What the ship remembers

The departure from Earth, about fifteen centuries ago. The brass counter already existed.

For generation after generation, every sleeper in the Stacks remained under. The founders left instructions, but not every answer.

Nobody aboard chooses who wakes. The Stacks choose by a rule nobody has found.

Brass numerals behind scratched glass at the front of the Line. It has only ever gone down. The founders wrote: “counted to the meeting.”

Nine centuries ago, an argument over braking ended with the drive door welded shut and NOT YET cut into the console.

It began as a maintenance log. Somewhere along the way it stopped listing repairs and kept only names.

A hand cut beside a name means someone that person taught is still aboard. When the last student dies, the hand is sanded away.

Hull plate is melted and poured again. Matter is expected to return to use.

Hull techs tap the outer airlock twice before going out. The reason was forgotten. The habit stayed.

The Captain holds one order every Service must obey for one hour. It has been spoken four times in fourteen centuries.