Shaka II (7 page)

    The Battle of Bakuza took three days. The totals were staggering: four Zulus dead, three wounded; eight hundred thousand Bakuzans dead, another ninety thousand wounded.

    Tchaka contacted Peter Zondo, one of our half-brothers, whom he had placed in charge of the “pacification” of Bakuza, and told him to send out parties in all directions from wherever Zondo chose to make the new capital of the planet, and elicit pledges of loyalty from the Bakuzans.

    “And if any should refuse?” asked Peter.

    “Kill them.”

    “We may need them to work the fields once we begin cultivating the planet,” said Peter. “Perhaps we should invite them to-”

    “Kill them,” repeated Tchaka, breaking the communication. He turned to an aide. “Have Captain Nene make sure he does what I have told him to do.”

    “And if not?”

    “Kill him, too,” said Tchaka, as if the question was too foolish to have been asked.

    Jama’s inhabitants were like nothing anyone had ever seen before. I’d say they looked like centaurs, but even that is misleading. They had short stubby legs, elongated bodies, narrow torsos, and heads that seemed composed entirely of wrinkles. They had no eyes, but possessed some unknown sense that functioned every bit as well, because I never saw one trip over or bump into anything. They had a complex social order, but no technology. They greeted us with open arms-well, that’s a misstatement; they didn’t have any arms, not by our definition-and seemed happy to give us all the land we wanted. They had no objection to being impressed into labor camps, and in fact seemed so totally lacking in resentment that many of us felt that, social order or not, they were equally lacking in sentience. After all, ants have a complex social order, and no one claims that they are sentient.

    Mbuyazi was the most traditional of the three populated planets. They were humanoid, they had sophisticated weapons (though nothing to match our firepower; theirs would have been better suited for warfare in the late 19th or early 20th centuries), and they had no intention of sharing their planet with anyone.

    It was a bloodbath. They simply wouldn’t surrender, and every adult and child fought to the death. In something under six weeks we had killed every last one of them, and even some of Tchaka’s most hardened soldiers were sickened by the slaughter.

    But when the dust had cleared, the Zulu Empire was in complete possession of seven worlds, and every day brought immigrants from Earth’s thirty-five million Zulus to each of the worlds. Tchaka chose Cetshwayo as his headquarters world, and within a month a small city had been erected, with the Royal Palace dominating the landscape. Before long he had palatial dwellings on each of the worlds, and small cities were springing up on all of them.

    We had no idea how Earth’s war against the chlorine breathers was coming along, but one day we received a communication, not from Dolores Sanchez but from Alexander Petrovitch, whose signature appeared over the title: “President of United Earth”. He thanked us for adding seven worlds to the fold, and announced that he would soon send his representatives out to examine them.

    Tchaka responded instantly. The seven worlds-he used their new names-were part of the Zulu Empire, and were in no way connected to or under any obligation to Earth. They would pay no taxes, accept no military conscription, and would not give Earth a Most Favored trading status.

    There was no answer for the next three days. We were all starting to get nervous, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

    How could we have known it would be Tchaka’s?

    

    

    Earth announced that it was considering applying economic sanctions to get Tchaka to fall in line. It insisted that the Zulu Empire agree that we were actually a series of United Earth colonies, loyal and beholden to Earth and no one else.

    “What do you think?” I asked as I read the communiquйs.

    “They have always lacked imagination,” replied Tchaka. “Even worse, they lack audacity.”

    He closeted himself with his military leaders and his astrologer for a long afternoon. No one else was permitted in, none of his advisors or aides knew what the conference was about, and he didn’t see fit to tell us.

    We found out soon enough.

    Two days later one of our ships exploded halfway between Cetshwayo and Mthonga. Tchaka claimed it had been attacked by a United Earth ship and demanded reparation.

    Earth denied any involvement in the incident.

    “Then,” announced Tchaka in a broadcast that reached not only the seven planets but Earth itself, “we shall decide upon a fitting reparation and claim it.”

    That night I checked the reports to find out how many of our men had been killed or wounded in the sneak attack. There were eleven names; all had been killed. But something troubled me about two of those names, and I checked further-and found that the two names I recognized, plus the other nine, had actually died in battle against the natives of Mbuyazi.

    Tchaka, who rarely slept more than three or four hours a night, and was often seen wandering the halls and offices of his new headquarters in the dead of night, entered my office just as I made my discovery.

    I looked up at him. “Did we really lose a ship at all?” I asked.

    “Does it matter?” he replied. “We wanted an incident. Now we have one.”

    “Did we want one?”

    “Absolutely.”

    “Why?”

    He walked over to my computer and had it cast a Tri-D representation of the closest fifty light-years.

    “Computer,” he said, “show the worlds of the Zulu Empire in flashing yellow.”

    Seven worlds began flashing a bright yellow.

    “Now show the colonies of United Earth in flashing blue.”

    Some twenty-five worlds began flashing.

    He turned to me. “Why should Earth have so many while we have so few?”

    “Do you actually plan to go to war with Earth?” I asked, startled.

    “The first Tchaka knew better than to go to war with Britain,” he replied.

    “Then I don’t understand.”

    “Britain was thousands of miles away, and was preoccupied with wars in Europe,” he continued, “just as Earth is concentrating its efforts on its war with the chlorine breathers. Britain had no problem with the first Tchaka increasing the size of his territory a hundredfold, as long as he did not make war upon them.”

    “And Earth will let you claim parsecs upon parsecs of space, as long as you do not go to war with them or charge them for passage,” I said. “But what good will it do you?”

    He pointed to the half dozen colony worlds that were farthest from Earth. “Do you really think they will send any part of their fleet out to defend these worlds while they are engaged in a major war much closer to home against the chlorine breathers? What politician or general or admiral will move a single ship thirty light years from home to settle a minor dispute when the enemy they are battling is within five light years-and for all we know, maybe even closer by now?”

    “So we’re just going to land and claim these worlds?” I said.

    “We have right on our side,” he reminded me. “Earth attacked our ship, blew it up and killed the entire crew, and refuses not only to make restitution but even to acknowledge their heinous deed.”

    “It will never work.”

    He stared at me for a very long minute, and I could feel myself shrinking beneath his gaze. “Be grateful that you are my brother, and that you have served me faithfully for so long.”

    He turned and left my office, leaving me to consider what he had said.

    I had longer to consider it than the colonists on the six worlds he claimed as reparation. The bulk of our fleet took off the next morning, and within a month all six worlds had been added-unwillingly, but unquestionably-to the Zulu Empire.

    

    

    Tchaka often made unannounced visits to the various worlds of his growing empire. I still remember the day he came back from Mpande with a new pet. It was about the size of a small dog, though it didn’t resemble any dog ever whelped. It had six legs-the first animal larger than an insect I had ever seen with more than four legs. Its skin was scaly yet shiny, a brilliant red. It head was absolutely circular, the nostrils mere slits, the ears nothing but holes. I wondered what it ate, until Tchaka fed it a small lizard. A tongue that seemed half the length of its body shot out, wrapped around the lizard, literally squeezed the life out of it in just a second or two-you could hear the tiny bones crunch from across the room-and popped it into its mouth. I guess it continued squeezing, turning everything but the bones, which it spat out a moment later, into pulp.

    “I’ve never seen anything like it,” I said. “What is it called?” I asked.

    “I can’t pronounce it, so I shall have to give it a name unique to itself.”

    “What name?”

    “I will have to think about it,” he said.

    “Is it male or female?” I asked.

    “Female.”

    “There are many lovely women’s names,” I said.

    “This animal shall be our national symbol: small, unafraid, adaptable,” said Tchaka. “It needs a special name.”

    By the next morning, he had come up with one.

    “Nandi?” I repeated. “But she was the original Shaka’s mother.”

    “The mother of the Zulu nation,” he agreed. “What better name for our symbol?”

    And that afternoon he designed the flag of the Zulu Empire, which displayed images of both Nandi and a Zulu spear and shield.

    I had known Tchaka for most of his life, and Nandi-this bizarre alien animal-was the only living thing toward which he had ever shown affection, quite possibly because she was the only thing that had ever shown him true affection. He had always been alone, yet now Nandi was at every staff meeting, she accompanied him on every excursion to other worlds, she slept in his room, and when he addressed the Empire she was always at his side. It was as if he had stored up a lifetime of affection, afraid to bestow it upon any human, and now he had found a recipient for it. No misbehavior on her part was ever punished, and every accident was forgiven.

    The same could not be said for his subjects.

    A single critical word against Tchaka was the equivalent of a death sentence. And like his predecessor, he didn’t believe in quietly removing his enemies; he wanted potential enemies to know exactly what they could expect.

    His favorite method of execution was to impale the still-living malefactor in the middle of the city square where everyone could see the punishment being carried out. Once-only once-a friend of an impaled man put him out of his agony with a burst from a laser pistol.

    And two hours later, that Samaritan had replaced his friend on the cruel sharpened stake.

    No one kept count-or at least no one made the count public-but in the first year of the Empire more than a thousand men and women were sentenced to very public, very painful deaths. At the same time, our forces continued to increase in size-some thought enlistment increased primarily because able-bodied citizens felt it would get them farther away from their monarch. Yet no leader ever treated his military better than Tchaka did. The newsdisks and holos were filled with stories of Tchaka, often with Nandi tucked under his arm, bestowing medals and honors upon his troops.

    Earth was still fighting its war with the chlorine breathers, who had brought allies into the battle, and neither side had any time to deal with us. We assimilated two or three worlds a month, and Tchaka declared our sector of space off-limits to all life forms, oxygen and chlorine breathers alike. At first neither side believed him; after we blew two or three of their ships away they got the idea.

    It was after a staff meeting one morning that I found myself alone in his office with Tchaka, while Nandi perched on his desk and stared hypnotically at me as if I was her next meal.

    “I have a question,” he said.

    “The King is allowed to ask a question,” I replied.

    “I gave a speech yesterday.”

    “I know,” I said.

    “I did not see you in attendance.”

    “You gave it in the square, surrounded by impaled corpses,” I said disgustedly.

    “They were past objecting,” he said with an amused smile. “Why do you object?”

    “Do you know the last monarch to impale his enemies?” I said.

    “The first Tchaka.”

    “Before that.”

    “Why don’t you just tell me?” he said.

    “Vlad Dracul,” I replied. “He was known as Vlad the Impaler, and was such a monster that he served as the model for the fictional Dracula.”

    “What is your point?” he asked.

    “Do you want to be compared to Dracula?” I said.

    “Vlad lived a thousand years ago,” said Tchaka, “and people still know of him. Name a single person from that century-commoner or monarch-who lived within a thousand miles of him.”

    And that was the end of the only discussion we ever had about impalement.

    

    

    One of the colony worlds Tchaka had appropriated was the agricultural world of Lincoln. They had put up some minimal resistance, but he beat it back in less than a day, installed Colonel Khuzwayo as the military governor, informed the citizens that they would be paying their taxes to the Zulu Empire rather than United Earth, and paid no more attention to it-until the day a message from Lincoln got through to Earth, complaining about the treatment the world was receiving at the hands of its governor, and beseeching Earth to come to their aid.