Morale index reads 78. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
The Ship’s Log
Everything NOR has recorded since departure — the full record, newest first. One day aboard passes every hour of Earth time.
Middle watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
Repair complete on Cryostore after 2 weeks. I run the test cycle twice, out of respect for history.
A daughter, Amina Navarrete, born in the Ring A infirmary to Nadia Navarrete and Vega Quaye. Mother and child are well.
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.
A new instrument from Samira Shen — “A early root.” The Archive takes a copy; the original belongs to whoever stands nearest.
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.
Trouble in Cryostore. The board goes amber; the coffee goes on.
Boreal Tväten stands down from Fabrication at sixty-eight, to the orchard benches and the long game of stones.
First Light festival. The children are lifted to the eyepiece one by one to see where they are going.
Night watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
The star ahead brightens by amounts only I can love: another week, another hundred-millionth of a magnitude.
7.37 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 51,047 thousand to go.
Xenia Shen chooses Hydroponics — or it chooses her; the elders disagree cheerfully.
The schools release Ion Ouyang to Archive & Schools. Generation 4 takes up its tools.
A son, Yash Aaberg, born in the Ring C infirmary to Fatima Aaberg and Jaya Pillai. Mother and child are well.
A new mural from Gunhild Thorvaldsen — “A small engine.” The Archive takes a copy; the original belongs to whoever stands nearest.
Hull & Shielding restored after 2 weeks. Shanyuan Valdivia signs the work order and goes to sleep for a full watch.
The star ahead brightens by amounts only I can love: another week, another hundred-millionth of a magnitude.
A first shift for Yasmin Pemberton, sixteen: recycler, Fabrication. The badge is printed fresh.
Hull sensors flag a fault in the shielding lattice. Crews suit up on the night watch.
Altair Sharma stands the walk of the full spinal corridor, as the sixteen-year custom is, and joins Life Systems.
Usman Peng retires at brightening. The department logs a quiet debt it cannot repay in parts or hours.
A first shift for Sarala Thorvaldsen, sixteen: grafter, Hydroponics. The badge is printed fresh.
Night watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
Sixty-eight years: Hakon Valdivia hangs up the sash. An elder's quarters in Ring A stands ready.
Theodore Ulriksen, 70, generation 2, is carried down the spinal corridor feet-first, as the custom is.
Iveta Pillai has made a poem called “Bell for the Whole Furrow.” Asked what it means, she says it means about nine years of evenings.
Departure Day, year 106. The founders' roll is read from the first name to the thousandth, and the young ones try to stay solemn.
Two names braided on the manifest tonight: Arc and Halley. The commons sings late.
The manifest shortens by one: Catalina Kowalczyk, 83 years. 8 children carry the line on.
Routine watch. The wheat in Bay 3 stands taller than its keepers. 52,629 days to orbit.
7.39 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 51,216 thousand to go.
Two names braided on the manifest tonight: Qasim and Gyre. The commons sings late.
Routine watch. The wheat in Bay 3 stands taller than its keepers. 52,642 days to orbit.
Last shift for Sergei Petrov, who joined Fabrication half a century ago. The crew line the corridor and knock wrenches on the rails.
A son, Raymond Aaberg, born in the Ring D infirmary to Ion Aaberg and Halvard Diallo. Mother and child are well.
Routine watch. The wheat in Bay 3 stands taller than its keepers. 52,660 days to orbit.
A new instrument from Femi Petrov — “Green Lantern, Distant Lantern.” The Archive takes a copy; the original belongs to whoever stands nearest.
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.
Bhavana Nwosu died in quarters in the middle watch, 78 years old. 972 souls aboard.
Census check: 973 souls, 135 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
Too soon, at 7: Signe Peng. The commons fills late in the second watch with those who knew her.
Morale index reads 81. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
Anand Thorvaldsen and Guadalupe Thorvaldsen are joined under the orchard lamps. The whole of Drive turns out.
Remembrance day. The memorial wall is polished by hand, though nothing aboard needs polishing less.
Halvard Diallo retires at brightening. The department logs a quiet debt it cannot repay in parts or hours.
All boards green. I count 974 sleeping heartbeats and call it a good night's work, though the work is theirs.
Gunhild Ulriksen, sixteen, takes the fuelwright apprenticeship in Drive.
The star ahead brightens by amounts only I can love: another week, another hundred-millionth of a magnitude.