I returned to the habitat designs, but my attention kept drifting to the chronometer. Watching the minutes count down to 1300.
Watching for when Jalina would return.
Chapter 3
Jalina
The holoprojector table was cold beneath my palms, my notebook sitting there like evidence of something I couldn't quite name. Inadequacy, maybe. Presumption. The foolish hope that charcoal sketches on paper could matter in a world of holographic precision.
Zor'go hadn't moved from his position among the floating blueprints. His ice-blue eyes tracked over me again, that same assessing glance that made me feel simultaneously seen and dismissed. Like I was a variable in an equation he hadn't decided how to solve yet.
"Captain Tor'van believes human input is valuable for human-compatible spaces," he said. The skepticism in his voice had been knife-sharp. "I'm skeptical. But I'm willing to be proven wrong."
Translation: prove yourself or get out of my office.
I opened my notebook with hands that wanted to shake. Didn't let them. I'd survived a wormhole that tore reality apart, survived three weeks on a planet that tried to burn us alive every morning, survived six months of being the smallest, weakest beings on a ship full of giants who could break me with a carelessgesture. I could survive one brilliant, intimidating Zandovian architect who thought I was wasting his time.
The pages fell open to my recent work, sketches of Mothership's corridors, studies of the crew quarters, observations of how beings moved through spaces designed with brutal efficiency and zero consideration for anything beyond function. I'd filled dozens of pages over the past two months, trying to understand this place that was supposed to become home.
I found the page I needed. Took a breath. Looked up at Zor'go's floating blueprints and felt something in my chest tighten.
The expansion designs were magnificent. Mathematically perfect. Every corridor optimized for traffic flow, every residential pod precisely calibrated for maximum space utilization, every system integrated with elegant efficiency. They were engineering porn, the kind of blueprints that would make professors weep with joy.
They were also sterile as surgical instruments.
"Your designs are perfect," I said.
Zor'go's markings flickered—just a shimmer of crystalline blue across silver-gray skin. I'd learned to read those flickers over the past two months. This one meant surprise. He'd expected criticism, not agreement.
I didn't give him time to respond.
"Space utilization is optimal. Traffic flow is efficient. Structural integrity is flawless. By every engineering metric, they work." I pulled my notebook up, held it where the holographic light illuminated my sketches properly. "But you're designing storage units for beings, not homes. You're creating places to keep people, not places for people to live."
The silence that followed felt like falling. I'd just told the Head of Mothership Operations that his life's work wasessentially cargo management. That his brilliant expansion project treated sixteen thousand displaced beings like inventory requiring shelter.
His markings stopped flickering. Went completely still.
Oh god. I'd overstepped. I'd insulted him. Captain Tor'van had sent me here to provide input and I'd just?—
"Explain."
The single word cut through my spiral. His voice was sharp, but not angry. Not dismissive. It was the tone of someone who'd heard something unexpected and wanted to understand it before deciding whether to be offended.
I could work with that.
I moved to the holoprojector controls, bold, considering I'd been on Mothership less than six months and this was equipment I barely understood. But Zor'go didn't stop me, and I'd learned enough from Dana about Zandovian technology to navigate the basic interface.
"Your residential pods are identical," I said, highlighting a section of his design. My fingers felt clumsy on the holographic controls, but the system responded. "Every single unit is exactly the same size, same layout, same ceiling height. Which makes sense from a construction standpoint. Standardization reduces complexity, speeds up build time, and simplifies systems integration."
"Correct." Still that careful, controlled tone.
"But beings aren't standardized." I pulled up one of my sketches, a study I'd done of the human quarters we currently occupied. "Look at how we've modified our spaces. Bea needs dim lighting and silence to decompress after medical shifts. Elena needs brightness and white noise to focus on her electrical work. Dana, before she moved in with Er'dox, needed order and clear sight lines to feel secure."
I gestured to the holographic pods. "Your design gives everyone the same environment and expects them to adapt. But adaptation takes energy. Constant adaptation leads to exhaustion." I adjusted my glasses, a nervous habit I couldn't break. "Sixteen thousand beings are coming here because they've lost everything. They're already exhausted. You're asking them to live in spaces that will drain whatever reserves they have left."
Zor'go moved closer to the holoprojector. His eight-and-a-half-foot frame dwarfed me, but I held my ground. I'd learned that Zandovians respected confidence more than deference.
"You're suggesting variable pod configurations." It wasn't a question.
