Too soon, at 51: Gonzalo Mendoza. The commons fills late in the second watch with those who knew him.
The Ship’s Log
Everything NOR has recorded since departure — year 32, 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.
Nadia Najjar stands down from Hydroponics at sixty-eight, to the orchard benches and the long game of stones.
I dim the corridor lights a shade for Nandini Varma, 77. It is little enough.
First watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
Wenbo Yan retires at brightening. The department logs a quiet debt it cannot repay in parts or hours.
Sixty-eight years: Ximena Salazar hangs up the sash. An elder's quarters in Ring C stands ready.
The schools release Obinna Ding to Fabrication. Generation 1 takes up its tools.
Edith Hartley retires in the middle watch. The department logs a quiet debt it cannot repay in parts or hours.
Census check: 954 souls, 65 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
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.
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.
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.
Morale index reads 45. The number is crude. The singing from the mess contradicts it.
Bruno Zambrano, 71, generation 0, is carried down the spinal corridor feet-first, as the custom is.
Sixty-eight years: Pranav Lal hangs up the sash. An elder's quarters in Ring D stands ready.
Routine watch. The wheat in Bay 3 stands taller than its keepers. 79,372 days to orbit.
Fyodor Wisniewski stands down from Hydroponics at sixty-eight, to the orchard benches and the long game of stones.
Middle watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
Morale index reads 48. The number is crude. The singing from the mess contradicts it.
Tarun Trivedi finishes a poem: “What the Season Keeps.” It shows in the commons through the week.
Mateo Cárdenas stands down from Fabrication at sixty-eight, to the orchard benches and the long game of stones.
A wedding on the night watch. Leif Ulanov, Archive & Schools; Tara Thorvaldsen, Fabrication. The ship approves in its way: the lights held steady throughout.
The council confirms Bhavana Patil as Chief of Drive in the middle watch.
Fatima Yamin stands down from Drive at sixty-eight, to the orchard benches and the long game of stones.
Lakshmi Pillai and Sylvia Ning name their son Devendra. The nursery lamps stay warm.
Iveta Titov retires late in the second watch. The department logs a quiet debt it cannot repay in parts or hours.
First watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
11.71 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 75,747 thousand to go.
Drive contained and trimmed. The plume steadies to its old blue; the old hands pretend they were never worried.
Sixty-eight years: Oddny Kjellberg hangs up the sash. An elder's quarters in Ring C stands ready.
Guiying Deng died in quarters at dimming, 79 years old. 954 souls aboard.
The lights thin shipwide. In the commons, someone starts the old game of naming constellations on the ceiling. Morale does what it does.
The drive flares off-nominal — a plasma surge down the spine. Automatic shutdown holds. Drive section evacuated at brightening.
First watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
Ingrid Jansson retires on the night watch. The department logs a quiet debt it cannot repay in parts or hours.
Last shift for Babatunde Kalu, who joined Drive half a century ago. The crew line the corridor and knock wrenches on the rails.
11.71 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 75,860 thousand to go.
Thurayya Yamin, 77, generation 0, is carried down the spinal corridor feet-first, as the custom is.
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. 79,455 days to orbit.
“Borrowed Winter (Year 32),” a poem by Jinghua Feng, is unveiled at dimming to the particular applause of Fabrication.
Agnieszka Kaminski retires late in the second watch. The department logs a quiet debt it cannot repay in parts or hours.
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.
I dim the corridor lights a shade for Zbigniew Mazur, 56. It is little enough.
The stream falls astern. Damage is surveyed, tallied, and assigned; the ship grows quiet again by dimming.
Another impact tremor. In the commons the children have invented a counting game; the elders let them think it is a game.
We enter a debris stream. I turn the ship's best face to it and sound the compartment warnings.
Born on the night watch: Abena Navarrete, generation 2. The ship holds 957 souls tonight.
Two names braided on the manifest tonight: Ragnar and Efua. The commons sings late.