Carnifex

4/10/466 AC, Isla Real, Quarters #1

The evening breeze cooled even as it kept off the mosquitoes. In the distance could be seen the lights of half a dozen merchant ships plying their trade between The Federated States, Atzlan, and Secordia, at one end, and the various republics-in-name-only, at the other. Still other ships pulled into and out of the Transitway.

"You really think it's going to come to a fight with the Tauran Union, Patricio?"

Carrera sighed and looked at his host. Parilla was short, stocky and dark. Pushing seventy, his hair was still mostly the jet black of the indians and mestizos who made up much of his ancestry. Only a distinguished frosting of gray at the temples betrayed his age.

"Eventually, yes, Raul," he answered. "We might be able to hold it off for a few years. But, in the long run, they're here for the purpose of confronting us, of supporting the civil government in confronting us."

"But why? I don't understand. We're fighting the fight they should be fighting. We're protecting them. It doesn't make any sense."

Carrera reached for the bottle of scotch sitting on the table between the two as he answered, "That's an interesting question. I thought for a while that it was the Gauls. After all, they've never quite forgiven the FSC for building the Transitway after they, themselves, failed to. And the Gauls are vindictive, make no mistake about it. But that vindictive?"

Parilla held his own tumbler out to be filled. "Okay, maybe not the Gauls. But they did send their troops here. They did entice the rest of the TU into sending their troops here."

"All true," Carrera conceded. "But think about the TU; how do they see themselves except as an organ of the World League. And what is the World League an organ of? What do they see as their spiritual foundation?"

Both men looked skyward to where the United Earth Peace Fleet mixed its lights with the stars beyond.