard is now Ananya Yan, minutes old, asleep. 1048 souls.
Too soon, at 46: Jinghua Song. The commons fills at brightening with those who knew her.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 17, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
12.28 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 89,162 thousand to go.
The question is put to the wider circle: The crèche question. The ship asks; Earth answers, in its own long time.
Maintenance sweep of Ring A complete. Somewhere aft a wrench is missing; it will surface in a decade, in a wall, with a story attached.
Ingrid Ahlgren has made a play called “A iron orchard.” Asked what it means, she says it means about nine years of evenings.
Departure Day, year 17. The founders' roll is read from the first name to the thousandth, and the young ones try to stay solemn.
Routine watch. The wheat in Bay 3 stands taller than its keepers. 85,114 days to orbit.
Sylvia Ning, sixteen, takes the reactor tech apprenticeship in Drive.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 6,182th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
Census check: 1048 souls, 63 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
A son, Obinna Ding, born in the Ring A infirmary to Peizhi Ding and Halvard Moller. Mother and child are well.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 6,143th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
Remembrance day. The memorial wall is polished by hand, though nothing aboard needs polishing less.
Night watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
Iris Jessop finishes a quilt: “Standing Watch (Year 16).” It shows in the commons through the week.
Census check: 1047 souls, 62 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 16, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
12.29 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 89,206 thousand to go.
A new song from Tarun Hegde — “The Small Garden.” The Archive takes a copy; the original belongs to whoever stands nearest.
Ravindra Yamin, sixteen, takes the seedkeeper apprenticeship in Hydroponics.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 16, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
Maintenance sweep of Ring C complete. Somewhere aft a wrench is missing; it will surface in a decade, in a wall, with a story attached.