“Neither side won, which is exactly what the Indu general wanted. After a month, when both forces had dwindled so as not to pose a threat to the Indu combined, the general called an end to the tournament, and offered the remaining people sanctuary if they swore allegiance to him. More importantly, they had to agree to teach the Indu their combat styles.”

“That’s awful,” I said.

“Yes,” Hosea agreed. “The smaller armies had been fighting for alliance, not allegiance. The general’s plan was to give the Mandarin and Pacific-Asian people working-class status in the Indu nation. The nation he believed would rule the world.” Hosea laughed.

“What’s funny about that?” I asked.

“Well, it’s ironic, isn’t it, how it all played out? On the other side of the War, the English didn’t care what the Indu general intended. To them, the Indu, Mandarin and Pacific-Asian armies were essentially the same: not white. They called the new force the Clayskin army, and the name stuck.”

I suddenly understood. “So the general brought about the end of the Mandarin and Pacific-Asian armies, but his final efforts to turn the tide of the War precipitated the fall of his own people too,” I said.

“Exactly, and even more ironic is the fact that the Clayskin became the middle-class people of America under the Niagara Compromise. The general got a taste of what he’d planned for his enemies.”

“No more than he deserved,” I said.

“The point is, masters of any style are extremely rare. It’s against the Clayskin law to teach the styles to the other two races. And it’s even fallen out of practice among the Clayskin. In the old world, they called it an art and its primary use was discipline and self-defense. It was during the chaos of the Last War that the old-world Art of Mars was manipulated for aggression. After the War ended, it wasn’t necessary for survival. So they got lax with it, stopped teaching it as religiously as they had before. My father is half Clayskin, half English. He has Clayskin blood from the both the Pacific-Asian and the Indu line. He’s one of the few masters left alive.”

I nodded, recognizing his Clayskin blood in the almond shape of his eyes. By breaking the law, the Director had produced a quintessential American citizen in Hosea Khan. He had Kongo, Clayskin, and English blood. The mix was mesmerizing. I looked away. “This combat style,” I said, feeling out of breath. “It’s why you can move so fast?”

Hosea nodded. “It’s part of the training. The art of fighting without weapons. Victory rests on the warrior’s speed and wisdom, the strength of his resilience.”

“Or hers,” I whispered. I sent a long look toward his weapon. A thought occurred to me. “You call it fighting without weapons, but you have a weapon,” I said.