21-02-2026, 04:59 PM
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.
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.