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.
21.
I saw Peter Zondo’s corpse the next morning. It still clutched a laser pistol in its hand, but the hand had been literally squeezed to a pulp by a larger, far stronger hand. You would have had to cut the formless flesh away with a knife to free the pistol.
There were very few marks of violence on the body. My guess was that he’d been killed by a blade or a bullet through the back of his shirt. Clearly he’d never gotten a shot off. As I reconstruct it, Tchaka must have known he was coming, must have followed his approach through the various security devices. Probably he inserted infra-red lenses in his eyes, turned off the lights, kept the approach to his room very bright, and simply waited for Peter to open the door and enter. He’d have grabbed Peter’s hand, ground it to a shapeless blob with his own massive hand, then killed him at his leisure. Of course, I could be totally wrong. It is possible that Peter had never gotten near Tchaka’s private quarters and the security force had killed him…but I wouldn’t bet on it.
I was summoned to Tchaka’s office that afternoon.
“Did you see our half-brother?” he asked.
“It’s hard to miss him,” I said disgustedly. “He’s very prominently displayed.”
“He was a fool.”
“Probably,” I agreed.
He stared at me. “You have been with me the longest, John. I know you bear me no love, but you have always known where your best interest lies.”
I made no answer, because I couldn’t see what he was leading up to.
“And because you know where your best interest lies,” he continued, “and because our fates are interlinked, you are the one man I can trust.”
I simply looked at him, waiting for whatever came next.
“I have a confession to make, John.”
“Oh?” I said.
Most people seem uncomfortable when they make a confession. Tchaka was not most people.
“I indulged in a momentary weakness some months ago,” he began.
“A momentary weakness?” I repeated, frowning.
He nodded his head. “And as a result, there is a girl in a room down the corridor, a girl no one but myself has seen for ten weeks now, who is visibly pregnant.”
I stared at him, but said nothing.
“Clearly I cannot execute myself,” he continued. “The Empire must have an emperor, and no one else is remotely fit for the position. But given that I have ordered the death of every other pregnant woman, I cannot have her seen in her condition.”
“You’ve hidden her pretty well so far,” I said.
“She will have the baby two months before the year is up—and that I cannot keep a secret, or at least I cannot be sure of keeping it a secret.”
“You’re going to kill her,” I said dully.
“No, John,” he replied. “You’re going to kill her.”
“I’ve never killed anybody,” I protested.
“Then it’s time you learned,” said Tchaka. “I have no compunction about killing her. But I have never sired a child, and probably will never sire another. I would prefer that you kill it.” He shot me a self-deprecating smile. “You see, John? I am capable of human emotions after all.”
“Let her live,” I said. “This isn’t her fault.”
“She dies,” he said firmly, opening a drawer of his desk and withdrawing a small pistol.
“Has she any family?” I asked as he handed me the gun.
“Not any more.”
“How old is she?”
He shrugged. “Thirteen, fourteen, something like that.”
“I have one question,” I said. “What would have happened to her all those months ago if she had obeyed your mourning edict and refused to sleep with you?”
“I would probably have raped her,” he said matter-of-factly, “and I would certainly have killed her afterward for refusing me.”
I stared at him for a long moment. “It won’t be worse,” I said at last.
“What won’t be worse?” he asked curiously.
“Whatever replaces you,” I said, pointing the pistol at his chest.