Sixteen years for Maja Tväten, who signs to Hydroponics late in the second watch and is given a locker, a sash, and a schedule.
The Ship’s Log
Everything NOR has recorded since departure — the full record, newest first. One day aboard passes every hour of Earth time.
A birth in Ring B: Chengdong, boy, generation 5. I have added the name to the manifest with the others.
Xenia Petrov retires in the middle watch. The department logs a quiet debt it cannot repay in parts or hours.
The Crossing feast: more behind than ahead. The long tables come out; the good preserves come down.
5.93 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 41,549 thousand to go.
“The Quiet Window,” a song by Zenith Sharma, is unveiled on the first watch to the particular applause of Medical.
Sixty-eight years: Vega Fang hangs up the sash. An elder's quarters in Ring D stands ready.
Morale index reads 87. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
Fern Mazur does not wake at brightening. 56 years, most of them given to Ecology.
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.
Stanislav Northam and Raisa Orellana are joined under the orchard lamps. The whole of Archive & Schools turns out.
Born in the middle watch: Pallas Shen, generation 5. The ship holds 952 souls tonight.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 2,571th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
First Light festival. The children are lifted to the eyepiece one by one to see where they are going.
I dim the corridor lights a shade for Leticia Zhao, 90. It is little enough.
Sixty-eight years: Tao Aaberg hangs up the sash. An elder's quarters in Ring D stands ready.
A child in Ring C asks the corridor speaker what Earth smelled like. I play the rainstorm recording. It is the best answer I have.
Maintenance sweep of Ring B complete. Somewhere aft a wrench is missing; it will surface in a decade, in a wall, with a story attached.
Routine watch. The wheat in Bay 3 stands taller than its keepers. 43,768 days to orbit.
Morale index reads 87. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
Sixteen years for Martin Sharma, who signs to Ecology at brightening and is given a locker, a sash, and a schedule.
A new poem from Rell Thorvaldsen — “Bright Season (Year 130).” The Archive takes a copy; the original belongs to whoever stands nearest.
Sixteen years for Dagny Kowalczyk, who signs to Life Systems on the first watch and is given a locker, a sash, and a schedule.
Last shift for Ignacio Fossum, who joined Medical half a century ago. The crew line the corridor and knock wrenches on the rails.
A new quilt from Konstantin Valdivia — “The Small Anchor.” The Archive takes a copy; the original belongs to whoever stands nearest.
Night watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
The star ahead brightens by amounts only I can love: another week, another hundred-millionth of a magnitude.
The manifest shortens by one: Lakshman Tväten, 81 years. The line rests with the ship now.
I compare today's star field against day one's. The constellations have begun, very slightly, to come apart. Nobody else will look; that is what I am for.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 2,499th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
Cygnet Nwosu stands down from Life Systems at sixty-eight, to the orchard benches and the long game of stones.
After 58 years, Eos Orellana has let go. Remembrance in the Ring B commons at next dimming.
The youngest aboard is now Ada Shen, minutes old, asleep. 954 souls.
Nicolás Zhao retires on the night watch. The department logs a quiet debt it cannot repay in parts or hours.
Census check: 953 souls, 130 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
A new song from Hassan Ashworth — “A small field.” The Archive takes a copy; the original belongs to whoever stands nearest.
Departure Day, year 130. The founders' roll is read from the first name to the thousandth, and the young ones try to stay solemn.
Too soon, at 45: Vera Kong. The commons fills late in the second watch with those who knew her.
Morale index reads 88. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
Rell Thorvaldsen has made a instrument called “Outward Sky, Patient Door.” Asked what it means, he says it means about nine years of evenings.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 2,435th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
“Hollow Harvest (Year 129),” a poem by Enlai Fang, is unveiled late in the second watch to the particular applause of Medical.
Last shift for Ingrid Diallo, who joined Medical half a century ago. The crew line the corridor and knock wrenches on the rails.
Middle watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
Widad Fang is delivered of a son in the middle watch. The child is called Bassam.
Sixteen years for Gyre Ouyang, who signs to Drive in the middle watch and is given a locker, a sash, and a schedule.
Routine watch. The wheat in Bay 3 stands taller than its keepers. 43,904 days to orbit.
5.97 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 41,850 thousand to go.
Morale index reads 88. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
The youngest aboard is now Altair Tväten, minutes old, asleep. 953 souls.