"The fountain placement creates a natural gathering point," I said, rotating my datapad so he could see the sketch properly. "But if we angle it fifteen degrees southwest, the water reflection will catch the overhead lighting during the second shift. Makes the space feel more dynamic."
Zor'go's ice-blue eyes tracked over my drawing with that intense focus that still made my stomach do complicated things I refused to examine too closely. His fingers moved through the holographic interface, adjusting angles and flow calculations with the kind of precision that would make surgeons weep with envy.
"Fifteen degrees southwest increases structural load on the support beams by three percent," he said. Not a criticism. Just information. "We'll need to reinforce the foundation matrix."
"Can we reinforce it?"
"Obviously." His markings flickered, that crystalline shimmer across silver-gray skin that I'd learned meant he was pleased with a challenge. "The question is whether the aesthetic improvement justifies the additional resource allocation."
I pulled up the original courtyard design on my datapad, his original design, all clean lines and optimal efficiency. Compared it to my sketch with its angled fountain, its curved benches positioned for conversation rather than capacity maximization, its planters that would hold actual growing things instead of sterile architectural elements.
"Sixteen thousand beings are going to live in these neighborhoods," I said. "They're not just passing through. They're building lives here. Building families. They need spaces that feel alive, not spaces that feel like waiting rooms."
"Waiting rooms serve a function."
"So do homes. Different function."
We'd had variations of this conversation about forty times over the past three weeks. Zor'go would present something mathematically flawless, I'd point out where it felt emotionally sterile, we'd argue for anywhere from five minutes to two hours, and eventually we'd find synthesis. The process should have been exhausting. Instead, it felt like the best kind of puzzle, two different intelligences fitting together to create something neither could build alone.
The realization that I looked forward to our arguments probably said something about my mental state that I didn't want to examine.
"Implement the fifteen-degree angle," Zor'go said finally. "But add support reinforcements to sectors seven through eleven. I won't compromise structural integrity for aesthetics."
"I would never ask you to compromise structural integrity." I made the notes on my datapad, charcoal dust smudging across the screen. "I'm asking you to expand your definition of integrity to include psychological resilience."
His markings flickered again. Pleased. Definitely pleased.
"You're learning to speak engineer," he said.
"You're learning to speak architect." I held up my charcoal-stained fingers. "Though I notice you still haven't tried drawing anything by hand."
"Holographic interfaces are more precise."
"Holographic interfaces can't capture spontaneity." I grabbed a clean sheet from my notebook, held it out to him. "Try it. Just once. Sketch what you see when you imagine the completed courtyard."
Zor'go looked at the paper like I'd handed him a live explosive. "That's unnecessary."
"It's not about necessity. It's about seeing the space differently." I pushed the paper closer, pulled a charcoal stick from my case. "Come on. Humor me. I've spent three weeks learning your mathematical modeling system. You can spend five minutes with my primitive artistic tools."
For a moment, I thought he'd refuse. His expression had gone carefully neutral, that mask he wore when something made him uncomfortable but he didn't want to show it. Then he took the charcoal stick, his long fingers dwarfing it, and studied the blank page with the same intense focus he gave to structural load calculations.
He drew one line. Stopped. Drew another. His movements were careful, precise, trying to force the charcoal to behave likea holographic interface. The lines came out stiff, mechanical, utterly unlike the flowing curves I knew he was imagining.
"This is inefficient," he muttered.
"It's not about efficiency. It's about exploration." I moved closer, close enough to see the subtle texture of his silver-gray skin, the way his markings shifted with concentration. "Stop trying to make it perfect. Just let your hand move."
"My hand wants to move in mathematically optimal patterns."
"Your brain wants optimal patterns. Your hand might want something different." I touched his wrist, barely, just fingertips against his skin, and felt him go very still. "Loosen up. You're not calculating load-bearing capacity. You're playing."
"I don't play."
"Everyone plays. They just play differently." I kept my fingers on his wrist, feeling the tension there, the rigidity of someone who'd never learned to create without purpose. "What does the courtyard feel like? Not look like. Feel like."
Zor'go's markings flickered rapidly now, and I couldn't read the pattern. His eyes stayed fixed on the paper, but I felt his focus shift, the moment he stopped fighting the charcoal and started listening to something internal.
His hand moved. Not in straight lines anymore. In curves and suggestions, in the kind of gestural marks that captured atmosphere rather than accuracy. The fountain appeared as flowing motion rather than static structure. The benches became gathering places rather than seating units. He drew beings, just suggestions, barely more than shapes, but they were beings in community, not beings in storage.
