"But they're storage units. You're designing places to keep beings, not places for beings to live."
The observation struck harder than expected. Storage units. As if I'd reduced living creatures to cargo requiring shelter rather than individuals requiring homes.
My markings flickered with an involuntary response to emotional disturbance I'd worked years to control. Jalina noticed, her eyes tracking the shimmer of crystalline blue across my skin, but she didn't comment.
"Explain," I said, my voice sharper than intended.
She didn't flinch at my tone. Instead, she pulled the holoprojector controls toward herself as bold, considering she'd been on Mothership less than six months, and began manipulating my designs with surprising competency.
"Your residential pods are identical," she said, highlighting a section. "Species-specific adjustments for size and atmospheric requirements, but within each species category, they're uniform. Six sleeping platforms, one sanitation area, one food preparation zone. Efficient, yes. But also psychologically damaging over time."
She expanded one pod, and I watched as she began sketching modifications directly into my hologram. Her movements wereuncertain at first, the technology was clearly unfamiliar, but she adapted quickly.
"Beings need variation," Jalina continued. "Need to make choices about their environment, even small ones. Pod A versus Pod B. A view versus central location. Higher ceiling versus more floor space. The ability to choose creates investment. Investment creates community."
"Investment creates inefficiency," I countered. "If beings spend time selecting quarters rather than moving into assigned optimal spaces, we waste resources during integration."
"You waste more resources later when beings feel no connection to their quarters and fail to maintain them properly. Or worse, when psychological stress from environmental monotony creates medical issues that strain your healthcare systems."
The argument was sound. I'd reviewed data on previous large-scale integrations. The psychological adjustment period had been longer than projected, with elevated rates of depression and social withdrawal. I'd attributed it to displacement trauma, not environmental design.
Perhaps I'd missed variables.
Jalina's modifications were taking shape in the hologram now. She'd broken my uniform residential sector into neighborhoods with clusters of varied pod configurations connected by communal spaces that served multiple functions. A food preparation area that doubled as a social gathering point. A small green space using Mothership's hydroponics systems. Sight lines that created the illusion of space while maintaining my efficient density numbers.
"The math still works," she said quietly. "You can house the same number of beings. But they'llliveinstead of justsurviving."
I studied her additions, running calculations in my head. The structural integrity remained sound. Resource distribution actually improved slightly with the clustered design. And the psychological benefits, if her theory proved accurate, would reduce long-term maintenance costs.
She'd improved my design.
The realization was uncomfortable and exhilarating in equal measure.
"You studied Mothership's systems," I observed. "The power distribution networks, the hydroponics integration points, the structural load-bearing requirements. This isn't theoretical. You've analyzed our actual infrastructure."
Color rose in Jalina's cheeks, a human physiological response to emotion I'd learned to recognize from Dana. "I've spent two months observing how Mothership functions. How the different sectors connect. How beings move through spaces. I wanted to understand before I tried to design anything."
"Most architects would have imposed their vision immediately."
"Most architects aren't designing for a flying city they don't fully comprehend." She pushed her glasses up her nose, a nervous gesture I'd already cataloged. "I'm the student here. You're the expert. I'm just offering a perspective you might not have considered."
The humility was unexpected. Refreshing. And strategically brilliant, whether she intended it or not. By positioning herself as a student rather than a rival, she'd made it easier for me to accept her input without feeling my expertise was being challenged.
Unless she was genuinely humble, in which case the strategy was unconscious.
Either way, it was effective.
I pulled her modifications into a separate projection, creating a comparison model. My original design beside her enhanced version. Side by side, the difference was stark. Mine was a machine. Hers was a home.
"Captain Tor'van wants human input on human-compatible housing," I said slowly, watching the two models rotate. "You'll co-lead this project with me."
Jalina's eyes went wide behind those absurd Earth-made glasses. "Co-lead? But I've only been in Operations for two months. I'm barely past orientation?—"
"You see what I've missed. That makes you essential, not novice." I minimized the comparison models and pulled up the full expansion project timeline. "We have four months before the displaced beings arrive. The habitat sector must be operational by then. Can you commit to that schedule?"
"I… yes. Yes, I can."
"Then we begin immediately." I highlighted several sections of the design. "These three neighborhoods need your variable pod configurations. I'll handle the structural engineering and systems integration. We'll meet daily at 0600 to synchronize our work."
