“Problem?” I ask.
Her fingers tap once against the console before she catches herself. The only sign that something has gotten under her skin.
“Governor Vesta,” she says. “He refuses to reroute his supply convoy. It’s blocking three sectors, delaying every House.”
“Have you spoken to him?”
“Repeatedly.” She pulls up a message thread. Her requests are cleanly structured, rational and patient. His replies are blunt refusals.
“Apparently, he doesn’t accept suggestions from someone half his age,” she says quietly.
I study the congestion again. “What have you offered him in exchange?” I inquire.
Her Grace frowns. “Offered? Nothing. He should reroute because it’s the efficient choice.”
“What if you make it look like his idea?” I say.
“How?”
“Tell him Mercury is testing a new priority lane. Ask if his pilots want to lead the trial. If it works, name the corridor after him.”
She freezes for a heartbeat, then her fingers resume their rhythm as she weighs pride against outcome. “Huh. Isn’t that manipulative?”
“It’s practical,” I say. “You can’t fix a clogged artery by arguing with it. And it gets everyone else moving again.”
She considers this for a moment before opening a channel. “Governor Vesta, I am testing a new priority lane for the outer belt run. Your pilots have the best record in the region. If the trial succeeds, we’ll designate the route as the ‘Vesta Corridor.’”
A pause. Then a rough voice: “How much time does it cut?”
“Seven minutes,” she replies.
Another pause. “Fine. Send coordinates.”
The red tag turns green. The congestion dissolves. Traffic rebalances itself through the streams in moments.
Lady Tavia watches the display as if witnessing an equation resolving itself into something she hadn’t considered possible.
“You solved a three-day standoff in thirty seconds,” she says.
“You would have figured it out,” I offer.
“Not that way,” she says, reaching into her pocket to pull out a small hexagonal token of Mercury-blue glass. “This links to my private network. It will flag your location if you are ever in a blackout. Symbolic, mostly, but useful during trials. I don’t give these to many people.”
I take it. The glass is warm from her hand. “Thank you.”
The gesture feels heavier than the delicate token in my palm.
She studies me with newfound interest. “Mercury values clarity and efficiency.” Her mouth curves into a rare, genuine smile. “If you ever need support, send word. Mercury doesn’t forget favours.”
I tuck the token away. As I turn to leave the gallery, the holographic streams shift again. One faint signal near the outskirts flickers with irregular intervals. Lady Tavia’s eyes track toward it, and her expression tightens for the smallest fraction of a moment before smoothing into practiced neutrality.
“What’s that?” I ask.
Her Grace gives a small shrug of her thin shoulders. “Sometimes we track irregular signals near the rim. Probably debris, but the frequencies are inconsistent.” She folds her arms, the motion neat and contained.
The signal flickers again, a stuttering pattern that doesn’t match anything else in the room. Lady Tavia holds my gaze for a beat longer than necessary, then turns back to the console and begins recalibrating traffic patterns. The conversation is over, but the question lingers in my mind.
I find Isolde in the corridor outside, examining her nails with studied disinterest.
