Born on the night watch: Ludmila Zhao, generation 1. The ship holds 1047 souls tonight.
The Ship’s Log
Everything NOR has recorded since departure — the full record, newest first. One day aboard passes every hour of Earth time.
First Light. The observation blister queues run all day: Teegarden's Star, held in the eyepiece, a little brighter than last year — 12.35 light-years to go.
Kehinde Ogunleye is delivered of a son on the night watch. The child is called Tao.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 14, 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.
Dmitri Dubrovsky finishes a instrument: “Doors of Ring A.” It shows in the commons through the week.
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.
Margaret Joshi has died at 4, far too early. the ship stands down a shift in grief.
12.35 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 90,084 thousand to go.
First watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 5,183th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
Nandini Pillai has died at 52, far too early. Fabrication stands down a shift in grief.
Morale index reads 85. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
The youngest aboard is now Inés Kowalczyk, minutes old, asleep. 1047 souls.
A birth in Ring D: Nora, girl, generation 1. I have added the name to the manifest with the others.
12.35 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 90,041 thousand to go.
A birth in Ring D: Usman, boy, generation 1. I have added the name to the manifest with the others.
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 14, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
Year 14 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 5,099th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
Peng Han finishes a poem: “Small Door (Year 13).” It shows in the commons through the week.
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.
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.
Remembrance. All names read since the last one — held in silence in every ring at the same hour. I keep the lights low until it is done.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 13, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
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.
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.
Census check: 1044 souls, 58 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 13, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
Raymond Blackwood finishes a mural: “What the Engine Holds.” It shows in the commons through the week.
The manifest shortens by one: Mariam Dagher, 55 years. The line rests with the ship now.
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: 1045 souls, 58 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
All boards green. I count 1045 sleeping heartbeats and call it a good night's work, though the work is theirs.
The circle has answered. Reclamation runs hot past its rating. The techs sleep beside it, and the reserve climbs on borrowed time.
Routine watch. The wheat in Bay 3 stands taller than its keepers. 86,364 days to orbit.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 4,943th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
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.
12.36 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 90,268 thousand to go.
Unn Aaberg is delivered of a daughter on the first watch. The child is called Huifen.
All boards green. I count 1044 sleeping heartbeats and call it a good night's work, though the work is theirs.
Middle watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
Divya Venkatesan finishes a play: “Turning Winter (Year 13).” It shows in the commons through the week.
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.
First Light festival. The children are lifted to the eyepiece one by one to see where they are going.
Repair complete on Water Reclamation after 4 days. I run the test cycle twice, out of respect for history.
The question is put to the wider circle: Water discipline. The ship asks; Earth answers, in its own long time.
Water Reclamation faults in the middle watch. Life Systems takes the call.
A new tale-cycle from Yuri Ulanov — “Water for the Iron Engine.” The Archive takes a copy; the original belongs to whoever stands nearest.