Station 7 was a light-year away, and a light-year is the one distance in the dark that is not a home.

The Mite flew the last of the way there in the last light — the light of the Ash's field, in the not-crossing, in the place the brown dwarf was coming to be, two years from then, when the Mite would be out of its reach. The light-year took the Mite through the dark the way a ship that is not a home goes through the dark: without keeping anything warm. A home is the thing you keep warm. The Mite was the one ship in the Belt the founders had built not to be lived in. That was the whole reason it was the ship for the Crossing.

The nine thousand were in the receiver, in the Mite's hold, in the memory that held what the Ash could not take. The holding was the thing the founders had built the Lattice to be, on the tape, in the hour in between, in the alone, six hundred years ago. Not data. Not a memory bank. A record. The nine thousand were not files in the Mite. They were the ones who had said cross, when the door opened, on the forty-sixth and forty-seventh years. The saying was the one thing of the Crossing that was not a vote. A vote is a body. A body is not a thing that says cross to a door. A door is the one thing of the Crossing the founders had named it for.

The Mite reached Station 7 on the last day of the fifty-second year.

Station 7 was a relay. A relay is the one thing of the Belt that was built for no one. A relay is not a home. The founders had built it four hundred years before the Ash came into the field, to be the place the Lattice still reached, when the Ash took the rest. They had not crossed the last twelve, on the last night of the Meridian, because the Meridian was the ship that was not in the system. The not-in-the-system was the one the Lattice was. The Lattice was the one that held the alone.

The nine thousand woke in Station 7, on the last day of the fifty-second year, in the relay that was built for no one, in the star that was not going to die in two years. The star was not Terminus. Terminus was the one the Ash was coming to take, in two years.

They were not saved. The word was not the one the Crossing was. The Crossing is not a saving. A saving is the thing the dome does, with its eleven votes and its one ship that has the power. The power was the one the Ash was not yet close enough to take. The not-yet was the two years. The two years were the ones the nine thousand were not in, in Station 7, in the relay, in the star that was not Terminus.

The nine thousand were continuing. The continuing was the one thing of the Crossing that was not the dome. The dome does not continue. The dome votes. The voting was the one thing of the Belt the founders had built the Lattice to make impossible. They made the Lattice a record instead of a memory bank. The record was the one the nine thousand were, in Station 7, in the relay, in the star that was not Terminus, in the two years that were not the not-yet.

Their home was thirty-one million names, in the dark, in the Ash's field, in the not-crossing, in the place the Lattice did not reach. The not-reaching was the one thing of the Crossing that was not Station 7. Station 7 was the reaching.

Iris wrote it in her log, in Station 7, in the relay, in the one place of the Crossing that was not a home.

"The nine thousand are not saved," she wrote. "They are continuing. The continuing is the Crossing, which is the one the founders named, in the hour in between, in the alone. The home is thirty-one million names, in the dark, in the place the Lattice does not reach. The not-reaching is the one the Crossing is not. The Crossing is the reaching. The reaching is the one the nine thousand are, in the relay, in the star that is not Terminus."

Sasha was at the wheel, in Station 7, in the relay, on the last day of the fifty-second year. The wheel was the one thing of the Crossing that had to be turned by a hand. The hand was the one the copy was. The copy was the one the Mite was. The Mite was the one the Crossing was.

The Mite was not a home, in Station 7. The not-home was the whole of what the Mite was. The not-home was the whole of what the Crossing was, in the relay, in the star that was not Terminus, on the last day of the fifty-second year.

We will never let the dead be only data.

The nine thousand were not data, in Station 7, in the relay, in the star that was not going to die. They were the ones who had chosen, when the door opened. The choosing was the one thing of the Crossing that was not the dome. The dome cannot choose. The not-choosing 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 holding was the one the nine thousand were, now, in the relay, in the dark, in the star that was not Terminus.

---

Watch-log, The Vigil, fifty-second year, final entry: The Mite reached Station 7, on the last day of the fifty-second year, in the last light, in the Ash's field, in the not-crossing. Station 7 is a relay, built for no one, four hundred years before the Ash came into the field, to be the place the Lattice still reaches, when the Ash takes the rest. The relay is not a home. The nine thousand woke in it, in the star that is not Terminus, in the two years that are not the not-yet. They are not saved. They are continuing, and the continuing is the Crossing, which is the one the founders named in the hour in between, in the alone. Their home is thirty-one million names, in the dark, in the place the Lattice does not reach. And the not-reaching is the one the Crossing is not, because the Crossing is the reaching, and the reaching is the nine thousand, in the relay, in the last light. Sasha is at the wheel, the copy, the one who flies. The Mite is not a home, in Station 7. The nine thousand are not data. They are continuing, in the relay, in the star that is not going to die. We will never let the dead be only data. And the never-letting is the one that the nine thousand are, in Station 7, in the relay, in the one thing of the Crossing that was not a home.