A Battle Unseen

[Doc]

Cliff House, South Western Kaliburg,
7:45pm local time

"A really very good dinner, Carolina," said Nicolette as she finished her pasta. "You've really come a long way with your cooking. I am very impressed."

"Well that's very kind of you to say, Nicki," said Carolina. "I cook pasta well, but if you ask me to do something like meatloaf, or something like this, I really am not much help."

"Well, then its a good thing we like pasta in our family," said Nicolette.

"So, now that dinner is out of the way, how can I help you tonight, Aunt?" Nicolette knew exactly what she meant, but feigned shock.

"Can't I come see my favorite niece without needing something?"

"Sure, you could. You know you are always welcomed. But I think we both know that there is something on your mind. You've been hinting at it all evening."

Nicolette snuck a look over at Carolina's husband, Elliot, who was half-listening to the conversation, apparently oblivious to the the fact that the conversation had moved on from how dinner tasted. Elliot was cleaning the table off while the two women spoke. But Carolina followed the line of her aunt's eye as it flicked up and then back to the table, and she knew that her aunt wanted to speak to her without her husband here, and without the potential that the children would interrupt the conversation.

"Really?" she asked Nicolette, and Nicolette widened her eyes as to say 'please be more discrete, but yes.' So Carolina stood up and walked to the sink. "Sweetheart, my aunt requires me for a moment. Would it be better for you if we went to the office and talked, or, can you finish this in a few minutes?" The Prince Consort, who was by now a veteran at being dismissed from his own kitchen smiled and said, "My Love, if you would like me to go and take the kids with me, then perhaps you might like to finish the dishes?"

The Empress said "Oooh you drive a hard bargain. But its a deal, we'll only need a few moments." Elliot smiled, put the dishes back into the sink and said "As you wish, my love." He then left, locking the door behind him so the kids were not able to burst in until Carolina was ready for them. Over the years, he learned that there was a lot that he neither wanted to know about, nor really needed to know about, and it was just better to give his wife her space.

Carolina returned to the table. "Alright, spill it."

Nicolette took a deep breath. "Well, Erica came to see me last week." The statement was met with a huge eye roll from Carolina. "Now, just wait a minute. She was just giving me information, that's all."

"Nicki, her very presence is a statement, you ought to know that by now," said Carolina. "I do affirm, if I could rid myself of that thorn in my side I would sleep far easier at night."

"Are you sleeping alright?" asked Nicolette. "Sometimes I worry about you."

"Well don't," said Carolina. "I can handle this. I am tired of everyone trying to tell me what they should do and telling me this and that and this other thing, and I have to be nice to these people, and I have to coddle these people, and voters matter, and people want more choices... Everyone wants something from me, every washed up old hasbeen wants me to do something for them. Nobody understands this pressure: the whole world is going to hell and I just want to go back to Athosia and just stay there. I don't need that from you too."

Nicolette sat silently for a moment. Then she spoke. "Are you done?"

Carolina narrowed her eyes. "Excuse me?" she said coolly.

"Are you done?" Carolina repeated.

"Done with what?" asked Carolina.

"Woman, you are 37 years old. You are a mother and an Empress, and you are acting like a spoiled brat. Grow up," said Nicolette, in an uncharacteristically stern tone. "I'm tired of hearing you bitch and complain about how hard your life is, like I don't know anything about it myself. I was your regent for 10 years. I know something about what you're experiencing, and I don't want or need anything from you. I got out, remember?"

Nicolette had a way of cutting through the drama sometimes. It gave Carolina a moment to pause, and she realized that her heart was racing. She sat back, and more in control of her attitude, she said "Well, then what did Lady Donahue want?"

"She wanted me to pass on to you where the Nationalists were on your proposals."

"They should just accept them, I am the Empress."

"They said Miller is not acceptable," continued Nicolette, sidestepping Carolina's bitterness.

"Of course, Miller is not acceptable. He's too interested in continuing Reg's policies. What about Craft?"

Nicolette reached into her pants pocket and produced a paper. It was her hand written notes from her brief meeting with the elder stateswoman who was still very much a behind the scenes player in Nationalist politics, despite being forced into retirement about a dozen years ago. "Craft no. Broussard, no, Consuelo no, Milano-Carbrerra no, Sir Tom is a definite no. So is the Socialist."

"God damn it," said Carolina. "Did they say yes to anyone I sent them?"

"They said yes to Melanie." said Nicolette, seriously.

Carolina tossed down a fork she had been fidgeting with. "And who else?"

"Nobody else. Just Melanie."

"Well," said Carolina. "No, not Melanie. There's got to be someone else."

"Carolina, just Melanie. She is the best you are going to get."

"Well, no, not Melanie. I just put her on the list to give me an even ten."

Nicolette laid the notepaper on the table, "Well, Madame, looks like they called your bluff. She's it, or they are going to name their own slate, and you can dissolve the Assembly again, and then Sir Thomas will resign while the Nationalists will never work with you again."

Carolina stood up and walked over to her tea pot. She poured the still hot water over new tea leaves, and let it steep. "Do you want a cup, Nicki?"

"Coffee, if you have it."

"I can make coffee," she said as she pulled her infuser out of the water, let it drip and then helped herself to a small silver teaspoon full of powdered opium, which she mixed into her tea. She prepared her aunt's coffee, but did not include any opium, because she didn't want to ruin the coffee. As she returned to the table, she set her aunt's coffee in front of her and mentally prepared to finish the conversation, letting the opium wash over her and temper her nerves.

"Melanie is unacceptable," said the Empress. "She makes Lady Erica look like a liberal."

"Carolina, you have to put someone in there. Erica told me personally that she could ensure you the votes in the Assembly if its Melanie. If you name anyone else, they will sink it and put forward a whole slate, and Melanie will probably get it anyway."

"The Nationalists would never name Melanie," said Carolina. "She's too extreme. She will nationalize property," said Carolina. "She'll alienate the entire world against us."

"Well, you're right about one thing," said Nicolette, after sipping her brew. "They weren't going to nominate her themselves until you suggested her yourself."

"I was definitely not serious about Melanie," answered Carolina. "I wanted to give them ten names. I never thought they would go for that."

Nicolette smiled. "You're a smart woman, Carolina. But you can be pretty naieve sometimes. You want to see the best in these people and assume they will just act like you would act if you were in the same situation. But this is revenge, my dear. Erica made that very clear. And I fear they have you, at least for a few years. But who knows--Maybe Melanie will make a absolute mess of everything and then you can get rid of her and say I told you so as you put in the person you want."

Carolina closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. "Sometimes I envy my father and mother..." she said flippantly.

Nicolette stiffened and stood up. "Carolina, do not say such a thing. Don't ever say that, not with me around here. Unless you never want to see me again. Don't ever say that. Please, you can't really mean that."

Carolina opened her eyes and looked at her aunt, who had tears in her own eyes. "I am sorry, Nicki. I don't mean it." Nicolette sat back down, but grabbed a hankerchief to wipe her eyes and her now running nose. Carolina barely remembered her parents anymore, but she also knew that Her father was her aunt's brother, both he and Her mom were Nicolette's best friends, and the loss hit her Aunt far harder than anyone else, even Carolina. "Nicki, that was a cruel and thoughtless thing to say, and I really am very sorry."

Nicolette wiped a new tear from her eye. "Well, Carolina, I am merely relaying a message. You made your bed by even talking about Melanie, and now you have to lay in it. I've delivered Lady Donahue's message to you, I've done my job."

Carolina realized how briefly and curtly the conversation had ended. "Are you going back to Luxon tonight?"

"Yes, I can catch the train..." said Nicolette.

"You don't want to stay here tonight?" asked Carolina.

"Not tonight. Please give my love to Elliot and the kids, I have to go."

Carolina realized that her aunt was very angry at her, but she had too much class to say it outright. "Are you sure? We'd like to have you."

Nicolette, stone faced said "Not this time, Carolina. I'll tell Lady Erica to have Sir Michael call you to get your final nomination. Don't do anything stupid at least, please." said Nicolette as she grabbed her coat.

"Aunt Nicolette," started Carolina, but she was cut of.

"Take your medicine, Carolina, like an adult. Don't cause yourself any more problems-- You can't afford to lose the Nationalists." And with that, she unlocked the door to the floor, and walked down stairs and out of the house.

[Louis]

Under the Veil of Darkness
Palacio de Sorsuela, Altea, Egelion |  8:22 PM

---

"But is it worth it?"

"Well, it might be our only shot here. It looks like our power will now exist in the annals of history. We have no choice."

"I can send the councilor to the nation?"

"No - no... this must be covert. We must send Los Cazadores."

"Majestad, if I may... we have strictly forbidden the use of this group.... the atrocities... uncovered in New Verham."

"It it in our best interests that we remain in their good graces. Right now they are using their imperialist card on the kingdom. If we wait any further, these claims may hurt us."

"What will you have me do?"

"Send word to Cartablanca. We must be covert. We have no choice. Do this now.

Si, Majestad.

---------------------------------------
Castillo Garibaldi, Cartablanca, Egelion | 10:09 PM

"What?!"

"You have been given your orders. Do not disappoint."

"Is he crazy? He wants me to send these agents to Temania? For what purposes?"

"That is not your concern. Carry out his majesty's will. We are running out of time."

"It may take a while for them to get down there. New identities. Grasping the language... "

"It matters not. Quickly and efficiently."

"Give me two hours."

[Doc]

Cliff Offices, South Western Kaliburg
0913 local time

The Empress was beginning her day at her personal offices. Her first appointment for the morning was with the Chancellor, whom she was calling in to discuss the bidding process in New Englia.

Lady Renee Houston, Her Imperial Majesty's private secretary, buzzed into the office. "Madame, the Chancellor has arrived," She was late. The Empress hit the intercom. "Please show her in Lady Houston." The door buzzed and opened and in walked the new hardline Nationalist Chancellor. She bowed low and remained bowed, until the Empress bade her to take a seat. Meetings between these two were always cold, and the Empress did not relish this one. The Empress stood as the Chancellor made her way to the seat which was her appointed place during these meetings.

The Empress knew to not even ask if the Chancellor would like tea, she would just be met by a cold, passionless "no." So the Empress had, of late been going to prepare the tea without asking- It would be rude for the Chancellor to refuse the tea if offered by the Empress: The Chancellor's personality was a bit overbearing, while the Empress tended to try for peace and accommodation, so this afforded the Empress a little bit of power over the domineering Chancellor, and she was not going to miss her opening move in this ongoing power struggle.

As she brought the tea to the Chancellor and placed it before her on the table, the Chancellor waited until the Empress was seated before she began speaking. The Chancellor did not reach for her tea cup as the Empress took her first sip, but the Empress was certain that the Chancellor was eager to speak, dispatch her business and get on with her day far away from Cliff House. The Empress placed her saucer back onto the table and stared at the Chancellor, who clearly had something on her mind, but the Empress was determined to slow her down.

"Do you not like our tea, Madame?" asked the Empress after the Chancellor did not take her obligatory sip. The Chancellor took that as her cue to start speaking, "If it please Her Imperial Majesty, I need to inform her that we have secured the financing from Bank of Kalistan and Mira..."

"Madame, we asked you a question," said the Empress. "Do you object to our tea?"

"I do not drink... tea..." said the Chancellor scornfully.

"Oh," said the Empress. "But you will. It is our will that you drink every drop of that tea before we conduct our business with you."

"I would prefer to not be drugged by Her Imperial Majesty, if it is all the same," said the Chancellor, politely but firmly. "I have a busy day of actual work ahead of me."

The Empress' smile faded. Today would likely not be the day that we developed a modus vivendi. "Madame, we have not put anything in your tea. It is simply tea, but if the Chancellor wishes to treat this as an informal audience, we would be rude to not oblige her. Now please, take a sip so we may hear your report."

The Chancellor sat a second and considered. She then decided that it would go well for her if she simply humored the Empress. She reached for the cup, pulled it close to her face, let the aromas creep into her nose and did not detect the familiar floral undertones that strongly denoted spiking. Nor did it have any of the cloudiness of opium powder held in suspension. She took a sip, tentatively. It was simply black tea with bergamot. Almost disappointing, she thought- The Empress was off her game. She set the tea cup back onto the saucer and prepared for her report.

"Ah, it seems you still have some tea left, Madame," said the Empress on inspection. "We said every drop. Now, if you please, down with it..."

This powerplay was ridiculous and bordered on humiliation, but the Chancellor begrudgingly picked up the cup and downed the bitter liquid as ordered. The strong tincture of the black tea however gave way to a pleasant citrus flavor which was surprising to the Chancellor. Not enough to ever voluntarily prepare tea for herself--She was a coffee drinker like every good Kalistani and would outlaw tea service in the Informal Audience soon enough. But for now there were more immediate fish to fry.

Placing her cup back on the saucer, this time empty, she began again. "If it please Her Imperial Majesty, our bid has arrived in New Englia, they have..."

"You do not like us, we gather," said the Empress. "May we ask why?"

"I was attempting to present my report to Her Imperial Majesty," responded the Chancellor, hoping to make the report and then move on to the Government report so she could get out of here sooner rather than later.

"Yes, but we are curious why the animosity? Did we wrong you in a previous life?"

"Her Imperial Majesty has done nothing to wrong me personally," said the Chancellor. "Now, if I may continue..."

"It's just that we know you have spoken very harshly and publicly against us, and we are trying to figure out what we did to deserve that. Does this have to do with Gaduridos? We understand it probably does, you do not have to answer us. But if we are going to continue this, it will be a long 25 years, for us both, and it is our desire to not have to slog through a quarter century as enemies when we would prefer you to be, if not our friend, at least our trusted advisor and first minister without the hostility and the, quite honestly, silly power moves."

"The grievances I bear against the policies of Her Imperial Majesty are myriad," said the Chancellor. "But I would simply like to present my report so I may continue my day."

"Madame," said the Empress, "You may refer to us directly, please."

"If it please Her Imperial Majesty, this would be illegal, and would wind me up in jeopardy," said the Chancellor. "It is Her Imperial Majesty's law, and violating it would give cause to have me arrested."

"Nonetheless, you will address us directly," said the Empress.

"As I have told Her Imperial Majesty before, I will not violate the law. If she wishes me to do this, she may show me the courtesy of inducting me into the Grey Smoke, as she has previous Chancellors. Or she may change her law, but if she does that for me, she should do it for all, for it to be just." The Chancellor knew she had once more defied a direct command from her Empress. She knew she was right, but she also knew that disobeying a direct command from the Empress, whose breath is literally the source of all law, could in and of itself be a violation of the law.

The Empress sat silently and stared at the Chancellor, but it was clear that the Chancellor was not going to be moved on this point. The Empress decided not to fight the point. "Please proceed with your report, Chancellor."

But the Chancellor, who could not slow her heart rate down, took a breath. "One moment, please," she said, as she began to sweat. Suddenly her throat became dry. She had a hard time swallowing. The thought crossed her mind that perhaps the Empress had indeed slipped something into her drink, but then she remembered, this is what an anxiety attack felt like. She breathed deeply to try to get on top of the anxiety, but she could feel her throat begin to tighten. She tried to cough to loosen up the muscles. The Empress immediately sprang to her feet and went over to grab a pitcher of ice water and she hurried back and poured the water in the empty tea cup, and gave it to the Chancellor, who drank it, maybe a little too quickly, so a little of it went down the wrong pipe. The Empress slapped her on the back, and suddenly, the tension released, and the air came once more. She breathed a deep gulp of oxygen and coughed several times, and drank more water, and the Empress was on hand to refill her cup.

"Madame, are you ok? Do I need to call an ambulance for you?" said the Empress.

"No, Ma'am, I think I may have just had an asthma attack or a panic attack or something... I have an inhaler in my car, but I don't need it just now, I will be fine."

The Empress spent a moment rubbing the Chancellor's back to try to calm her. The Chancellor, who felt a little embarrassed realized that she had indeed spoken directly to the Empress. "I request Her Imperial Majesty's pardon for violation of the Protocol. I wasn't completely in my own head just then."

The Empress said, "Well, you also allowed yourself within 15 feet of us, which is also technically a violation, but in confession, we used first person pronouns. So I suppose this makes us equal violators of the law. Perhaps we just say it is a wash." The Chancellor, still looking at the ground and still trying to clear her lungs, smiled, and coughed again.

"We are not equals," said the Chancellor. "Kalistan needs its Empress to be better than the rest of us, or this whole thing goes away. And what would we be left with then? A Republic?" She smiled again at the ridiculous idea. "I'd rather die," she said very honestly and wryly.

"Are you quite sure you are ok, Lady Alvarez?"

"I thank Her Imperial Majesty for her concern, but I think I will be fine." She got one more refill from the Empress.

"Then we shall hear your report, Madame Chancellor. You've been punished enough." The Chancellor bristled a bit at what the Empress said, but for the first time, she felt she could let it go and get on with her business.

"If it please Her Imperial Majesty, we have sent our bid to Petroenglia for the control over their oil fields, as Her Imperial Majesty has commanded us. We have locked on financing for the bid from Bank of Kalistan here in Kaliburg, as well as several institutional investors, which as She no doubt is aware, Miramar who itself can probably top any reasonable bid out there. We want to make sure we aren't just throwing money away, but it is Her Imperial Majesty's desire to close the spickets and cap the wells on the formation so that the fields sit idle as long as the concession lasts. The Finance Minister says that we can set up a foundation to maintain the concession in perpetuity if we win the bid. Currently I think the main competitors are Egelion and Luthori, but there may be others who have not been so obvious in their interest, and I expect perhaps another couple to jump into the bidding. The Offering closes in 5713, so we have two years to make our case to the Englians..."

"What are our chances?" asked the Empress.

"Better than zero," said the Chancellor. "But otherwise its unclear. We were not even asked to participate at the beginning. Dovani, Luthorian and Egelian interests have the best shot at succeeding, and they all pretty much want to exploit the oil there. Kalistan is the only ones who are suggesting that this Oil should not be used. I admit, it was a confusing command that Her Imperial Majesty gave to put in the bid, from an investment standpoint, but if we are serious about environmental conservation, it certainly makes more sense. The bid is at least on the table."

"We thank the Chancellor for accomplishing that so quickly and thoroughly. The only thing we can do now is wait," said the Empress.

"Perhaps that is not all we can do," said the Chancellor. "Sometimes people will advertise to try to tip public perception one way or another in these types of scenarios."

The Empress thought a bit. "We hope you will tell us about this when the time comes."

"As Her Imperial Majesty wishes."

The Empress sat quietly in thought. "Madame, We shall let you continue your report in one more second, but we would like to invite you to our home this week for dinner. We would like to speak with you more informally."

"I wouldn't presume," said the Chancellor. "I have no place in Her Imperial Majesty's home."

"Lady Alvarez, we are both members of the Society of Brethren, we both attend the same meeting," said the Empress. "Perhaps you can set aside your feelings and eat with us as Friends."

"I shall consider Her Imperial Majesty's request, and hope it is made in good faith."

"It has been Madame," said the Empress.

[Ligbruderkrieg]

Charles W. Ringdeer Intelligence Centre, Reddonshire, Principality of Orange, February 15th, 5712

“Crown Street’s been clear. We ought to secure these oil fields, regardless of the risks undertaken.”, Director-General Mow Carrey’s voice was simple, explainatory as he addressed the agent in front of him. 

“Fair enough.”, said Agent Catalina Myers, matter-of-fact tone. 

“So, here’s your next assignment.”, the man gave her a simple paper, with “CONFIDENTIAL” written in bold, red letters. 

It said the following: Secure the Luthorian bid for oil exploitations, enter contact with New Englia’s political class and ensure the protection of Luthorian interests. 

“Do I have full control over this mission?” 

“You have, Luthorian interests in East Dovani must be preserved at any costs. Be warned however.” 

“Crown Street will throw you under the bus in case something bad happens.” 

“Alright, shouldn’t have expected better from them.” 

“So, are you up for the mission?” 

“I think I can take it.” 

“Wonderful, here’s two tickets to New Englia.” 

“Two?” 

“You aren’t going alone, you know.”, another female voice rang through the office. 

“Tch. You again.” she saw Agent Mary Pryce’s smirking face and that pissed her off. 

“Yo. A pleasure working with you again. Director, I do assume that all options are on the table to protect our interests.”

“You are correct.” 

“Neat.”, she walked towards the now-flustered agent Myers, who was trying to keep her face straight. 

“Now come on, Cat, it’ll be fun...” 

“Shut up!” 

Carrey’s cough made them both stop. 

“Anyway, I haven’t called you both here just to see some...anyway...let’s get to this, you both go to New Englia and will be tasked with the Luthorian High Commission as IFIA Liaison Officers.” 

“Alright.” “Seems fine to me.”, they both said in unison. 

“Good, now you are dismissed.” 

[Louis]

The Economy, The Military, The People.
Cascabel-Otienda HQ, Distrito del Centro | Altea, Egelion | 5:09 AM

---

"How much so far?"

"4 million...and more incoming"

"Can I get an itemized list from Castillo Garibaldi? I need to see what exactly we're funding and what we are doing there."

"Of course, but they wont be so obedient in telling us everything. I mean, we basically sent the Angel of Death of the country. God help them all."

"Let's not be so dramatic here. They sent some agents. They're training some soldiers.... they'll be fine. In other more important matters, what are we sending to the labor groups. A revolution isn't possible without the fodder." 

"From what I was directed... 20 million all from the IDE's budget--financed by us of course. We have out contatcs down there that we are seeing...They'll know to to funnel it to the right people."

"We always have to do the heavy lifting... but it matters not. The Cascabels have enough money to buy Temania twice over."

"Right... right."

"Regardless, 20 million to stoke fear. To train those labor groups. Protests. Widespread tensions... it's all part of the plan."

"How do you even know what it is?"

"I saw something from one of my buddies at the top. He's got clearance. It's a multi-pronged effort. The people, the military, and the economy. We're finally affecting all three pillars. The economy was first. Los Cazadores are handling the military... and now us... we take care of the people. The agricultural peasants that are easy to warp."

"This is some twisted shit."

"Nobody said we were saints."

[myungpartikrasi]

8 November 5712
32 Southlin Street
Bridgemont, New Englia

Rain dragged itself down the tall sash windows of 32 Southlin Street, blurring the spires of Bridgemont into something impressionistic and uncertain. Inside the Cabinet Room, the air felt heavier than it should have in late summer.

Prime Minister Owen McDermott remained standing as the others took their seats.

Howard Lee-McFarrey placed a thick folder on the table. He did it gently, almost reverently, like a priest setting down a missal.

“Here is the updated comparative sheet,” he said. “All five bids are compliant. All are financially credible. The internal scoring has been adjusted to reflect revised capital commitments.”

“Adjusted,” Christian Thornberry repeated dryly. “That’s one word for it.” No one laughed.

Siobhán Ní Dhomhnaill sat two seats down from the Prime Minister, scrolling through figures on her tablet. Her expression was neutral, but the faintest crease between her eyebrows appeared when she saw a notification light flash on the corner of her screen. She turned it face down almost immediately.

McDermott noticed.

He said nothing. Yet.

“Let’s start with the money, the upfront investment,” he said instead.

Lee-McFarrey nodded. “Petróléon’s revised signing bonus is £1.18 billion for the contract. Fifty-five per cent payable upon ratification. The remainder within twelve months.”

There it was again. That number.

Donagh Maguire let out a slow whistle. “That covers next year’s deficit thrice.”

“It also buys us breathing room with the bond markets,” Siobhán said. Her voice was measured, but quicker now, more engaged. “If the pound's exposure drops, sovereign risk rating improves. If we don’t take it, we’re choosing austerity by another name.”

Thornberry leaned back. “Or we’re choosing not to sell the family silver for a quick fix.”

“It’s oil,” Siobhán shot back. “Not heirlooms.”

“It’s still leverage, is it not?” Thornberry replied.

The room tightened.

McDermott turned to Lee-McFarrey. “How about in terms of industrial commitments?”

“Petronara proposes £420 million in refinery expansion in Galebrough and Solnard. Besekiga and BGTK together offer £380 million, plus a technical institute tied to the Lonmouth terminal.”

“And Petróléon?”

Lee-McFarrey paused. “They prefer export optimisation, so there is limited downstream investment.”

“Meaning tankers in, tankers out,” Thornberry said.

“Meaning additional revenue, Mr Thornberry,” Siobhán countered.

Her tablet buzzed again.

This time, McDermott saw the name before she flipped it over.

Pensy.

He didn’t recognise the number. But he did recognise the way she stiffened for half a second before resuming her composure.

“And Kalistan?” he asked quietly.

Lee-McFarrey clasped his hands. “£930 million annually. It would be indexed. But, it is in exchange for phased non-extraction.”

A silence followed that felt different from the others. Heavier, has a more moral weight than financial.

Thornberry spoke first. “They pay us not to develop our own field and provide us jobs for ordinary New Englians.”

“They pay us to stabilise it,” Lee-McFarrey replied carefully. “With nvironmental guarantees and long-term fiscal certainty.”

“I don't understand why you don't see this as a form of long-term dependence,” Thornberry said.

Lee-McFarrey’s jaw tightened. Only slightly. “With respect, Zone Executive, Kalistan is not asking for control. They’re offering compensation.”

“For continued paralysis,” Thornberry said.

McDermott studied him. Howard’s tone had shifted—subtle, but firmer. Not quite advocacy. Not quite neutrality.

“I presume you’ve had… extensive contact with their delegation,” McDermott said mildly.

“Operational discussions,” Lee-McFarrey answered. “As with all bidders.”

Of course.

But McDermott had read the travel logs. Howard had a private dinner unaccounted for in Kaliburg. Nothing improper on paper, though. Definitely nothing that could not be explained.

Still.

“And Luthori,” McDermott said.

Siobhán answered before Howard could. “They’ve increased their industrial investment pledge to £2.4 billion over ten years. Education exchanges. Infrastructure co-financing.”

Her familiarity with the details was impressive.

Or practised.

McDermott leaned back. “You seem particularly comfortable with that figure.”

She didn’t flinch. “I’ve done the modelling.”

“Recently?”

A beat.

“Yes.”

Her voice didn’t waver. But she didn’t look at him either.

The tablet buzzed again. This time she ignored it completely.

Howard shifted in his chair. “Prime Minister, if I may. The internal ranking places Petronara and Besekiga–BGTK highest on long-term domestic value creation. Petróléon ranks highest on immediate fiscal stabilization. Kalistan is—”

“The most anomalous bid,” Thornberry cut in.

“—a strategic outlier,” Howard finished evenly.

“And personally, what is your view?” McDermott asked.

Howard hesitated. Not long. But long enough.

“My view,” he said slowly, “is that the Confederation must decide what problem it is trying to solve.”
Thornberry barked a short laugh. “The problem is we’re not rich.”

“The problem,” Siobhán said, “is that we can’t fund growth without liquidity.”

“The problem,” Thornberry countered, “is that we’ve been governed like two semi-detached states pretending to be one.”

“Gentlemen,” McDermott said quietly, "and to the two ladies as well."

They stopped.

Howard continued, softer now. “If the objective is currency stabilization and investor confidence, Petróléon is the most efficient path. If the objective is domestic industrial capacity, Petronara and Besekiga–BGTK offer stronger integration. If the objective is fiscal predictability without extraction volatility, Kalistan’s offer is structurally attractive.”

“And which do you favor?” McDermott pressed.

Howard held his gaze.

“I favor stability.”

It was an honest answer.

Too honest.

McDermott glanced at Siobhán. “And you?”

She folded her hands. “We need the cash. We won’t get another chance like this. The pound is still fragile. One shock—one—and we’re back to emergency borrowing. You asked me last year how we could stop haemorrhaging talent to abroad. The answer is confidence. Investors need to see we can close.”

“And the industrial jobs?” Thornberry asked.

“They follow stability.”

“Or they follow investment,” he shot back.

The room grew quiet again.

McDermott stood and walked to the window. The rain had eased into a mist.

“How about three contracts?” he said finally.

They all looked up.

“We will issue a third term contract for the oil and gas. I believe we should expand the field's production and increase total capacity allocation.”

Howard’s eyes sharpened instantly. He understood the implications before anyone else did.

More supply meant more bargaining power. More bargaining power meant revised offers.

Siobhán frowned. “That would delay ratification.”

“It strengthens it,” McDermott replied. “Every bidder sharpens their pencil. We don’t choose between cash and industry. We make them compete harder for both.”

Thornberry nodded slowly. “And how about the Zones?”

“You’ll get your refinery commitments written into the contract,” McDermott said. “I assure you they'll be binding.”

He turned back to the table.

“This field was discovered in 5664. It took until 5709 to bring it online. We’re not rushing the most consequential decision since Confederation because the markets are impatient.”

He looked directly at Howard.

“Petroenglia will maintain strict neutrality.”

A flicker crossed the CEO’s face. Something unreadable.

“Of course, Prime Minister.”

McDermott’s gaze shifted to Siobhán.

“And Ministers will disclose any external advisory contact relevant to the tender.”

The faintest colour rose in her cheeks.

“Understood,” she said.

Her tablet buzzed once more. She didn’t touch it.

Outside, Bridgemont remained wet and undecided. Inside, so did New Englia. But for the first time that afternoon, the Prime Minister felt the balance tilt—slightly—back toward him.

[journey]

19 December 5712
Building of the Ministry of Mining and National Resources, Gemun

Oboi Koken slightly nervously stands in the foyer of the building he already recognised as his home, after  five years of leading the ministry, under the leadership of the person, whom he was so eagerly waiting for.

A black sedan car, usually reserved for the premier of Bianjie, and manufactured by the state-owned Haseku company drove to the entrance of the building.

Driver opened the back door, revealing the head of government, Semken Tan, who entered the building, greeted by the minister Koken. "Madam Premier", he said. "This way". Koken pointed to the left, and both began walking to what is the heart of the whole building, the cabinet of the minister, that is.

Koken and Tan entered the room, fiiled by the smell of cigar, quite obviously smoked just minutes before the arrival of premier Tan. "So, feel free to take a seat wherever you want", Koke relaxed a little bit, as he entered his own realm.

"I appreciate the offer, but you know why I am here, and it is purely government affairs", Tan looked at him, with barely any emotion on the face. "Please be serious, you will need it, if you want to succeed me one day". She smirked, and Koken started coughing.

"Yeah, right", Koken adjusted himself. "Well, the phone is on the table, so we might as well get on there".

"Before we do this, I want you to understand, we are in a bit tacky situation here, so pump your convincing charisma numbers up, it is very important", Tan said to the minister, before turning back to the phone, and slowly dialling the number of the chief executive of the Inglian Administrative Zone, Emma Ritchie.

"Wait...", Koken put a hand on Tan's. "Do we really need this, Sem? I mean, we barely produce our own oil, New Verham also can't realistically do it, and Xsampa is too communist for their own good. What is the point anyway? We are Egelian allies, and their bid is quite good if you ask me, so let's just endorse them", he said as he looked at Tan, shrugging his hands.

"With a mindset like this, you're not gonna become leader", Tan laughed, as Koken rolled his eyes. "But, riddle me this: do you believe in pan-Dovanism? Do you believe in Dovanian unity above international cooperation? Do you genuinely think we will not get any value from this contract?", she looked at him, as if waiting for an answer, but immediately continued, not letting Oboi speak. "And if we execute it right, we get a good ally in the east, next to Luthori, and connections for the future. It is a pragmatic decision, fueled primarily by the ideological reasons, publicly at least, that is".

Now finished, Semken looked at the minister, waiting for the answer, but he just nodded, letting her hand go, allowing to dial the final numbers on the phone.

After a few beeps and bops later, it clicks, with Tan immediately opening the conversation. "Madam Ritchie?", she asked. "Ah, premier Tan! To what do I owe the pleasure?", Ritchie enthusiatically replied on the other end of the line.

"So, I am here with the Bianjian minister in charge of our energy and resources, Mr Koken, and we wanted to talk to you about the ongoing Petroenglia Rossfadda, maybe also more at length present out vision". Tan presented the idea of what the call was about to be. "Ah, yes-yes, well, it is nice to hear of you both, so I am all ears", Ritchie replied.

"Yes, good afternoon, Madam Ritchie", Koken began talking with a little tremble to his voice at first, before stabilising. "And, I will not speak for my friends in New Verham here, so it will be purely Bianjian vision of the bid". He stopped for a second, looking to the right, at Semken, who had no emotion on her face, just simply nodding.

"I do understand the attractiveness of some of the proposals coming from our richer and more powerful friends across the world, but I do think it is important for us to deliever the message, and for you to, hopefully, understand it", Koken kept on going. "What we offer, is obviously, quite different from the money, though there are funding aspects involved in this. As you've head, we are working on the continental development bank, and I am pretty sure Madam Premier can dive deeper into this", Semken nodded to his words. "But, our idea is more of a long term play, because we do not intend to exploit the Rossfadda, but rather use it for the betterment of New Englia".

As the energy minister was about to continue, Tan started waving her hand, signallng him to stop talking. "Before Mr Koken continues further, I would to just intervene here quickly, because I want to emphasise that, while obviously, it is all Besekiga doing, as the company's owner, and someone with a realistic vision of the world, we, as a government, ought to partake in this", she nodded and waved her hand. "But continue".

"Right...As I was saying, Besekiga has an experience with managing oil fields already, as well as managing them", Koken took a cigar, and started firing it as he continued to speak. "But also, it is simply logistically easier for us to work, due to our proximity, especially as it presents further integration of New Englia into our growing political institutionalisation, but that's quite different topic", he finally smoked his cigar as he finished talking for a second.

Tan quickly picked up on his words, almost interrupting to keep speaking: "The point Mr Koken is trying to make, we do not know what will happen in Egelion tomorrow, we do not know if the Temanian regime will collapse tomorrow, especially with protests. There is just too much volatility in the world, and Dovani, with Bianjie especially, been proving itself as a solid and stable force".

"What about the development bank that you mentioned earlier?", Ritchie did not respond or question anything mentioned before, except for the DDB.

"If Bianjie wins the bid, and we succesfully launch the DDB, the Dovanian Development Bank, that is, it can be used to build infrastructure in New Englia, it can be used to fund certain projects your government will have, even help find new reserves, or expand the drilling within the Rossfadda. And using the profit we will get from the contract can be very helpful in funding the Bank itself, which then in turn, comes back at you as an investment into whatever Englians wish for".

Tan looked at Koken, who was quietly smoking, as she talked to Ritchie. She started waving hands, as to encourge to say something. He rolled his eyes, getting closer to the phone. "Clearly, another economical thing worthy of mentioning, we are not proposing anything extremely expensive, because we, as no one else, do understand the financial struggles of Dovanian brothers and sisters, and extending our hand of help".

"The point is", Tan interrupted Koken again. "Besekiga does entail many qualities that Petroenglia might be looking for in their contracor, and there is always a better option, and that is the Dovanian one, so I hope we helped clear some questions and provide additional information".

"I think we will take this into the account, so I thank you for calling and talking it through, it is highly appreciated", Englian chief executive replied, as she hung up the call.

"Obi, if we fail this, you are getting fired first and foremost, I hope you know it, and I promise you that", Tan said as she stood up. "I don't want to do it myself much, but it's the election year, and I am being pushed by the guys in Baatrynsentii, but you are doing it even less enthusiastically".

"Cigares are my way of dealing with the stress, can't help it", Koken shrugged. "But, well, it is what it is. Our chances are not big anyway, against Egelion or Luthori. We may score some pity points, because we're Dovanians who desperately try."

Premier rolled her eyes, before leaving the room for the black sedan, that has waited for her outside this whole time.

[Louis]

When in Doubt
Sorsula Palace | Altea, Egelion | 9:09 PM

---

The first snow of the night began to fall. The sounds of the city began to wind down as the moon rose in the sky. “The Five” walked up the stone step of the palace. Their palms were sweaty and their minds ablaze. Their all white unifroms blended well with the walls of the palace. They went to the west wing and were let through the large mahogany double doors into a large study. The room was large -  full of book shelves, leather furniture, dim lighting, a roaring fireplace, and a large window showing the skyline of the city. He stood at the window. The lights reflecting off his hazel eyes. He turns and stares at The Five.

“Majestad”, they say in unison.

“My dear councilors, please, find a seat.”

“It has come to my attention that our private sector is well involvd in foreign bidding… Are they not?”

“Majestad, we have no say in this matter. We understand that it is our companies engaging in said deals.’

‘Indeed. And might I ask, are their actions in foreign markets….. beneficial to us?”

“They always are, Majestad. Such is the will of the free market.”

“I ask for I have concerns. Long have my forefathers engaged in masterful dipomacy and negotiation. It is my will to ensure our nation has several avenues at our disposal. Tell me, has Petroleon suggested an alternative, should their plan fail?”

“We do not know, Majestad. We can only assume they have not. You know capitalists. Always think for instant gains but fail to see the long term situation.”

“It is as I feared. Understand this: things are now in motion that cannot be undone. We cannot control what actions Petroleon and the banks undergo. However, should they fail in their endevours, we must be prepared.”

“What shall you decre, Majestad?”

“This depends on who shall be victors in the bidding. We can obviously expect some winners. But if our own fail, we must have a new plan. What I propose… We build a second supercarrier with a new fleet with diverted funds we would have used. We shall rise where others shall invest. I do not believe the bidding shall lead to rivalry, but we must be prepared. If we are betrayed, we must play our hidden cards.”

“Majestad?”

“If we are betrayed by our Dovanian allies…then we end their century. If the Temanian’s outplay, we plunge their nation into chaos. If the Luthorian are successful—well… we simply need remind Terra that their imperialist past remain their new present. In any case, should we fail, we simply sharpen our teeth… and well… we could always help unleash the elephant in the room.”

“We understand what you ask of us Majestad, but your last point. We do not speak in metaphors. “

“She will make her return—one day or another. We will be there to ensure she finishes the job for us. You may take your leave.”

———-

“Andrea! Andrea!”

“What it is Juan Carlos?”

“This new version of him terrifies me. He is thinking multiple steps ahead.”

“It matters not, Formoselle. Soon he shall be without real power and we will be the ones calling all the shots.”

“It’s only a matter of time now.”

[Doc]

Cliff Offices, January 2, 5713
3:30 pm

The Chancellor was shown in to the living room, where the Empress sat in a ratty t-shirt that possibly said, at one point in time "Kaliburg Polytechnic Volleyball" but which was so faded now that it really could be anything, and light gray baggy sweat pants. Her long, curly hair was tied into a low loose pony tail that hung straight down her back, and she wore no make up at all. For a woman who never left the house in anything other than couture or the finest linen, when the Empress is at home, not working, she sure dresses down. The Chancellor, who was a blue blood generations deep and spent tens of thousands on her wardrobe annually, looked like an aristocrat compared to this person who, if Lady Alvarez didn't know better, would be mistaken for a graduate student doing a babysitting gig for extra money.

But she did know better. This was literally the most singularly powerful woman in the entire world: All law comes from her very breath. The Chancellor supposed Her Imperial Majesty didn't need to dress up when on home staycation, because the power was not in her clothes, but in her existence. She showed her proper genuflection as per the protocol and was invited to be seated.

"Thank you for coming to speak with us, Lady Melanie," said the Empress.

"I am glad you did not ask me here yesterday," said the Chancellor. "I was quite hung over, and the individuals I had over from the night before refused to leave. I shall say no more lest my reputation suffer."

"We do not judge, Madame," said the Empress. "Our business lies more abroad today. We are concerned about this New Englian situation, and wish to have your council on the matter."

"How candid would you prefer, Your Imperial Majesty?" asked the Chancellor.

"Be direct and be honest. We could ask for nothing more."

"Very well, Madame," said the Chancellor. "You always knew it was a long shot, so at least you were prepared for it."

"Do you really think it is so long as all that?" asked the Empress. "Is it really so unreasonable that a nation would want to choose to keep their air and water clean?"

"Madame," said the Chancellor. "Yes. We had the opportunity to do so, but moving away from petroleum was sort of forced upon us when the Straits formation dried up."

The Empress thought for a moment. "Well, that's true. But we kept the Suldanor reserves, and we don't exploit those at all."

"Well, not every nation is Kalistan," said the Chancellor. "It was an immense effort that took decades to fully escape from the Oil curse. And we were not in the precarious position that a developing nation like New Englia is in. The smart money goes to rapid development of that reserve. New Englia will likely take a much quicker pay out. If I were in that situation, making that decision, I would too. Proposing environmentalism is a privileged proposition, one we can afford to make, but one that the developing world cannot realistically even consider."

"But this is the opportunity for them to skip that part," said the Empress. "We destroyed our seas and our land and water with oil production. We destroyed our fishing and aquatic stocks because our oil drilling in the Strait disrupted their migration patterns, and the oil spills and the toxins that went into the water destroyed our barrier reefs. It's taken more than a century to even begin to undo the damage centuries of drilling out there caused, and we are giving them the chance to just skip that whole part."

"Madame," said the Chancellor. "You are certainly not naïve. The developmentalist argument is that the first world became the first world by destroying the environment, and now that they are in the first world, they are asking those who are trying to follow our example to not do that. But its like these nations have been waiting for centuries for their chance to join us, and they have seen how we got here."

"Well, they lack imagination then," said the Empress.

"Perhaps, but no more than we did when it was our turn to pollute the entire world," said the Chancellor. "I'm just being realistic, Empress. If they reject our bid, I certainly can understand why they would. Your do not offer them jobs, which they think is the only way to enrich their population. You do not offer them the opportunity to leverage their one natural resource on the global stage, which they seem to think will improve their status among their neighbors. These are ways we developed, they paid for our cities, and for our Universal Income, and for our trade balances and for our technological advancement, and you are paying them to not follow the only path they seem to be able to imagine to get to where we are. If I was in that government, I might be insulted."

"Lady Alvarez, wouldn't it have benefitted us for you to express these reservations when we were instructing you to make the bid?"

"Your Imperial Majesty, I expressed caution. Kalistan has literally no interest in New Englia. None whatsoever. We do not trade item one with that nation. I had to look at a world map to even figure out where they were. Kalistan's interests are in Seleya, not in Dovani, and as a Nationalist, I do believe I literally said 'Why would Her Imperial Majesty give two thoughts about New Englia? They are so far off our radar at this longitude that they may as well be on the goddamned moon.'"

"Yes, we remember this," said the Empress.

"It was my advice that Your Imperial Majesty let them alone: They are going to be exploited by some imperialist nation or another, whether it is Luthori or Egelion or anyone else, because that is the fate of developing nations. And as I recall, it was your desire to promote, shall we call it a post-materialist position in our bid. Her Imperial Majesty has more money than she knows what to do with: She could use that money to promote a cleaner environment, cleaner industry, species reintroduction, more reef restoration, etc, all these good things here and in Northern Seleya, and just let New Englia drown in their sea of oil if they like. Instead she uses her money to put Kalistan into situations where we have no business, and where our very presence there makes us look like some imperialist nation of the Luthorian or Egelian cloth, when we are none of the sort. As I said, Your Imperial Majesty, your focus should be on Kalistan first, last and always."

The Empress sat quietly. "You did say all of that to us," said the Empress. "We did not want to listen. We thought we could do some good."

The Chancellor got up and moved next to the Empress on the couch, a privilege she obtained when she was inducted into the Ancient Order last fall. "Don't worry about it, Your Majesty. You may still win your opportunity to promote conservation anyway: It would be really dumb for New Englia to accept that bid, but they might just be that dumb, or... they might be that visionary after all. It would really torch a lot of people if they went with Kalistan: this is also probably something they are dealing with. There are a lot of people backing Luthori for some reason. Even some people who shouldn't be. A lot of people would be very upset with New Englia if they opted to become a green energy producer, because the liberals wouldn't get the chance to exploit yet another nation like they love to do."

The Empress smiled at the thought of damaging Luthorian interests yet again. "If Luthori loses, whoever it is to, we will publicly offer a toast to the return of Athosia," said the Empress.

"I would like that very much, Your Imperial Majesty, and I will drink to that every single day until I die."

The Empress looked at her, "You will likely die before Kalistan is ever allowed to reclaim that territory."

The Chancellor screwed her face up and landed on a sad smile. "I know, Majesty. But a girl can dream..."

The Empress nodded. "Yes, she can."

The Chancellor clapped her hands on her knees and stood back up, taking the opportunity to move back to her own seat. There was something that was just discomforting about sitting that close to the sovereign to her. She had the right to do it, but she never liked to ever get close to the Empress--it always felt like little shocks, just below the skin. She had no idea how the Prince Consort or the Minor Princelings managed it, but the Chancellor had heard reports from others, even the Empress' close friends, of a similar sensation: Almost like your leg feels like when it goes to sleep. Upon returning to her chair, the sensation had disappeared. The Empress understood this and had learned long ago to not take it personally.

"What of the Bianjie alternative?" asked the Chancellor. "Have they contacted you at all?"

"No," said the Empress. "We have not heard from Bianjie. The offer remains on the table however."

"Well," said the Chancellor. "I have asked Sir Harney to try to contact them through the the Xsampans. But he's been out for the Holiday too. We still have a long time. And if they don't call us back, Your Imperial Majesty has already raised 15 Billion from KPO and the Private Sector that she can fund Kalistani programs with, so we can still do a lot of good."

"We suppose you are correct," said the Empress. "Kalistan wins either way."

"Those are the kind of options I tend to support," said the Chancellor. "But I am a nationalist, after all. Kalistan's interests come first, last and always."

The Empress smiled, "We can agree at least on that."

The Chancellor, feeling the win said, "About Kalistan's interests?"

"That you are a nationalist," said the Empress.

"Well, Majesty, it is better than being a metzist," said the Chancellor.

"If you said liberal, we could more readily agree with you," answered the Empress.

"If Her Imperial Majesty is not careful, the name Red Empress might stick," said the Chancellor, only half kidding.

"What do the anti-communists say? If it walks like a duck..."

The Chancellor laughed nervously. "But a communist Empress certainly is not a thing..."

"Yes," said the Empress. "They would vivisect someone like me... sadly... Not even the Metzists can maintain external coherence in their ideology. Let's speak no more about communism. We are having pizza tonight and you are invited to stay for dinner."

Pizza! thought the Chancellor. How common! The Countess of Lucid does not eat pizza, even if the Empress does. And the Empress still had not gotten the hint that the Chancellor did not intend to be buddies with the Empress, so she would not be making an exception. "I beg Your Imperial Majesty's Pardon, but I have dinner plans with my, mother, tonight."

The Empress, hearing the hesitation in the Chancellor's speech decided to not push the matter. "Well, if that is the case, then, please give our regards to your mother."

The Chancellor said, "Of Course Madame," as she internally kicked herself, because now she would have to call her mother and invite her out to dinner, even though she was still suffering from a hangover that started sometime yesterday afternoon. "If I may, Your Imperial Majesty."

"You are excused, Lady Alvarez," said the Empress. "One more thing, though. Do you play Go?"

The Chancellor instinctively answered "No Your Imperial Majesty. I do not. I am more of a card player,"

"Then we shall invite you over again so that you may learn. How does Friday afternoon sound?" The Chancellor correctly understood this as less of a question, and more of a command.

The Chancellor smiled politely, but rather flatly. "Friday sounds fine."

"Then we shall wish you a good afternoon Madame Chancellor," said the Empress. "Heidi will show you out. We have some dough to make. The secret," she said with a wink, "is minced garlic in the crust." The Chancellor shuttered--it sounded overwhelming.

[myungpartikrasi]

Lonmouth, New Englia
12 January 5713

The well-lit night was not the talk of the town in Lonmouth, because in Lonmouth, the night was always well-lit. The old capital had never quite surrendered its pride, nor its appetite, and inside La Couronne del Sol, the golden glow of hanging lamps reflected against polished marble floors and tall windows that framed the river like an oil painting. The restaurant was a monument to continental ambition, an Egelian-Lourennais fusion of warm indulgence and calculated elegance, the sort of place where deals were rarely written down but often remembered.

John Edward Turley, leader of the Conservative People's Party and delegate from Galebrough West and Camlin, sat stiffly in his chair, his large hands folded around a glass of red wine he had barely tasted. His Parmesan-crusted pork chops had cooled into irrelevance, though he occasionally prodded them with his fork to maintain appearances. Turley was a man who understood spectacle, who thrived in pulpits and campaign halls, who could stir crowds into fervor with a raised eyebrow and a well-timed pause. But waiting was different. Waiting implied dependency, and dependency implied weakness.

Across from him sat Allan Selkirk, his protege who represents Portavie-on-Sea South, who seemed entirely unbothered by the delay. Selkirk ate slowly, methodically, as if demonstrating to the world that patience was not merely a virtue but a weapon.

“He’ll come,” Selkirk said without looking up. “Men like him always do. They simply prefer to arrive when their absence has been noticed.”

Turley gave a half-smile. “You make him sound like a cardinal.”

Selkirk dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “No. Cardinals believe in God.”

As if summoned by the remark, a figure appeared at the entrance, removing his coat with theatrical precision before handing it to the hostess. Hurgaci Ruyere moved with the deliberate confidence of a man who understood the value of timing, his smile wide enough to suggest warmth but restrained enough to imply discipline.

“Gentlemen,” Ruyere said, his accent smooth and almost musical. “My apologies. Lonmouth traffic conspires against punctuality.”

Turley stood immediately, his anxiety dissolving into relief. “Hurgaci! You made it.”

They shook hands firmly, Turley’s grip enthusiastic, Ruyere’s calculated.

Selkirk did not stand. Instead, he watched.

Ruyere took his seat, declining the menu with a polite gesture. “I’ve already eaten,” he said. “Tonight is for conversation.”

“Oh. Of course it is,” Selkirk muttered.

Turley shot him a warning glance, but Ruyere only chuckled softly, as if amused by resistance rather than offended by it.

For a moment, they spoke of harmless things—property markets, Lonmouth’s stubborn refusal to modernize its harbor, the humiliating fifteen percent polling that had reduced the Conservative People’s Party into what Selkirk privately described as a historical footnote with a press office.

“You know,” Ruyere said eventually, leaning forward slightly, “it surprises me that a nation as proud as New Englia finds itself… constrained.”

Turley stiffened. “Constrained?”

“Yes. You sit on oceans of potential,” Ruyere said gently. “And yet you allow hesitation—foreign hesitation—to dictate your future.”

Selkirk’s fork stopped midair.

“If you’re referring to Petroenglia,” Selkirk said flatly, “you’ll find it operates independently. As it should.”

He emphasized the last three words with surgical precision.

Petroenglia was, to Selkirk, more than a corporation. It was a constitutional instrument, a carefully balanced entity designed to insulate national resource policy from precisely this sort of interference—foreign charm dressed as friendly advice.

Ruyere nodded, as if he had expected the objection. “Independence is admirable. Necessary, even. But independence does not exist in a vacuum. It exists within a political environment.”

Turley leaned forward. “Go on.”

Selkirk frowned.

“The Kalistani bid,” Ruyere said calmly. “It introduces… uncertainty.”

At the mention of Kalistan, Turley’s expression hardened. The Empress’s postmaterialist, environmentally alarmist crusade on steroids had been insufferable enough; her government’s attempt to insert itself into New Englia’s economic future was something else entirely.

“It’s ideological theater,” Turley said. “They want to dictate morality while forcing our economy to be a sitting duck.”

Selkirk nodded. “Hypocrisy, if I may add.”

“But it is an effective hypocrisy,” Ruyere said softly.

That word lingered. Effective.

“You see,” Ruyere continued, “perception matters. Markets respond to clarity. Investors respond to confidence. Citizens respond to leadership.”

Selkirk narrowed his eyes. “And what exactly are you suggesting?”

Ruyere smiled, as though the question itself were an invitation.

“I’m suggesting nothing,” he said lightly. “Only that the parliament possesses a voice. A voice capable of expressing national priorities.”

Selkirk leaned back, folding his arms. “The House of Delegates do not need to put Petroenglia into account right now.”

“No,” Ruyere agreed. “But Petroenglia exists within a nation whose direction is shaped by its hallowed assembly.”

Turley said nothing, but his breathing had changed. Slower. More deliberate. Ruyere watched him carefully.

“There is a phrase we use in Bianjie,” Ruyere said, almost conversationally. “Dovani for Dovanians.”

He said it without emphasis, without insistence, as though it were merely a cultural curiosity rather than the quiet cornerstone of the Verhamese-Bianjian bid.

“A shared destiny,” he added. “A continent that stands together, rather than apart.”

Selkirk scoffed. “Spare us the 'intriguing' poetry.”

“I’m just offering perspective,” Ruyere replied calmly.

Selkirk leaned forward now, his voice sharper.

“No,” he said. “You’re offering influence.”

The air tightened. Turley shifted in his seat.

Selkirk continued. “Petroenglia was designed specifically to prevent this sort of manipulation. Not Kalistani. Not Bianjian. Not anyone’s.”

Ruyere nodded respectfully. “And that is wise.”

He paused.

“But wisdom evolves.”

Turley exhaled slowly. “What would clarity look like?” Turley asked quietly.

Selkirk turned toward him sharply. “John.”

But Turley did not look at him.

Ruyere answered carefully. “Perhaps a parliamentary resolution,” he said. “It wouldn't be binding nor coercive. Merely expressive.”

Selkirk shook his head. “You're suggesting symbolic interference.”

“Symbolic leadership, rather,” Ruyere corrected.

Selkirk opened his mouth to object again—but stopped.

Because he understood something.

Not the morality. The optics.

A resolution condemning the Kalistani bid would not control Petroenglia.

But it would shape the environment in which Petroenglia made its decision.

Selkirk hated the logic.

And admired it.

Turley’s voice was quieter now, more introspective.

“It would show resolve.”

“And it would show unity,” Ruyere agreed gently.

Selkirk stared at the table, his mind racing ahead to the consequences, the headlines, the shift in narrative.

The Conservative People’s Party, no longer irrelevant, but decisive.

He hated how much sense it made.

“We'll need partners,” Selkirk said finally.

Turley looked at him.

“Right, the Republican Socialist Party,” Selkirk continued reluctantly. “They'll hate Kalistani moral imperialism even more than we do. Then we can start recruiting disaffected Social Democratic and Liberal delegates after.”

Turley’s eyes lit faintly.

A coalition of convenience. A spectacle. A return to relevance.

Ruyere leaned back, saying nothing.

Because he no longer needed to.

Turley raised his glass, his confidence returning like a forgotten reflex.

“To New Englia,” he said.

Ruyere raised his own.

“To New Englia.”

Selkirk hesitated.

Then, reluctantly, joined them.

---

Later that night, outside the restaurant, Turley stumbled slightly as he climbed into his car, his laughter louder now, loosened by wine and possibility.

Selkirk followed more slowly, his expression still shadowed by doubt.

Ruyere remained behind, watching them disappear into Lonmouth’s golden streets.

Only when they were gone did he remove his phone.

He dialled a number from memory and the line clicked.

“Yes,” said a calm female voice.

“It’s done,” Ruyere said.

The aide on the other end was Lin Meiyun, senior political strategy secretary to Semken Tan, and one of the newer, younger political operators in Bianjie’s government.

There was a pause.

“And?” she asked.

Ruyere smiled faintly, gazing at the glowing skyline of a nation that still believed itself sovereign.

“They’re going to do it themselves,” he said. “They think it’s their idea.”

Lin allowed herself the smallest hint of amusement.

“Good.”

Ruyere ended the call and slipped the phone back into his coat.

He had always admired New Englian politicians.

They were proud.

Principled.

And, when handled correctly, remarkably easy to persuade.