All boards green. I count 948 sleeping heartbeats and call it a good night's work, though the work is theirs.
The Ship’s Log
Everything NOR has recorded since departure — the full record, newest first. One day aboard passes every hour of Earth time.
Edith Sharma is delivered of a daughter late in the second watch. The child is called Caelum.
After 81 years, Theodore Thorvaldsen has let go. Remembrance in the Ring A commons at next dimming.
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.
5.76 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 40,445 thousand to go.
Vega Quaye retires in the middle watch. The department logs a quiet debt it cannot repay in parts or hours.
First watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 3,642th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
The manifest shortens by one: Sami Nwosu, 57 years. 1 children carry the line on.
Kayode Diallo has made a play called “Last Map (Year 133).” Asked what it means, he says it means about nine years of evenings.
Meridian Jaber retires at dimming. The department logs a quiet debt it cannot repay in parts or hours.
“Season for the Green Hymn,” a poem by Kofi Navarrete, is unveiled at brightening to the particular applause of Drive.
Rotimi Nwosu stands down from Drive at sixty-eight, to the orchard benches and the long game of stones.
Last shift for Qiang Nwosu, who joined Archive & Schools half a century ago. The crew line the corridor and knock wrenches on the rails.
Fabrication Shops back in service. The old hands say it sounds better than before; the instruments say it sounds the same.
Lumen Petrov takes the hand of Opal Thorvaldsen before the assembled watch. I witness, as I witness everything.
Fabrication Shops goes down. I reroute what can be rerouted and wake who must be woken.
The manifest shortens by one: Fern Diallo, 83 years. 1 children carry the line on.
I dim the corridor lights a shade for Quill Shen, 84. It is little enough.
All boards green. I count 951 sleeping heartbeats and call it a good night's work, though the work is theirs.
Last shift for Gantry Shen, who joined Hydroponics half a century ago. The crew line the corridor and knock wrenches on the rails.
I dim the corridor lights a shade for Fermín Merriweather, 64. It is little enough.
Sixty-eight years: Nanna Orellana hangs up the sash. An elder's quarters in Ring C stands ready.
Sixty-eight years: Ulf Thorvaldsen hangs up the sash. An elder's quarters in Ring B stands ready.
Morale index reads 85. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 133, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
Umbra Kong is delivered of a daughter at dimming. The child is called Kestrel.
A new tale-cycle from Safiya Jaber — “Late Wheel (Year 133).” The Archive takes a copy; the original belongs to whoever stands nearest.
Vasili Sharma chooses Drive — or it chooses him; the elders disagree cheerfully.
Morale index reads 85. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
Harini Aaberg retires at dimming. The department logs a quiet debt it cannot repay in parts or hours.
5.78 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 40,664 thousand to go.
Guadalupe Jaber and Emilio Ulriksen name their daughter Elin. The nursery lamps stay warm.
Year 133 of the voyage begins. The oldest bottle of orchard wine that can be spared is opened. It is always described as "improving."
Arthur Barakat does not wake at brightening. 69 years, most of them given to Medical.
Arjun Shen stands down from Archive & Schools at sixty-eight, to the orchard benches and the long game of stones.
The star ahead brightens by amounts only I can love: another week, another hundred-millionth of a magnitude.
Sixteen years for Fathom Fang, who signs to Archive & Schools at brightening and is given a locker, a sash, and a schedule.
Wenling Ulriksen, sixteen, takes the grafter apprenticeship in Hydroponics.
“Furrow for the Green Sky,” a quilt by Bhavana Orellana, is unveiled at brightening to the particular applause of Medical.
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.
Albert Nwosu does not wake at dimming. 66 years, most of them given to Medical.
Iris Kong finishes a song: “Doors of Year 132.” It shows in the commons through the week.
Morale index reads 83. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
Noor Ouyang, 78, generation 3, is carried down the spinal corridor feet-first, as the custom is.
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.
Thermal Control hums again. Halvard Yan is stood a round of orchard cider by the off-shift.
Remembrance. All names read since the last one — held in silence in every ring at the same hour. I keep the lights low until it is done.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 132, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
Trouble in Thermal Control. The board goes amber; the coffee goes on.