Remembrance day. The memorial wall is polished by hand, though nothing aboard needs polishing less.
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.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 5,739th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
Morale index reads 83. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
Domingo Juárez, 61, generation 0, is carried down the spinal corridor feet-first, as the custom is.
Kirill Sokolov finishes a poem: “Warm Root (Year 15).” It shows in the commons through the week.
Census check: 1050 souls, 67 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
“Hollow Season (Year 15),” a tale-cycle by Yuri Dubrovsky, is unveiled late in the second watch to the particular applause of Hydroponics.
All boards green. I count 1050 sleeping heartbeats and call it a good night's work, though the work is theirs.
Svetlana Tereshkova and Feng Fang name their son Teodoro. The nursery lamps stay warm.
“A late winter,” a song by Xiulan Wu, is unveiled in the middle watch to the particular applause of Drive.
All boards green. I count 1049 sleeping heartbeats and call it a good night's work, though the work is theirs.
Census check: 1049 souls, 66 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
“Door for the Bright Thread,” a play by Nils Eriksen, is unveiled late in the second watch to the particular applause of Ecology.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 15, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
Middle 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. 85,686 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.
12.33 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 89,912 thousand to go.
First Light. The observation blister queues run all day: Teegarden's Star, held in the eyepiece, a little brighter than last year — 12.33 light-years to go.
All boards green. I count 1049 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.
Stanislav Babich has died at 49, far too early. Hydroponics stands down a shift in grief.
The star ahead brightens by amounts only I can love: another week, another hundred-millionth of a magnitude.
Omolara Okonkwo has died at 54, far too early. Hydroponics stands down a shift in grief.
Margaret Pemberton and Oluwadamilola Kamau name their son Enlai. The nursery lamps stay warm.
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.
Census check: 1050 souls, 65 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 5,515th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
A son, Devendra Yacoub, born in the Ring C infirmary to Zahra Yacoub and Cristóbal Mendoza. Mother and child are well.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 5,499th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
Routine watch. The wheat in Bay 3 stands taller than its keepers. 85,819 days to orbit.
12.33 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 90,037 thousand to go.
Year 15 of the voyage begins. The oldest bottle of orchard wine that can be spared is opened. It is always described as "improving."
Census check: 1049 souls, 64 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
Oluwaseun Danjuma and Gonzalo Juárez name their son Jorgen. The nursery lamps stay warm.
The youngest aboard is now Gyre Mazur, minutes old, asleep. 1048 souls.
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 day. The memorial wall is polished by hand, though nothing aboard needs polishing less.
Routine watch. The wheat in Bay 3 stands taller than its keepers. 85,924 days to orbit.
First watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
All boards green. I count 1047 sleeping heartbeats and call it a good night's work, though the work is theirs.
Census check: 1047 souls, 62 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 14, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
All boards green. I count 1047 sleeping heartbeats and call it a good night's work, though the work is theirs.
Census check: 1047 souls, 62 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
Routine watch. The wheat in Bay 3 stands taller than its keepers. 85,990 days to orbit.
A new poem from Modupe Oyelaran — “A sunless sky.” The Archive takes a copy; the original belongs to whoever stands nearest.
Morale index reads 83. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
All boards green. I count 1047 sleeping heartbeats and call it a good night's work, though the work is theirs.