The schools release Chukwuemeka Shen to Hydroponics. Generation 8 takes up its tools.
The Ship’s Log
Everything NOR has recorded since departure — the full record, newest first. One day aboard passes every hour of Earth time.
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.
First Light festival. The children are lifted to the eyepiece one by one to see where they are going.
Ruth Peng stands the walk of the full spinal corridor, as the sixteen-year custom is, and joins Fabrication.
Trouble in Fabrication Shops. The board goes amber; the coffee goes on.
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.
Census check: 851 souls, 214 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
Farida Ning finishes a instrument: “Borrowed Lantern, Late Ladder.” It shows in the commons through the week.
Night watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
Viggo Jaber has made a mural called “Watch for the Patient Harvest.” Asked what it means, he says it means about nine years of evenings.
Ion Shen has made a play called “What the Orchard Leaves.” Asked what it means, he says it means about nine years of evenings.
Lyra Peng and Rotimi Thorvaldsen are joined under the orchard lamps. The whole of Archive & Schools turns out.
Arc Nwosu and Birgitta Ulriksen, joined. Their quarters are re-assigned adjoining, per custom.
Peizhi Valdivia died in quarters late in the second watch, 90 years old. 851 souls aboard.
Routine watch. The wheat in Bay 3 stands taller than its keepers. 25,528 days to orbit.
Ulyana Fang's crew brings Hydroponics Bays back after 2 weeks.
Meridian Thorvaldsen chooses Drive — or it chooses her; the elders disagree cheerfully.
Fault isolated in Hydroponics Bays. Repair estimate: unwise to say aloud.
Percy Nwosu has made a song called “Doors of the commons.” Asked what it means, he says it means about nine years of evenings.
Morale index reads 81. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
After 71 years, Rania Tväten has let go. Remembrance in the Ring D commons at next dimming.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 180, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
Babatunde Ouyang chooses Medical — or it chooses him; the elders disagree cheerfully.
A birth in Ring A: Jianguo, boy, generation 7. I have added the name to the manifest with the others.
Morale index reads 81. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
The star ahead brightens by amounts only I can love: another week, another hundred-millionth of a magnitude.
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.
The star ahead brightens by amounts only I can love: another week, another hundred-millionth of a magnitude.
Born late in the second watch: Kamala Thorvaldsen, generation 7. The ship holds 852 souls tonight.
The youngest aboard is now Simisola Barakat, minutes old, asleep. 851 souls.
Departure Day, year 180. The founders' roll is read from the first name to the thousandth, and the young ones try to stay solemn.
Caelum Thorvaldsen is delivered of a son in the middle watch. The child is called Lumen.
Juniper Jaber stands down from Hydroponics at sixty-eight, to the orchard benches and the long game of stones.
Jamal Aaberg stands down from Medical 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. 25,624 days to orbit.
Boreal Valdivia, sixteen, takes the broadcast keeper apprenticeship in Archive & Schools.
A birth in Ring A: Eos, girl, generation 8. I have added the name to the manifest with the others.
2.99 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 21,740 thousand to go.
Too soon, at 53: Cygnet Quill. The commons fills in the middle watch with those who knew her.
The star ahead brightens by amounts only I can love: another week, another hundred-millionth of a magnitude.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 2,670th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
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.
Census check: 849 souls, 212 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
Arne Mansour has made a mural called “The Turning Water.” Asked what it means, he says it means about nine years of evenings.
I dim the corridor lights a shade for Stanley Navarrete, 86. It is little enough.
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.
A new play from Boreal Navarrete — “Last Furrow, Sunless Lantern.” The Archive takes a copy; the original belongs to whoever stands nearest.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 179, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
A wedding late in the second watch. Ekene Thorvaldsen, Life Systems; Layla Thorvaldsen, Life Systems. The ship approves in its way: the lights held steady throughout.
Halvard Thorvaldsen has made a poem called “Four Seasons Standing.” Asked what it means, he says it means about nine years of evenings.