by Mike Resnick
“I cannot, of course, force these nations to do the right thing, but I will lend my support to those who oppose their policies.”
He stared unblinking at the camera. “Next, I want to address the question of hereditary royalty. I should begin by saying that I am not king because my father was. There is no royal blood in my veins. Indeed, there is no royal blood in the whole of South Africa. I became king by the will of my people, and should I produce a son, he will have no more claim on that title than any other South African. We believe that a throne must be earned, not given.”
A pause, and then a frown. “In keeping with that philosophy, I urge the monarchs of England, the Netherlands, Jordan, Syria,”-he named another dozen countries-“all monarchs solely by the accident of birth, to relinquish their thrones forthwith.”
I glanced at the screen showing the street again. The people were cheering so hard that I was surprised we couldn’t feel the vibrations here in the building.
“I hope that by explaining my positions I have eliminated any misunderstandings,” he concluded. “There have been many lies told about me, and many lies of a different sort told about the people who rule you. Now I have spoken, and I leave it to you, the people of the world, to determine the truth of things.”
The director indicated that the transmission was over, and Tchaka stood up and thanked all the technicians for their efforts. They filed out of the office, taking their equipment with them, and he sent for another iced tea.
“Those lights are hot,” he said, mopping the sweat from his forehead.
“You were brilliant tonight,” said an aide. “Now the rest of the world will leave us alone.”
“Do you really think so?” asked Tchaka.
“Of course.”
“You’re fired.” The aide looked stunned. “There are enough fools abroad in the land,” continued Tchaka. “I do not need any on my staff.” He turned to me. “What will the world do, my brother?”
“They will say that you are an evil twister of words, a madman with designs on the entire continent, a villain not to be trusted.” Suddenly I could not repress a smile. “But I think they will not discuss royalty again.”
He smiled back at me. “They will say all of that,” he agreed. “And they will be wrong.”
“That you are not a villain or that you are not a madman?” I asked.
“That I have designs on the African continent,” he replied.
“Don’t you?”
He smiled. It was an almost terrifying smile. “If you were hungry and you found yourself in an orchard, would you settle for only one piece of fruit off a tree?”
“The world?” asked an advisor, surprised by my brother’s audacity.
Tchaka shook his head. “You still do not understand.”
The man looked at him with a blank expression.
Tchaka walked to a window and pulled back the curtain. “The world is just one tree.” He waved his hand at the heavens. “I shall have an orchard.”
9.
The historical Shaka had a witch doctor whose counsel he trusted. My brother had an astrologer. His name was William James Hlatshwayo, and he had earned his Master of Science degree from the University of California. I preferred to think of it as a Master of Pseudoscience degree, but Tchaka conferred with him daily and waited patiently, not while he rolled the bones, but rather while he read the stars and cast his horoscopes.
I don’t know where my brother found him, or when. All I know is that one day he showed up, and from that day forth he had more influence on Tchaka than any other man alive.
I argued against him. I pointed out that Tchaka had won the Presidency without an umthagkathi-a word I uttered with contempt, for it is the Zulu word for witch doctor-and had annexed three countries without him, and had become king without him, so why listen to him now?
“Because up to this point, my brother,” Tchaka answered me, “I have been only a caterpillar. A successful one, to be sure, but a caterpillar. Soon, though, I shall break out of my chrysalis and spread my wings. There will be no limit to the heights to which I can soar.”
“But-” I began, but he held up a hand for silence.
“Even the butterfly has predators, and the higher he flies, the less they are known to him. If William can warn me of some enemies of which I am not aware, then I would be a fool not to make use of him.”
“And if he is a fraud?”
“Then I am in no greater danger than I was before.”
“You would be better off with a true umthagkathi,” I said, “for this man’s science is no science at all.”
“You know nothing about it,” said Tchaka placidly.
“I know this,” I said. “The science of astrology is based on the calendar, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“And it is three thousand years old?”
“Older,” said Tchaka.
“There you have it,” I said.
“There I have what?” he asked irritably.
“Astrology is based on the calendar, and it uses the calendar, is that correct?”
“You know that.”
“Then explain this,” I said triumphantly. “The science was created more than three thousand years ago, yet Julius Caesar and Augustus Caesar lived less than twenty-five hundred years ago. The months of July and August are named for them, and did not exist when astrology was created, so how true a science can it be?”
“Doubtless the names were substituted for other names,” he replied. “That has nothing to do with science, only with nomenclature.”
“Astrology has nothing to do with science,” I persisted. “If you let yourself be guided by him long enough, eventually your umthagkathi will get us all killed.”
“I am Tchaka,” he said, as if the words were identical to “I cannot die.”
“Fine,” I said. “You are immortal. Your army is not, and your government is not. What good is your immortality if all around you have died because some arrant fraud tells you to do something because the moon is here or Mars is there?”
He was silent for a long moment, and finally he spoke. “I have listened patiently to you, my brother. I have heard your words and considered them.” His expression hardened. “And I have rejected them. We will not speak of this again, and you will never call him an umthagkathi in my presence. Is that understood?”
I looked into his eyes, which were the doorway to his soul, and as usual there was no softness, no give whatsoever.
“It is understood,” I replied.
“Good,” he said. “Because great deeds lie ahead of us. Great deeds.” He paused. “Tomorrow I will meet with a representative from America.”
“A new ambassador?” I suggested. It was common knowledge that most of the countries of the world had withdrawn their ambassadors and closed their embassies after Tchaka’s speech, but that had been a few months earlier and it was time for them to rethink their positions, as Western governments always did.
“No, a businessman,” said Tchaka.
“Well, at least America has lifted the ban on its citizens visiting us.”
“No, it hasn’t,” said Tchaka in amused tones. “But I have something they want, so they are assiduously looking the other way, and will someday claim that they had no knowledge of this visit or its outcome.”
“And what is the nature of this visit?” I asked.
“Two weeks ago I sold a fifty-year lease on the two largest diamond pipes in Botswana to the Chinese,” he began. “I then leased all the other diamond concessions to England and Brazil.”
“You sold the entire wealth of a nation?” I said, startled. “Why?”
“Leased, not sold,” he corrected me. “And the reason I did is because I needed the money for tomorrow’s dealings with our American visitor.”
“Whatever he’s selling, it must be very expensive, if it’s worth a half-century supply of diamonds from the most diamond-rich country in the world,” I said.
“Oh, it
is,” he replied with a smile. “Very expensive. Plundering Botswana’s riches for only a quarter or a third of a century would not have been sufficient.”
I just stared at him, wondering what could possibly cost as much as he seemed willing to pay.
“Well,” he said, clearly enjoying my confusion, “aren’t you going to ask?”
“What are you buying from the American?” I said.
He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a shining model of the latest starfaring military ship, much advanced over the type he’d served on less than a decade ago.
“You’ve bought a starship?” I asked incredulously.
He chuckled in amusement. “For plundering an entire country for half a century? I am a better bargainer than that, my brother.” He paused. “The American is here today, but Hlatshwayo tells me the stars are not yet in the proper alignment. Tomorrow I will meet with him and finalize the purchase of an entire fleet of starships,” he concluded proudly.
“And what of Botswana?” I asked.
“It has been here for a thousand centuries or more,” he replied. “It has lived its life. It is the past.” He pointed a forefinger toward the ceiling, and beyond that, the sky. “The future is out there - a million worlds for the taking.”
“And if someone objects to your just going out and taking them?” I asked.
“That is their choice,” he said with no show of concern. “Mine has already been made.”
At that instant I didn’t know who I felt sorrier for-Botswana or the galaxy.
10.
As Tchaka was building his fleet, two of our colonies-one on Delta Pavonis, one on Cygni 2-came under attack. For weeks we didn’t know who was responsible for it. Then our experts discovered that they were a previously-unknown race from DX Cancri.
Earth mobilized, and soon assembled a fleet of some three thousand ships under the leadership of the brilliant American commander, Dolores Sanchez-and Tchaka announced that South Africa would join the fleet with an independent force of our own.
Word came back quickly. The military thanked Tchaka for his offer, but all ships would be under the command of Admiral Sanchez.
Tchaka’s response was direct and to the point:
I take orders from no one. Do you want us to fight your enemy or don’t you?
From Planetary Command:
These are your enemies too.
And from Tchaka:
They have not harmed South Africa or any of its possessions. We are an independent nation, beholden to no one, and we choose our own enemies. If you want our help, you know our terms.
There was no official reply.
“They want us,” said Tchaka. “They just don’t want to admit it.”
“How can you be so sure?” I asked.
“Because if they didn’t need us, they would reject my offer without hesitation.” He smiled. “It is good to know our enemy’s weaknesses.”
“Our enemy is out there,” I said, pointing to the stars.
He sighed and shook his head sadly. “You are so slow to learn, my brother.”
“Learn what?”
“They are all our enemies,” he replied.
“How can you say that?” I said.
“They are not Zulus,” he answered, as if that explained it all.
Over the next month we began testing our new ships and recruiting crews for them. We received no official communication from Earth’s united military command, but word reached us through unofficial channels that when we were ready, they would prefer us to concentrate on Delta Pavonis.
“Of course they would,” said Tchaka with a sardonic smile.
“Why do you say it like that?” asked an aide.
“It’s almost twice as far from Earth as Cygni 2,” he replied. “It will require twice as much fuel, if we run into trouble it will take reinforcements twice as long to come to our aid, and for all we know the main body of the enemy fleet is there. When they evaluate their forces, you may be sure that we are the most expendable.”
“So do we accommodate the military, or do we go to Cygni-2?” asked another aide.
“In either location there will be hundreds, perhaps thousands, of ships from Earth. I have no intention of being a cog in their war machine.” He paused. “Every army and navy must have a supply line. We’ll patrol the least likely route between DX Cancri and Delta Pavonis.”
“The least likely?” asked the aide, frowning in puzzlement.
“If I know the enemy requires supplies, don’t you think Commander Sanchez knows it too, and will patrol all the likely shipping lanes between the planets?”
“If we choose the wrong route, won’t she think we are trying to avoid the battle?”
Tchaka stared at him until he began shifting his weight nervously. “If even you now know that she will patrol the likeliest routes, surely the enemy knows it-and knowing it, will choose the least likely routes, where we will be waiting for them.” He paused. “The government will dispense with your services as of this minute. I will not have anyone demonstrably stupid offering me advice.”
“But-”
“You heard me.”
The aide turned and left.
“I hope there are no more like him,” Tchaka announced to the room. “I think I may kill the next one.”
Nobody laughed.
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 h
alf-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.
