Reflexive Fire - 01 by Jack Murphy

mythology the Tree of Life featured prominently in a folk tale involving a magic bird. 
       A bird called Samruk.
       Farther down the park boulevard sat two massive golden pillars, representing what, and to whom, he did not know, but between them at the end Astana's gallery of ancient modern architecture sat the presidential palace.  At first glance it looked like a czarist castle of some sort with a large blue dome and spiked pinnacle.
       Walking back to his vehicle, Deckard felt overwhelmed.  He never expected to find all of this out here in the center of the windswept Kazakh waste.  What was the meaning behind all the mysterious and clearly occult designs?  He felt like the only one in the world who even knew all of these things existed.
       Turning over the engine, he turned up the heat, trying to warm up, at least until he could no longer see his breath in the air.  Getting back on the road, he decided to circle back around and begin looking for Ryskulov Street, when something caught his eye silhouetted against the twilight sky. 
       Driving around the presidential palace, he saw a pyramid reflecting the red glow of the setting sun.  With glass and steel sides, the pyramid reached high into the sky, four entrances located in each cardinal direction.  Pulling alongside, he left the car behind and rushed down the stone walkway, almost unable to believe his eyes.  The sun had finally sunk below the horizon as Deckard pushed through the door and was confronted by one of the uniformed greeters.
       “Welcome,” the young Kazakh woman said, “to the Palace of Peace and Reconciliation.”
       “What is this place?”
       “The Palace of Peace and Reconciliation was built to unite the world's religions and to denounce all forms of violence,” she recited pleasantly.
       “Uh, is it okay for me to be here?”
       “The Palace is open to the public for another hour, sir.” the greeter warmly stated.
       “Thanks.”
       The entire bottom of the pyramid was an open-air lobby, painfully white and sterile.  Thousands of panes of glass lined the inside walls, effectively making a second inner pyramid minus the capstone, which was a separate room far above the atrium he stood in.  Looking for a way up, Deckard first found the way down, a set of stairs leading into the basement.
       Shuffling down the steps, Deckard found himself in the darkness of a vast opera hall.  The stage was empty but lit up, a few workers moving around, preparing the lighting for a later performance.  Like many others, this opera house was multi-terraced, but unlike other venues this one had a giant sun symbol painted on the roof above it.
       Turning, he dashed back up the stairs.  In the atrium, Deckard found the spot directly above the sun pictogram below.  Raised above the floor was another giant sun symbol, with rays of light reaching out in all directions.
       “Ma'am,” Deckard said, finding the greeter again.  “What is this room used for?”
       “Sometimes meetings of state, or traditional music, but this space was constructed by the British architect Lord Norman Foster as a meeting place for the world's religions.  All of the leaders of the world's religions met at a three-day forum for a roundtable discussion several years ago.”
       “I see.”
       “Please enjoy the rest of your visit, sir.”
       Finally he found the stairway that wound around the inside of the pyramid up to the apex.  While making his way upward, Deckard considered what he was seeing.  The public was entertained in the darkness of the opera while the world's religious leaders met for some kind of reconciliation around a sun pictogram. 
       Being a student of war also meant being a student of history, and as Deckard recalled, a scholar had once said that the pyramid was the perfect symbol of the secret doctrine, as well as the mystery schools that taught it.
       Taking a small elevator the rest of the