The Second Vote
Dawn arrived sharp and deliberate.
No haze. No lingering shadow to soften the edges of what was coming.
The Eighth Meridian District had formally requested its own ninety-day centralized adaptation trial.
The vote would not determine whether they could do it.
It would determine whether the broader network endorsed the replication model—or required stricter conditions.
The central hall filled earlier than usual.
Not with shouting.
With calculation.
Representatives reviewed Seventh Terrace's data projections in careful silence. Growth metrics. Crime reduction. Infrastructure stability. Economic acceleration.
All clean.
All persuasive.
The Preservationist negotiator stood composed near the front, hands clasped behind his back.
"We are not dismantling decentralization," he reminded the hall evenly. "We are refining it. The network remains intact. Districts simply choose the operational structure best suited to transitional stress."
"Structure shapes culture," a mediator replied. "You're not refining. You're reconditioning."
"Toward stability."
"Toward hierarchy."
The word lingered like a fracture line.
Blake remained near the side entrance, watchful but silent. He understood the weight of optics now better than most. Any visible alignment between him and the central debate would tip perception dangerously.
This had to be civilian.
Voluntary.
Authentic.
Iria stood only when called.
Not elevated.
Not commanding.
Just present.
"The Seventh Terrace trial has produced measurable gains," she said calmly. "We acknowledge that."
Murmurs of agreement.
"The Eighth Meridian District has the right to request similar governance within its boundaries."
More murmurs.
"But replication without adaptation is imitation," she continued. "And imitation without reflection erodes choice."
The negotiator's gaze sharpened slightly.
"What conditions are you proposing?" he asked.
"Stronger sunset clauses," she replied immediately. "Mandatory public referendums at mid-point. Cross-district audit observers. And—"
She paused deliberately.
"—a network-wide comparative transparency index."
Silence.
The term was unfamiliar.
"Explain," someone demanded.
"Every district—centralized or decentralized—will report standardized metrics weekly. Not only efficiency outcomes. But participation levels. Civic engagement rates. Public dissent recordings. Policy reversal frequency."
The hall grew still.
"You want to measure friction," the negotiator realized.
"Yes."
"Friction isn't failure."
"No," Iria agreed. "But absence of friction can be."
A ripple of discomfort moved through the room.
Because she wasn't attacking centralized governance.
She was challenging its invisibility.
"If authority is concentrated," she continued, "we must ensure voices are not quietly reduced in the process."
The Eighth Meridian delegate hesitated. "That level of transparency could undermine decisive action."
"Then your decisiveness can withstand scrutiny."
The negotiator held her gaze for a long moment.
"You're not opposing us," he said quietly.
"No."
"You're building safeguards."
"Yes."
He almost smiled.
The vote proceeded.
By a narrow margin, the Eighth Meridian District was approved—with Iria's conditions attached.
Two centralized districts now operated within the broader decentralized network.
After the assembly dissolved, Blake joined her beneath the upper terrace canopy.
"You tightened the frame," he said.
"I clarified it."
"You're making it harder for them to expand quietly."
"Yes."
He studied her expression carefully.
"You're not afraid they'll outperform everyone."
She exhaled slowly.
"I'm afraid they'll outperform in ways that make people forget what they're trading."
Below them, the Seventh Terrace's efficiency continued like clockwork. The Eighth Meridian District began reorganizing immediately.
Order spread.
Clean lines. Clear directives. Swift adaptation.
Attractive.
But now, every directive would be logged publicly. Every participation decline measured. Every dissent recorded.
Centralization could move faster.
But it could no longer move unseen.
As the sun climbed higher, illuminating both the ordered towers of Seventh Terrace and the noisier, slower forums of neighboring districts, the contrast sharpened.
Two models.
One city.
No open conflict.
Not yet.
But the question had shifted.
It was no longer whether centralization worked.
It was whether it could remain accountable—
Once people grew comfortable under its shade.