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.
He glared furiously at me. “Make the first shot count, John,” he said. “You’ll never get another.”
I pulled the trigger.
He fell back against the wall, an expression of surprise on his face. I fired twice more, but with no effect. I knew I had hit him. I heard the thunk of the bullets as they dug into him. Then I remembered that he was wearing body armor, and I aimed at his head.
“At last, you are finally my brother,” he said, just before I pulled the trigger.
22.
And that is the story—or at least the story so far.
When news of Tchaka’s death spread throughout the Empire, world after world declared its independence. I can foresee the day, maybe thirty years from now, maybe even less, when the Zulus will be confined to this world, perhaps to just a small section of it.
And, as before, they will look at each newborn boy and ask: are you the One? Could you possibly be the One?
I pray that the answer will always be No.
Epilogue
