Anders Thorvaldsen has made a poem called “The Unlit Door.” Asked what it means, he says it means about nine years of evenings.
The Ship’s Log
Everything NOR has recorded since departure — the full record, newest first. One day aboard passes every hour of Earth time.
Bernardo Thorvaldsen stands the walk of the full spinal corridor, as the sixteen-year custom is, and joins Command.
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.
Atmosphere Processing hums again. Knut Aaberg is stood a round of orchard cider by the off-shift.
6.90 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 47,865 thousand to go.
Last shift for Anton Sharma, who joined Drive half a century ago. The crew line the corridor and knock wrenches on the rails.
Sixty-eight years: Octavio Pillai hangs up the sash. An elder's quarters in Ring A stands ready.
A first shift for Fathom Shen, sixteen: machinist, Fabrication. The badge is printed fresh.
Sten Quill, 75, generation 2, is carried down the spinal corridor feet-first, as the custom is.
We could not reach Radomir Thorvaldsen in time. 25 years, Life Systems. The lamps are lowered a full watch.
CO₂ trim goes ragged as a processor bank fails. Life Systems is on it before I finish the announcement.
All boards green. I count 966 sleeping heartbeats and call it a good night's work, though the work is theirs.
A joining in Ring C: Oscar Petrov and Meera Shen. The pressing of cider is authorized.
A new song from Harini Aaberg — “A inward signal.” The Archive takes a copy; the original belongs to whoever stands nearest.
Jianguo Aaberg retires in the middle watch. The department logs a quiet debt it cannot repay in parts or hours.
All boards green. I count 966 sleeping heartbeats and call it a good night's work, though the work is theirs.
Departure Day, year 114. The founders' roll is read from the first name to the thousandth, and the young ones try to stay solemn.
6.91 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 48,017 thousand to go.
Sarala Aaberg, sixteen, takes the drive engineer apprenticeship in Drive.
Sixty-eight years: Wenbo Fang hangs up the sash. An elder's quarters in Ring D stands ready.
A son, Gyre Ouyang, born in the Ring A infirmary to Layla Ouyang and Enlai Fang. Mother and child are well.
All boards green. I count 965 sleeping heartbeats and call it a good night's work, though the work is theirs.
A wedding in the middle watch. Guowei Tväten, Command; Jinghua Tväten, Fabrication. The ship approves in its way: the lights held steady throughout.
Repair complete on Fabrication Shops after 3 weeks. I run the test cycle twice, out of respect for history.
Too soon, at 51: Beatrice Quaye. The commons fills in the middle watch with those who knew her.
Routine watch. The wheat in Bay 3 stands taller than its keepers. 49,752 days to orbit.
“Seven Furrows Standing,” a mural by Noor Thorvaldsen, is unveiled on the night watch to the particular applause of Archive & Schools.
Fabrication Shops quits in the middle watch, with a sound the old hands do not like.
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.
Sixty-eight years: Vasanti Nwosu hangs up the sash. An elder's quarters in Ring C stands ready.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 5,536th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
Suyin Thorvaldsen has made a play called “The Standing Door.” Asked what it means, she says it means about nine years of evenings.
A birth in Ring C: Gopal, boy, generation 4. I have added the name to the manifest with the others.
Chinedu Nwosu chooses Hydroponics — or it chooses him; the elders disagree cheerfully.
The star ahead brightens by amounts only I can love: another week, another hundred-millionth of a magnitude.
Gbenga Merriweather retires late in the second watch. The department logs a quiet debt it cannot repay in parts or hours.
Maintenance sweep of Ring B complete. Somewhere aft a wrench is missing; it will surface in a decade, in a wall, with a story attached.
Vega Petrov and Gayatri Mazur are joined under the orchard lamps. The whole of Life Systems turns out.
Catalina Thorvaldsen does not wake on the first watch. 76 years, most of them given to Ecology.
Two names braided on the manifest tonight: Hedda and Fathom. The commons sings late.
Viggo Diallo stands down from Fabrication at sixty-eight, to the orchard benches and the long game of stones.
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.
Aster Tväten has made a mural called “Quiet Window (Year 113).” Asked what it means, he says it means about nine years of evenings.
Census check: 966 souls, 103 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
I dim the corridor lights a shade for Harini Barakat, 67. It is little enough.
“Engines of Year 113,” a tale-cycle by Uzoma Pillai, is unveiled on the first watch to the particular applause of Archive & Schools.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 113, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
Pallas Valdivia does not wake at dimming. 82 years, most of them given to Ecology.
All boards green. I count 968 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.