Holtz I

“Are you absolutely sure?”
Senator Holtz felt a trickle of cold sweat contour down his eye.

He hoped for a shake of the head. A negation. A delivery out of the thick folder of files in his hand. Yet—

“Yes, sir.”
His chief of staff’s nod made his stomach twist.

No amount of breathing exercises or peaceful places could help him now. Not after this. No matter what Master Tythos had said before, this was the absolute end. Yet—

“Go to Heraclia. Bring back Senator Nikos and Senator Agryos.” With the last bits of courage—and half digested porridge filling his two stomachs—he managed a serious look. “At all costs.”

The chief of staff got back into the car and drove off. For a little while, Senator Holtz stood there, the world spinning, his head rushing, the last bits of porridge climbing up his throat.

“He’ll never get across the blockade,” one voice said.
“He’ll die in Gandorian space,” another agreed.
“If they could do what they did to the kid…” a third whispered. “The senators are already dead.”

A drop of sweat stung his eye, breaking the trance. Holtz suddenly remembered he had a session of the Senate to attend—a quite important one. He forced himself to climb the palace steps, to rush through the vaulted ceilings of the main lobby and the inner gardens, past the Senate spire’s barren—wasted by flocks of scheming senators with no notion of what littering is—and into the elevators—still reeking of scotch and a diverse range of different colognes. Through the hallways, into the door leading to his Senate pod.

Woosh.

The doorway rushed up. The Senate amphitheater was full—fuller than any other day. The round window overlooking the cloudy skyline of Laythe City let in little light, barely enough to outline the two statues flanking the Prime Minister’s pod, now just a silhouette.

Most of the illumination came from the massive screens showing Senator Lallo’s grotesque face, mid-speech, almost certainly spinning intrigue for his Red New Deal Bill’s third “opening” address.

Holtz slumped onto the couch beside Atlas—Representative of South-Kestaff Sector’s Union of Technology and Energy Businesses in the Imperial Chamber of Commerce—and his only friend. The only one on this wretched planet who’d crash and burn with him.

“Half an hour late, huh?” Atlas shot him a mocking look. “That’s a new record, Blue boy.”

Holtz had no answer. His stomach churned. His throat was tight. His horns and forehead gleamed cold.

“That bad?” Atlas asked. “Hit me.”

Still wordless, Holtz handed him the folder, twitchy hands trembling, empty eyes fixed on the central podium where the small red blob—less grotesque from this distance than the face on the screen—was still managing to squeeze out self-aggrandizing words.

Atlas took his time.

On the screens, Lallo—between tales of his youth as a poor street beggar and claims that the entire system was rigged against him—was deep into his third opening speech for the Red New Deal.

“Standardised currency—to unify sectors and end debt exploitation.”
“A federal labour corps—to dignify the jobless.”
“Infrastructure mega projects—to usher in a new era of equality.”

It all sounded righteous.

But Atlas wasn’t listening to the screens. He was reading the manilla folders.
Reading the deal that bought Senator Finley’s faction vote—not with credits or contracts, but with his son’s life, in paying for his prolonged stay at the Imperial Cancer Hospital, publicly for leukaemia—privately, a hostage under watch, for the senator´s loyalty.

Reading how Lallo had stirred ancient rivalries in Heart Space to shut down Heraclia’s warpways.

Reading how two senators now lay stranded, their votes erased by thugs in borrowed uniforms.

Reading how his grunts on the ground and in corporate boardrooms spun excuses to justify more layers in the maze of bureaucracy—More impunity. More power.

Holtz sat motionless, breath shallow, forehead cold.
He finally understood what the Red New Deal meant.

More paper.
More debt.
More eyes on the ground.

Less Eyes on the top
Fewer exits.

“It is bad,” Atlas said quietly, setting the folder down.

The confirmation—the dreaded confirmation—hit Holtz like a pulse. His throat tightened, the taste of metal flooding his mouth. Adrenaline shot through him. His shoulders rose; his stomach rumbled. Anger and anxiety roared together, a hundred inner voices screaming theories he couldn’t keep up with.

“He took our friend from us,” Holtz said quietly.

“Blue…?” Atlas raised an eyebrow.

“He took our friend from us!”

Holtz stood—fast, or as fast as someone of his size could—and spun with the grace of a three-legged chair toward the pod’s console.

Before Atlas could react, the pod was already extending toward the central forum. Senator Lallo’s speech halted. The galaxy’s eyes were on him.

“You lie!”

“I lie?” Lallo smiled, mockingly. “I am the most honest soul in this galaxy! Look around you—people are suffering, starving! I—”

“You lie!” Holtz shouted again.

“Order!” The Prime Minister’s aide intervened. “Order in the House, fellow delegates! If your excellencies can’t counter with more than one phrase, then I’d advise you not to counter at all.”

Holtz felt his pod retracting.

“The word shall return to the Majority Leader.”

The world dimmed around him. His legs trembled. His blood pressure dropped.

“You lie?” Atlas’s voice pierced the fog. “I knew you were a bit mad, but I never thought you’d fall for that trick—and with those words.”

Holtz collapsed back into his chair.

“Come on, eat.” Atlas pushed a packet of crackers toward him. “How long’s it been?”

“Two days.”

Holtz had a habit of forgetting to eat. Between all-nighters and endless meetings, food never crossed his mind. Atlas had even convinced his staff to keep cookies and crackers stocked on his table—at least, they used to.

The packet was still sealed. The crackers were soft, but passable.

“We have to untangle this mess,” Atlas said solemnly. “We can’t fall for traps like this anymore.”

“Traps?”

“Who do you think ceded the floor to you? Who do you think approved your pod extension?” Atlas asked.

It was an open secret that the Prime Minister’s aide came from one of Lallo’s own staffers. Like most of the Corpus Regis, appointed offices were easily swayed toward the Red New Deal. It wasn’t hard to see why: indefinite terms, more powers, and greater opportunities for those who played along—and for those who didn’t, one of Lallo’s accomplices might simply send regards to a beloved child or spouse.

“Why do we even care?” Holtz’s anger sank into exhaustion. “Why do we even do this?”

Atlas bit into a cracker, grimaced, and threw it away. “I told you, buddy. You’re mad.”
He paused.
“We both are.”