First watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
The Ship’s Log
Everything NOR has recorded since departure — the full record, newest first. One day aboard passes every hour of Earth time.
“Bells of Year 87,” a song by Fernanda Mazur, is unveiled in the middle watch to the particular applause of Life Systems.
A son, Feng Ouyang, born in the Ring B infirmary to Abebi Ouyang and Kwame Zhao. Mother and child are well.
8.47 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 53,128 thousand to go.
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.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 5,000th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 4,998th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
A son, Vikram Tväten, born in the Ring D infirmary to Mariam Tväten and Fuhua Ulriksen. Mother and child are well.
All boards green. I count 895 sleeping heartbeats and call it a good night's work, though the work is theirs.
Chiamaka Diallo stands the walk of the full spinal corridor, as the sixteen-year custom is, and joins Fabrication.
Bhavana Orellana has made a quilt called “Corridors of the spinal corridor.” Asked what it means, she says it means about nine years of evenings.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 87, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
Middle watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
All boards green. I count 895 sleeping heartbeats and call it a good night's work, though the work is theirs.
Census check: 895 souls, 225 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
Sable Aaberg takes the hand of Marzena Thorvaldsen before the assembled watch. I witness, as I witness everything.
June Shen and Kwame Tväten name their daughter Fern. The nursery lamps stay warm.
Tunde Chekhov died in quarters at brightening, 86 years old. 894 souls aboard.
Irina Diallo takes the hand of Lev Diallo before the assembled watch. I witness, as I witness everything.
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.
All boards green. I count 895 sleeping heartbeats and call it a good night's work, though the work is theirs.
Census check: 895 souls, 224 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
Rashid Kellaway has made a play called “Green Wheel (Year 87).” Asked what it means, he says it means about nine years of evenings.
Night watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
Marzena Mansour chooses Medical — or it chooses her; the elders disagree cheerfully.
Sixteen years for Sami Navarrete, who signs to Ecology on the first watch and is given a locker, a sash, and a schedule.
Two names braided on the manifest tonight: Ikenna and Jiayi. The commons sings late.
Sixteen years for Gopal Peng, who signs to Command at brightening and is given a locker, a sash, and a schedule.
The youngest aboard is now Rajesh Quaye, minutes old, asleep. 895 souls.
Arne Ouyang isolates a repeating radio source in the wake. Natural, almost certainly. The word "almost" keeps the commons busy a month.
First Light. The observation blister queues run all day: Teegarden's Star, held in the eyepiece, a little brighter than last year — 8.50 light-years to go.
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.
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 new instrument from Sten Quill — “Season for the Slow Map.” The Archive takes a copy; the original belongs to whoever stands nearest.
Georgia Thorvaldsen and Khalid Northam, joined. Their quarters are re-assigned adjoining, per custom.
Too soon, at 52: Frederick Valdivia. The commons fills on the night watch with those who knew him.
The star ahead brightens by amounts only I can love: another week, another hundred-millionth of a magnitude.
Layla Shen documents a new strain among the pollinator moths, wings the color of hull metal.
Night watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
Two names braided on the manifest tonight: Edmund and Halley. The commons sings late.
Night watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
8.51 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 53,261 thousand to go.
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.
Dalia Merriweather finishes a play: “Twelve Corridors Waiting.” It shows in the commons through the week.
The schools release Nadia Barakat to Medical. Generation 3 takes up its tools.
Agnieszka Barakat, sixteen, takes the sanitation engineer apprenticeship in Life Systems.
The star ahead brightens by amounts only I can love: another week, another hundred-millionth of a magnitude.
Iveta Pillai finishes a mural: “The Last Water.” It shows in the commons through the week.
The schools release Fermín Jaber to Fabrication. Generation 3 takes up its tools.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 87, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.