Senator Thraurrallgisc wanted change. He had promised the people of Sorensia that he would fight for their well-being and restore to them the security of their livelihoods. He had failed. The grizzled old Wookiee sat back easily in his smoky office as he considered the recent events, his paws clasped behind his head and a cigarette jutting from his mouth.
He had promised. Thraurrallgisc was well aware of the reputation of Republic politicians, particularly the present rabble that dominated the Senate floor. In popular opinion, politicians were renowned for breaking promises. He had represented the people of Sorensia in the Senate for centuries, more years now than he could be bothered to count, and throughout this time he had always been true to his word. He was a rarity, now that the Pandemos were confined to the very safest socialist seats.
Of these safe seats, Sorensia was the most secure for the Party. Indeed, it was a hotbed for radical "hard-left" thinking and Sorensia’s nickname of the "Red Planet" did not come by accident. Thraurrallgisc had named his ship after his constituency, such was his pride of his adopted home.
Senator Thraurrallgisc wanted to keep his reputation as an honest straight talker. The Senate had made it extremely difficult for him to act. The Unions had no voice and what little influence they had was hopelessly ineffective offworld. Besides, he had voiced his concerns to Barnes Pikle, who merely stated that the Party could risk bankruptcy should he talk carelessly about MHG. If the over-cautious Pikle would not endorse his views, then he would have to act alone to topple Mandalore.
Just as the dour old Wookiee began to rack his brains for a viable plan of action, Ralrracheen knocked on the door. Thraurrallgisc barked tersely and Ralrra crept in, carrying a greasy paper bag full of steaming food containers. The office began to fill with the sweet, spicy smell of an exotic Chalactan takeaway as Ralrra beckoned for his employer to join him for dinner.
Thraurrallgisc gladly complied; he was hungry and the spices would help to keep the flu at bay. He rose from his desk, carrying a tin of smoking-herbs in his bandaged left paw and a bottle of beer in his right. Summoned by the appetising smell of nerf bin’dhar-laow, he stomped into the lounge where Ralrra was sprawled on an armchair watching the large videoscreen set into the wall. The screen was showing a teleweb documentary about Lord Mandalore’s hypersetting lifestyle. Japhta Fett, looking all the more chic and glamorous for appearing in public, was showing the Twi’lek presenter her vast wardrobe of priceless designer clothes.
Thraurrallgisc hated Japhta Fett and everything she stood for. His comrades were being exploited by this epitome of Rhoufheighite greed. Millions of Sorensians were working in virtual slavery, with no employment rights or job security, while Mandalore lapped up a life of luxury with the best of Coruscant’s high society.
This ever widening gulf between rich and poor angered Thraurrallgisc, and it was evident on every world he had visited. Here on Coruscant, the wealthy minority enjoyed their own exclusive penthouses whilst the remainder were consigned to the seedy depths, where they lived, packed together in tiny "sleeping units" like battery chickens amongst the crime and squalor of a city in decline. Japhta Fett and her extravagance made the old senator livid with rage. He took one look at the glittering young girl swaggering about the screen and ordered Ralrra to find another website.
broke off from arranging the food on the low, glass-topped table and drew
breath to change the channel with the voice-activated control, but before he
could say anything, Thraurrallgisc barked at him, saying
that he had changed his mind. The
documentary was giving viewers a guided tour of
* * *