Last shift for Wallace Cavanagh, who joined Drive half a century ago. The crew line the corridor and knock wrenches on the rails.
The Ship’s Log
Everything NOR has recorded since departure — the full record, newest first. One day aboard passes every hour of Earth time.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 7,038th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
First watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
Last shift for Marzena Zielinski, who joined Drive half a century ago. The crew line the corridor and knock wrenches on the rails.
“Iron Field (Year 19),” a song by Vera Draycott, is unveiled at dimming to the particular applause of Drive.
“Bright Wheel, Quiet Season,” a instrument by Clara Hartley, is unveiled at brightening to the particular applause of Hydroponics.
Last shift for Everett Fairburn, who joined Medical half a century ago. The crew line the corridor and knock wrenches on the rails.
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.
Last shift for Alejandro Bustamante, who joined Medical half a century ago. The crew line the corridor and knock wrenches on the rails.
12.23 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 88,528 thousand to go.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 19, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
Maintenance sweep of Ring D complete. Somewhere aft a wrench is missing; it will surface in a decade, in a wall, with a story attached.
Abena Falade stands down from Hydroponics at sixty-eight, to the orchard benches and the long game of stones.
Routine watch. The wheat in Bay 3 stands taller than its keepers. 84,357 days to orbit.
Census check: 1050 souls, 63 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 6,947th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
Departure Day, year 19. The founders' roll is read from the first name to the thousandth, and the young ones try to stay solemn.
The manifest shortens by one: Karin Ahlgren, 57 years. The line rests with the ship now.
Lanying Meng has died at 53, far too early. Ecology stands down a shift in grief.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 6,915th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
Josefina Gallardo is delivered of a son at brightening. The child is called Fathom.
Lakshmi Pillai stands the walk of the full spinal corridor, as the sixteen-year custom is, and joins Medical.
Pavel Hartley chooses Fabrication — or it chooses him; the elders disagree cheerfully.
Night watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
Too soon, at 49: Ylva Solheim. The commons fills late in the second watch with those who knew her.
A new mural from Bruno Bustamante — “Hymns of Year 18.” The Archive takes a copy; the original belongs to whoever stands nearest.
12.24 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 88,829 thousand to go.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 18, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
The schools release Ulises Abiodun to Hydroponics. Generation 1 takes up its tools.
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.
Yueqin Fang and Kirill Sokolov name their daughter Beatriz. The nursery lamps stay warm.
Morale index reads 75. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
All boards green. I count 1051 sleeping heartbeats and call it a good night's work, though the work is theirs.
Maintenance sweep of Ring D complete. Somewhere aft a wrench is missing; it will surface in a decade, in a wall, with a story attached.
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.
The star ahead brightens by amounts only I can love: another week, another hundred-millionth of a magnitude.
Morale index reads 75. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
“Five Windows Turning,” a poem by Jianguo Wan, is unveiled on the first watch to the particular applause of Life Systems.
The manifest shortens by one: Liang Qiu, 57 years. The line rests with the ship now.
Tarun Fossum stands the walk of the full spinal corridor, as the sixteen-year custom is, and joins Fabrication.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 6,795th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
Hydroponics Bays back in service. The old hands say it sounds better than before; the instruments say it sounds the same.
Morale index reads 77. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
Oleg Dubrovsky finishes a instrument: “Iron Season, Small Door.” It shows in the commons through the week.
Anand Singh, 66, generation 0, is carried down the spinal corridor feet-first, as the custom is.
A new instrument from Peng Han — “Spun Winter, Borrowed Water.” The Archive takes a copy; the original belongs to whoever stands nearest.
The food reserve crosses its caution line. Portions hold for now; the conversation in the mess does not.
Winifred Vance has made a instrument called “The Patient Root.” Asked what it means, she says it means about nine years of evenings.
Fault isolated in Hydroponics Bays. Repair estimate: unwise to say aloud.
12.25 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 89,089 thousand to go.