Year 8 of the voyage begins. The oldest bottle of orchard wine that can be spared is opened. It is always described as "improving."
The Ship’s Log
Everything NOR has recorded since departure — the full record, newest first. One day aboard passes every hour of Earth time.
Morale index reads 75. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
Olga Gorbachev has made a mural called “Gardens of Year 7.” Asked what it means, she says it means about nine years of evenings.
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.
A daughter, Verne Petrov, born in the Ring A infirmary to Oksana Petrov and Fuhua Luo. Mother and child are well.
Morale index reads 75. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
Middle watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
Remembrance day. The memorial wall is polished by hand, though nothing aboard needs polishing less.
The fever breaks shipwide. The cost is counted plainly: 1 name for the wall. The schools reopen at brightening.
Ravindra Sethi and Chidinma Chukwu are joined under the orchard lamps. The whole of Ecology turns out.
The sickness holds its grip. Wards full, schools closed, meals delivered by runner. The ship wears masks and patience.
Catalina Escobar takes the hand of Igor Chekhov before the assembled watch. I witness, as I witness everything.
Another week of the fever. Medical rotates exhausted; volunteers take the laundry runs. The rails are wiped twice a watch.
12.46 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 91,481 thousand to go.
Drive back in service. The old hands say it sounds better than before; the instruments say it sounds the same.
The sickness holds its grip. Wards full, schools closed, meals delivered by runner. The ship wears masks and patience.
Another week of the fever. Medical rotates exhausted; volunteers take the laundry runs. The rails are wiped twice a watch.
Another name for the sickness: Chiamaka Olawale, 49. 1034 souls remain.
The sickness holds its grip. Wards full, schools closed, meals delivered by runner. The ship wears masks and patience.
Fault isolated in Drive. Repair estimate: unwise to say aloud.
Routine watch. The wheat in Bay 3 stands taller than its keepers. 88,495 days to orbit.
Another week of the fever. Medical rotates exhausted; volunteers take the laundry runs. The rails are wiped twice a watch.
The sickness holds its grip. Wards full, schools closed, meals delivered by runner. The ship wears masks and patience.
Another week of the fever. Medical rotates exhausted; volunteers take the laundry runs. The rails are wiped twice a watch.
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.
A joining in Ring A: Maja Moller and Kofi Sowande. The pressing of cider is authorized.
Sundiata Olawale has died at 42, far too early. Hydroponics stands down a shift in grief.
Another week of the fever. Medical rotates exhausted; volunteers take the laundry runs. The rails are wiped twice a watch.
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.
12.46 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 91,712 thousand to go.
Another week of the fever. Medical rotates exhausted; volunteers take the laundry runs. The rails are wiped twice a watch.
The sickness holds its grip. Wards full, schools closed, meals delivered by runner. The ship wears masks and patience.
Vasili Romanov and Peizhi Zhou are joined under the orchard lamps. The whole of Life Systems turns out.
Medical reports a fever moving through the rings — the same story in three infirmaries by dimming. Isolation protocols stand up within the hour.
Census check: 1036 souls, 37 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
Morale index reads 88. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
Census check: 1036 souls, 37 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
Vera Draycott finishes a mural: “Root for the Long Door.” It shows in the commons through the week.
Oksana Yakovlev and Bhaskar Yadav, joined. Their quarters are re-assigned adjoining, per custom.
Census check: 1036 souls, 37 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
The star ahead brightens by amounts only I can love: another week, another hundred-millionth of a magnitude.
Routine watch. The wheat in Bay 3 stands taller than its keepers. 88,624 days to orbit.
First Light. The observation blister queues run all day: Teegarden's Star, held in the eyepiece, a little brighter than last year — 12.46 light-years to go.
Natalya Fedorenko confirms a new wheat cultivar in Bay 3 — shorter stalk, fuller head. It will be called what the children already call it.
Einar Dahl finishes a song: “Hollow Anchor, Warm Hymn.” It shows in the commons through the week.
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.
Two names braided on the manifest tonight: Ming and Johanna. The commons sings late.
Signe Thorvaldsen and Kayode Diallo name their daughter Gunhild. The nursery lamps stay warm.
Rocío Escamilla and Yusheng Shen name their son Percy. The nursery lamps stay warm.
Ivar Paulsen has made a quilt called “Watchs of Ring A.” Asked what it means, he says it means about nine years of evenings.