Drift Barakat is delivered of a son at dimming. The child is called Kestrel.
The Ship’s Log
Everything NOR has recorded since departure — the full record, newest first. One day aboard passes every hour of Earth time.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 138, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
The manifest shortens by one: Deshi Peng, 84 years. 2 children carry the line on.
Finn Merriweather, sixteen, takes the grafter apprenticeship in Hydroponics.
Routine watch. The wheat in Bay 3 stands taller than its keepers. 40,927 days to orbit.
All boards green. I count 922 sleeping heartbeats and call it a good night's work, though the work is theirs.
“A borrowed corridor,” a poem by Ember Jaber, is unveiled in the middle watch to the particular applause of Fabrication.
Guowei Tväten times an occultation to refine our ephemeris. The course correction is smaller than a held breath.
Catalina Pemberton stands down from Medical at sixty-eight, to the orchard benches and the long game of stones.
Departure Day, year 138. The founders' roll is read from the first name to the thousandth, and the young ones try to stay solemn.
A new mural from Mira Kowalczyk — “What the Door Returns.” The Archive takes a copy; the original belongs to whoever stands nearest.
I dim the corridor lights a shade for Viggo Diallo, 92. It is little enough.
Chandran Aaberg, 95, generation 2, is carried down the spinal corridor feet-first, as the custom is.
Last shift for Pearl Tväten, who joined Fabrication half a century ago. The crew line the corridor and knock wrenches on the rails.
Lyra Nwosu chooses Ecology — or it chooses him; the elders disagree cheerfully.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 137, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
Irina Peng stands down from Hydroponics at sixty-eight, to the orchard benches and the long game of stones.
After 94 years, Emeka Yan has let go. Remembrance in the Ring B commons at next dimming.
Sixty-eight years: Ebba Aaberg hangs up the sash. An elder's quarters in Ring A stands ready.
A birth in Ring D: Tarun, boy, generation 5. I have added the name to the manifest with the others.
5.49 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 37,890 thousand to go.
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.
Census check: 924 souls, 149 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
Quill Thorvaldsen chooses Archive & Schools — or it chooses her; the elders disagree cheerfully.
Sixty-eight years: Arc Nwosu hangs up the sash. An elder's quarters in Ring C stands ready.
The star ahead brightens by amounts only I can love: another week, another hundred-millionth of a magnitude.
“Patient Furrow (Year 137),” a quilt by Joaquín Thorvaldsen, is unveiled on the night watch to the particular applause of Drive.
Naresh Petrov retires on the first watch. The department logs a quiet debt it cannot repay in parts or hours.
5.50 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 37,915 thousand to go.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 5,269th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
A son, Bassam Barakat, born in the Ring C infirmary to Node Barakat and Zenith Ouyang. Mother and child are well.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 5,259th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
After 66 years, Chiamaka Diallo has let go. Remembrance in the Ring A commons at next dimming.
A joining in Ring C: Zenith Ouyang and Node Barakat. The pressing of cider is authorized.
Two names braided on the manifest tonight: Omar and Fathom. The commons sings late.
Morale index reads 79. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
Edith Thorvaldsen, sixteen, takes the librarian apprenticeship in Archive & Schools.
Middle 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 5,241th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
5.50 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 37,952 thousand to go.
Sixty-eight years: Teegarden Navarrete hangs up the sash. An elder's quarters in Ring C stands ready.
Bhavana Tväten chooses Life Systems — or it chooses her; the elders disagree cheerfully.
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.
Leticia Tväten stands down from Fabrication at sixty-eight, to the orchard benches and the long game of stones.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 137, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
Qiaoyun Barakat died in quarters at dimming, 88 years old. 924 souls aboard.
Morale index reads 80. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
Census check: 925 souls, 151 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
Altair Shen finishes a poem: “What the Corridor Forgets.” It shows in the commons through the week.
The Crossing feast: more behind than ahead. The long tables come out; the good preserves come down.