The expansion project had been a challenge, yes. An opportunity to push my capabilities, to design something unprecedented in scale and complexity. But it had also been a burden with the weight of sixteen thousand beings depending on my ability to create adequate living spaces in an impossible timeframe.
Working with Jalina transformed the burden into genuine creative exhilaration.
She saw possibilities I'd dismissed. Questioned assumptions I hadn't realized I'd made. Challenged me not through criticism but through offering alternatives that forced me to reconsider every decision.
And she did it all while being so small I could have fit three of her in one of my residential pods.
The contrast was absurd. Jalina was barely taller than my waist, her entire body mass perhaps a tenth of mine. Her bone structure looked fragile enough to shatter under Mothership's standard gravity. The first time I'd seen her, six months ago during the initial human rescue, I'd worried that simply shaking her hand might cause injury.
But today in my office, she'd stood her ground and told me my life's work was essentially cargo management. No hesitation. No deference to my position or expertise. Just unflinching honesty delivered with enough tact to avoid insult while making her point devastatingly clear.
I respected that. Perhaps more than I should.
The door chime interrupted my analysis. I checked the security feed. Kex'tar stood in the corridor, his purple skin slightly luminescent under the standard lighting, his expression carrying that perpetual amusement he wore like armor.
"Enter," I called without looking up from the holograms.
The door slid open. Kex'tar's footsteps were distinctive, confident, slightly asymmetrical from an old injury to his left legthat he refused to have fully repaired. He claimed it reminded him not to be overconfident in combat.
"You missed the department heads meeting," he said, moving to stand beside me among the floating blueprints. "Captain Theron was concerned. I told him you were probably dead in your office, having forgotten to eat for three days straight."
"I ate this morning."
"Yesterday morning doesn't count." Kex'tar studied the expansion designs with a practiced eye. He'd seen countless iterations over the past months, and could probably identify every modification I'd made since our last discussion. "These look different."
"The human architect contributed significant improvements."
"Architect Chen?" Kex'tar's tone shifted, carrying notes I couldn't quite parse. Interest. Curiosity. Something else. "I heard you called her in for consultation."
"Captain Theron's orders. He wanted human input on human-compatible housing."
"And?"
I gestured to the neighborhood clusters, highlighting the changes Jalina had introduced. "She identified critical gaps in my psychological accommodation protocols. Her variable pod configurations address needs I hadn't adequately considered."
Kex'tar was silent for a moment, examining the designs. Then he laughed—a deep, rolling sound that seemed inappropriate given the professional nature of our discussion.
"What?" I demanded.
"Nothing. Absolutely nothing." He was grinning now, which was worse than the laughter. "It's just interesting to hear you praise someone else's design concepts. You once spent threehours explaining why Architect T'varn's modifications to the medical bay were structurally sound but aesthetically offensive."
"T'varn's designs violated twelve principles of harmonic spatial integration."
"And Architect Jalina's designs?"
"Are functionally superior to my original plans in several key metrics."
Kex'tar's grin widened. "You're excited about this project. Actually excited, not just professionally engaged. I haven't seen you this animated since you redesigned the entire crew quarters layout three years ago."
He wasn't wrong. I could feel the energy coursing through my system—the same hyperaware state I entered during particularly challenging design problems. But this felt different. More intense. More... consuming.
"The expansion project represents unprecedented challenges," I said, keeping my voice carefully neutral. "Sixteen thousand beings from twelve different species, all requiring accommodation within four months. The complexity is stimulating."
"The complexity." Kex'tar moved closer, lowering his voice despite us being alone in my office. "Or the little human architect who apparently sees what you can't?"
I turned to face him fully, noting the knowing glint in his eyes. Kex'tar was second-in-command of Mothership for good reason—he read situations and people with unsettling accuracy. He'd survived decades of diplomatic negotiations and tactical operations through sheer perceptiveness.
Which meant he'd already identified something I was still trying to categorize.
