Shaka II

11.

It was three days later, as Tchaka held a preliminary meeting with his officers, that a Colonel Mbatha tried to kill him.

Mbatha had the computer cast a Tri-D map of the neighboring twenty light-years, perhaps five feet on a side, top and bottom, into the middle of the room. Tchaka was indicating the routes he wanted them to patrol, where he wanted them to station their ships, when Mbatha pulled out a ceramic dagger, which hadn’t registered on the security devices, and tried to stab him between the shoulder blades.

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…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.