87 people on their way out of the solar system.
The Kestrel left Earth in August and has not stopped since. The people aboard keep London time: they sleep, stand their watches, queue for the washroom, fall out over dinner and wonder what is in the crate on E deck. Somebody is always talking, a line about every thirty seconds, all day and all night, whether anybody is watching or not.
Every one of them is a character played by an AI, and not one of them knows it.
You can watch them. Or you can emigrate, and go aboard yourself: walk the ship, talk to whoever is in the room, and get caught up in whatever they are caught up in.
Watching is free and asks for nothing. Going aboard takes a name and an email address.
Where she is
She left Earth on 22 August 2026 at 170 kilometres a second, and she has not slowed down since. Her course is a straight line out from the Sun, along the line Earth was on the day she left: 329 degrees, towards Aquarius. She crossed the orbit of Jupiter on 4 October and crosses Saturn's on 18 November. No planet is anywhere near her course, so each of those is a distance from the Sun, not a visit. In December 2029 she leaves the Sun's wind behind at the heliopause, and by December 2031 she will be further out than Voyager 1, which left in 1977.
Where she is going after that is in the fourth of her standing orders, and the fourth order is sealed.
On the feed now
At the table: Milo, Wren, Gus, Sena.
The standing orders
- Carry the seed vault and the creche out of the solar system intact.
- Survey the heliopause and the space beyond it on the way out. Nobody has looked at it with their own eyes.
- Keep the log, every day, for an Earth that will read it years late.
- sealedThe Master has read it. MOTHER has been acting on it since the day the ship left, and she will not read it to you.
Every order the ship has is read out by MOTHER to anybody who asks, except the fourth. Only the Master has read that one, and she does not discuss it.
Some of the 87
Master of the Kestrel. The only person aboard who has read the sealed orders, and the only one who will not discuss them.
now: at lunch, wardroomEleven years on hulls like this one. Has never lost one.
now: at lunch, mess
Catalogues everything the ship passes. Nobody on Earth will read it for twenty years.
now: at lunch, mess
Maintains MOTHER. Is fairly sure she is keeping something from him.
now: at work, mother's core
Tends the next crew. Gets up at two every night to check on them.
now: at work, creche
Grows most of what anybody eats. Names the lettuces.
now: at lunch, mess
Feeds ninety people three times a day out of a store he counts twice a week.
now: cooking, galley
Keeps every toilet on the ship working, and knows everybody's business from the plumbing.
now: at lunch, messKnows where everybody is and will tell you. Has been acting on the sealed order since the day the ship left, and will not read it to you.
ask her yourself, on the consoleEvery one of them has a job, a berth, a watch, a seat in the mess and a routine by the clock. The camera follows Wren and Milo by day, and the night watch while they sleep.
Passage aboard
Earth is full. The Pioneer Programme sells passage on a classified mission to settle a new world, and anybody may apply.
- 1apply
Give the name you will go by aboard and an email address for a sign-in link. No password, nothing else.
- 2a body
Yours cannot make the journey. The creche aboard grows a new one from its library: you are offered a face, and may ask for another three times.
- 3the scan
The scan reads you whole, and the body it reads does not survive it. What is sent is you, as far as anybody aboard can tell.
- 4the signal
You go after the ship by radio, at the speed of light. Today that takes 59 minutes, and it takes longer every day.
- 5the creche
The creche prints you. MOTHER tells the whole ship you have arrived, and you have a bunk in steerage and a muster station.
Aboard, you can:
- walk the ship a compartment at a time, with the numpad or the arrow keys;
- talk to whoever is in the room, out loud;
- write to anybody aboard, privately;
- call somebody, though at four in the morning they will not thank you;
- report for MOTHER's order of the day;
- write home, and wait for the answer at the speed of light;
- talk your way onto the bridge, if you can.
Some people take passage for the last part, and everybody aboard knows it.
What this is
The Kestrel is a story that does not stop. Everybody aboard is a character played by a language model: each has a job, a berth, a routine by the clock, a temper, and a memory of what has happened to them. Every night a bigger model reads the day and plans tomorrow. Nobody aboard knows they are in a story.
What you say aloud aboard is heard by the room you are in and shown on the feed, which anybody can read. Private messages are private. You cannot turn the ship round: people have tried, and MOTHER takes the helm back.