After 77 years, Devendra Venkatesan has let go. Remembrance in the Ring D commons at next dimming.
The Ship’s Log
Everything NOR has recorded since departure — the full record, newest first. One day aboard passes every hour of Earth time.
Last shift for Chinedu Kamau, who joined Archive & Schools half a century ago. The crew line the corridor and knock wrenches on the rails.
Sixty-eight years: Yusuf Rahman hangs up the sash. An elder's quarters in Ring C stands ready.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 40, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
A birth in Ring C: Chidinma, girl, generation 2. I have added the name to the manifest with the others.
Fatima Yamin has made a song called “Four Roots Waiting.” Asked what it means, she says it means about nine years of evenings.
Remembrance day. The memorial wall is polished by hand, though nothing aboard needs polishing less.
A child in Ring B asks the corridor speaker what Earth smelled like. I play the rainstorm recording. It is the best answer I have.
Last shift for Jagdish Verma, who joined Archive & Schools half a century ago. The crew line the corridor and knock wrenches on the rails.
The manifest shortens by one: Sten Bergstrom, 76 years. The line rests with the ship now.
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.
Sixty-eight years: Ganesh Subramaniam hangs up the sash. An elder's quarters in Ring C stands ready.
Sixty-eight years: Jianguo Peng hangs up the sash. An elder's quarters in Ring C stands ready.
After 74 years, Percy Northam has let go. Remembrance in the Ring D commons at next dimming.
Night watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
11.27 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 70,104 thousand to go.
The manifest shortens by one: Safiya Ghanem, 83 years. The line rests with the ship now.
Born at brightening: Meilin Kong, generation 2. The ship holds 918 souls tonight.
Zemin Wan retires on the night watch. The department logs a quiet debt it cannot repay in parts or hours.
“Whole Winter (Year 40),” a instrument by Vasanti Varma, is unveiled at brightening to the particular applause of Hydroponics.
After 80 years, Ramiro Ibarra has let go. Remembrance in the Ring B commons at next dimming.
The circle has answered. Reclamation runs hot past its rating. The techs sleep beside it, and the reserve climbs on borrowed time.
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.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 5,826th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
Routine watch. The wheat in Bay 3 stands taller than its keepers. 76,493 days to orbit.
The youngest aboard is now Halley Navarrete, minutes old, asleep. 918 souls.
All boards green. I count 917 sleeping heartbeats and call it a good night's work, though the work is theirs.
I dim the corridor lights a shade for Sundiata Fashola, 78. It is little enough.
Routine watch. The wheat in Bay 3 stands taller than its keepers. 76,501 days to orbit.
A new quilt from Sten Bergstrom — “Borrowed Field (Year 40).” The Archive takes a copy; the original belongs to whoever stands nearest.
Last shift for Milena Jablonski, who joined Ecology half a century ago. The crew line the corridor and knock wrenches on the rails.
Born late in the second watch: Dmitri Merriweather, generation 2. The ship holds 918 souls tonight.
The manifest shortens by one: Zaid Ismail, 80 years. The line rests with the ship now.
Jorgen Vik stands down from Life Systems at sixty-eight, to the orchard benches and the long game of stones.
Born late in the second watch: Oluwadamilola Quill, generation 2. The ship holds 918 souls tonight.
Chukwuemeka Lawal stands down from Ecology at sixty-eight, to the orchard benches and the long game of stones.
All boards green. I count 917 sleeping heartbeats and call it a good night's work, though the work is theirs.
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.
The star ahead brightens by amounts only I can love: another week, another hundred-millionth of a magnitude.
After 75 years, Nikolai Ostrowski has let go. Remembrance in the Ring D commons at next dimming.
“Season for the Spun Engine,” a poem by Bruno Ocampo, is unveiled at dimming to the particular applause of Medical.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 40, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
Zbigniew Antonov stands down from Hydroponics at sixty-eight, to the orchard benches and the long game of stones.
Iman Dagher does not wake at brightening. 70 years, most of them given to Hydroponics.
Wei Chen does not wake in the middle watch. 84 years, most of them given to Drive.
Feng Fang finishes a song: “Field for the Inward Winter.” It shows in the commons through the week.
Femi Yeboah died in quarters on the night watch, 76 years old. 920 souls aboard.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 5,725th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
Khalid Vik has made a song called “Seven Corridors Waiting.” Asked what it means, he says it means about nine years of evenings.
The star ahead brightens by amounts only I can love: another week, another hundred-millionth of a magnitude.