The Tree of Knowledge, Daniel Miller [unputdownable books txt] 📗

the outside of his handkerchief as he strode. “He’s the man who came up with the ingenious idea that if we trace the floor of a maze and make double markings on the floor from whence we came, then we will inevitably lead to the path out.”

“Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . .”

The two burst through the door as the robotic voice over the loudspeaker crowed, “Five seconds. Alarm deactivated. Welcome to Fix Industries. Have a nice day.”

Ying looked back and watched as the walls of the maze slid together like the pieces of a jigsaw and formed what looked like a standard office hallway with a long corridor and office doors on each side. All traces of the maze, save the red doors, had been removed. Ying wiped her glasses on her blouse to make sure it wasn’t a dream. Sweat covered her body. She turned to the professor to verify he had seen what just happened, but he had already moved forward.

Ahead of them lay a glass-walled pedestrian bridge with the right side open, overlooking a large room that resembled a futuristic factory. Platoons of soldiers clad in red stood on the light-gray epoxy floor in rows like bookshelves. Sections of soldiers took turns performing various military drills and marches. Shouted orders from the men below bounced off the walls.

Turner turned to Ying. “My God, they’re building an army.”

At the head of the force stood General Isaac Moloch, cradling a weathered journal under his right arm.

The Tree.

Turner and Ying watched and waited as the lithe Moloch surveyed his burgeoning army. The general walked between the men with total command, prodding here and pushing there. As they performed their maneuvers, the recruits’ eyes kept darting back to Moloch as though they had received a visit from God himself.

Finally, the general dismissed the cadets and exited the production floor. Alone, he headed up the stairs directly toward where Ying and Turner were standing.

The professor steadied himself. Moloch would not be easy. This was no drunk at a bar. This was one of the most decorated soldiers in American history, a man who was schooled in the Tree of Knowledge if not fully comprehending of it.

Turner’s eyes shifted toward Ying. He gently pushed her behind him as he crept forward along the bridge. The professor widened his stance and spoke up as Moloch reached the top step.

“Are you enjoying my book, General?”

Turner was attempting to project confidence, but Ying could hear the quake in his voice.

Moloch froze and raised his head from the floor. His lips slid open across his teeth to reveal a frigid sneer.

“Ahhh, Angus Turner. Just the man I’m looking for. Deciphering this code will be so much easier once I choke the key from your throat.” The general removed the pistol from his holster, measuring the professor.

Turner swiveled toward Ying. “I’ll handle him from here. Remember the plan . . . you know what to do.”

Ying opened her mouth to speak, but one look from the professor silenced her.

She ran.

Chapter 11

“Handle me,” scoffed Moloch.

A vein snaked its way up the general’s forehead as he paced toward Turner.

“You think you can just ‘handle’ me?”

Turner pulled his blazer tighter to bolster his resolve. He observed his opponent. He had anticipated this moment ever since he discovered the Tree. He knew the Tree’s power. He had tried to bury it. Bury it deep. But a force of this magnitude could not lay dormant forever. Like an ocean of oil under the ground, man would hunt for it, would seek to exploit it, would dominate others with it. He had tried to build himself into the bulwark, the keeper of this power, protecting it from those who would seek to corrupt it. He had visualized every outcome, trained his body and mind to be instruments of the Tree’s power. He had tried to stifle emotion, to push ego, lust, anxiety, pride, and fear deep into the recesses of his mind. But as he faced down the manifestation of everything he had been preparing for, he was reminded that when the stakes were life and death, fear hung heavy.

The Tree’s objective in this moment was simple: retrieve the book. Turner knew he had two options: persuasion or force. He hoped for persuasion, but he feared it would be force.

He assessed the pedestrian bridge on which he stood. The bridge was approximately forty feet long and the white plaster ceiling fifteen feet high. The bridge offered four alternatives. Retreat down the very hallway he had just come; head left and climb the stairway to the roof that Ying had just taken; press forward across the bridge through General Moloch, standing like the grim reaper guarding the gates of hell; or head right and drop twenty feet over the railing, into the training room below. None of these options seemed appealing.

Turner tiptoed toward Moloch, laying his hands open to minimize the threat. “General, it doesn’t have to end this way. You don’t have to throw everything you’ve accomplished away for this woman. She’s a mirage. You can hand me that book right now, and we can work together.”

Moloch sniggered. He had anticipated this tactic from Turner. “A mirage? That’s your problem, Turner. You somehow view the current world as acceptable. It is not. It is the desert. Cristina isn’t a mirage, she’s the water. Now, why don’t you just give us the key to this book, and stand aside? I’ve made my own little game tree for this moment, and it doesn’t end well for you.” He shook the soft leather journal in the air for emphasis and clicked off the gun’s safety.

Turner crossed out the persuasion branch in the Tree in his mind. It would be force. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem. Turner would simply bring a gas mask and some tear gas, and the rest would be history. But thanks to the early arrival of the FBI, Turner had nothing more than a bulletproof vest that Brick