#generation ship

August Books: 1/6 (Page One to Done) I did not, in fact, finish any more books in July, so now I’m behind schedule for the year. Yay. Oh, squiders. I did these cards last week. I even did the pictures last week. Yet the jump from doing the cards to posting the blog continues to be a huge hurdle. Got to consider how we want to move forward. Move the card story to every other week? Shall have to…

July books: Still 3/5 (but I foresee finishing a few here shortly) Why is it so hot? auuuuugh ~*~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~*~ I told you last week a little about my generation ship idea. Well, I have been doing my researches, and, well, wow. People get really into this. Or, alternatively, you can find 50 million YouTube videos about how generation ships are a terrible idea and we should never ever do…

Could 10,000 People Survive on a Generation Ship?

A generation ship sounds like humanity’s ultimate escape plan. But keeping 10,000 people alive for centuries would mean solving food, genetics, governance, psychology—and the problem of generations born aboard who never chose the mission.

Naomi and Maram!

They are a matched set, narratively, and the main characters of what I’ve been calling #generation ship. Friends to allies to rivals. They stage a mutiny together and then fail to come to an agreement about how okay they are with nuking people.

Recently discovered Naomi fact: I learned yesterday that sometimes when my roommate forgets to eat long enough they find themself abruptly in need of calories, and just for this occasion they keep a bottle of olive oil in their room. So they can down some straight olive oil to make up for not having eaten for two days. This is Naomi core.

Part 1: Meet Up

There was a nip in the air of quadrant 3. The smell of earthiness and leaves fell across Tower Town, a smell usually reserved for the countryside, and a characteristic fog for this time of year. This section of the ship was always more humid than the others, but the humidity in fall was nearly impossible to ignore. The city was mostly made up of apartment buildings that reached like fingers from the depths of the ship to the outer hull, and each tower held hundreds of families. One of these cookie cutter family apartments, however, contained only one person. Charles, a man who most would consider unimportant outside of the realm of interquadrant trade politic, found himself waking up alone once again. He rubbed his eyes with a sluggish fervor of a man who is trying to rub away a hangover. He slowly rose and felt for his glasses. Despite the ‘eventfulness’ of the night before, he had put his glasses in the same spot as he always had. He slid them on, and his eyes came into focus. His apartment, ever minimal in its décor, had remained in its usual squared away state despite the fracas he had gotten into tonight.

He let out a groan as he rose. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, what had he done last night? He walked over to the wall to the right of his bed, and, with a simple touch, the wall shot into the floor, revealing his closet. All of the clothes were neatly sorted by occasion. He pulled his standard work wear, a long-sleeved white shirt with a royal blue cardigan and slacks. As he put his clothes on, he continued to try to remember what had happened. Had he been celebrating, or mourning something? He remembered holding absinthe; a delicacy in this part of the ship to put it mildly. He had received a bottle as a gift from his boss for negotiating a liquor trade with a quadrant 1 distiller. He remembered a girl was in his apartment, but her face was a blur… He looked at his hand, and he remembered it running through her silky black hair, holding her calloused hand with it, and caressing her as the night faded away. Charles felt his face go beet-red at the thought of what may have simply been a dream drenched in absinthe.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. Charles snapped back to reality, and, though rushing to fasten his belt, and prepared himself to answer the door.

“Who is it?” he called out. He half hoped that it was someone playing some kind of prank, he was nowhere near ready enough to put on his typical front.

No response. He sighed as he opened the door, quickly composing himself. He ran his hand through his hair, flattening it into a slicked back look as he began to open the door. Before him was his publicist, Katrina Lebowitz. Lebowitz was a woman who can be best described as jagged both in appearance and personality. Her features were angled and she was best known for her ruthlessness, and she was the type of person whom you could not imagine in anything other than a suit and tie. “Mr. Lundberg. Did you receive your instructions for the day?” Evidently, Charles did a bad job of hiding his confusion, because Lebowitz reached into her suit pocket and handed him an envelope. “I would not be surprised if your tube is out of commission at the moment, so I took the liberty to make a copy,” Charles took the letter, “with the death of Harold Lundberg, it would be prudent to attend the special meeting today in the central tower.”

Charles opened the letter, chuckled “yeah I bet this is just catnip for the more ambitious in the qua-”

The paper in his hand was ridiculous. It was his face holding a plastered smile, with bold text underneath saying ‘Lundberg: a name you can trust’. “… What is this, Katrina?”

She, ever the stoic responded “it is the election flyer that we are putting up tomorr-”

“TOMMOROW?” he bellowed.

Katrina, unflinching, responded “yes, tomorrow. You are planned to announce your candidacy in the special election at the special meet in the central tower. Your brother left you a good platform, and it would be foolish to let someone else capitalize.”

Charles winced, knowing that he did not really get a choice on this. “Fine, I’ll do it. I take it the powers that be already have a speech written?”

“As always Mr. Lundberg,” she handed him a manilla folder, “you are expected to have this memorized by tonight. As usual, desiccate this when done. Thank you for your cooperation.” She gave a slight bow and walked away. Charles closed the door and sat on his couch.

He looked at the folder, stamped with the insignia of his party and sealed with wax as per usual. He opened it and began to read. This speech read well, given the fact that it was written by professionals, that should not be a surprise, but the short time-frame for its development made it unique. It read as extemporaneous but not scattered, and emotional but not overtly manipulative. Charles slumped back on his couch and ran his fingers through his hair.

The ISGV Valeria, launched in 2287, was intended to be the first of mankind's attempts at an interstellar voyage at sublight speeds. No individual piece of hardware on board was particularly advanced, but the scale of the megastructure was novel - built with the intent that multiple native earth ecosystems could be transplanted aboard, and that radiation shielding and powerful floodlights fed by a long-duration fusion reactor could allow those ecosystems to persist naturally, with minimal maintenance or interference by crew.

Human civilization aboard Valeria could be sustained in the same way that it did on Earth - farming, industrial production, and all other aspects of society could be performed using the same automated systems as on the ground, and passengers could expect very little labor to be needed during the voyage. Valeria promised exploration without struggle, colonization without guilt, and glory without compromising the luxury to which most earthbound humans are accustomed.

There’s been some attention lately to a contest on designing an interstellar generation ship, a large scale ship that humans live in for generations while it crosses interstellar space to another solar system. As Paul Gilster at Centauri Dreams notes, generation ships are a long time staple in science fiction, albeit with the common trope of the crew forgetting that they’re on a ship, or other…