The star ahead brightens by amounts only I can love: another week, another hundred-millionth of a magnitude.
The Ship’s Log
Everything NOR has recorded since departure — the full record, newest first. One day aboard passes every hour of Earth time.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 11, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
Year 11 of the voyage begins. The oldest bottle of orchard wine that can be spared is opened. It is always described as "improving."
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 4,007th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
Ludmila Ostrowski finishes a quilt: “Fields of Year 10.” It shows in the commons through the week.
Born at dimming: Ragnar Han, generation 1. The ship holds 1043 souls tonight.
Routine watch. The wheat in Bay 3 stands taller than its keepers. 87,347 days to orbit.
Remembrance day. The memorial wall is polished by hand, though nothing aboard needs polishing less.
Hydroponics Bays restored after 1 weeks. Omar Hamdan signs the work order and goes to sleep for a full watch.
A failure in Hydroponics Bays. The duty crew is roused; tools move down the spinal corridor at a jog.
Tessa Ashworth and Zemin Zhao name their daughter Ebba. The nursery lamps stay warm.
All boards green. I count 1041 sleeping heartbeats and call it a good night's work, though the work is theirs.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 10, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
A daughter, Dolores Kong, born in the Ring B infirmary to Jinghua Kong and Salvador Escamilla. Mother and child are well.
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.
Census check: 1040 souls, 49 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
Unn Fossum finishes a play: “Three Winters Turning.” It shows in the commons through the week.
A birth in Ring A: Funmilayo, girl, generation 1. I have added the name to the manifest with the others.
Theodore Pemberton has made a poem called “A late garden.” Asked what it means, he says it means about nine years of evenings.
Too soon, at 53: Paloma Lozano. The commons fills on the night watch with those who knew her.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 10, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
Oluwadamilola Olawale and Titilayo Chike are joined under the orchard lamps. The whole of Hydroponics turns out.
Census check: 1040 souls, 48 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
Census check: 1040 souls, 48 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
Gonzalo Valdivia finishes a tale-cycle: “Signals of Ring B.” It shows in the commons through the week.
Maintenance sweep of Ring A complete. Somewhere aft a wrench is missing; it will surface in a decade, in a wall, with a story attached.
Devendra Venkatesan takes the hand of Ghada Hamdan before the assembled watch. I witness, as I witness everything.
Morale index reads 82. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
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.
Morale index reads 82. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
Morale index reads 82. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
Fabrication Shops back in service. The old hands say it sounds better than before; the instruments say it sounds the same.
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.
Katarzyna Dragunov has made a instrument called “Four Furrows Rising.” Asked what it means, she says it means about nine years of evenings.
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.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 3,775th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
Josefina Gallardo has made a song called “Whole Corridor (Year 10).” Asked what it means, she says it means about nine years of evenings.
First Light. The observation blister queues run all day: Teegarden's Star, held in the eyepiece, a little brighter than last year — 12.42 light-years to go.
Fabrication Shops faults on the first watch. Fabrication takes the call.
Middle watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
The youngest aboard is now Jaroslav Varma, minutes old, asleep. 1040 souls.
Morale index reads 82. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
Ximena Orellana has made a poem called “The Quiet Window.” Asked what it means, she says it means about nine years of evenings.
Routine watch. The wheat in Bay 3 stands taller than its keepers. 87,579 days to orbit.
Middle watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
Too soon, at 53: Hassan Baz. The commons fills on the first watch with those who knew him.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 3,725th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 3,721th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 10, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
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.