No, Zor'go was terrifying because he saw things in dimensions I could barely comprehend. Spatial flows, traffic patterns, efficiency matrices. His office was a forest of holographic blueprints of entire city sectors floating in mid-air, rotating through his long, elegant fingers as he adjusted power distribution or recalculated structural loads.
And I was supposed to contribute to that genius?
For two months, I'd been sketching ideas, suggesting modifications, trying to prove I was worth the reassignment. Zor'go barely acknowledged my presence most days. He'd glance at my drawings, nod curtly, then return to his holoprojectors like I'd merely confirmed something he already knew.
It shouldn't have bothered me. I was lucky to be working in my field at all. But something about his dismissiveness made me want to prove myself, to make him actuallyseeme instead of just tolerating my existence on his team.
"You're doing it again," Elena said, poking my shoulder. "That thing where you bite your lip and spiral into overthinking."
I released my lip. When did I start doing that?
"Zor'go intimidates me," I admitted. "He's... a lot."
"He's a socially awkward genius who lives in his head," Bea said. "Like you, just eight feet taller and silver."
"I'm not?—"
"Jalina. You joined an interstellar colony mission to design settlements on alien worlds. You're absolutely a dreamer who lives in her head." Elena grinned. "It's one of your best features."
A soft chime interrupted before I could formulate a response. My datapad—the Zandovian-issued device that had replaced my Earth tablet—lit up with an incoming message.
My heart did something complicated when I saw the sender: Zor'go.
Report to Operations 0600. Major project briefing. Come prepared with settlement integration concepts.
That was it. No greeting, no context. Just Zor'go's typical communication style as precise, efficient, devoid of unnecessary pleasantries.
"Well?" Elena leaned over to read the message. "Oh damn. 0600? That's in seven hours."
I checked the time display. She was right. It was past midnight, I'd spent the entire evening at Dana's ceremony and then holed up in our quarters sketching instead of sleeping.
"'Come prepared with settlement integration concepts,'" I read aloud, my mind already racing. "What does that even mean? Integration of what? For whom?"
"Only one way to find out." Bea stood, stretching her long frame. "Sleep. You'll need to be sharp if Zor'go's finally giving you a real project."
Sleep. Right.
As if my brain would shut down now, with that message burning in my consciousness like a challenge.
After Bea retreated to her sleeping alcove and Elena finally crashed in hers, I pulled out my battered notebook again. The Earth-made paper was getting sparse. I'd already filled three notebooks since the rescue, sketching everything from Mothership's corridor designs to the alien crew members I worked alongside.
Drawing helped me process. Helped me translate the overwhelming alienness of my new existence into something I could understand through line and shadow and form.
I flipped past the ceremony sketches to a fresh page and started mapping out ideas. Settlement integration, that implied new arrivals. Mothership rescued stranded beings from all over the Shorstar Galaxy, and we were far from the only species trying to make a new life aboard this massive vessel.
What would new arrivals need? Privacy but not isolation. Community spaces that felt safe. Sight lines that prevented that trapped feeling we'd all experienced after weeks in the cave on the burning planet.
My charcoal flew across the page. Modular quarters that could adapt to different species' needs. Common areas positioned at natural intersection points. Ceiling variations to break up the monotony of endless corridors. Green spaces, even artificial ones, because beings needed to see growing things, to feel connected to something organic.
An hour passed. Then two.
My hand cramped but I kept sketching, losing myself in the creative flow that had always been my escape. On Earth, I'd spent late nights like this in architecture school, fueled by coffee and possibility, designing buildings that would never be built but felt vital anyway.
These designs felt different. They might actually matter.
The quarters were silent except for Bea's occasional sleepy movement and Elena's soft snoring. Dana was gone now,moved into Er'dox's quarters a month ago, officially starting her bonded life. Our little group of humans was fracturing into new configurations, adapting to alien customs, building relationships that six months ago would have been unimaginable.
I paused mid-sketch, staring at the rough outline of a gathering space I'd designed with curved walls and varied seating heights. Would Zor'go even look at this? Or would he glance at my notebook the way he always did, with that expression that suggested he was humoring the enthusiastic but ultimately inconsequential human who'd been assigned to his team?
