The Narrow Margin
Seventh Terrace reached its midpoint under a sky so clear it felt deliberate.
No storms.
No pressure.
Just light.
The plaza filled early. Not with restless anxiety—but with something steadier.
Expectation.
Unlike Eighth Meridian, Seventh Terrace had been the first to centralize. It carried symbolic weight. If it reversed now, the ripple would be enormous. If it continued, the model solidified.
The oversight council presented their report without embellishment.
Efficiency sustained at high levels.
Resource redistribution stable.
Public safety metrics improved.
Infrastructure upgrades completed ahead of schedule.
Applause followed—stronger than in Eighth Meridian.
Then came the participation data.
Civic forum attendance had dipped sharply in the first month.
But in the past ten days, it had risen.
Not to former decentralized levels.
But enough to shift the slope.
Independent proposals had increased by twelve percent since Teren's refusal.
Policy commentary submissions had doubled.
The crowd murmured.
Awareness had returned.
Blake stood at the outer ring of the plaza, hands clasped behind his back. He did not intervene. He did not speak. He simply observed.
Iria remained in the gallery above, silent and still.
A council member stepped forward.
"Centralization has stabilized this district during transition. We now ask whether you wish to continue for the remaining forty-five days."
Before the stones were distributed, Teren Vale stepped forward again.
But this time, he did not speak alone.
Three others joined him—an engineer, a teacher, a logistics coordinator.
"We are not opposing coordination," the engineer said clearly. "We are asking whether the structure still fits."
The teacher added, "Participation is recovering. That matters."
The logistics coordinator spoke last. "Efficiency isn't our only metric."
A council member responded evenly. "Without centralized authority, the gains you see may stall."
"Maybe," Teren said. "But if we cannot function without it now, when will we?"
Silence deepened.
This was no longer about smooth systems.
It was about identity.
Voting stones were distributed.
The plaza held its breath.
The count was slower than Eighth Meridian's.
Closer.
Each stone echoing faintly as it dropped.
When the tally finished, the numbers were read aloud.
Continuation: 51 percent.
Dissolution: 49 percent.
A razor's edge.
The district would remain centralized.
But barely.
No cheers erupted.
No outrage either.
Just collective awareness of how close the margin had come.
The oversight council stood composed—but something in their posture had shifted.
This was not overwhelming endorsement.
It was conditional tolerance.
Blake exhaled slowly.
"They almost stepped away," he murmured.
"Yes," Iria replied.
"And that matters."
Below, Teren nodded once—not in defeat, but in acknowledgment.
The district had chosen to continue.
But nearly half had chosen otherwise.
That tension would not vanish.
It would sit quietly beneath every directive issued for the remaining days.
That night, the Comparative Transparency Index recorded the narrowest margin yet.
Across the network, decentralized districts noted the result carefully.
Eighth Meridian had chosen continuation with comfort.
Seventh Terrace had chosen it with caution.
Two centralized districts.
Two different moods.
In her chamber later, Iria studied the data long after others retired.
Blake entered without knocking.
"They didn't reject it," he said.
"No."
"They didn't embrace it either."
"No."
He watched her closely.
"You're not relieved."
"I am."
"Then what is it?"
She closed the projection.
"They stayed," she said softly. "But not because they stopped caring."
He understood.
A system held by comfort was stable.
A system held by awareness was stronger.
But awareness required effort.
And effort could tire.
Outside, Seventh Terrace's lights glowed steady—but less serene than before.
Inside homes, debates continued.
Not loud.
Not revolutionary.
Just persistent.
Centralization would continue for forty-five more days.
But it would not move easily now.
Every directive would carry the memory of that 49 percent.
Every policy would rest on a margin that thin.
The experiment had survived its midpoint.
But it was no longer smooth.
It was balanced.
And balance, Iria knew,
Was far harder to maintain than order.