Shadrach in the Furnace

  “There’s no reason to worry, sir. We’ll fix you soon enough.”

  Genghis Mao rolls his eyes in torment. “How? Chop a hole in my skull? Let the demon escape like a whiff of foul gas?”

  “This isn’t the Neolithic,” Shadrach says. “The trephine is obsolete. We have better methods.” He touches the tips of his fingers to the Khan’s cheeks, probing for the sharp, upthrusting bones. “Relax, sir. Let the muscles go slack.” It is late at night, and Shadrach is exhausted, having flown this day from San Francisco to Peking, from Peking to Ulan Bator, having gone at once to Genghis Mao’s bedside without pausing even for fresh clothing. His mind is a muddle of time zones and he is not sure whether he is in Saturday, Sunday, or Friday. But there is a sphere of utter crystalline clarity at the core of his spirit. “Relax,” he croons. “Relax. Let the tension flow out of your neck, out of your shoulders, out of your back. Easy, now, easy—”

  Genghis Mao scoffs. “You aren’t going to cure this with massages and soothing talk.”

  “But we can ease the symptoms this way. We can palliate, sir.”

  “And then?”

  “If necessary, there are surgical remedies.”

  “You see? You will chop open my skull!”

  “We’ll be neat about it, I promise.” Shadrach moves around behind Genghis Mao, so he will not be distracted by the need to maintain eye contact with the fierce old man, and concentrates on diagnostic perceptions. Hydrostatic imbalance, yes; meningeal congestion, yes; some accumulation of metabolic wastes about the brain, yes. The situation is far from critical—action could be deferred for weeks, perhaps for many months, without great risk—but Shadrach intends to deal swiftly with the problem. And not only for Genghis Mao’s sake.

  Genghis Mao says, “It’s good to have you back.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You should have been here for the funeral. You would have had a front-row seat. It was magnificent, Shadrach. Did you watch the funeral on television?”

  “Of course,” Shadrach lies. “In—ah—in Jerusalem. I think I was in Jerusalem then. Yes. Magnificent. Yes.”

  “Magnificent,” says Genghis Mao, dwelling lovingly on the word. “It will never be forgotten. One of history’s great spectacles. I was proud of it. The Assyrians couldn’t have done better for old Sardanapalus.” The Khan laughs. “If one can’t attend one’s own funeral, Shadrach, one can at least satisfy the urge by staging a splendid funeral for someone else. Eh? Eh?”

  “I wish I could have been there, sir.”

  “But you were in Jerusalem. Or was it Istanbul?”

  “Jerusalem, I think, sir.” He touches Genghis Mao’s temples, pressing lightly but firmly. The Chairman winces. When Shadrach presses the sides of Genghis Mao’s neck, just below and behind the ears, the Chairman grunts.

  “Tender there,” Genghis Mao says.

  “Yes.”

  “How bad is it, really?”

  “It’s not good. No immediate danger, but there’s definitely a problem in there.”

  “Explain it to me.”

  Shadrach moves out where Genghis Mao can see him. “The brain and spinal cord,” he says, “float, literally float, in a liquid we call cerebrospinal fluid, which is manufactured in hollow chambers within the brain known as ventricles. It protects and nourishes the brain and, when it drains into the spaces surrounding the brain, it carries off the metabolic wastes resulting from the brain’s activity. Under certain circumstances the passageways from the ventricles to these meningeal spaces become blocked, and cerebrospinal fluid accumulates in the ventricles.”

  “Is that what’s happening to my head?”

  “So it seems.”

  “Why?”

  Shrugging, Shadrach replies, “It’s usually caused by infection or by a tumor at the base of the brain. Occasionally it comes on spontaneously, without observable lesion. A function of aging, maybe.”

  “And what are the effects?”

  “In children, the skull enlarges as the ventricles swell. That’s the condition known as hydrocephalus, water on the brain. The adult cranium isn’t capable of expansion, of course, so the brain must bear all the pressure. Severe headaches are the first symptom, naturally. Followed by failure of physical coordination, vertigo, facial paralysis, gradual loss of eyesight, periods of coma, general impairments of cerebral functions, epileptic seizures—”

  “And death?”

  “Death, yes. Eventually.”

  “How long from first to last?”

  “It depends on the degree of the blockage, the vigor of the patient, and a lot of other factors. Some people live for years with mild or incipient hydrocephalic conditions and aren’t even aware of it. Even acute cases can drag on for years, with long periods of remission. On the other hand, it’s possible to go from first congestion to mortality in a matter of months, and sometimes much more quickly even than that, if something like a medullary edema develops, an intracranial swelling that disrupts the autonomic systems.”

  These recitals of symptomatology and prognosis have always fascinated Genghis Mao, and intense interest is evident in his eyes now. But there is something else, a haunted look, a flashing look of dismay verging on terror, that Shadrach has never observed in him before.

  The Chairman says, “And in my case?”

  “We’ll have to run a full series of tests, of course. But on the basis of what the implants are telling me, I’m inclined toward quick corrective surgery.”

  “I’ve never had brain surgery.”

  “I know that, sir.”

  “I don’t like the whole idea. A kidney or a lung is trivial. I don’t want Warhaftig’s lasers inside my head. I don’t want pieces of my mind cut away.”

  “There’s no question of our doing that.”

  “What will you do, then?”

  “It’s strictly a decompressive therapy. We’ll install valved tubes to shunt the excess fluid directly into the jugular system. The operation is relatively simple and much less risky than an organ transplant.”

  Genghis Mao smiles icily. “I’m accustomed to organ transplants, though. I think I like organ transplants. Brain surgery is something new for me.”

  Shadrach, as he prepares a sedative for the Chairman, says cheerfully, “Perhaps you’ll come to like brain surgery as well, sir.”

  In the morning he seeks out Frank Ficifolia at the main communications nexus deep in the service core of the tower. “I heard you’d returned,” Ficifolia says. “I heard it, but I didn’t believe it. For Christ’s sake, why’d you come back?”

  Shadrach eyes the banks of screens and monitors warily. “Is it safe to talk here?”

  “Jesus, do you think I’d bug my own office?”

  “Someone might have done it without telling you about it.”

  “Talk,” Ficifolia says. “It’s safe here.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I say so. Why didn’t you stay where you were?”

  “The Citpols knew where I was, every minute. Avogadro himself dropped in on me in Peking.”

  “What did you expect? Taking commercial transport all around the world. There are ways of hiding, but—did Avogadro make you come back here, then?”

  “I had already bought my ticket.”

  “Jesus, why?”

  “I came back because I saw a way of saving myself.”

  “The way to save yourself is to go underground.”

  “No,” Shadrach says emphatically. “The way to save yourself is to return and continue to carry out my functions as the Chairman’s doctor. You know that the Chairman is ill?”

  “Bad headaches, they tell me.”

  “Dangerous headaches. We’ll need to operate.”

  “Brain surgery?”

  “That’s right.”

  Ficifolia compresses his lips and studies Shadrach’s face as though examining a map of El Dorado. “I once told you that you weren’t crazy enough to survive in this city. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you’re pl
enty crazy. You have to be crazy if you think you can intentionally bungle an operation on Genghis Mao and get away with it. Don’t you think Warhaftig will notice what you’re doing and stop you? Or turn you in, if you actually do pull it off? What good is killing the Khan if you end up in the organ farms yourself? How—”

  “Doctors don’t kill their patients, Frank.”

  “But—”

  “You’re jumping to conclusions. Projecting your own fantasies, perhaps. I’m simply going to operate. And cure the Chairman’s headaches. And see to it that he stays in good health.” Shadrach smiles. “Don’t ask questions. Just help me.”

  “Help you how?”

  “I want you to find Buckmaster for me. There’s a special piece of equipment I’ll need, and he’s the right man to build it. Then I’ll want you to help me rig the telemetering circuits to run it.”

  “Buckmaster? Why Buckmaster? There are plenty of capable microengineering people right here on the staff.”

  “Buckmaster’s the one I want for this job. He’s the best in his field, and he happens to be the one who built my implant system. He’s the one who ought to build any additions to that system.” Shadrach’s gaze is uncompromising. “Will you get me Buckmaster?”

  Ficifolia, after a moment, blinks and brusquely nods. “I’ll take you to him,” he says. “When do you want to go?”

  “Now.”

  “Right now? Right this literal minute?”

  “Now,” Shadrach says. “Is he very far from here?”

  “Not really.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Karakorum,” Ficifolia replies. “We hid him among the transtemporalists.”

  January 2, 2009

  I insisted, and they allowed me to sample the transtemporal experience. Much talk of risks, of side effects, of my responsibilities to the commonwealth. I overruled them. It is not often that I have to insist. It is rare that I can speak of being allowed. But this was a struggle. Which of course I won, but it was work. Visited Karakorum after midnight, light snow falling. The tent was cleared. Guards posted. Teixeira had given me a full checkup first. Because of the drugs they use. Clean bill of health: I can handle their most potent potions. And so, into the tent. Dark place, foul smell. I remember that smell from my childhood—burning cow-chips, uncured goathides. Little slump-backed lama comes forth, very unimpressed with me, no awe at all—why be awed by Genghis Mao, I guess, when you can gulp a drug and visit Caesar, the Buddha, Genghis Khan?—and mixes his brews for me. Oils, powders. Gives me the cup to drink. Sweet, gummy, not a good taste. Takes my hands, whispers things to me, and I am dizzy and then the tent becomes a cloud and is gone and I find myself in another tent, wide and low, white flags and brocaded hangings, and there he is before me, thick-bodied, short, a man of middle years or more long dark mustache, small eyes, strong mouth, stink of sweat coming from him as if he hasn’t bathed in years, and for the first time in my life I want to sink to my knees before another human being, for this is surely Temujin, this is the Great Khan, this is he, the founder, the conqueror.

  I do not kneel, except within myself. Within myself I fall at his feet. I offer him my hand. I bow my head.

  “Father Genghis,” I say. “Across nine hundred years I come to do you homage.”

  He regards me without great interest. After a moment he hands me a bowl. “Drink some airag, old man.”

  We shared the bowl, I first, then the Great Khan. He is dressed simply, no scarlet robes, no ermine trim, no crown, just a warrior’s leather costume. The top of his head is shaven and in back his hair reaches his shoulders. He could kill me with a slap of his left hand.

  “What do you want?” he asks.

  “To see you.”

  “You see me. What else?”

  “To tell you that you will live forever.”

  “I will die like any man, old one.”

  “Your body will die, Father Genghis. Your name will live in the ages.”

  He considers that. “And my empire? What of that? Will my sons rule after me?”

  “Your sons will rule over half the world.”

  “Half the world,” Genghis Khan says softly. “Only half? Is this the truth, old man?”

  “Cathay will be theirs—”

  “Cathay is already mine.”

  “Yes, but they will have it all, down to the hot jungles. And they will rule the high mountains, and the Russian land, and Turkestan, Afghanistan, Persia, everything as far as the gates of Europe. Half the world. Father Genghis!”

  The Khan of Khan grunts.

  “And I tell you this, also. Nine hundred years from now a khan named Genghis will rule everything from sea to sea, from shore to shore, all souls upon this world naming him master.”

  “A khan of my blood?”

  “A true Tatar,” I assure him.

  Genghis Khan is silent a long while. It is impossible to read his eyes. He is shorter than I would have thought, and his smell is bad, but he is a man of such strength and purpose that I am humbled, for I thought I was of his kind, and in a way I am, and yet he is more than I could ever have been. There is no calculation about him; he is altogether solid, unhesitating, a man who lives in the moment, a man who must never have paused for a second thought and whose first thought must always have been right. He is only a barbarian prince, a mere wild horseman of the Gobi, to whom every aspect of my ordinary daily life would seem the most dazzling magic: yet put him down in Ulan Bator and he would understand the workings of Surveillance Vector One in three hours. A barbarian he is, yes, but not a mere barbarian, not a mere anything, and though I am his superior in some ways, though my life and my power are beyond his comprehension, I am second to him in all the ways that matter. He awes me. As I expected him to do. And, seeing him, I come close to a willingness to yield up all my authority over men, for, next to him, I am not worthy. I am not worthy.

  “Nine hundred years,” he says at last, and the shadow of a smile crosses his face. “Good. Good.” He claps for a servant. “More airag,” he calls. We share another drink. Then he says he must depart; it is time to ride out from Karakorum to the camp of his son Chagadai, where the royal family is to hold a tourney today. He does not invite me to join him. He has no interest in me, though I come from out of the realm of distant time, though I bring him bright tales of Mongol empires to come. I am unimportant to him. I have told him all he cares to know; now I am forgotten. Only the tourney matters now. He leaps to his mare; he rides away, followed by the warriors of his court, and only the servant and I remain.

  24

  Two robed acolytes bring Roger Buckmaster to Shadrach out of the depths of the tent of the transtemporalists in Karakorum. Buckmaster is robed too, but not in the coarse black horsehair garb of a transtemporalist. He wears a heavy hooded cassock of thick brown wool, smoothly woven. His feet, bare, are clad in open sandals. A massive cruciform pendant dangles at his throat. He pushes back his hood to reveal a tonsured scalp.

  Buckmaster has become some sort of monk.

  His new asceticism of clothing is not the only change in him. Before, he had been a blurting, impatient, angry man, with some kind of sullen furious energy circulating within him that seemed dammed at every plausible point of exit. Now he is eerily calm, self-contained, a man inhabiting an unfathomable kingdom of solitude and peace. He is pale, very thin, almost spectral. He stands silently before Shadrach, fingering his beads but otherwise motionless, waiting, waiting.

  Shadrach says at last, “I never expected to see you alive again.”

  “Life brings many surprises, Dr. Mordecai.” Buckmaster’s voice is different too, deeper, sepulchral, more resonant, all the sputter and frenzy burned out of it.

  “Word went around that you’d been sent to the organ farm. Dissected, dismembered.”

  Piously Buckmaster says, “The Lord chose to spare me.”

  His piety is hard for Shadrach to take. “Your friends saved your skin, you mean,” he retorts, instantly regretting his bluntness.
Not a wise way to talk to someone whose services you need.

  But Buckmaster does not seem offended.

  “My friends are His agents. As are we all. Dr. Mordecai.”

  “Have you been here the whole time?”

  “Yes. Since the day after you saw me under interrogation.”

  “And the Citpols haven’t come sniffing around for you?”

  “I am officially dead, Doctor. My body has officially been distributed to ailing members of the government: the computer will tell you so. The Citpols don’t search for dead men. To them I’m no more man a set of scattered parts—a pancreas here, a liver there, a kidney, a lung. Forgotten.” For a moment mischief gleams in Buckmaster’s oddly solemn face. “If you told them I was here, they would deny it.”

  “And what have you been doing?” Shadrach asks.

  “The transtemporalists regard me as a holy man. I take their cup each day. Each day I retrace the days of the life of our Lord. I have attended His Passion upon Calvary many times. Doctor. I have walked among the apostles. I have touched the hem of Mary’s robe. I have beheld the miracles: Cana, Capernaum, Lazarus raised at Bethany. I have watched Him betrayed in Gethsemane. I have seen Him brought before Pilate. I have seen it all, Dr. Mordecai, everything of which the Gospels tell. It is all true. It is literally the truth. My eyes bear witness.”

  The unexpected intensity of conviction in Buckmaster’s eyes, the unearthly sound of Buckmaster’s voice, leave Shadrach speechless a moment. It is impossible not to believe that this scruffy little man has strolled through the Galilee with Jesus and Peter and James, that he has heard the sermons of John the Baptist and the lamentations of the Magdalene. Illusion, hallucination, self-deceit, fraud; no matter. Buckmaster has been transformed. He is radiant.

  With deliberate bluntness Shadrach asks, “Can you still do microengineering work?”