Chapter 1 #2
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?
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 like home instead of just shelter.
My professors had called my work emotionally 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 people feel. 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."
The idea settled into my consciousness like a key finding its lock.
Zor'go designed perfect systems. But perfection without consideration for emotional needs was just beautiful machinery.
I could show him what he was missing.
"Thank you," I said to Zorn. "I think I know what I need to prepare now."
He smiled, warm and genuine. "Good luck, Architect Jalina. Something tells me Zor'go's about to have his entire worldview challenged."
After Zorn left, I stood at the viewport for another twenty minutes, watching the alien stars and letting my mind reshape the concepts I'd sketched. Not just efficient living quarters. Not just optimized traffic flow.
Home. Community. Spaces that understood trauma and displacement and the desperate need to belong somewhere.
That's what Mothership needed. That's what I could offer.
When I finally made my way to Operations, the chronometer read 0545. Fifteen minutes early, but I'd never been good at showing up exactly on time. Anticipation and anxiety always pushed me forward.
The Operations center was on deck twelve, accessed through corridors that grew progressively more sophisticated as you approached the ship's strategic nerve center.
Holographic displays lined the walls, showing real-time data on every system aboard Mothership.
Power distribution, life support, navigation, structural integrity—all of it flowing through this sector like blood through a heart.
Zor'go's office was at the center of it all.
I'd been here dozens of times over the past two months, but it still took my breath away.
The space was enormous even by Zandovian standards, with ceiling-to-floor transparent panels that looked out into space on three sides.
In the center, dozens of holographic city models floated in midair, different sectors of Mothership, expansion proposals, optimization scenarios.
The projections filled the office with shifting blue light, casting shadows that moved like living things.
And there, standing among the floating blueprints with his back to the entrance, was Zor'go.
His silver-gray skin caught the holographic light, crystalline blue markings shimmering across his lean frame as he gestured through the displays.
He was tall even for a Zandovian, eight and a half feet of focused intensity, all sharp angles and elegant proportions.
His ice-blue eyes tracked invisible patterns in the data, fingers moving with a precision that made the complex holoprojectors seem like natural extensions of his body.
He didn't turn when I entered. Didn't acknowledge my presence at all.
I clutched my notebook tighter and waited.
And waited.
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
Finally, he spoke without turning. "You're early."
"I wanted to be prepared."
"Then show me what you've prepared."
Not "good morning." Not "how was the ceremony." Just straight to business.
I could work with that.
I moved to the central holoprojector table, carefully navigating around the floating blueprints. Up close, I could see what Zor'go was working on, a massive expansion proposal, adding an entire new sector to Mothership's already city-sized structure.
My breath caught. This wasn't just more crew quarters. This was a full residential district, large enough to house thousands.
"We're expecting a major influx," Zor'go said, still not looking at me.
His voice was precise, almost musical, each word carefully chosen for maximum efficiency.
"Three colony ships failed in the Kavra sector.
Mothership is responding. Estimated arrival: sixteen thousand displaced beings across twelve species. "
Sixteen thousand. Dear god.
"Where will they all go?" The question came out before I could stop it.
"That's what you're here to determine." Finally, Zor'go turned to face me.
His ice-blue eyes were striking against his silver-gray skin, intense and analytical. They swept over me in a single assessing glance, noting my rumpled clothes, my smudged hands still stained with charcoal, the notebook I held like a shield.
"Captain Tor'van believes human input is valuable for human-compatible spaces," he continued. "I'm skeptical. But I'm willing to be proven wrong."
The challenge in his voice was unmistakable.
I set my notebook on the holoprojector table. "Then let's see if I can change your mind."
His expression didn't shift, but something flickered in those blue eyes. Interest, maybe. Or just curiosity about what the small human architect thought she could contribute.
"Show me," Zor'go said.
I opened my notebook to the first sketch.
The chronometer read 0600 exactly.
And suddenly, I understood why Zor'go had called me here at this precise moment.
This wasn't just a briefing.
This was a test.