Chapter 12
Zor'go
The medical bay hummed with controlled urgency as we transferred the three Liberty survivors from the shuttle.
Maya, the architect Jalina had recognized, was the most stable despite eleven months of survival trauma.
The other two, a systems engineer named Garrett and a botanist called Prisha, required immediate intervention for malnutrition and radiation exposure.
Zorn moved between them with practiced efficiency, his medical team deploying Zandovian healing technology that would have seemed like magic to these humans just months ago.
I stood near the entrance, watching Jalina hover at Maya's bedside, her small hand gripping her friend's with desperate intensity.
She looked hollowed out. Like something essential had been carved from her chest during our three days in that asteroid field, waiting for raiders to find us while Vaxon's team jury-rigged our damaged engines.
"They'll recover," Dana said quietly, appearing beside me. She'd come straight from Engineering when she heard we'd brought survivors back. "Physically, at least. The psychological recovery takes longer."
"You know from experience."
"Yeah." Her green eyes tracked to Jalina. "And I know that look. She's drowning in guilt. Thinking she should have searched harder, done more, somehow prevented eleven months of suffering."
"She was surviving herself. Building a life from nothing. That's not betrayal."
"Try telling her that." Dana's expression softened with something like sympathy. "She loves you, you know. Even if she hasn't said it."
The words hit harder than they should. I'd suspected—the way Jalina looked at me, the small gestures, the moments when professional boundaries blurred into something warmer, but hearing confirmation from her closest friend made it devastatingly real.
"I love her," I admitted. The words felt foreign in my mouth. I'd never said them before. Never imagined I would. "Which makes watching her suffer significantly more complicated."
"Welcome to caring about humans. We're excellent at suffering and terrible at accepting comfort." Dana paused. "Give her space but don't let her disappear. She'll try to bury herself in work and guilt if you're not careful."
Sound advice. Humans seemed to require constant vigilance against self-destructive emotional spirals.
The medical bay doors opened and Captain Tor'van entered with Kex'tar, their expressions serious. Tor'van's cybernetic eye swept the space, assessing injuries and treatment progress with military precision.
"Zor'go," he said. "Report."
I pulled up the mission data on my wrist display. "Three survivors recovered from damaged escape pod. Minimal resistance from raiders once we executed the asteroid slingshot maneuver. Ship sustained moderate damage, already repaired. All survivors stable for transport."
"Jalina's spatial calculations were essential," Vaxon added from where he stood near the treatment bays. "Without her visualization, we wouldn't have found an escape route through that field."
Tor'van's gaze shifted to Jalina, who was still focused entirely on Maya. "Good work. All of you." He turned to Zorn. "Prognosis?"
"Full recovery expected for all three within two weeks. Longer for psychological adjustment." Zorn's golden-brown eyes held concern. "They've been through significant trauma. They'll need support beyond medical intervention."
"Dana, coordinate with your human community. Help integrate these survivors like you were integrated." Tor'van's command was gentle but firm. "We need to show them Mothership is home now, not prison."
"Understood."
The captain left with Kex'tar, already discussing security protocols for future rescue operations. Dana moved to Jalina's side, murmuring something that made Jalina's shoulders tighten before she nodded reluctantly.
I approached slowly, giving Jalina time to notice me. When her brown eyes finally lifted to mine, they were red-rimmed and exhausted.
"Maya's sleeping," she said quietly. "Zorn says she'll be okay."
"Physically."
"Yeah. Physically." Jalina's hands twisted together, charcoal-stained fingers leaving smudges on her sleeves. "She asked about Earth. About whether we'd found a way home. I didn't know what to tell her."
"You told her the truth."
"The truth is I stopped looking." Her voice cracked. "I built a life here. Found purpose. Found... you. And I forgot that people were still out there, still suffering, still waiting."
"Jalina—"
"Don't." She stepped back, putting physical distance between us. "Don't tell me it's not my fault or that I couldn't have done more. Don't make it easier."
The rejection stung, but I understood the impulse. Humans seemed to believe suffering was currency—that if they hurt enough, it would somehow balance the scales for those who'd hurt more.
"I won't make it easier," I said. "But I won't let you drown in guilt alone either. When you're ready to surface, I'll be here."
Something flickered across her face, gratitude mixed with pain, before she turned back to Maya's bedside.
I left her there, knowing Dana would ensure she eventually ate and rested. Knowing I couldn't force healing any more than I could force structural calculations to produce different results.
Some equations had no simple solutions.
The next three days passed in careful distance.
Jalina threw herself into work with manic intensity, arriving at Operations before I did and staying long after I left.
She spoke only about the expansion project, specifications, timelines, load calculations, with none of the warm creativity that usually characterized our collaboration.
I gave her the space Dana recommended while monitoring for collapse. Humans had disturbing tendencies toward self-destruction when overwhelmed.
On the fourth day, the expansion project deadline arrived.
We'd completed the designs. Every neighborhood cluster, every communal space, every system integration had been calculated, optimized, and rendered in perfect holographic detail. 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, bordered by 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.