All boards green. I count 889 sleeping heartbeats and call it a good night's work, though the work is theirs.
The Ship’s Log
Everything NOR has recorded since departure — year 142, newest first. One day aboard passes every hour of Earth time.
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.
A son, Ernest Ouyang, born in the Ring D infirmary to Fathom Ouyang and Ghassan Tväten. Mother and child are well.
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.
I dim the corridor lights a shade for Adaeze Quill, 88. It is little enough.
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.
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.
Sixty-eight years: Ragnhild Zhao hangs up the sash. An elder's quarters in Ring D stands ready.
A son, Anand Thorvaldsen, born in the Ring D infirmary to Ludmila Thorvaldsen and Viggo Jaber. Mother and child are well.
Howard Jaber retires late in the second watch. The department logs a quiet debt it cannot repay in parts or hours.
Morale index reads 86. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
Caelum Sharma stands down from Archive & Schools at sixty-eight, to the orchard benches and the long game of stones.
Last shift for Halley Nwosu, who joined Archive & Schools half a century ago. The crew line the corridor and knock wrenches on the rails.
Iveta Pillai, 85, generation 2, is carried down the spinal corridor feet-first, as the custom is.
A new poem from Hanan Quill — “Early Wheel (Year 142).” The Archive takes a copy; the original belongs to whoever stands nearest.
The manifest shortens by one: Guiying Petrov, 92 years. 1 children carry the line on.
Census check: 890 souls, 151 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
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.
Zemin Singh stands down from Hydroponics at sixty-eight, to the orchard benches and the long game of stones.
A son, Emeka Valdivia, born in the Ring B infirmary to Rell Valdivia and Chukwuemeka Nwosu. Mother and child are well.
A second child follows on the night watch: twins for Quill Thorvaldsen. This one is called Orrery.
A daughter, Wanrong Thorvaldsen, born in the Ring C infirmary to Quill Thorvaldsen and Xiulan Tväten. Mother and child are well.
A joining in Ring B: Lyra Nwosu and Edith Thorvaldsen. The pressing of cider is authorized.
Jagdish Petrov died in quarters in the middle watch, 83 years old. 887 souls aboard.
After 87 years, Umbra Kowalczyk has let go. Remembrance in the Ring C commons at next dimming.
Born at brightening: Quill Diallo, generation 6. The ship holds 889 souls tonight.
Karima Nwosu is delivered of a daughter on the night watch. The child is called Birgitta.
Sixteen years for Tatiana Mansour, who signs to Hydroponics at dimming and is given a locker, a sash, and a schedule.
Gunhild Valdivia is delivered of a son late in the second watch. The child is called Zaid.
The star ahead brightens by amounts only I can love: another week, another hundred-millionth of a magnitude.
Quill Thorvaldsen and Xiulan Tväten, joined. Their quarters are re-assigned adjoining, per custom.
First watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
Last shift for Ion Barakat, who joined Life Systems half a century ago. The crew line the corridor and knock wrenches on the rails.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 142, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
Ulf Thorvaldsen finishes a play: “What the Garden Grows.” It shows in the commons through the week.
Routine watch. The wheat in Bay 3 stands taller than its keepers. 39,275 days to orbit.
Night watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
I dim the corridor lights a shade for Haoran Tväten, 84. It is little enough.
Morale index reads 86. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
Farida Ning and Feng Sharma name their son Node. The nursery lamps stay warm.
Night watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
Last shift for Knut Merriweather, who joined Drive half a century ago. The crew line the corridor and knock wrenches on the rails.
The Crossing. Every year it is observed, and every year someone stands to say the second half is the harder, and is booed warmly.
Kayode Diallo resolves a long-period comet in the forward field — a smudge of home ice, very far from home. It is logged and named.
Cygnet Quill stands the walk of the full spinal corridor, as the sixteen-year custom is, and joins Archive & Schools.
The stream falls astern. Damage is surveyed, tallied, and assigned; the ship grows quiet again by dimming.
The youngest aboard is now Alice Thorvaldsen, minutes old, asleep. 886 souls.
Forward sensors pick up a dust stream across our track. Shields to full; the ship rings faintly, like a struck bell heard from inside.
Signe Nwosu is delivered of a son on the first watch. The child is called Mohan.
Ming Thorvaldsen died in quarters on the first watch, 83 years old. 884 souls aboard.