The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 117, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
The Ship’s Log
Everything NOR has recorded since departure — the full record, newest first. One day aboard passes every hour of Earth time.
Last shift for Temitope Yan, who joined Archive & Schools half a century ago. The crew line the corridor and knock wrenches on the rails.
Hydroponics Bays restored after 4 weeks. Esperanza Singh signs the work order and goes to sleep for a full watch.
The question is put to the wider circle: Rationing. The ship asks; Earth answers, in its own long time.
Wei Navarrete has made a poem called “Sky for the Small Sky.” Asked what it means, he says it means about nine years of evenings.
The star ahead brightens by amounts only I can love: another week, another hundred-millionth of a magnitude.
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.
All boards green. I count 964 sleeping heartbeats and call it a good night's work, though the work is theirs.
Ulises Petrov, sixteen, takes the counselor apprenticeship in Medical.
Natalya Shen died in quarters in the middle watch, 93 years old. 964 souls aboard.
Hydroponics Bays quits at brightening, with a sound the old hands do not like.
Morale index reads 68. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
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.
Kavita Nwosu has died at 37, far too early. Ecology stands down a shift in grief.
Sixty-eight years: Helm Pemberton hangs up the sash. An elder's quarters in Ring C stands ready.
Middle 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.
Altair Orellana does not wake in the middle watch. 83 years, most of them given to Fabrication.
Xingyu Jaber takes the hand of Caelum Mansour before the assembled watch. I witness, as I witness everything.
I dim the corridor lights a shade for Damilare Quaye, 80. It is little enough.
Daisy Nwosu and Nnamdi Thorvaldsen, joined. Their quarters are re-assigned adjoining, per custom.
Drift Sharma and Keel Ulriksen name their son Vasili. The nursery lamps stay warm.
The manifest shortens by one: Bernardo Mansour, 67 years. 2 children carry the line on.
Last shift for Valentina Ulriksen, who joined Archive & Schools half a century ago. The crew line the corridor and knock wrenches on the rails.
6.73 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 47,048 thousand to go.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 117, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
Departure Day, year 117. The founders' roll is read from the first name to the thousandth, and the young ones try to stay solemn.
A daughter, Fathom Fang, born in the Ring C infirmary to Shanta Fang and Fern Mazur. Mother and child are well.
Xenia Ulriksen and Femi Petrov name their daughter Wenling. The nursery lamps stay warm.
Hassan Ashworth stands down from Ecology at sixty-eight, to the orchard benches and the long game of stones.
“Whole Field (Year 116),” a tale-cycle by Ebba Aaberg, is unveiled on the first watch to the particular applause of Life Systems.
Cristóbal Aaberg stands down from Archive & Schools at sixty-eight, to the orchard benches and the long game of stones.
Lumen Jaber retires late in the second watch. The department logs a quiet debt it cannot repay in parts or hours.
Vikram Tväten takes the hand of Polina Jaber before the assembled watch. I witness, as I witness everything.
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.
A joining in Ring A: Nikolai Zhao and Drift Barakat. The pressing of cider is authorized.
Fadi Navarrete stands the walk of the full spinal corridor, as the sixteen-year custom is, and joins Command.
NOR Compute Core restored after 3 weeks. Naresh Petrov signs the work order and goes to sleep for a full watch.
Remembrance day. The memorial wall is polished by hand, though nothing aboard needs polishing less.
Morale index reads 63. The number is crude. The singing from the mess contradicts it.
Census check: 966 souls, 96 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
Sixty-eight years: Esha Fang hangs up the sash. An elder's quarters in Ring C stands ready.
Zahra Thorvaldsen does not wake at dimming. 60 years, most of them given to Drive.
First watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
Last shift for Olga Petrov, who joined Fabrication half a century ago. The crew line the corridor and knock wrenches on the rails.
Lakshman Tväten stands down from Fabrication at sixty-eight, to the orchard benches and the long game of stones.
The star ahead brightens by amounts only I can love: another week, another hundred-millionth of a magnitude.
Ulises Aaberg takes the hand of Farida Navarrete before the assembled watch. I witness, as I witness everything.
The star ahead brightens by amounts only I can love: another week, another hundred-millionth of a magnitude.
Opal Thorvaldsen stands the walk of the full spinal corridor, as the sixteen-year custom is, and joins Archive & Schools.