A low growl of assent rose from the rest of the Oil team.

"We thank the First Negotiator of Oil for his comments. They will be duly noted in the records. The Chair now recognizes the Third Negotiator from Communications."

"Thank you, Mark." Fred rose to face the assemblage.

"May I assure you I will try to keep my proposal as brief as possible.

"Ivan's death last night was a serious blow to the Oil team. We share your grief and will miss him greatly. But, gentlemen, this should serve as another example of the hazards of war!"

There was a sudden stirring in the Oil team.

"Just as you pointed out in your one-for-one proposal that logistics is a real part of military strategy, so is assassination!"

"Are you trying to say you had Ivan killed?"

Fred smiled placidly at the interrupter.

"I have said no such thing. I merely point out that assassination of key personnel is as much or more a part of military tactics as moving boxes of ammo. Because of this, Communications proposes a conditional rider to your one-for-one proposal: that in a similar effort to insure realistic combat, all key personnel of both corporations be required to wear kill-suits at all times and be subject to the same rules of combat as the mercenaries. If we want realism, let's go for realism throughout. If not, we junk both ideas. Gentlemen, the time has come to put up or shut up!"

The men and women of the force were kneeling in the traditional student's position, backs straight, hands open, and palms resting down on their thighs. To all appearances they were at ease, listening to the morning's instruction.

This morning, however, the assembly was different. This morning, the raised instructor's platform held a dozen chairs filled by various corporation dignitaries. More importantly, the subject at hand was not instruction, but rather the formal transfer of command from Kumo to Tidwell.

Tidwell was both nervous and bored. He was bored because he was always bored by long speeches, particularly if he was one of the main subjects under discussion. Yet there was still the nervousness born from the anticipation of directly addressing the troops for the first time as their commander.

The speech was in English, as were all the speeches and instructions. One of the prerequisites for the force was a fluent knowledge of English. That didn't make it any the less boring.

He grimaced and looked about the platform again. The corporation officials were sitting in Tweedledee and Tweedledum similarity, blank-faced and attentive. If nothing else in this stint of duty, he was going to try to learn some of the Oriental inscrutability. Depending on the Oriental, they viewed Westerners with distaste or amusement because of the ease with which their emotions could be read in their expressions and actions. The keynote of the Orient was control, and it started with oneself.

Craning his neck slightly, he snuck a glance at Clancy, standing in an easy parade rest behind him. There was the Western equivalent to the Oriental inscrutability: the military man. Back straight, eyes straight ahead, face expressionless. Behind the mask, Clancy's mind would be as busy and opinionated as ever, but from viewing him, Tidwell did not have the faintest idea what he was thinking. In fact, Tidwell realized, he himself was currently the most animated figure on the platform. Suddenly self-conscious, he started to face front again when his eyes fell on Kumo.

Kumo was resplendent in his ceremonial robes. Protruding from his sash, at an unlikely angle to the Western eyes, was a samurai sword. Tidwell had heard that the sword had been in Kumo's family for over fifteen generations.

He held the weapon in almost a religious awe. Its history was longer than Tidwell's family tree, and it seemed to radiate a bloody aura of its own. Anyone who didn't believe that a weapon absorbed something from the men who used it, from the men it killed, anyone who didn't believe that a weapon couldn't have an identity and personality of its own had never held a weapon with a past.

He suddenly snapped back into focus. The speaker was stepping away from the microphone, looking at him expectantly, as were the others on the platform. Apparently he had missed his introduction and was on.

He rose slowly, using the delay to collect his scattered thoughts, and stepped to the edge of the platform, ignoring the microphone to address the force directly. A brief gust of wind rippled the uniforms of his audience, but aside from that, there was no movement or reaction.

"Traditionally, Japan has produced the finest fighting men in the world. The Samurai, the Ninjas, are all legendary for their prowess in battle."

There was no reaction from the force. Mentally he braced himself. Here we go!

"Also, traditionally, they have had the worst armies!"

The force stiffened without moving. Their faces remained immobile.

"The armies were unsuccessful because they fought as individuals, not as a team. As martial artists, you train the muscles of your body, the limbs of your body, to work together, to support each other. It would be unthinkable to attempt to fight if your arms and legs were allowed to move in uncontrolled random motions."

They were with him, grudgingly, seeing where his logic was going.

"Similarly, an army can only be effective if the men and women in it work in cooperation and coordination with each other."

He had made his point. Time to back off a little.

"Different cultures yield different fighting styles. I am not here to argue which style is better, for each style has its time and place. What must be decided is what style is necessary in which situation. In this case, that decision has been made by the executives of the Zaibatsu. As a result of that decision, I have been hired to train and lead you."

Now the crunch.

"You are about to enter a highly specialized war. To successfully fight in this war, you must abandon any ideas you may have of nationalism or glory. You are mercenaries, as I am a mercenary, in the employ of the Zaibatsu complex. As such, you must learn to fight, to think in a way, which may be completely foreign to what you have learned in the past. To allow time for this training, the date for our entry into the war has been moved back by two months."

"I disagree, Mr. Tidwell."

The words were soft and quiet, but they carried to every corner of the assemblage. In an instant the air was electric. Kumo!

"I disagree with everything you have said."

There it was! The challenge! The gauntlet! Tidwell turned slowly to face his attacker. Kumo's words were polite and soft as a caress, but the act of interrupting, let alone disagreeing, carried as much emotional impact in the Orient as a Western drill sergeant screaming his head off.

"In combat, the action is too fast for conscious thought. If one had to pause and think about coordination of one's limbs, the battle would be lost before a decision was made. It is for this reason that martial artists train, so that each limb develops eyes of its own, a mind of its own. This enables a fighter to strike like lightning when an opening presents itself. Similarly, we train each man to be a self-contained unit, capable of making decisions and acting as the situation presents itself. This means he will never be hamstrung by slow decisions or a break in communications with his superior. As to your 'specialized war,' a trained fighting man should be able to adapt and function in any situation. Your failure to recognize this betrays your ignorance of warfare."

Tidwell shot a glance at the corporate officials. No one moved to interfere or defend. He was on his own. They were going to let the two of them settle it.