We'd completed the designs. Every neighborhood cluster, every communal space, every system integration had been calculated, optimized, and rendered in perfect holographicdetail. Four months of work, compressed into presentations for Captain Tor'van and the Operations Council.
Jalina arrived at 0500, earlier than our scheduled briefing. She looked terrible, shadows under her eyes, her clothes rumpled from what was probably another night sleeping at her desk. But her datapad was loaded with final presentations, every specification confirmed.
"Ready?" I asked.
"As I'll ever be."
We walked to the council chamber in silence. The presentation hall was already filling, Captain Tor'van, Kex'tar, Er'dox, Zorn, Vaxon, and a dozen other department heads who needed to approve the expansion before construction could begin.
The holographic display filled the center of the chamber, our combined work rotating in three-dimensional glory.
"Architect Zor'go, Architect Chauncy," Tor'van said. "Present your proposal."
I began with structural specifications—the engineering that would allow us to add an entire new sector without compromising Mothership's integrity. Load distribution, power allocation, life support integration, emergency protocols. The mathematics were flawless, the systems optimized for efficiency.
Then Jalina took over.
Her voice was steadier than I expected as she walked the council through the neighborhood clusters. She explained the psychological design principles—sightlines that created security without surveillance, gathering spaces that encouraged community without forcing interaction, varied ceiling heights that prevented institutional claustrophobia.
She showed them the memorial garden.
The projection expanded, filling the chamber with Jalina's vision. A circular space at the heart of the expansion, borderedby living plants that would grow and change with the seasons. Benches arranged for reflection. A central fountain whose water caught light in patterns that mimicked stars. And walls inscribed with names of every being lost from Liberty, honored in permanent record.
"Sixteen thousand beings will live in this expansion," Jalina said quietly. "Many are refugees. Displaced. Traumatized. They need more than efficient housing. They need acknowledgment that their losses matter. That the people they left behind aren't forgotten."
The chamber was silent. Then Tor'van spoke.
"This honors them," he said simply. "Both the living and the dead. Approved. Construction begins immediately."
The council murmured agreement. Kex'tar praised the integration of functionality and emotional consideration. Er'dox commented on the elegant systems architecture. Zorn noted the psychological benefits would reduce medical interventions.
We'd done it. Created something that satisfied both Zandovian efficiency and human need.
As the council dispersed, Jalina remained still, staring at the holographic memorial garden like she was memorizing every detail.
"You designed something beautiful," I said.
"I designed something necessary." She deactivated her datapad, her movements slow. "Can we talk? Privately?"
"Of course. My office?—"
"No. The expansion section. The unfinished part."
Unusual request, but I agreed.
We took a transport pod to the construction zone. The new sector existed as a skeletal framework, support beams and power conduits, the bones of what would become a living community. Our footsteps echoed in the empty space, every sound amplified by absence.
Jalina walked to what would become the memorial garden's location. The area was currently just reinforced flooring and structural supports, but she moved through it like she could already see the finished design.
"I've been thinking about blueprints," she said, not looking at me. "About plans versus reality."
"They're not the same thing."
"No. They're not." She pulled out her notebook, that eternal companion, and opened to a page near the end. "I drew this three days ago. In the asteroid field, while we waited for repairs."
She held it out.
The sketch showed two figures dancing, one tall and angular, one small and delicate. Me and Jalina, rendered in confident charcoal strokes. The space station exhibition, weeks ago. The moment before everything became complicated.
