Shaka II
His name was Robert ole Buthelezi, and there didn't seem to be anything special about him as a small child. Quite the contrary, in fact. It took him four years to speak, eight to read. A lonely child whose father ignored him and whose mother worked long hours and turned her children over to the care of various relatives, he became totally self-sufficient at an early age. He was a clumsy youngster, and sometimes when he ran his knees would give out and he'd go sprawling. He had no interest in school, and his grades reflected that.
On the whole he was an unimpressive child, with nothing much to recommend him. I say 'nothing much', because there were a few things that stand out in my memory.
When he would fall, or otherwise hurt himself, he never cried or asked for help. Not once.
When he fell sick-and he was sicker than most children-he never complained about the treatment, and some of those treatments would have had other children screaming in fear or pain or both.
He made terrible blunders in his classrooms. But he never made the same one twice. He didn't act like an earnest young man who was compelled to learn, but he retained everything he saw and heard. Everything.
He was without compassion. The suffering of a neighbor's pet, or a relative in a hospital, left him cold. But if he had no compassion for others, he had none for himself, either; self-pity was simply not in his lexicon. It wasn't that he was stoic, but rather that he simply ignored discomfort and even pain. One got the distinct impression that pain, even his own, simply didn't interest him.
I remember the day-he had just entered his teens-that three older boys who didn't like his arrogant attitude lay in wait and pounced on him. He fought back as best he could, but they left him lying in the street, barely conscious, blood pouring from a dozen wounds. He finally got shakily to his feet, refused all medical aid, and decided that he had to become stronger. Beginning the next morning, long before he was healed, he began running five miles before breakfast. His feet bled, and he passed out from exhaustion, but when he was revived he continued on his journey until the five miles were completed. He repeated the procedure every morning, and one day we began to notice that he was covering the ground at a rapid pace without ever taking a deep breath.
He began swimming in the ocean, unmindful of sharks, and built his strength and stamina through force of will, much as he had with his running. He never asked for company, but if anyone wanted to run or swim with him he never objected, though he would soon leave them far behind.
After he had spent half a year building up his body, he called out the three older boys who had beaten him up. I didn't see the fight, but I know that all three boys were rushed to the intensive care unit after it was over.
He vanished before the authorities could find him, and since we didn't hear from him for the next ten years most people assumed he was dead. I was one of the ones who didn't. There was something about him, even as a boy, some aura that said whatever else he might become, he would never be a victim.
Soon people forgot all about him, and the cycles of life continued. Day followed night, summer followed spring, the long rains followed the parched dry weather, and all was as it should be.
I don't know how he knew it-there was no reflection in the galactic map, and Mbatha was absolutely silent-but Tchaka turned just as the colonel's hand was coming down. His own hand shot out, grabbed Mbatha by the wrist, and the two of them stood, motionless, for a few seconds. Then there was a loud cracking sound, Mbatha screamed, and the knife fell to the floor.
Tchaka placed his hands around Mbatha's throat, and Mbatha tried to pull his hands apart. Again, the two were motionless, this time for almost a full minute. Mbatha's eyes began bulging, and his attempts to free himself grew first more frantic, then progressively weaker. Tchaka stood still as a statue, no expression at all on his face, his fingers turning pale from the pressure he put on them. Then Mbatha went limp, and Tchaka let him fall to the floor.
He turned to another officer. "Shoot him," he said.
The man stared at him, startled, but didn't pull his laser pistol.
"He may not be dead yet," said Tchaka. "Am I expected to show him mercy so that he can try to kill me again?"
The officer withdrew his pistol, pointed it at Mbatha, but did not fire. "I think he's dead, sir. I see no sign of breathing."
Tchaka walked over, took the pistol from him, and fired a blast of solid light into the back of Mbatha's head.
"Now he is dead," announced Tchaka. He turned the pistol onto its owner, aimed it between his eyes, and fired again.
There was a stunned silence among the other officers.
"He would not obey me with an incapacitated enemy," said Tchaka coldly. "How could I-or you-trust him to do his duty against any enemy that was preparing to engage him in battle?" Another pause. "We will continue our briefing tomorrow."
They filed out, and he signaled me to remain behind.
"That was the second," he said when we were alone in the room.
"There was another?" I said, surprised.
"Two days ago." He seemed unconcerned. "There will be more."
"We must double-no, triple-the guard around you," I said.
He shook his head. "I am more capable of protecting myself than any half-dozen men I could assign to the task. I just want you to know that it has happened, and it will happen again."
I stared at him curiously, unable to see where this was leading.
"How many of our siblings are currently in Pretoria?" he asked.
It was not the question I was expecting. "I don't know," I said. "Maybe one, maybe two."
"Can you find the others?"
"I don't know," I replied honestly. "Some of them may not wish to be found. What do you want of them?"
"Mbatha was a Shona. The man who tried to kill me two days ago was a Swazi. I must surround myself with officers and advisors whose loyalty is unquestioned. From this day forth, every advisor, every aide, every senior officer, must be Zulus. And my siblings will be favored above all others."
"But you don't even know them!" I exclaimed, surprised. "You haven't seen most of them since we were children."
"I know that," he said calmly.
"They may not agree with your policies," I continued. "They may dislike you personally."
"I know that too."
"Then why-"
"I expected more of you, my brother," he said. "It matters nothing to me that they may hate or fear me. Before I am done, most people will either hate me or fear me, or both. But more to the point, my enemies will hate and fear those who serve me, and especially those who carry my blood in their veins. My siblings may not like me, but they will like my protection. They do not need it where they are, but once they are by my side, serving me, they will be targets, just as I am-and I will be the only thing keeping them alive. Therefore, they will serve me loyally, and do everything they can to keep me safe and in power."
It was selfish, it was savage, it was cruel &hellip; but it made sense, and I knew I would not be able to talk him out of it.
"And if some of them do not want to come?" I asked at last.
"You will explain their options, and they will come."
"Their options?"
"If they will not serve me, I have no reason to keep them alive," he replied.
And it was just as he said. Within two weeks, his entire staff were Zulus, and his closest advisors - always excepting his astrologer Hlatshwayo - were his half-brothers and half-sisters.
I saw Peter Zondo's corpse the next morning. It still clutched a laser pistol in its hand, but the hand had been literally squeezed to a pulp by a larger, far stronger hand. You would have had to cut the formless flesh away with a knife to free the pistol.
There were very few marks of violence on the body. My guess was that he'd been killed by a blade or a bullet through the back of his shirt. Clearly he'd never gotten a shot off. As I reconstruct it, Tchaka must have known he was coming, must have followed his approach through the various security devices. Probably he inserted infra-red lenses in his eyes, turned off the lights, kept the approach to his room very bright, and simply waited for Peter to open the door and enter. He'd have grabbed Peter's hand, ground it to a shapeless blob with his own massive hand, then killed him at his leisure. Of course, I could be totally wrong. It is possible that Peter had never gotten near Tchaka's private quarters and the security force had killed him &hellip; but I wouldn't bet on it.
I was summoned to Tchaka's office that afternoon.
"Did you see our half-brother?" he asked.
"It's hard to miss him," I said disgustedly. "He's very prominently displayed."
"He was a fool."
"Probably," I agreed.
He stared at me. "You have been with me the longest, John. I know you bear me no love, but you have always known where your best interest lies."
I made no answer, because I couldn't see what he was leading up to.
"And because you know where your best interest lies," he continued, "and because our fates are interlinked, you are the one man I can trust."
I simply looked at him, waiting for whatever came next.
"I have a confession to make, John."
"Oh?" I said.
Most people seem uncomfortable when they make a confession. Tchaka was not most people.
"I indulged in a momentary weakness some months ago," he began.
"A momentary weakness?" I repeated, frowning.
He nodded his head. "And as a result, there is a girl in a room down the corridor, a girl no one but myself has seen for ten weeks now, who is visibly pregnant."
I stared at him, but said nothing.
"Clearly I cannot execute myself," he continued. "The Empire must have an emperor, and no one else is remotely fit for the position. But given that I have ordered the death of every other pregnant woman, I cannot have her seen in her condition."
"You've hidden her pretty well so far," I said.
"She will have the baby two months before the year is up-and that I cannot keep a secret, or at least I cannot be sure of keeping it a secret."
"You're going to kill her," I said dully.
"No, John," he replied. "You're going to kill her."
"I've never killed anybody," I protested.
"Then it's time you learned," said Tchaka. "I have no compunction about killing her. But I have never sired a child, and probably will never sire another. I would prefer that you kill it." He shot me a self-deprecating smile. "You see, John? I am capable of human emotions after all."
"Let her live," I said. "This isn't her fault."
"She dies," he said firmly, opening a drawer of his desk and withdrawing a small pistol.
"Has she any family?" I asked as he handed me the gun.