Shaka II

20.

For a month after Nandi’s death no one took Tchaka’s edict seriously. Most of them, especially the ones who didn’t live on Cetshwayo or hadn’t seen him with Nandi, felt it was like the behavior of a man who’d lost a beloved dog or cat, a momentary emotional aberration but something he would soon get over. You didn’t stop drinking, or going to bed with your spouse, because a man’s pet had died six or eight star systems away.

After two months, they knew better. Villages and cities were raided in the middle of the night, and offenders killed on the spot, or else dragged off to be impaled. Restaurants that tried to sell beer or wine under the table were burned to the ground, their owners killed.

Mthonga’s climate was ideal for growing everything, including marijuana and poppies. Initially Tchaka ordered his army to destroy the offending fields. When more sprang up, he did to that world what he had done to Lincoln—he had it blown apart.

The people began walking around hunched over, staring into shadows, jumping at the slightest sounds. Everyone eyed their neighbors suspiciously. Tchaka received an average of three petitions a week to terminate the mourning period. He adamantly refused.

“I have not enjoyed my life since Nandi died,” he said to me one morning after tearing up yet another petition. “Why should they?”

The answer was obvious, but quite beyond his ability to see.

Four months passed, then five, then six—and now a new horror arose, for women who had become pregnant since Nandi’s death were showing the signs of it, and they and their husbands were killed on the spot. Soon no pregnant woman would leave her house. The soldiers began following lone male shoppers home, and when they found a woman with child, she and her mate would be killed instantly or sometimes impaled side by side.

Worlds began to resemble death camps. No one looked right or left, no one laughed, no one spoke. Even if Tchaka was a dozen worlds away, even if he had never set foot on a particular planet, that didn’t mean his army, his spies, and his informers weren’t watching everyone.

The only hope of the citizenry was that word of what was happening would reach Earth, though I don’t know what they thought Earth could do about it. Not only was Earth still spread thin throughout the Spiral Arm, engaged in half a dozen conflicts with alien races, but it was clear to those of us who knew him best that Tchaka would destroy an entire world before he would allow it to resist his rule. After all, he had done it twice already.

One of our half-sisters, Miriam Zuma, became pregnant. Tchaka strangled her with his own hands. A brother, Jacob Nzama, tried to steal a ship and flee from Cetshwayo; Tchaka killed him too.

“There are only four of his half-brothers and half-sisters left, brother,” said Peter Zondo when he accosted me outside the Royal Palace. “He means to kill us all. The man is in love with Death.”

“The man is not in love with anyone or anything,” I replied. “The only thing he ever cared for is dead.”

“Fifty thousand of us are dead too,” said Peter bitterly.

“They broke his rules.”

“They have no contract with him,” said Peter. “They didn’t vote for him. They did not ask for their worlds to be assimilated into this hideous Zulu Empire.”

“The mourning period is half over,” I said.

“So he will only destroy one more planet and kill fifty thousand more men and women?” snapped Peter. “That’s the good news, is it?”

I had no answer.

“And what of next year?” continued Peter. “If he gets an upset stomach, will the consumption of meat be forbidden for a year? If he has a cavity, will every citizen’s teeth be pulled?”

“You’re being nonsensical,” I said.

“Am I, John?” he replied. “Look around you, and tell me anything anyone could say that would be more nonsensical than this.” He looked around to make sure we were still alone, then lowered his voice. “Tonight,” he whispered. I merely stared at him. “I will do it tonight. We can wait no longer.”

“Will you have help?”

He shook his head. “No. I’ll be alone—and if you tell him you’re a dead man.” He made a face. “Hell, if I don’t do it, we’re all dead men anyway.” He looked around once more—a habit most of us had picked up since Nandi’s death—and then turned back to me. “Aren’t you going to wish me luck?”

“I wish you life,” I said.

But I knew it was a futile wish.