The Mite was not enough for the eleven thousand. The not-enough was the thing Corvin had been right about on the forty-second year, in the dome, with the list of numbers that got smaller until it stopped.

Iris had known it would not be enough. She had built the receiver through the forty-fourth year on the understanding that the Mite could carry what it could carry. And what it could carry was not the eleven thousand who had said cross. What it could carry was nine thousand.

The difference was two thousand. The two thousand were the ones who had said cross last, on the forty-seventh year, in the answers that came back warm through the receiver. The last-to-say was the one most afraid of the dark.

They were the ones who had been in the Quiet longest, in the not-listened-to, in the Dead Node, in the heart of the nameless ship, four hundred years out of range. They had said cross with the particular warmth of a person who has been in the dark a very long time and is saying the word to stay out of it. And the staying-out was the one thing the Ash was not going to do for them, in the Mite, in the last light, when the receiver held what it held and the rest of the eleven thousand had to be, for the first time in six hundred years, a number someone had to leave behind.

Sasha saw it first, at the wheel, in the Mite's hold, in the Ash's field, in the last light. The wheel was the one thing of the Crossing that had to be turned by a hand, and a hand sees what a pattern does not.

"Nine thousand," she said, to Iris, at the receiver, in the Mite's hold, in the Ash's field. "The Mite holds nine thousand. The eleven thousand are the ones who said cross. The not-nine-thousand is the two thousand. The two thousand are the ones who said it last. The last is the one most afraid of the dark."

"The two thousand are the ones I do not carry," Iris said, to Sasha, at the receiver, in the Mite's hold, in the Ash's field, in the last light. "The not-carrying is the thing the Crossing is. The Crossing is the one the founders named, in the hour in between, in the alone."

"Then they die in the Ash," Sasha said, to Iris, at the wheel, in the Mite's hold, in the Ash's field. "The dying-in-the-Ash is the thing the Crossing is not. The not-Crossing is the one the founders did not name, on the tape, in the hour in between, in the alone."

Iris did not say anything, for a while, in the Mite's hold, in the Ash's field, in the last light.

"I asked them," Iris said, to Sasha, at the receiver, in the Mite's hold, in the Ash's field, in the last light. "That is the whole of what the Crossing is. Not a carrying. An asking. The asking is the one that costs. The costing is the two thousand. The two thousand are the ones who said cross last. The last is the one most afraid of the dark. The afraid is the one the founders built the Lattice to hold. The holding is the one that is, now, not enough."

Sasha turned the wheel, in the Mite's hold, in the Ash's field, in the last light.

The Mite aimed at the Ash. A home is not a thing you point into a dead star. The Mite was the one ship in the Belt that was not a home.

The two thousand were in the leak, in the Ash's field, in the last light. They were not in the Mite. The Mite was nine thousand. The nine thousand were the ones who had said cross first. The first was the one who had been in the Quiet shortest. The shortest was the one least afraid of the dark.

The nine thousand crossed, in the Mite, in the last light, in the Ash's field, on the way to Station 7. The crossing was the one thing of the Belt that was not a vote. A vote is a body. A body is not a thing that crosses. The not-body was the one the eleven thousand were, in the Mite, in the receiver, in the memory that held what the Ash could not take.

The two thousand did not cross. The not-crossing was the thing the Crossing lost. The losing was the one the founders had not named, on the tape, in the hour in between, in the alone, six hundred years ago, on the last night of the ship that was not in the system.

We will never let the dead be only data.

The two thousand were not data, in the leak, in the Ash's field, in the last light. They were, now, gone. Not archived. Not a memory. Gone. Because the Mite was nine thousand. The nine thousand were the ones who crossed. The crossing was the one the eleven thousand had chosen. The choosing was the one that was not the two thousand.

---

Watch-log, The Vigil, fifty-first year, third entry: The Mite was not enough for the eleven thousand. It holds nine thousand, and the two thousand are the ones who said cross last, on the forty-seventh year, the last of the eleven thousand to say the word, and the last-to-say was the one most afraid of the dark. They were the ones who had been in the Quiet longest, in the not-listened-to, in the Dead Node, in the heart of the nameless ship, saying cross the way a person says it to stay out of the dark. I asked them. That is the whole of what the Crossing is, not a carrying, an asking, and the asking is the one that costs, and the costing is the two thousand. Sasha turned the wheel. The Mite aimed at the Ash. The nine thousand crossed, in the Mite, in the last light, in the memory that held what the Ash could not take. The two thousand did not cross. They are not data. They are not archived. They are not a memory. They are gone, because the Mite was nine thousand, and the nine thousand were the ones who had said cross first. The choosing was not the two thousand. And the not-two-thousand is the thing the Crossing lost, and the losing is the one the founders did not name, on the tape, in the hour in between, in the alone. We will never let the dead be only data. And the never-letting is the one that is, now, nine thousand, not eleven thousand, in the Mite, in the last light, on the way to Station 7, where the Lattice still reaches.