I manipulated the holographic controls, pulling up the neighborhood cluster designs Jalina had influenced. Her variable pod configurations integrated seamlessly with my structural framework, but that wasn't what held my attention. It was thewhybehind her choices with the psychological considerations I'd dismissed as frivolous until she'd articulated their necessity.
"You're designing storage units for beings, not homes."
The accusation had landed like a physical blow. Not because it was cruel, but because it was accurate.
I zoomed in on one of my original residential pods. Mathematically perfect: 847 cubic meters of space, optimizedfor a family unit of four medium-sized beings. Every centimeter accounted for, every system integrated with brutal efficiency. The structural load calculations were flawless. The traffic flow patterns eliminated bottlenecks. By every engineering metric I'd been trained to value, the design was exemplary.
But Jalina had looked at it and seen a cage.
I pulled up her alternative, the same cubic meters, the same structural constraints, but arranged entirely differently. She'd created sight lines between the sleeping area and the common space. Added variations in ceiling height to prevent the crushing sameness of identical dimensions. Incorporated a small alcove near the entrance,for transitioning, she'd called it. A space to pause between the public corridors and private quarters, to shed the day's burdens before entering the sanctity of home.
I hadn't even considered the concept of transitional space.
My designs moved beings from point A to point B with maximum efficiency. Jalina's designs acknowledged that beings needed moments between destinations. Pauses in the journey. Breathing room.
The realization was uncomfortable.
I'd spent three years designing Mothership's current habitation sectors. Thousands of beings lived in spaces I'd created, and I'd never once questioned whether those spaces nurtured them or simply contained them. The crew had never complained, Zandovians valued efficiency, and my designs delivered that in abundance.
But humans weren't Zandovians.
And increasingly, neither were the beings we rescued. Mothership had evolved from a purely Zandovian vessel into something more complex with a mobile city serving dozens of species with wildly different psychological needs. The rigid efficiency that served my people might suffocate others.
Jalina had seen that truth in seventeen seconds of examining my blueprints.
I should have been offended. Should have dismissed her critique as the uninformed opinion of someone who understood aesthetics but not engineering rigor. That's what my father would have done, Architect Zor'lan of the Garmuth'e Spatial Planning Commission, whose designs were studied across three star systems for their mathematical perfection.
He'd taught me that form followed function. That beauty emerged naturally from optimal efficiency. That emotional considerations were irrelevant in serious architectural work.
Standing here surrounded by holographic blueprints that suddenly looked sterile despite their perfection, I wondered if my father had been wrong.
The thought felt like heresy.
I pulled up another set of files. My personal projects, the designs I worked on during my off-shift hours. A concert hall for the Mothership's entertainment district, optimized for acoustic perfection. A meditation garden for the crew's psychological wellness area, organized for maximum contemplative efficiency. A memorial plaza honoring the Zandovian warriors lost in the Kavroth Conflict, structured to guide visitors through a precisely choreographed emotional journey.
All beautiful. All functional.
All completely missing the warmth that Jalina had captured in her simple sketches.
She'd drawn the neighborhood clusters by hand, actual charcoal on actual paper, a primitive medium that should have been laughably inadequate compared to my holographic modeling systems. But her sketches held something my perfect digital renderings lacked. Life. Energy. The sense that beings would actuallywantto live in these spaces, not just tolerate them.
I examined her sketch of the courtyard design. The lines were confident but not rigid, the proportions instinctive rather than calculated. She'd added details my systems couldn't generate, a being sitting on a bench, another tending plants in a communal garden, children playing in an open plaza while their parents watched from nearby. The figures were just suggestions, barely more than gestural marks, but they transformed the space from abstract geometry into lived experience.
This was what my designs lacked. The human element.
Ironic, considering I wasn't human.
I spent the next two hours integrating Jalina's concepts into my base framework, watching the expansion project transform from purely functional into something that balanced efficiency with livability. The mathematics became more complex, her variable ceiling heights created structural challenges, and the communal gathering spaces required additional load-bearing support, but the solutions were achievable.
More than achievable. They were elegant in ways I hadn't anticipated.
Her courtyard design created natural traffic flow while providing rest spaces. Her sight line considerations actually improved emergency evacuation patterns. Her transitional alcoves reduced corridor congestion during shift changes by giving beings places to pause before merging into main thoroughfares.
She wasn't ignoring function. She was expanding my definition of what function meant.
The chronometer indicated 2300 hours. I'd been working for seventeen hours straight without noticing the passage of time. This level of hyperfocus was normal for me. Kex'tar constantly complained about my tendency to disappear into projects and forget basic biological necessities like meals and sleep.
But this was different. I wasn't just working. I wasexcited.
