Nakja-Mur raised his bearded chin from his fingertips. "Could we defeat the Grik in such a manner?" he asked.
Matt hesitated. "No. We could prevent defeat for a time, but we couldn't win. While we sat behind our walls and fought them and killed them, and bled them white, we'd only grow weaker, while they would send more Grik. Just as it's written in your Scrolls. Eventually, they'd wear us down. The only way to win is to attack!"
There were incredulous cries. "Attack them? Attack where? We do not even know where they come from!" shouted the black-furred High Chief.
Others yelled questions and comments as welclass="underline" "We could harry their ships, but will they fight if we bring a large enough force to defeat them?" cried one. "We certainly can't catch them if they run!" "What will happen to Baalkpan if we leave it undefended?!" another asked. "He was talking about mass. Mass where?" "What's `mass'?"
Matt listened to the uproar for a few moments longer. Finally, he spoke loudly a single word.
"Ignorance!"
Keje repeated it in the same tone. The tumult abruptly stopped and all eyes turned to the captain of Walker.
"Ignorance," he said again. "I'm getting pretty tired of it myself. Let's see if we can enlighten ourselves."
Even Keje blinked surprise. "How do we do that, my Brother?"
"We mass."
Keje was confused. "But you just said . . . they are spread out, they are faster—we can't mass here and wait for them all to find us, and we certainly cannot mass together and chase them down!"
"No, but we can mass defensively and let a few come to us. I don't want all of them until we know how many they are. And we won't do it here."
"I thought you said we should attack," said Nakja-Mur.
"Think of it as a `defensive' attack. It won't be easy and it sure as hell won't be safe, but if it works, we ought to learn a lot about our enemy at long last."
"My people will have nothing to do with such madness!" huffed Fristar's High Chief.
Nakja-Mur stood, a little shakily, Matt thought. "You may leave whenever you wish, then," he said. "My people don't have that choice." He looked at Matt. "My people . . . I . . . have never known war, but I will support this plan of yours whatever it might be. I do not want the Grik coming here." He smiled sadly. "You may have all the paint or whatever else you want if you can prevent that."
"Thank you, my lord," Matt replied, glancing around the hall. "But what we both need most right now are more warriors. `Mass' means numbers."
Sergeant Pete Alden, United States Marine Corps, stared at the "mass" of trainees flailing at one another with clumsy enthusiasm and padded-point practice spears. Some were really trying, and the "Marines" did their best to instruct them. But to most of the newer recruits, it was still mostly a game. He cursed. Before now, the training had gone relatively well with the smaller groups he'd been dealing with. He'd applied a familiar regimen even if the exercises were different from his own experience. The rush of recruits since the Grik ship sailed right into Baalkpan Bay changed all that.
His carefully chosen, elite Marines were broken up to form a cadre of NCOs as the militia (now "Guard") swelled dramatically. Even warriors from some of the ships started to attend the drills. That was all well and good, but Parris Island had never seen a less likely draft, and he (who'd never been a drill instructor) now faced the impossible task of turning this collection of instinctively individualistic merchants, shopkeepers, fishers, and sailors into an army. And he had just a few weeks to do it.
Right now, if he reconstituted his Marines, he could field two regiments of fairly well-trained, disciplined troops—and that's what he'd likely do for the captain's upcoming expedition. If they were successful, he would resume the training after they returned as veteran NCOs. Not just bright trainees who'd grasped the theory but couldn't yet teach from experience.
The warriors who came to train were accustomed to working together, but otherwise they were a pain in the neck. As "warriors" already, they had their own way of doing things. They understood that discipline was required in order to fight together—which the land folk didn't—but the close-order drill and concerted complexity of the captain's new/ancient tactics were too much trouble. Alden was having some trouble with them himself. He was a grunt, a fighting Marine, and he fully understood the concept of mass. But in his Marine Corps, standing shoulder to shoulder and hacking at enemies close enough to smell their breath was crazy. He had no problem with a little hand-to-hand; he was even pretty good at it.
Like many Marines, he was an artist with a bayonet—when it was attached to his holy Springfield. The dogma pounded into him as a recruit was one of accurate, long-distance riflery, backed by a bayonet and the will to use it. Standing toe to toe and hacking away was for last-ditch defense or final assault. Not for the whole damn fight.
There weren't enough Springfields, however. Hell, there were barely enough for Walker's crew. Some of the better Lemurian NCOs had Krags, but his army would fight with swords and spears. For those to work, you had to be right in your enemy's face. Only shield walls and deep, disciplined ranks might give them an edge over the Grik. The captain said the shield wall and discipline set the Romans apart from the barbarians.
Alden understood, but it still struck his subconscious mind as nuts. He'd have to get a feel for the new tactics too.
No Springfields, but they did have archers. In fact, every soldier was an archer of sorts. The front-rank spearmen carried longbows over their shoulders to use until the enemy came to grips—which wouldn't take long on land, considering the close confines and thick vegetation hereabouts. The problem was it took a long time to get really good with a longbow. He'd just as soon have everyone stick with the crossbows they were used to, even if they weren't as fast and didn't shoot as far. It didn't take an expert to use one of those. But his front rank couldn't wield a sword or spear while swinging a heavy crossbow, so if he wanted standoff capability, longbows it had to be. Crossbows could still be employed by females or anyone too small or weak for the shield wall. Lemurian females weren't necessarily weak, but they had the same . . . encumbrances that sometimes made longbows difficult for their human counterparts. Many of Alden's best spearmen were poor archers, but he made them practice every day. Most were improving.
Right now, all were practicing their melee skills, learning to fight one-on-one in case the wall should ever break. That was also the type of fighting they expected for the upcoming operation. It was a fiasco. The parade ground looked like someone had kicked an anthill. A steady trickle of injured recruits walked or limped over to sit in the shade and be treated at Karen Theimer's "aid station." Some were really hurt, but most were goofing off.
Chack, Risa, and Lieutenant Shinya trotted up to join him. Risa was the training liaison for Big Sal, so she had a reason to be there, but Chack hadn't let her out of his sight since the "incident" on the pier. Alden couldn't believe she'd helped Silva with the scam. If it was a scam. Making Silva chew the leaves and get the screamers was a hoot, but the big gunner's mate's idea of "getting even" was . . . disproportionate. Chack needed a crash course in American joke rules. The question was, did Silva's jokes have rules? Were they "even"? Pete doubted it. He shook out one of the cigarettes he always seemed to have and lit up.