The thought made something in my chest tighten with frustration.
I'd designed award-winning settlement plans before joining Liberty. I'd been recruited specifically for my ability to create spaces that felt likehomeinstead of just shelter. My professors had called my workemotionally intelligent architecture, designs that understood how people moved through space, how they gathered and separated, how physical environments shaped psychological wellbeing.
None of that seemed to matter to Zor'go.
But tomorrow, today, technically, he'd asked me to come prepared. That had to mean something.
I added final details to my sketches: lighting schemes that mimicked natural day cycles, acoustic design to prevent the echoing emptiness of metal corridors, textural variations to provide sensory interest. Everything I'd learned about human spatial needs, adapted for the multi-species reality of Mothership.
By the time I finally set down my charcoal, my hand was black with smudges and my notebook had six pages of dense concept sketches. The chronometer read 0430.
Two hours until I needed to report to Operations.
I considered sleeping, and decided against it. My brain was too wired, thoughts spinning through possibilities and anxieties in equal measure. Instead, I cleaned up as quietly as I could, changed into fresh work clothes, and made my way through Mothership's corridors toward the communal facilities.
The ship never truly slept. Even at this hour, crew members moved through the passages, Zandovians heading to or from shift rotations, a few other species I'd learned to recognize but whose names I still couldn't pronounce. I nodded to a maintenance worker whose purple skin rippled with bioluminescent patterns, and received a clicking acknowledgment in return.
Six months, and I still felt like a visitor in this massive city-ship.
The observation deck was empty when I arrived. I'd discovered this spot a month after the rescue, a small alcove off one of the main corridors, with transparent panels that looked out into space. Not true windows, Dana had explained when I'd asked. Some kind of holographic projection from external cameras, designed to prevent the psychological strain of endless metal walls.
But it felt real. The stars looked real, even if they were patterns I'd never seen from Earth. The darkness between them felt infinite and terrifying and beautiful.
I pressed my palm against the cool surface and let myself feel the full weight of displacement.
Earth was gone. Not destroyed necessarily, but lost to me in ways that made the distinction irrelevant. The Liberty mission had been one-way by design, humanity's first attempt at interstellar colonization, with no plan for return. We'd signed up for that reality, understanding we were leaving everything behind.
But we were supposed to have each other. Supposed to build new settlements on new worlds, carrying humanity forward into the stars.
Instead, the wormhole had shattered those dreams into fragments. Sixteen women survived the crash on that hell planet. Sixteen out of how many? We had no idea what happened to the rest of Liberty. Dr. Sarah Kim had ended up on some mining planet, and had nefarious plans in the name of gratitude to her rescuers once she snuck on board. And Alex Bail, who landed on a barely survivable planet, is the only human mail here. Mothership’s reputation for rescues has brought 18 humans together. No idea if there were other survivors scattered across this alien galaxy, or if we were all that remained of our colony mission.
Some nights, that possibility felt like drowning.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
I spun so fast my glasses went crooked. A Zandovian stood in the observation alcove entrance, not one I recognized immediately, though their green skin and gold markings suggested medical division.
"Sorry," they said, holding up four-fingered hands in a peaceful gesture. "Didn't mean to startle you. I'm Zorn."
Zorn. Dana's friend, Bea's supervisor in Medical. We'd met briefly during my time organizing supply storage, but never really talked.
"Jalina," I said, adjusting my glasses. "I thought I was the only one who came here at odd hours."
"Insomnia is universal, apparently." Zorn moved to stand beside me at the viewport, his eight-foot frame somehow managing not to be imposing. His movements were gentle, controlled, a healer's precision. "You're heading to Operations later? I saw you're scheduled with Zor'go."
How did everyone know everyone's schedule on this ship?
"0600 briefing," I confirmed. "I'm nervous."
"Zor'go's brilliant but not exactly warm." Zorn's golden-brown eyes held understanding. "He sees systems and patterns. People are just variables in his equations."
"That's what makes him good at city planning," I said. "But it makes him terrible at collaboration."
"Unless you speak his language." Zorn gestured at the stars beyond the viewport. "Zor'go thinks in three dimensions, spatial relationships, flow patterns, optimization matrices. If you want him to listen, show him something he hasn't considered. Something that makes his perfect systems more efficient."
"But I don't think in pure efficiency," I admitted. "I think in how spaces make peoplefeel. How architecture supports community and psychology. That's not Zor'go's priority."
"Maybe it should be." Zorn's expression shifted into something thoughtful. "Mothership rescues thousands of displaced beings every cycle. We give them shelter, but do we give them home? That's not a question Zor'go has asked himself."
