Green across the board: Comms Array holds after 1 weeks of work. Spares were spent; Fabrication is notified.
The Ship’s Log
Everything NOR has recorded since departure — the full record, newest first. One day aboard passes every hour of Earth time.
Departure Day, year 94. The founders' roll is read from the first name to the thousandth, and the young ones try to stay solemn.
After 88 years, Sten Han has let go. Remembrance in the Ring B commons at next dimming.
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 failure in Comms Array. The duty crew is roused; tools move down the spinal corridor at a jog.
Abena Nwosu finishes a quilt: “The Late Signal.” It shows in the commons through the week.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 93, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
8.10 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 53,883 thousand to go.
The youngest aboard is now Daisy Nwosu, minutes old, asleep. 945 souls.
Zenith Sharma finishes a quilt: “Furrows of Ring B.” It shows in the commons through the week.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 93, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
The circle has answered. No deferrals. The ship chooses more voices in the corridors and sharper eyes on the gauges.
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.
Routine watch. The wheat in Bay 3 stands taller than its keepers. 57,062 days to orbit.
Remembrance day. The memorial wall is polished by hand, though nothing aboard needs polishing less.
A first shift for Feng Northam, sixteen: librarian, Archive & Schools. The badge is printed fresh.
Morale index reads 85. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
Jaroslav Peng has made a mural called “Bright Season, Unlit Lantern.” Asked what it means, he says it means about nine years of evenings.
“The Spun Field,” a mural by Bernard Pemberton, is unveiled at brightening to the particular applause of Ecology.
A wedding on the night watch. Kofi Tväten, Life Systems; Deneb Zhao, Fabrication. The ship approves in its way: the lights held steady throughout.
Census check: 944 souls, 187 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
A first shift for Liang Valdivia, sixteen: historian, Archive & Schools. The badge is printed fresh.
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.
The schools release Harold Jaber to Fabrication. Generation 4 takes up its tools.
A daughter, Polina Jaber, born in the Ring C infirmary to Efua Jaber and Fuhua Shen. Mother and child are well.
Morale index reads 85. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
A child in Ring A 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.
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 birth in Ring C: Viggo, boy, generation 4. I have added the name to the manifest with the others.
Pavel Ning, sixteen, takes the pharmacist apprenticeship in Medical.
The youngest aboard is now Guadalupe Jaber, minutes old, asleep. 942 souls.
Sixteen years for Guiying Ouyang, who signs to Life Systems at brightening and is given a locker, a sash, and a schedule.
The question is put to the wider circle: The crèche question. The ship asks; Earth answers, in its own long time.
A birth in Ring B: Annika, girl, generation 4. I have added the name to the manifest with the others.
Mira Yan and Adaeze Peng are joined under the orchard lamps. The whole of Hydroponics turns out.
Maintenance sweep of Ring C complete. Somewhere aft a wrench is missing; it will surface in a decade, in a wall, with a story attached.
Two names braided on the manifest tonight: Walid and Guadalupe. The commons sings late.
A first shift for Emeka Sharma, sixteen: pharmacist, Medical. The badge is printed fresh.
Ulf Thorvaldsen and Winifred Tväten are joined under the orchard lamps. The whole of Medical turns out.
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.
Farida Yan chooses Fabrication — or it chooses her; the elders disagree cheerfully.
Sundiata Mansour and Ragnhild Peng, joined. Their quarters are re-assigned adjoining, per custom.
The star ahead brightens by amounts only I can love: another week, another hundred-millionth of a magnitude.
A child in Ring A asks the corridor speaker what Earth smelled like. I play the rainstorm recording. It is the best answer I have.
The youngest aboard is now Mahmoud Merriweather, minutes old, asleep. 940 souls.
Xingyu Ashworth has died at 50, far too early. Hydroponics stands down a shift in grief.
Xenia Ulriksen stands the walk of the full spinal corridor, as the sixteen-year custom is, and joins Ecology.
Caelum Sharma finishes a tale-cycle: “Ladders of Year 93.” It shows in the commons through the week.
Census check: 940 souls, 189 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.