Census check: 1046 souls, 56 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
The Ship’s Log
Everything NOR has recorded since departure — the full record, newest first. One day aboard passes every hour of Earth time.
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.
Anand Gupta finishes a song: “Slow Sky (Year 12).” It shows in the commons through the week.
Departure Day, year 12. The founders' roll is read from the first name to the thousandth, and the young ones try to stay solemn.
Census check: 1046 souls, 56 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
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.
12.40 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 90,978 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.
Remembrance day. The memorial wall is polished by hand, though nothing aboard needs polishing less.
Two names braided on the manifest tonight: Wenbo and Hanan. The commons sings late.
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.
Morale index reads 82. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
Chidinma Chukwu finishes a instrument: “Harvest for the Patient Bell.” It shows in the commons through the week.
All boards green. I count 1046 sleeping heartbeats and call it a good night's work, though the work is theirs.
Routine watch. The wheat in Bay 3 stands taller than its keepers. 87,024 days to orbit.
Theodore Eastwood has made a song called “Orchards of Ring B.” Asked what it means, he says it means about nine years of evenings.
The youngest aboard is now Jaroslav Ahlgren, minutes old, asleep. 1046 souls.
I dim the corridor lights a shade for Leonard Yardley, 59. It is little enough.
Morale index reads 83. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
“Maps of Year 11,” a tale-cycle by Tarun Trivedi, is unveiled in the middle watch to the particular applause of Archive & Schools.
All boards green. I count 1046 sleeping heartbeats and call it a good night's work, though the work is theirs.
“What the Watch Forgets,” a mural by Huifen Ouyang, is unveiled late in the second watch to the particular applause of Command.
The star ahead brightens by amounts only I can love: another week, another hundred-millionth of a magnitude.
All boards green. I count 1046 sleeping heartbeats and call it a good night's work, though the work is theirs.
Morale index reads 83. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
A daughter, Yaling Ulriksen, born in the Ring B infirmary to Signe Ulriksen and Ishaan Agarwal. Mother and child are well.
Born on the first watch: Viggo Fang, generation 1. The ship holds 1045 souls tonight.
A new quilt from Naresh Naidu — “Furrow for the Sunless Window.” The Archive takes a copy; the original belongs to whoever stands nearest.
Morale index reads 83. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
June Eastwood's crew brings Drive back after 1 weeks.
A new tale-cycle from Ganesh Deshpande — “Corridors of Year 11.” The Archive takes a copy; the original belongs to whoever stands nearest.
First Light festival. The children are lifted to the eyepiece one by one to see where they are going.
Fault isolated in Drive. Repair estimate: unwise to say aloud.
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 star ahead brightens by amounts only I can love: another week, another hundred-millionth of a magnitude.
Morale index reads 82. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
The star ahead brightens by amounts only I can love: another week, another hundred-millionth of a magnitude.
All boards green. I count 1044 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 11, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
12.41 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 91,039 thousand to go.
Morale index reads 83. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
The star ahead brightens by amounts only I can love: another week, another hundred-millionth of a magnitude.
Census check: 1044 souls, 53 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
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.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 4,059th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
Abebi Diallo is delivered of a daughter on the first watch. The child is called Efua.
A new tale-cycle from Chandran Tendulkar — “Twelve Skys Sleeping.” The Archive takes a copy; the original belongs to whoever stands nearest.
A new tale-cycle from Ulises Cárdenas — “Slow Hymn, Hollow Garden.” The Archive takes a copy; the original belongs to whoever stands nearest.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 11, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
First watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.