Zaid Barakat takes the hand of Edith Sharma before the assembled watch. I witness, as I witness everything.
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 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. 49,922 days to orbit.
Boreal Tväten died in quarters on the first watch, 75 years old. 968 souls aboard.
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.
First Light. The observation blister queues run all day: Teegarden's Star, held in the eyepiece, a little brighter than last year — 6.95 light-years to go.
Two names braided on the manifest tonight: Leonard and Ada. The commons sings late.
A first shift for Xiulan Nwosu, sixteen: soil keeper, Ecology. The badge is printed fresh.
Middle watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
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.
Jorgen Danjuma died in quarters at brightening, 98 years old. 969 souls aboard.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 5,317th 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.
Leonard Thorvaldsen stands down from Life Systems at sixty-eight, to the orchard benches and the long game of stones.
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.
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.
Morale index reads 78. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
Oluwadamilola Quill does not wake at dimming. 72 years, most of them given to Hydroponics.
Liang Fang retires late in the second watch. The department logs a quiet debt it cannot repay in parts or hours.
Morale index reads 79. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
Year 113 of the voyage begins. The oldest bottle of orchard wine that can be spared is opened. It is always described as "improving."
Adaeze Nwosu takes the hand of Per Ouyang before the assembled watch. I witness, as I witness everything.
Suyin Tväten and Zemin Singh name their son Ghassan. The nursery lamps stay warm.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 112, 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.
Ion Petrov takes the hand of Xiulan Thorvaldsen before the assembled watch. I witness, as I witness everything.
Aster Tväten is made Chief of Medical, and marks it by standing the ordinary shift anyway.
Olaf Orellana stands down from Medical at sixty-eight, to the orchard benches and the long game of stones.
Femi Orellana chooses Medical — or it chooses him; the elders disagree cheerfully.
Ragnhild Zhao is delivered of a daughter late in the second watch. The child is called Zofia.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 112, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
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.
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.
“Maps of Year 112,” a quilt by Gyre Tväten, is unveiled on the first watch to the particular applause of Life Systems.
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.
Middle watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
All boards green. I count 969 sleeping heartbeats and call it a good night's work, though the work is theirs.
Pearl Tväten finishes a mural: “The Early Bell.” 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.
Vasili Valdivia retires at dimming. The department logs a quiet debt it cannot repay in parts or hours.
All boards green. I count 969 sleeping heartbeats and call it a good night's work, though the work is theirs.
Mateo Ashworth finishes a poem: “Five Fields Rising.” It shows in the commons through the week.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 112, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
Chief of Archive & Schools falls to Yejide Merriweather, who accepts with a nod and a full docket.
Too soon, at 52: Huda Fossum. The commons fills on the night watch with those who knew her.
Lakshmi Mansour has died at 47, far too early. Drive stands down a shift in grief.
The star ahead brightens by amounts only I can love: another week, another hundred-millionth of a magnitude.
First watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
A new mural from Anders Thorvaldsen — “The Turning Wheel.” The Archive takes a copy; the original belongs to whoever stands nearest.
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.