The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 13, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
The Ship’s Log
Everything NOR has recorded since departure — the full record, newest first. One day aboard passes every hour of Earth time.
I dim the corridor lights a shade for Ignacio Aguirre, 55. It is little enough.
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.
After 60 years, Gayatri Sethi has let go. Remembrance in the Ring A commons at next dimming.
Morale index reads 87. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
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.
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: 1046 souls, 57 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
First watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
Routine watch. The wheat in Bay 3 stands taller than its keepers. 86,559 days to orbit.
Jianguo Wan finishes a play: “Patient Corridor, Kept Orchard.” It shows in the commons through the week.
Year 13 of the voyage begins. The oldest bottle of orchard wine that can be spared is opened. It is always described as "improving."
Routine watch. The wheat in Bay 3 stands taller than its keepers. 86,575 days to orbit.
12.38 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 90,564 thousand to go.
A new quilt from Dagny Thorvaldsen — “Seasons of Year 12.” The Archive takes a copy; the original belongs to whoever stands nearest.
Karim Aswad has made a song called “A iron signal.” 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.
All boards green. I count 1046 sleeping heartbeats and call it a good night's work, though the work is theirs.
The star ahead brightens by amounts only I can love: another week, another hundred-millionth of a magnitude.
Lakshman Devi confirms a new wheat cultivar in Bay 3 — shorter stalk, fuller head. It will be called what the children already call it.
Census check: 1046 souls, 57 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 4,682th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
The star ahead brightens by amounts only I can love: another week, another hundred-millionth of a magnitude.
Remembrance day. The memorial wall is polished by hand, though nothing aboard needs polishing less.
Too soon, at 49: Sylvia Hartley. The commons fills at brightening with those who knew her.
Routine watch. The wheat in Bay 3 stands taller than its keepers. 86,637 days to orbit.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 4,658th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
Morale index reads 84. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
Routine watch. The wheat in Bay 3 stands taller than its keepers. 86,681 days to orbit.
Middle watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
Nnamdi Iwu finishes a song: “What the Furrow Carries.” It shows in the commons through the week.
12.38 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 90,778 thousand to go.
Routine watch. The wheat in Bay 3 stands taller than its keepers. 86,714 days to orbit.
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 child in Ring C 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.
“The Sunless Season,” a quilt by Nneka Nwosu, is unveiled in the middle watch to the particular applause of Hydroponics.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 4,512th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
Ifedayo Lawal finds an unrecorded microbe thriving in the water walls. Harmless, industrious, ours.
First Light festival. The children are lifted to the eyepiece one by one to see where they are going.
First watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
12.39 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 90,910 thousand to go.
Katarzyna Dragunov has made a tale-cycle called “Three Anchors Sleeping.” 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.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 12, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
Morale index reads 84. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
The youngest aboard is now Dagny Merriweather, minutes old, asleep. 1047 souls.
“The Hollow Corridor,” a quilt by Chitra Verma, is unveiled at dimming to the particular applause of Life Systems.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 12, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
The star ahead brightens by amounts only I can love: another week, another hundred-millionth of a magnitude.