MARVEL's Black Panther--The Junior Novel

by Jim McCann

  “You were a good man,” T’Challa replied.

  T’Chaka nodded. “And I had many struggles because of it. But follow your heart. It is a good one. You will know what is best for your nation deep down, and those who help guide you will see it.”

  Looking up at the stars winking down on him from the depths of the inky night, T’Chaka let out a long sigh. He turned his attention back to his son. “Our time draws to an end, my son. Go forth and lead, knowing my spirit is always one with yours. Find strength in the power of the Black Panther. And always hold those you love near to you, for they will forever be looking out for your best needs. As will I.”

  T’Chaka embraced his son, and a moment later T’Challa felt the world around him begin to spin once more, whirling and blurring until there was only blackness.

  When his eyes snapped open again, T’Challa was once more in the Hall of Kings. He turned his gaze to Zuri.

  “Send me back. I have more questions,” T’Challa begged the shaman.

  Zuri shook his head. “You will always have questions. That is what makes a good king.”

  T’Challa sat up. “I told my father I didn’t think I was ready to be king. I am still unsure.”

  “What is it that troubles you most?” Zuri asked.

  “That I failed in keeping my father alive. I told him there was something wrong at the United Nations gathering. I felt it, but I did not act upon it.” T’Challa dropped his head at the memory. “Perhaps M’Baku was right. If I couldn’t protect my father, my king, then who am I to rule?”

  Zuri placed a hand gently on T’Challa’s chin and lifted it. “Pay no heed to that mountain dweller. He knows nothing of what he spoke. In your heart you know you did what was best. You also know there was nothing you could have said or done to stop your father from speaking that day. It was an important decision, and his to make alone. The consequences do not fall on your shoulders. Shake off that burden and learn to forgive yourself.”

  “You make that sound so easy,” T’Challa said quietly.

  “Always keep these words in mind, my king: The world is too unpredictable to know for certain what is to come next. You can only prepare best in anticipation. No one knows what the future holds or where the next threat will come from, not even a king.”

  T’Challa looked up and saw his father’s royal casket nearby. He took in Zuri’s words and those his father’s spirit had spoken on the Ancestral Plane. Getting to his feet, T’Challa walked to his father’s casket, kissed it, and walked out of the hall as Wakanda’s newest king.

  LONDON, UNITED KINGDOM

  It was raining in London.

  As usual, the Museum of Great Britain’s Director Manning thought with a sigh as she waited in the museum cafeteria line for her morning tea. When it was her turn to order, she approached the counter and noticed a new face ready to serve her.

  “Good morning.” She looked at the barista, who she didn’t recognize. “First day on the job?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the barista answered. She was American, Director Manning noted.

  “Welcome. I’ll have a tea, black, milk and sugar please.” As the barista worked on her order, Director Manning looked around. The museum was already bustling with activity. Tourists, regular patrons, and a group of schoolchildren on a field trip all milled about the entryway and made their way from one exhibit hall to another. It would be a busy day, she thought.

  “Here you are, ma’am.” The barista’s voice broke into her reverie.

  The director fetched the cup from the young woman’s hand and took a sip. “Wonderful, thank you.” She smiled at the new barista. “Welcome to the museum.”

  She turned away and took another sip as she began to make her way to her office.

  “Director,” a voice called out from her left. It belonged to an approaching security guard.

  “Yes?” she answered.

  “There is a gent in the West African Wing requesting to meet with you,” he said.

  Director Manning furrowed her brow. Museumgoers were not usually predisposed to requesting the director’s presence to offer feedback on specific exhibits. “What seems to be the problem?” she asked.

  The guard hesitated, “No problem, ma’am—it’s just, he’s looking at the items like he’s in a bloody shopping mall or something.”

  “Very well, Edmund, thank you. I’ll see myself there.” The director walked toward the West African Wing, the sound of her high heels clicking on the parquet floor.

  As she entered the wing, she saw a tall, dark-skinned man dressed in very fashionable and very expensive-looking street wear in the back corner of the exhibit. He wore a large gold chain around his neck and cut an imposing figure. As the security guard had noted, he was observing the artifacts closely, as though he were picking out a gift.

  “Hello there. I am Director Manning. You wished to see me?” She extended her hand to shake his. The man ignored it. Instead, he pointed at an African tribal mask hanging on the wall.

  “Tell me about this one. What do you know?” the man asked abruptly.

  She examined the mask, taken aback by his curtness. “A ninth-century shaman tribal mask from the Benin region. We believe it was used in burial rituals.”

  “And this?” He pointed to an ax, crumbled and dull with age, but well-preserved.

  “A building ax from the eleventh century, Tangier region. Used for chopping wood to help in making roofs for huts,” the director answered.

  The man stepped in front of what appeared to be a mining tool and paused. He looked at the item with particular interest. If the director didn’t know better, she would have sworn he looked like a child at his birthday party and everything behind the glass was his celebratory bounty.

  Without prompting, she began to describe the item. “Seventh century, a mining hammer, also from Benin, belonging to the Fula Tribe, it was—”

  “Nah,” the man cut her off.

  “I beg your pardon?” The director’s tone was cold. She was getting annoyed.

  The man finally extended his hand. She tentatively shook it, noting his strong grip. “Erik Killmonger,” the man introduced himself at last. “You know your stuff, I gotta hand it to ya. But this?” He pointed to the hammer. “Yeah, it was taken by British soldiers in Benin, but it’s not from there, and it’s definitely not seventh century.”

  He turned back to face her and smiled in a way that made the director quite uncomfortable. “That hammer is from Wakanda, over two thousand years old, and made of pure vibranium. Don’t worry if you haven’t heard of that place or don’t have any other items from the region; they’re pretty famous for being possessive.”

  “I—I . . .” the director stammered as Killmonger’s face grew dark.

  “I’mma tell you what. I’ll just go ahead and take it off your hands. I think you’ve had it long enough,” he said, a menacing grin slowly breaking out over his features.

  Before she could protest, Director Manning felt a sharp pain in her stomach. Grabbing her midsection, she suddenly collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

  Killmonger laughed. “You Brits will trust anything as long as it tastes like tea.” Looking around, he called out to the few visitors farther down the wing. “Yo, we need a medic over here!”

  Within seconds two EMTs rushed in with a stretcher and asked everyone to calmly evacuate the exhibit. Museum patrons cautiously backed out as the EMTs roped off the area. They then turned their attention to the fallen director.

  “She doesn’t look too good, does she, Limbani?” one of the EMTs mused to the other. “Must be something in the water.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking, Klaue,” replied the other man.

  These were not EMTs. The first man was Ulysses Klaue, international thief and terrorist. He and his associate, Limbani, were wanted across the globe for over a dozen crimes, including a massive bombing in Wakanda that resulted in the loss of multiple lives and the theft of three hundred pounds of pure Vibranium. The
y’d now teamed up with Erik Killmonger.

  Turning to Killmonger, Klaue removed his gloves. “Let’s see if you know what you’re talking about, shall we?” He looked down at his hand. It was a bionic prosthetic, Klaue having lost his original hand to Ultron before the android’s recent defeat by the Avengers.

  Before he could do anything, two security guards stormed the entrance of the exhibit. “Oi! Do you need assistance? What’s happened to Director Manning?” one of them asked.

  Klaue turned to face the man. “She’ll be fine. I think. We’re just doing a bit of browsing, but we’ve found what we need here, right? Great customer service, though. You won’t be needed anymore.”

  With that, he raised his hand and aimed it at the men. A sonic pulse fired from his hand, knocking the security guards back. Limbani crouched down to examine them. “Out cold,” he pronounced.

  Klaue turned his attention back to the display case, raised his hand, and fired another pulse. It shattered the glass into millions of pieces but left the contents within unharmed. He walked over and removed the “mining tool” Killmonger had claimed was Wakandan. As he held it in his hand, his bionic limb began to vibrate and sizzle. Slowly, centuries of caked dirt and debris began to fall off the artifact.

  After a few moments, the “mining tool” resting in Klaue’s hand was revealed, indeed, to be a hammer of pure, shining vibranium.

  “Oooh-hoo! What did I tell you?” Killmonger hooted, his eyes alight at seeing his conviction validated.

  “We’re going to make a fortune on this. Good job, Killmonger,” Klaue said, a smile stretched across his face.

  “Trying to sell pure vibranium on the black market? Good luck.” Killmonger gave a slight chuckle.

  “Already have a buyer in place. Don’t take me for an amateur,” Klaue retorted.

  “Hope you know what you’re doing. Once word leaks this is out there, you’ll have Wakandans all over your butt. They don’t take to stealing,” Killmonger warned.

  Klaue raised his bionic hand and put it in Killmonger’s face. “Again, not my first time dealing with Wakandans. Or vibranium. You did a good job leading us here, now let’s wrap this up so I can move on to the next phase.”

  Killmonger nodded in salute. “You’re the boss.” He walked over to the stretcher and lay down in the bag that rested on top of it. Klaue placed the vibranium hammer on Killmonger’s chest, and Limbani quickly zipped up the bag, sealing both Killmonger and the hammer inside.

  Klaue and Limbani lifted the stretcher and hurried out through the museum’s emergency exit. Outside, an ambulance waited for them. They quickly loaded Killmonger’s stretcher in the back, and Klaue hopped in behind, closing the doors. Limbani climbed in the passenger’s seat.

  He turned to the driver: It was the barista from the museum cafeteria.

  “Great job. Just remind me never to order a drink from you.” He laughed.

  “Okay, scram time,” Klaue said as the barista started the engine. “Let’s go make it rain,” he said, unzipping the bag so Killmonger could climb out. Klaue reached for the vibranium hammer and turned it over in his hands, a gleeful look in his eye.

  The barista revved the engine and turned on the siren, and the criminals pulled away from the museum and into the bustling London streets. Moments later another ambulance raced onto the scene, and this time real EMTs exited, running toward the museum doors with an empty stretcher, unaware of the heist that had just happened.

  The warm Wakandan breeze carried with it the smells and sounds of the area surrounding the Royal Palace. Nakia and T’Challa walked along the streets of Step Town, an up-and-coming neighborhood in Wakanda filled with artists and entrepreneurs, likely the leaders of the next generation. Everywhere one looked there was creativity, ideas and inspiration being born. T’Challa liked to visit Step Town whenever he needed a break from life at the center of the Royal Palace, when he needed to feel grounded.

  Now he drew in a deep breath. “The scent of home.”

  Nakia nodded appreciatively. “Home. And now your realm, my king,” she said, a teasing spark in her eye.

  “I was talking about you,” he said, sneaking a sideways glance in time to see Nakia blush. “And I may be Wakanda’s king, but to you I hope I am something more.”

  Nakia smiled, a memory from their childhood flooding her brain. “A thief.”

  T’Challa was confused. “What did I ever… ? Ohhhh.”

  “A royal security hover bike,” they said in unison.

  “I was ten. I hardly think that qualifies me as a career criminal.” T’Challa laughed. “And if you’ll recall, you were the one trying to steal it.”

  “And you lifted the Kimoyo beads off the royal guard.” Nakia smiled back. “So you were an accessory, at the very least.”

  “We rode through the city until sundown. It was a long summer day; we didn’t return to the palace until past dinner.” T’Challa’s gaze appeared far away as he remembered every detail. “You rode without fear.”

  “Which is less than I can say for you when we got back and you had to face your father. You were terrified.” Nakia laughed.

  “Baba was angry, yes, but mainly concerned for my safety. And yours. He sent me to my room without dinner.”

  “You never told me he punished you for it,” Nakia said, surprised.

  T’Challa smiled. “I never considered it a punishment. It gave me time to think and to come to a conclusion. That was the day I decided I wanted to be with you for the rest of my life. Even if it cost me supper.”

  The king looked into Nakia’s eyes, searching for evidence that she felt similarly. But Nakia dropped her head and turned to watch a street performer turning and whirling with ease to a beat only he could hear.

  Nakia sighed. “I want to be back out in the field, T’Challa.”

  “Always the free spirit.” T’Challa tried to hide his hurt at Nakia’s apparent rejection, his jesting tone belying his true feelings.

  “I’m serious. I have spent the past two years in Nigeria. What you saw the other day in Chibok was just a fraction of the work I’ve been doing. There is far more to be done for those women.” Nakia turned to face T’Challa. “Unless we can liberate them by granting them sanctuary here.”

  “Allowing outsiders across our borders is a violation of one of our oldest rules,” T’Challa responded sharply. “Look what happened when my father extended his hand to the outside world. It cost him his life.”

  Nakia pressed onward, undeterred by T’Challa’s tone. “And there are women and children losing their lives every day to the militants. I can’t stand behind closed borders in a hidden nation and ignore what they are going through. I’m sorry, T’Challa. It’s my calling.”

  T’Challa looked at the woman he loved—who he wasn’t certain loved him back—her face set in determination. As he saw the passion in her eyes to save outsiders, he couldn’t help but fall a little more in love with her. He also knew he could not deny her request, keeping her in Wakanda simply because he wanted her close.

  “Fine,” the Wakandan king conceded. “I’ll alert the other War Dogs that you will be going back out into the world. But on a new mission this time.”

  Nakia was confused. “What ‘new mission’? I thought we just agreed I’d return to my work.”

  “You said you wanted to go out into the field. I hear there is work that can be done in a beautiful place like Hawaii.” T’Challa looked at her for a moment before his face broke into a grin. “I’ll even join you.”

  She shook her head. “You’re not going to make this easy on me, are you?” Nakia asked, smiling.

  “Have I ever? And now I’m king.” T’Challa crossed his arms and faked a “serious” face.

  “No matter. I can always steal another hover bike. I’m an independent woman now, who doesn’t need a prince as her accomplice.” She poked him in the chest.

  “You are certainly your own woman, Nakia. Of that, there is no denying,” T’Challa said. The stre
et performer’s dance ended, and the small crowd that had gathered broke into enthusiastic applause.

  T’Challa joined in, thinking of the last time he’d heard applause—at the Challenge Pool, when he’d beaten M’Baku. The moment he’d agreed to govern an entire nation, a thought that led him to remember his father’s words to him on the Ancestral Plane: He would need help.

  The grass grew tall in the plains of Wakanda, enough so that a man could take root there almost undetected, invisible.

  Unless, of course, that man was feeding a two-ton rhinoceros, which was exactly what W’Kabi, another of T’Challa’s childhood compatriots, was doing as T’Challa approached him. W’Kabi, always levelheaded and honest, was someone to whom T’Challa had gone for advice throughout their many years of friendship. W’Kabi knew T’Challa better than anyone, save possibly Ramonda and Nakia.

  “Is it possible that M20 can grow any more before he explodes? You spoil him, my friend,” T’Challa said, admiring the larger-than-life animal placidly grazing on the treats his doting master had set out before him. “I remember when you found him, orphaned, barely able to stand on his own.”

  “Children ask to ride him every day. We have a fearless generation growing in these lands.” W’Kabi flashed a smile at his oldest, closest friend. “I believe they are taking after their king.”

  “Will I ever get used to hearing that title and not look to see if my father is behind me?” T’Challa asked, only half joking.

  “You are sure to grow into it.” W’Kabi gave the rhino a pat on the rump and left him to his meal as the two friends began to stroll through the fields. “I noticed Nakia has returned.”

  “Not for long, if she has her way.” T’Challa’s voice was tinged with sadness.

  W’Kabi chuckled. “Which means ‘not for long, period.’ We both know Nakia always gets her way.”

  T’Challa looked at his best friend. “Aside from Nakia, no one knows me better than you. And few know Wakanda as well as you.” He sighed. “You might even have more of a sense of these lands than I do.”