Free State of Badari, Jivada
Jivada Cadre was a merchant military artifact inherited from the Anye home world without amendment, the product of a chronically successful dominant culture, sprung out of an order of militant priests.
Fiscally diversified, insulated from the ambitions of governments, motivated to address polar differences between constituencies by standing aside to let them figure it out themselves.
Which is not to say the Cadre had never applied force unilaterally, in barefaced violations of charter. It had, to benign effect, witness the persistence of Anye civilization for more than 70,000 years.
In modern times, Jivada’s soldiering enterprise was headquartered in a facsimile mashup of Scotland’s most famous castles, perched on a mound next to a pond, in the middle of a strawberry field, a kilometer distant from the quaint village of Berry Town, mid-central Badari Island.
Yakob’s riders stood for the landing approach, rubbernecking through the windscreen sim at an 8-passenger, canvas-top golf cart blocking the driveway, unmanned at the moment, its occupants out and about on the grounds.
Mason Fowlkes buzzed the field. A contingent of tourists loped toward the buggy.
Brandon said, “You’re not going to land there. The drive is too short.”
They put down on the county road. Mason threw open the forward hatch, telling the tour operator, “Sorry; my fault. I didn’t need you to move.”
The driver, a rotund Scottish-regalia-clad Anye Mahat Limar female, blew him a kiss.
She said, “Worth having a look at ya, cutie-pie.”
Marie Jourdaine paused at the edge, watching stairs fold out. She said, “See you tonight?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He took her elbow. “Mind your step. The road is gravel.”
Colonel Clarke went out first. Everyone accepted a hand down. Brandon Lopez observed they were ahead of schedule.
He and Carmen Benequista went off for a tour of the flower garden. Marie Jourdain started up the driveway with Colonel Clarke.
She told him, “Parity Castle looks bigger on television.”
“I wouldn’t call it small.” Clarke pointed at the top floor. “The Cadre uses about 60,000 square feet up there.”
Marie scoffed. “That’s tiny!”
He shrugged. “That’s all you need to manage 14,000 soldiers.”
“I had no idea.” She stopped, turning in a circle. “This certainly isn’t the Pentagon.”
“It’s nothing like it.” Clarke brushed a biting fly off his cheek. “Nobody getting rich off the taxpayer here, Captain.”
Marie shook her head. “Doesn’t steal, cannot be bribed.”
“That’s how you made finalist.” He looked over her shoulder. “And there’s our host.”
A furry, petite, military-attired gentleman pushed open the smaller of two bronze gates.
General Emmet Thorson. Short of stature, fluffy white pelt, bow-legged; the spitting image of a storybook possum.
He favored Marie Jourdain with a sharp-toothed smile, saying, “Hello there, young Captain. May I assume you’ve never seen a rat-person before?”
To Marie’s ear, Thorson might have been raised by Tennessee hillbillies. The effect was comical, disarming, totally unexpected.
She replied, “Never in all my days, sir.”
He gave Colonel Clarke the hairy eyeball. “What’d you tell her about me?”
Clarke showed the palms of his hands. “Not a word, I swear.”
Thorson gave Marie a wink. “You and me are going to get along just fine.”
He turned on his heels. “Flush your troops out of the rose bushes, Colonel. We have work to do.”