The Tree of Knowledge

by Daniel G. Miller

  Ying wondered if the professor had finally gone mad. “May I ask how a big blue pen and some gum is going to get us through this, Professor?”

  Turner smiled, drew a long arrow upward on the shiny white wall, and tapped the steps with his walking stick. “Ever doubtful, eh, Ms. Koh? Trust me. I’ll enlighten you as we stroll. Up we go.”

  “You have four minutes,” chirped the automated female voice.

  Ying and Turner marched up the steps and opened the red door. A long corridor of bright-white paneled walls sprawled out in front of them. Turner continued walking, dragging his walking stick behind him. A bright-blue line on the floor wherever they went.

  “To understand what we’re doing, it’s helpful to understand a little bit about mazes.”

  “Ohhhkaayy,” said Ying.

  “The first mazes were called labyrinths and stemmed from Greek mythology. In the myth, a legendary craftsman named Daedalus built the first maze for the great King Minos.”

  Ying remembered the myths her dad would tell her. “Yes, Daedalus designed the labyrinth to hold the Minotaur, which could kill the king and his subjects. The labyrinth was so difficult to escape that Daedalus himself dragged a string behind him to ensure he could find his way out.”

  “Precisely. This pen is our string, Ms. Koh.”

  “You have three minutes.”

  Turner paused. They had reached the end of the corridor, and the maze turned both to the left and right. A red door stood at the end of both hallways. The light reflecting off them generated an ominous red glow.

  “What do you think, Ms. Koh? You’re a woman of good instincts.”

  “I say right,” said Ying with conviction.

  “Then right it is.”

  Turner pushed open the door to reveal another set of stairs heading down.

  As Ying came through the passage, Turner whipped around and shouted, “Don’t let the door sh—”

  But it was too late. The door slammed behind Ying. Frantically, she tried to open the door behind her, but it was locked.

  “I’m so sorry, Professor.” Her face was flushed and her eyes frantic.

  Turner wagged a finger. “No worries. I should have spoken sooner. As always, from our mistakes, we learn.”

  “Is this a ‘loops and traps’ maze?”

  “Yes, these mazes are particularly tricky because they have one-sided doors. Let’s press on. How much time do we have?”

  “You have two minutes.”

  Turner’s face wrinkled with concern, and Ying noticed sweat simmering along his hairline. “OK, we’re going to have to start running, Ms. Koh.”

  The pair began jogging down the hallway, the professor dragging a line of blue ink behind them.

  “Can’t we just hold one wall of the maze with our hands as we walk, Professor? That would ensure we never repeat the same route. Eventually, we’d stumble upon the correct path.”

  “Normally, it would, but years ago, someone very clever, much like the designer of this maze, realized that if you break the maze up using levels and trick doors, then the one-hand-wall method becomes obsolete.”

  “You have one minute.”

  Turner and Ying reached a dead end and doubled back, running, now sprinting down a hallway to the right with Turner dragging his stick behind him. Again, the pair hit a wall. They continued sprinting in the opposite direction but were stopped again by a third wall.

  “You have thirty seconds.”

  Ying wheezed, out of breath. “What are we going to do, Professor? We’ve got to get out of here!” Her hands scrambled up and down the white walls looking for an exit, or a trapdoor, a button, anything.

  Turner chuckled while struggling to catch his breath. “I wouldn’t worry, Ms. Koh; thanks to our good friend Charles Pierre Tremaux we’ve now reached the point in the maze that must lead to the exit.”

  Ying paused in the middle of a junction of four intersecting hallways. At her feet, three lines of blue marker on the floor spanned every direction except one.

  She squinted and eyed Turner. “Who’s Charles Pierre Tremaux?”

  Turner detached the pen from his walking stick, deposited the gum into his handkerchief, and began strolling down the hallway. He mopped his face with 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 bul
wark, 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 had snatched before they left and the Tree. Turner’s one advantage was that Moloch wanted him alive. He needed the key. The general could shoot him to disable him, but he couldn’t kill him. Turner needed nothing other than the book from Moloch.

  The general stood twenty feet from Turner. Seven strides. The professor eyed the general’s pistol. This model carried ten rounds. Moloch would have ten shots to put Turner down. Ten shots in seven steps. The vest would protect his midsection, but his extremities were exposed. If the general caught a leg or an arm, he would be vulnerable.

  Dodging bullets would be the easy part, though. Once Turner reached the general, it would be hand-to-hand. Hand-to-hand with someone skilled in fighting and with some knowledge of the Tree, and ten years younger.

  One branch at a time, thought Turner.

  “I’m going to give you until the count of three to give me the key to this book. One . . .”

  Turner visualized the future. The general was right-handed and a skilled marksman. The first shot would be to Turner’s upper thigh. Enough to drop him, but not enough to prevent him from giving up the key. In this moment, the general’s accuracy worked against him. Turner knew exactly where the bullet would be.

  “Two . . .”

  Once he avoided the first shot, Turner estimated he would be able to take two steps toward the general while the man recovered from the shock of missing. The general wore his dress uniform, so he would be a step slow.

  “Three.”

  Turner watched Moloch’s eyes narrow and saw him focus on his target. Time slowed to a trickle under Turner’s focus. Just before the general squeezed the trigger, Turner pivoted his body sideways and shuffled forward like he was squeezing in between two tables in an overcrowded restaurant. The discharge of Moloch’s gun reverberated through the cavernous room, and Turner heard the bullet skitter by him as he took two long strides forward, accelerating with each step.

  Five more.

  Moloch paused for a moment, temporarily stunned by the professor’s nimbleness. He had miscalculated. He stepped back as the professor stepped toward him, steadying his aim on the target.

  Turner watched the barrel of the gun tracking him like prey.

  This shot would be at the midsection. He needs a bigger target. Now!

  As the general squeezed the trigger, Turner dropped into a baseball slide. He groaned in pain as his arthritic hip slammed against the tile. One, two, three quick shots buzzed by his head.

  Three more.

  He rose from his slide and resumed his approach like a baseball runner turning for home, and Turner’s eyes met Moloch’s. The general’s cockiness had morphed into confused desperation. He could see the general running his game tree back in his mind wondering where he had gone wrong, how he could correct. He would go for the head this time. The book’s cipher be damned.

  Turner watched the general’s pistol rise two inches toward his head and lunged forward into Moloch’s body. Bullets pinged and ponged off the walls of the room. The two men tumbled to the ground, sending the journal to the floor and the general’s pistol off the edge of the walking bridge.

  The professor shuffled to his feet. His hip and shoulder throbbed from the impact of the floor and Moloch. His lungs swelled like they’d been shot full of fluid. He had underestimated the effects of his age. He eyed the exits and felt his hip. The hip was almost certainly fractured, and the exits were too far away. It was him or Moloch. No other way.

  Turner watched the general rise, and from one look, it was clear he had made the same calculation. The general assumed a fighting pose and took two controlled steps toward Turner.

  The punches are coming.

  Turner eyed Moloch’s pose. His left foot was forward and his right hand back.

  The first punch will come from the right.

  Turner struck the same pose to convey the same intention to Moloch. A feint.

  I’m old. He’ll expect me to lead with my right hand. He won’t expect me to kick.

  But Moloch knew better. The general threw a swift jab with his left hand at Turner’s nose. Turner heard what sounded like the snapping of a twig and stumbled backward. Blood poured from his nose, and a sickening, metallic taste filled his mouth. He was now five feet from the edge of the bridge. He would need to adjust quickly.

  Moloch sensed his advantage and attacked. His eyes widened, and he reared back on his haunches.

  Here comes the right.

  The general launched a fierce right-handed uppercut at Turner. The professor calmly limped aside, took one step forward, and slammed both hands on the general’s ears. Moloch growled in pain and dropped to his knees. Turner saw the opening and unleashed a fierce kick toward Moloch’s head with his right leg. As Turner pivoted, his fractured hip gave way.

  Moloch grabbed the professor’s leg in midair and spun him to the ground. Turner fell face-first to the floor, his right check smashing on the cold white tile. His eye blurred, and he could feel the pressure steadily crushing his vision. Blood dropped on the tile like paint on a canvas. He crawled up to his knees. He was now at the edge of the walkway, staring twenty feet down into the abyss. Nowhere to go.

  As Turner tried to visualize the next branch of the tree, Moloch’s arm circled his neck, choking the fuel to his mind. Turner clawed at Moloch’s arm. The smell of stale smoke thickened the choking sensation. Turner felt Moloch slide his other arm behind his neck, creating a vise compressing against his carotid artery. Ten seconds and he’d be gone.

  His brain was starved for oxygen. He should have panicked, but instead, Turner found serenity. All the branches of the Tree faded away, and one choice stood out to him. Glowing like the final leaf on the tree of life.

  Turner slowed his heart rate, stopped clawing at Moloch, put his hands to his side, and drew one l
ast breath. The general smiled. He felt his opponent’s will collapsing.

  The professor summoned every ounce of his strength and, with one powerful move, threw his shoulders forward and down to the floor. As he dropped toward the floor, he could feel the general’s weight shift from pulling behind him to tumbling over him. Moloch’s grip released, and he rotated over Turner and off the edge of the walking bridge. The hard, slim frame somersaulted off the bridge to the floor below. Turner heard a hollow thud as Moloch’s body hit the epoxy floor.

  The professor looked down to see a blank expression and blood pooling from the general’s head. He needed to go. The cadets would be coming soon.

  Chapter 12

  Albert exited the elevator and refocused on the entrance in front of him. It was time. Time to flip the switch.

  He closed his eyes for a moment and saw the game tree in all its splendor. At its center was a simple phrase: “Find the book.” From that simple statement sprung an endless set of branches expanding in infinite complexity. Get past security. Steal relevant evidence. Escape. Each branch detailing an action was matched by a counteraction. The number of scenarios was overwhelming, but in many ways, Albert felt that he had been preparing his whole life for this. All his life, he had felt like a puzzle piece that had been forced into the wrong spot, but when his mind was inside the tree, everything seemed to fit. He was where he was supposed to be. Albert took a long breath, and just as he had in the boxing ring, his mind filtered through the deluge of data and potential scenarios and zeroed in on the one path that mattered . . . the one that would work.

  “I’m ready,” he said to himself.

  Albert pulled a pen and notepad out of his pocket. The empty white pad gave him the same sense of clarity he experienced back at Princeton with a blank chalkboard.

  He stepped up to the door and with a quivering hand swiped the key card.

  The room around him was nothing he could have imagined. Floor, walls, and ceiling were all one giant 3D screen, like being inside of a cube made of LCD. All around him stood a virtual forest, and in front of him, a rickety wooden bridge swung over a violent river bubbling below. A troll stood before him wielding an axe. Drool covered his gray skin, and his gnarled teeth jutted in every direction as he smiled. The troll’s image jumped from the screen with such clarity that for a moment Albert questioned whether he was real.