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?
14.
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 communiques.
“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.
15.
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
