The Traveling Tyrant: Casual Fridays

By Richard Marsden

After the fiery events on Paradisa, Mordid the Traveling Tyrant and his ruthless band of mercenaries decide to lie low in the lawless region of space known as the Upper Arm. There, Mordid finds work on the planet of Pristine. Zaltrek, the planet's dictator, is losing his grip on the world, and Mordid promises to help-- for a price. Unfortuna

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tyrant Industries
• Release date: Nov 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9780984771615

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The Traveling Tyrant

Casual Fridays

by

Richard Marsden

The Traveling Tyrant: Casual Fridays

By Richard Marsden

Copyright 2010, All Rights Reserved

ISBN 13 - 978-0-9847716-0-8

ISBN 10 - 0984771603

Edited by – Cara Patterson

Cover Art by – Ksenia Kozhevnikova

Formatted by – Henry Snider

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, recording, photocopying or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book except in the case of brief quotations embodied within critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Incidents, names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. Resemblances to actual locales or events or persons living or dead is coincidental.

The Traveling Tyrant Series

Paradisa Lost

Casual Fridays

Audacity of Pope

High Stakes

End Road

The Truly Most Greatest Battle Ever

For AJ, the Wife

Chapter I

The Upper Arm -Pristine-: Zaltrek’s Palace

His father, depicted in the painting in a bold and dramatic pose, mocked Zaltrek. Not literally, of course. His father had, in fact, been quite kind to his one and only son while simultaneously maintaining a nearly intolerable level of brutality over Pristine’s inhabitants. His father’s cruel gaze, his curling sneer, and his clenched fists radiated the very image of despotism. Where had he gone so wrong?

Zaltrek crossed his arms and continued to gaze at the enormous portrait for a long while. With a sigh, he eventually turned and strolled through his private chambers. Chandeliers provided soft illumination from above. More ominously, an orange glow cast its light through several towering windows along the decorated wall. He couldn’t hear the mob, but he was sure there were more this night than there had been the previous.

A gentle rapping echoed from the set of double doors leading to the interior of the palace.

Zaltrek straightened and did his best to mimic his departed father’s expression and haughty mannerisms.

Enter!

The doors silently swung open and Lord Liaman entered. Always a bad sign. The man, as usual, betrayed nothing in his appearance. His features were flat, his style of dress rich yet muted compared to the rest of the nobility on Pristine. He wore his family colors of green and black, sporting a pair of golden epaulettes. His pale eyes, green as his formal attire, reminded Zaltrek of a serpent’s—they never seemed to blink or give a clue as to his inner thoughts. Even his hair, blond and cut somewhat short, lacked any distinct style. Despite his unreadable demeanor, Zaltrek knew the noble brought ill tidings. Those were the only sort of tidings brought to him these days.

Zaltrek let his shoulders slump as soon as the doors shut. What now?

Liaman’s brow rose. My Lord, have I come at a bad time? His voice was as flat as his expression.

Waving his hand in a dismissive gesture, Zaltrek said, Yes, you have. My world is falling to pieces! Do you bring news to the contrary? He drew his voluminous robes about his portly frame.

I’m afraid not, my Lord. Liaman said without a whit of sympathy. My Lord, may I be frank?

Zaltrek shrugged. Why not?

The rebels have taken Hendrem. The northern continent has fallen. Despite his candor, Liaman’s voice remained even in its pitch, and his viper-like eyes remained unwavering upon Zaltrek. The Wolf has taken nearly the entire planet. In my most generous estimates, you have a month before the rebels reach Zaltrekia.

That was it. Done. Generations of iron-fisted rule over Pristine had been declared all but over. Zaltrek shuffled over to a plush Earth-imported Indian-Deco couch and collapsed into it. The infamous Wolf was closing in on his capital.

My personal guard? Is it still loyal? Zaltrek rubbed his forehead.

For the moment, Liaman replied. He tilted his head. I recommend we devise some form of escape. Off-world. Half the city I’d deem suspect, while the loyal half is too cowed to come to your aid. You must evacuate.

A flare of heat surged through Zaltrek’s chest. Retreat? From his birthright? NO! He lurched to his feet and pointed a fat bejeweled finger at Liaman. The noble’s expression did not change. Not that Zaltrek expected it to. Still, he had to show strength, even to an automaton like Liaman.

I want the city secured. Every approach is to be watched, and the palace is to be put on high alert until I say otherwise. He turned his gaze to the ominous glow coming from the tall, narrow windows of his chambers. I want that mob dispersed.

They will return, my Lord, Liaman warned.

Shoot them then. Dead men don’t rebel. He glared at Liaman. "I will not flee my home." Zaltrek turned his back on the noble and strode toward the baroque-framed portrait. His father’s gaze rested upon him without a shred of mercy.

As you wish, my Lord.

Zaltrek heard a few footfalls and then the doors shut. He made his way to the window to watch his soldiers administer justice. However, Liaman was right. The mob would be back. He could shoot them all he liked, and still they would just spring back up to defy him. They had done so in all the cities despite his initial acts of generosity and his subsequent acts of force.

He could see, over the palace walls in the darkened streets, the glow of torches and the blazing wreck of a vehicle. Details of the mob were hard to make out.

Gleaming flashes of light lit up the night, and the crack of rifle fire penetrated the window’s reinforced glass. In those moments, Zaltrek could see torch-wielding figures collapse and the armored shapes of his men surging forth. The rioters dropped their burning sticks and ran for their lives. Their muted screams mingled with the sporadic gunfire. For the first time that night, Zaltrek smiled.

#

The Upper Arm -Space-

Mordid rubbed his eyes as he slumped back into his oversized I’m in charge chair. Pale light shone from above, casting his command staff in a clinical glow. The room was painted a dull gray, and a long window along one wall let Mordid gaze out into the endless depths of space. He could dimly make out the shapes of other ships alongside the Merciless and the twinkling of a billion stars and the garish colors of distant nebulas. Cups of Wake Me Up!, all empty, littered the table top—carnage from a long meeting.

Did you hear me? Rodriguez said. The Mexican Admiral stroked his moustache and sniffed.

Hmm? Mordid blinked and fixed his gaze upon the man. Yes, I heard. Something about bad morale, right?

If you call a general strike ‘bad morale,’ then yes, Rodriguez said while leaning across the table, you heard correctly. He placed a broad finger against his temple. "You need to get your head in the game, or you’ll lose it, mi amigo."

"I just promoted you; don’t give me a reason to demote you to airlock duty. Amigo. Mordid reached into his battered gray tunic and fumbled for a cigarette. Anyway, is the strike handled or not? That’s what matters."

His admiral’s brown eyes hardened. He was silent a moment and then gave a nod. Yes. For now.

Thrask cleared his throat. Things aren’t much better with the army, Mordid. Pay is lousy, the last mission was a bust, and we’ve been space-bound for far too long. We need work. Now. He glared at Mordid, and his paw-like hand absently rubbed at his chest.

Mordid restrained a smile. It would be unseemly at the moment, but he couldn’t help but imagine how the threat of his own death riled his battle-scarred general. So long as Mordid’s heart beat, so did Thrask’s. While Rodriguez needed a threatening reminder as to who was in charge, nothing was needed to keep Thrask in line. He was all but leashed, thanks to modern science and involuntary surgery.  

We’ll find something. Diplomat Mauss is pursuing a few leads, Mordid said. He placed the cigarette in his mouth. Actually, his diplomat was pursuing any lead, but for weeks, no one had wanted to go anywhere near the Traveling Tyrant. One vaporized world and the galaxy acted as if planetary genocide was an unusual occurrence in a mercenary outfit.

Eryn grinned, and her eyes glimmered. While Rodriguez and Thrask looked dour, she exuded radiance like the stars. Hope so! The navy is staging strikes, I’m sure the army is plotting coups. She shot a pointed look at Thrask. He had the decency to have no reaction. Eryn continued, And my best efforts at glorifying you are in vain. We need something to lift the spirits of the men. She giggled. As Thrask puts it, she lowered her voice and her eyes narrowed, now. She placed an archaic lighter on the table and slid it toward Mordid.

He snatched it up and lit the cigarette. He drew in the nicotine and let out a long, acrid breath. Pale smoke rose into the air. The little pleasures were drying up. He was on his last pack, and as far as he could tell, it was the last pack in the entire fleet. Earth-made luxuries were not to be found anytime soon. Not unless they found something—now.

The door opened with a hiss and Mauss entered. The skeletal man carried a folder and strode into the chamber as if bearing a death sentence. His eyes darted over the others before resting upon Mordid.

I have found a client.

Finally, Thrask muttered.

Mordid grinned. He took a long draw on the cigarette and gestured with his other hand for Mauss to go on.

Mauss cleared his throat, and his eyes flickered from side to side.

Don’t be shy, Eryn beamed. She flipped back her inky hair, and her painted lips formed a wry smile.

I think this is information for the Tyrant alone. Mauss clutched the folder, and upon its manila surface, creases formed that matched the creases in his forehead.

All three protested.

Mordid shook his head. All right, children, out you get. Daddy and Mommy have to talk.

Which one’s Mommy? Eryn asked as she rose from her seat.

Mordid didn’t dignify her with an answer as he watched his grumbling command team shuffle out of the meeting room. When the door shut, he looked pointedly at Mauss. I hope you have a reason for wanting to keep this a secret. They’re all probably plotting against me, and even a small job would keep their idle hands from grabbing me by the throat.

Mauss tossed the folder atop the table. He crossed his gangly arms, and his long coat swayed about his booted feet. I don’t doubt that.

Mordid grasped the information packet and opened it. He rolled the cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other. His eyes scanned over the various documents and handwritten notes as well as a few images Mauss had been kind enough to provide. The task was like a dozen others he had been offered and had promptly thrown away.

He snapped his eyes onto the looming Mauss. "Find something else. This isn’t work. This Zaltrek hasn’t even sought outside help."

"That is work. The only work, Mauss retorted. He made his way to Mordid’s side. No one wants to deal with us. I personally murdered a few mercenary notables, you vaporized a planet, and none of us was paid. Earth might not know what happened on Paradisa, yet, but the Upper Arm and the Corporate Worlds do. We’re seen as irresponsible and unreliable. He reached out and plucked Mordid’s cigarette from his mouth. He flicked it away. We need to win this contract. Focus."

Mordid had only a slight desire to shoot Mauss in the stomach and watch him bleed to death for the crime of wasting one of only seven remaining cigarettes within several light-years. On the other hand, the bony elder had been with the fleet when another man called himself the Traveling Tyrant. That man had ignored Mauss’s advice and had been replaced by a far more attractive upstart.

Fine. Let’s get the fleet moving then. He could also see why Mauss had wanted to speak in private. We can’t let the others know what this one’s about until we get there. I don’t think unwitting clients and lost causes will appeal to them.

Mauss nodded. Agreed. In the meantime, you’ll have to offer the men something or they might… He trailed off and gave a shrug.

Again, the old vulture was right. Mordid scratched his sculpted beard, and a devilish idea popped into his head. He imagined Eryn would love it, Thrask would despise it—but too bad for him—and Rodriguez would probably try to abuse it to the fullest. The peacock! Fair enough.

I have a plan. Mordid hopped to his feet. 

#

Casual Fridays? Karlson said with an incredulous look sent Jenkins’s way. The graying soldier rubbed his jaw. Am I reading this right?

Commander Jenkins sat at his officer’s table in his tiny one-man-to-a-bunk room. He nodded at the memo. You read correctly. In the name of morale, on Earth-standard Fridays, the dress is to be casual, so long as each man can carry out his task and earn his keep.

Karlson coughed. So, what exactly does that mean? Unbuttoned tunics? Sloppy dress? He leaned back in the lone chair opposite the desk.

I have no idea. This is obviously a stunt to take the men’s minds off the lack of leave and pay. Jenkins sighed. He was an officer, and he was itching to get off the Merciless and do something other than drill, wait about, and drill some more. He knew the men were even more restless. Fights were common, and he heard some of the navy-boys had even dared to go on strike.

Obviously. Think it will work? Karlson asked.

I don’t know. A few months ago, I was a grunt, and I’m trying to imagine what I would have thought about it back then. The idea is very… he trailed off.

Funny, I guess, Karlson provided.

Yeah, it is that. Funny in more ways than one. But if you and I can see right through it, so will the men. Was the Tyrant reaching for straws? If so, Jenkins wanted to make sure he sided with whoever was next in line. He stared at Karlson. We need to be on our toes. Things are shifting.

Karlson groaned. I know.

And that means—

No, Karlson interrupted. The ship is shifting. We’re going into transpace.

A moment later, Jenkins felt it. There was a pulling sensation in his stomach, and he felt tightness about his eyes. Karlson was right! They were moving. He hated transpace. Men aged far more quickly aboard the merc-fleets than could be accounted for by mere combat stress. The damned engines did something to a man.

You all right? Karlson asked.

Jenkins regarded the older soldier with his wrinkles, salt-and-pepper hair, and gray skin. He was forty and looked as if his fifties were just about behind him. Men, unless they were officers, didn’t stay on with the Tyrant past forty. Karlson was an exception. The command staff and officers didn’t age so fast, but they knew something to keep transpace’s ill effects away. He’d kill to know the secret.

I’m fine, Jenkins murmured. If we’re moving, that means there is work or we’re going on leave. The initial discomfort faded, but he couldn’t shake the sensation that his life was being sucked out of him. The sooner they got wherever, the better.

It’ll be work, I wager Karlson said. He looked up to the pale overhead lights and rubbed his jaw. Why would we transpace without an announcement? Without a briefing? Where are we going? Sir, I have a bad feeling about this.

A rattle echoed through the massive hull of the Merciless, and Jenkins felt his bones mimic the jarring vibrations. Me too, he said.

#

I like him, Mauss said. He offered a thin smile.

And yet here we are in a dark room. Eryn leaned against the wall and balanced on one leg. The room was tiny, and they had both checked it for bugs before having their conversation. And I thought I was the seductive one.

Don’t flatter yourself, Mauss said. He looked over his angled shoulder at the closed door, then bobbed his head at Eryn. I’ve seen this before. He’s getting desperate. The whole thing with Paradisa is proof of it. What he did to the planet was nothing but childish vandalism. I may have agreed with it at the time, but things are different now. He crossed his arms.

That planet’s death was art! She laughed. You really think he’s lost it?

Like I said, I like him. Mauss let out a long sigh. But this is business. If he doesn’t shape up on this next job, then that means the company needs a new head. Our shadowy investors won’t stand for incompetence. They’ll rectify the situation on their own. He looked at the ground.

Unless? Eryn prompted.

Unless, Mauss said, fixing his eyes upon her, we do. You have the right temperament, and you proved yourself capable of leading men in combat on Paradisa.

Now you’re flattering me! Eryn rolled her shoulders and fought down a sudden thumping in her chest. She was being offered something big, yet all she felt were butterflies in her stomach, and nerves. She wanted to leave the room. Why not you?

That’s not my role, Mauss replied. He grinned. I find the work. I guide the master of the ship. I don’t drive the boat. Nor will I let it sink. I put Mordid where he is today. I can undo it.

Hmmm, I should tell him how naughty you are. Eryn eased herself away from the wall and walked toward the skeletal man.

You can. That won’t change anything, though. This isn’t personal, Eryn. Mauss frowned. Like I said, I like him, but if he doesn’t figure out Pristine, then we need a new Tyrant.

She hid the trembling racing up her spine with a staged arch. Mauss would back her! However, it felt wrong. Not that she should know wrong from right. She had personally ripped off a woman’s eyelids to get a bit of information. And spite. She could be very spiteful. She’d signed death warrants by the score. She should be able to sign one more: Mordid’s. What was Pristine, though?

Pristine?

Mauss gave a raspy laugh. From Paradisa to Pristine. We must be drawn to pretty names. It’s a planet, and it is in the throes of revolution. Zaltrek the Magnificent is about to be yet another planetary dictator who lacks the fortitude and fortune of his forefathers. His rule is crumbling about him, and he has only a single city to his name. Mauss shuffled closer to Eryn. Zaltrek’s Phoenix-like rise, or fall, will mirror Mordid’s.

And what do you see as my role in all this? She quirked a brow.

I expect you to do what is best for the company. Mauss turned and opened the door. He cast a glance at her. I’m not saying everything will be handed to you, Eryn. Rodriguez and Thrask will not be idle. They know Mordid is weak.

Eryn planted her hands on her hips and shook her head so that her long black hair rippled like a flag. Oh, I can handle the boys. It’s been a delight, Mauss.

Hmmph, he said and left her in the darkened room.

Eryn let out a heavy breath and placed her hand upon her chest. She could feel her heart racing, and she staggered back to rest against the wall once more. The whole fleet and army could be hers; she just had to take it. It would be simple. She just had to let Mordid fail.

Chapter II

The Upper Arm -Pristine-: Zaltrek’s Palace

The bath was extraordinary! The finest imported soaps, the most delicate of water sensors, and the sweetest aroma-sticks combined to make bathing one of the few pleasures Zaltrek had in life. Not counting the expensive food, housing, clothing, and entertainment to which he was accustomed. The tub was made of gold, studded in gems, and the marble bathroom itself was illuminated by just the right amount of light so that as his body relaxed, so might his eyes. He sighed and, for a moment, forgot about the crisis facing him.

From outside the bathroom, Zaltrek heard a sound. A snapping of some sort that echoed from his personal chambers. His relaxed state turned into one of agitation. Assassin.

He was not a fit man. He had others take care of his physical needs, like pulling out a chair or moving something that would require more than one hand to lift. He certainly wasn’t in shape to fight for his life. He had others do that for him as well. All he had to do was press a button on a little device kept safe in his robe, and they would come running. However, the robe was hanging on a hook near the door.

Swallowing deeply, Zaltrek braced his hands against the lip of his golden tub and tried to stealthily get out. Despite his best efforts, soapy water splashed and he nearly slipped on the marble floor. Normally, he would stand in a full-body dryer. No time. He crept, naked, to the door and glanced into his chambers. It was dark. Until he entered, no lights would turn on. The usual orange glow of torches from the mob was absent as well from the tall exterior windows. Of all the days for the raucous crowd to take a night off!

He grasped the robe from the hook, and as he did so, he saw a tiny glimpse of red light. He shrieked. It was a laser. Surely a beam designed to help guide his assassin’s bullet!

Zaltrek threw himself flat on the ground and ended up halfway out of the bathroom. Soft, gentle light flicked on.

There was no assassin. No laser. There was an intruder.

Zaltrek threw his robe on and felt its silky fabric plaster against his wet skin. He eyed the invader and reached his hand into his pocket. Rapidly, he pressed the panic button. His bodyguards would be in the room in an instant.

Meanwhile, his guest sat at his table in his chair, smoking a cigarette. The fellow was short, or not so much short as broad and square shaped. He wore a dingy gray coat and a ridiculously large peaked cap and had a small black beard. His eyes stood out as much as the glow of his cigarette. They were blue and calculating.

Who are you? Zaltrek demanded.

Your best friend, the man replied. He puffed on the cigarette and eyed it. Five.

What? Zaltrek pressed the panic button once more and glanced at the main double doors of his room. Where were his guards? Where was Lord Liaman? Even a servant would do!

The intruder held up the cigarette. There are five of these left. I think, whether I like it or not, I’m going to try to kick the habit. It’s expensive anyway. Do you know I need to import these from Earth?

Great. A madman was in his room. You should buy locally. It’s cheaper, I hear. It didn’t taste the same, of course; Earth-brand tobacco had something only the mother-world could provide. His father loved Earth-brand tobacco, which was why he died a fit-looking but lung-cancerous man in his late fifties.

Ahh, it’s not the same, the man said. The intruder stood up and rounded the desk.

Zaltrek blinked and paused in his furious button pressing. The man was in military attire, except from the waist down. He wore boxers along with a pair of cheaply made sandals. This confirmed the insanity.

The man paused, looked himself over, and waved a hand. Excuse my attire. It’s Friday. My name is Mordid, the Traveling Tyrant.

Zaltrek took a step back. Oh. He cleared his throat. I see. Well, that explains why no one is coming to my rescue. Do you think I’ll beg? He broadened his stance and tilted his chin up in defiance. So, the Wolf had hired outside help to finish him off.

Mordid grinned. Yes.

I won’t. You can tell the Wolf I gave you no such satisfaction. If this was it, if some cheap, barbaric, mercenary was to be his end, he’d go out like his father. Not literally. Not hacking and coughing, but like a man. No crying.

I’ll tell him. Mordid puffed on the cigarette and walked through the room. His sandals made slapping noises against the stone floor. You have no army. No space fleet. No cities, except this one, and just barely. You’ve nothing.

Let’s get this over with. Zaltrek crossed his arms. "I don’t