Robert Silverberg: Shadrach in the Furnace

“The thought has crossed my mind,” Shadrach admits.

“You could force my resignation. You could compel me to name you as my successor. You could kill me and assume the Chairmanship, perfectly legitimately. You see that? Of course you see that. Is that what you mean to do?”

“No, sir. The last thing in the world I want is to be Chairman.”

“Go ahead. Wiggle your hand at me, stage a coup d’etat. Take power, Shadrach. I’m old, tired, bored, crumbling. I’m willing to be overthrown. I admire your shrewdness. I’m fascinated by what you’ve done. No one has ever fooled me so thoroughly before, do you know that? You’ve accomplished what thousands of enemies have utterly failed to do. Quiet Shadrach, loyal Shadrach, dependable Shadrach — you have me beaten. You own me. I am your puppet now, do you see that? Go on. Make yourself Chairman. You’ve earned it, Shadrach.”

“It’s not what I want.”

“What do you want, then?”

“To continue as your physician. To protect your health and strive to extend your life. To remain by your side and serve you according to my oath.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all. No, there’s one thing more, sir.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“I request a place on the Committee, sir.”

“Ah.”

“Specifically, I want authority in the sphere of public health. Government medical policy.”

“Ah. Yes.”

“Control over distribution of the Antidote, sir. I mean to develop a program for immediate worldwide treatment of the healthy population,” Shadrach says. “And expansion of whatever programs currently exist for research into a permanent cure for the organ-rot. That is, a total reversal of what I undersiand is existing PRC policy.”

“Ah!” Genghis Mao begins to laugh. “Now it emerges! You do intend to be Khan, then! I keep the Chairmanship, but you call the tunes. Is that it, Shadrach? Is that what you’ve engineered? Very well. You have me. I’m yours, Shadrach. You’ll join the Committee at the next meeting. Draw up your policy statements and submit them.” He glances somberly at Shadrach’s left hand. “All hail,” the Chairman cries, “Genghis III Mao V!”

When he leaves the Khan’s Retreat, Shadrach’s route back to his own suite takes him through his office, through Committee Vector One, and into Surveillance Vector One, where he halts awhile, as is his habit, to watch the show on the winking screens. All is quiet in the Grand Tower of the Khan. It is the depth of night; all Asia sleeps. But across the planet, out there in the Trauma Ward, life goes on, and also death. Shadrach stands before the multitude of screens, following the random flow, the suffering, the striving, the struggling, the dying. The walking dead, wandering the streets of Nairobi, Jerusalem, Istanbul, Rome, San Francisco, Peking, shambling across all the continents, the procession of the damned, the lost, the tortured, the condemned. Somewhere out there is Bhisma Das. Somewhere, Meshach Yakov. Somewhere, Jim Ehrenreich. Shadrach wishes them joy and good health for such of life as is left to them. To all, joy! To all, good health!

He thinks of the laughter of Genghis Mao. How amused the Khan seemed at his predicament! How relieved, almost, at having the ultimate authority stolen from him! But the Khan is beyond comprehension; the Khan is alien, mysterious, unfathomable, ultimately inscrutable. Shadrach does not really know what will happen now. He cannot imagine what counterploy Genghis Mao may already have conceived, what traps he is even now devising. Shadrach will walk warily and hope for the best. He has planted a bomb in Genghis Mao, yes, but he has also seized a tiger by the tail, and he must be careful lest he stumble between the metaphors and be destroyed.

He stands mesmerized before the dazzling dance of the screens of Surveillance Vector One. It is the fourth of July, 2012. Wednesday. Gentle rain is falling in Ulan Bator, which next week shall be renamed Altan Mangu in honor of the slain viceroy, who already has been forgotten by most of mankind. In this night death will travel the globe, harvesting his thousands; but in the morning, Shadrach Mordecai vows, things will begin to change. He stretches forth his left hand. He studies it as though it be a thing of precious jade, of rarest ivory. Tentatively he closes it, almost but not quite clenching his fist. He smiles. He touches the tips of his fingers to his lips and blows a kiss to all the world.