Infinity Breach

Barnaby shook his head in disbelief, his tousled red hair flopping this way and that. “Gods, Professor?” he scoffed. “They’re just stories.”

Flag turned back to his companions, his eyes playing across the dark-colored blade. “The artifact before us would suggest otherwise, Barnaby,” Flag stated, an ominous edge creeping into his voice.

Both Little Ant and Barnaby B. Barnaby had worked alongside Abraham Flag for many years, racking up a score of adventures across the globe. Neither man had ever seen their de facto leader look as concerned as he did at that moment.

Little Ant shrugged. “You really think a stone knife is gonna do much hurt to anyone, Chief?” he asked.

Flag’s gaze met with Little Ant’s, and such was its penetrating quality that, even though the little linguist had known the impressive man of science for a dozen years, he found himself shying away. “If this blade belonged to the Annunaki, then we should presume that there is far more to it than meets the eye.”

“Like what?” Little Ant asked, a quaver in his voice. “You think it’s got one of them death rays or something hidden inside?”

“I held it for less than a minute,” Flag considered, “and in that time I could feel that something about it was different. Had you not noticed?”

Flag’s companions looked disconcerted. They were familiar with his prodigious powers of observation, but the man was usually so sure of himself that it was a rare day that he would request confirmation from anyone else.

“What kind of a ‘something,’ Professor?” Barnaby asked.

“Yeah,” Little Ant added. “We been with this thing for a coupla days an’ I didn’t notice no ‘somethings.’”

“It is subtle,” Flag admitted, “but the knife has a vibrating quality. Infinitesimal, I’ll grant you, but it is ever moving, as though in a constant state of flux.”

“It looks solid enough,” Barnaby stated, “but what you’re describing sounds more like it’s made of gas.”

“It does indeed have the appearance of a solid object,” Flag assured him, removing and pocketing his white gloves, “and yet I would wager that your description that it is made of gas is—at the subatomic level—a reasonable analysis.”

Then the professor’s tanned hand reached forward, the fingers spread widely as they closed in on the knife. But he did not touch the curious weapon. Instead, Abraham Flag held his hand in what appeared to be an open grip, running his widespread fingers along the very edges of the blade, never once touching it. “It has an aura,” Flag confirmed. “I would need to perform a full analysis before I can be certain of what that aura is, but I can assure you that it is there.”

Flag’s companions looked at each other, utterly baffled. Although Flag was renowned as a man of science, he was in fact a polymath, a scholar of many disciplines. In combining the many great bodies of knowledge that he had absorbed, Flag could bring his analytical mind to bear on the most esoteric of subjects. Even so, the words he was speaking now seemed to belong to an utterly different world view from the one to which he subscribed, and that paradigm shift caught his companions off guard for just a second.

Little Ant was the first to speak, voicing his reservations in his famously cheery way. “It sounds like a load of old hooey to me, Chief.”

Barnaby’s face turned red and he glared at the diminutive linguist. “‘There are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy’,” the archaeologist assured him angrily, quoting Shakespeare. “You buffoon,” he added, shaking his head.

“Hey, who ya callin’ a buffoon, you dust-diggin’ goliath?” Little Ant snapped back.

Flag ignored them. He had seen this argument played out a thousand times by his companions, and he knew that, despite appearances, it was an amicable way of letting off steam. Instead, it was the ancient knife that played on Flag’s thoughts. It had to have lain at the bottom of the ocean for thousands of years before being brought back to the surface with the shift of the tectonic plates that had revealed Isle Terandoa. Without proper study, Flag couldn’t be certain, but his instincts told him that this strange stone knife was incredibly dangerous.

DEMY OCTAVO HURRIED through the dense undergrowth of Isle Terandoa, propelling herself with swift strides of her long, shapely legs. The U.S. Navy clearly considered the island to be secure, she realized as she pushed thick fronds aside and sidled close to the wire fence that surrounded the naval base. There was the occasional sentry patrol, but their movements were languid and unhurried, a sign that it was considered routine rather than a conscious act to protect the base from potential infiltrators. They may well be able to repel a fleet of warships, but they were utterly unprepared for a single interloper.

The beautiful Signorina Octavo brushed aside the heavy leaves of a salmonberry bush, sweeping its rich pink flowers and yellowish fruit from her path. The wire fence stood barely six feet ahead of her now, and just a little beyond that, she could see the window to the small office where Abraham Flag consulted with his companions on the nature of the ancient Annunaki dagger. The window itself was closed, in spite of the heat of the day, and the dark-haired woman sneered with irritation at not being able to hear the discussion within.

No matter. Flag had led her right to the priceless knife, and its acquisition was all that concerned Octavo now. Whatever the nature of that strange stone blade, it could be examined by the fascist scientists of her native Italy as soon as she returned with it.

Her gloved fingers reached down, and Demy Octavo pulled one of the silver-handled Berettas from its resting place at her hip. She flipped the safety catch on the left-hand side, pulling it toward her to engage the weapon.

A thin, heartless smile creased those luscious, falu-red lips as the glamorous Italian special agent aimed the pistol at the tall figure pacing back and forth behind the office window. In a moment, she assured herself, her hated enemy, Abraham Flag, would be no more.

THE AIR WAS BECOMING noticeably warmer in the tiny office as Abraham Flag walked back and forth, weighing thoughts of the Annunaki blade with his razor-keen intellect. The uncomfortable warmth was the effect of three bodies in such an enclosed space, he knew, but that mild discomfort made him conscious of something else: his need for privacy while he studied this queer object from another time.

“I shall take the stone knife to my laboratory,” Flag stated, his words cutting into the friendly bickering that was continuing between his two loyal companions.

Even as the words left his mouth, Flag sensed something behind him. He spun on his heel, turning to face the window at the exact instant that its glass pane shattered and a 9 mm bullet raced over his shoulder. Missing Flag by a fraction of an inch, the bullet zipped across the tiny room before embedding itself in the far wall with a dull thud.

“We’re under attack!” Flag cried as his companions took cover behind the desk.

As he spoke, Flag saw a familiar figure dressed in a brown leather flight suit moving just beyond the shattered window. It was Demy Octavo, leaping down from the wire fence that marked the border of the naval base. Flag was momentarily distracted as he admired her for a fraction of a second, her lithe, trim body like that of a dancer, her long, dark hair swirling in the island breeze. And then she raised the pistol in her right hand, and another 9 mm slug ripped through the space where the windowpane had been just a moment ago, blasting over Flag’s head and rushing onward into the room.

Abraham Flag did not take cover, however. Rather, he was already in motion, a whirling dervish as the glass of the window crunched beneath his booted feet. In a second, Demy Octavo leaped through the window, snapping her heels high in the air and passing through the frame without so much as brushing it, in a feat of incredible muscle control.

While Abraham Flag had been known to kill, he preferred not to arm himself with a gun. He had no objection to the use of ultimate force if it was required; he simply felt that carrying a gun was largely unnecessary when other means existed to halt a foe’s progress. As such, the incredible man of science now found himself unarmed and staring down the loaded barrel of a Beretta Model 1915.

“Good afternoon, Professor Flag,” the beautiful gun mistress said in English, her throaty voice displaying just the faintest hint of her exotic accent.

Flag saw the slightest hesitation in the woman’s eyes, as Octavo went to pull the trigger. He used that momentary hesitation—which could have been no more than an eighth of a second—to shift his head out of the path of the 9 mm slug as it left the barrel and raced through the air toward him. Then, as the bullet clipped past Flag’s ear, his hand whipped out and snatched the pistol before Octavo could loose another shot.

Octavo cried out as the pistol left her hand, along with her glove, which was caught up by Flag’s swift action. As her glove fell to the floor with a slap, the beautiful Italian turned on Flag, hissing like an enraged cat.

Abraham Flag’s eyes never left Octavo’s, but his fingers worked in a blur of movement. In less than two seconds, he had deconstructed the Beretta with one hand, dropping the component parts to the hard floor of the tiny office. But that minuscule distraction had been enough. As the barrel, grip and trigger guard tinkered to the wooden floor, Demy Octavo’s fist snapped out, connecting with Flag’s square jaw.

Caught off guard, Flag took a step backward, reeling from the savage blow. That momentary stumble threatened to cost Flag—and by extension the U.S. government—plenty. Signorina Octavo swooped down at the object resting on the desk like a hawk swooping down on a field mouse, snatching the stone knife in her right hand. She was still moving as Flag recovered, her tall body twisting as she jumped back to the window.

“Look out, Professor!” Barnaby B. Barnaby called from his hiding place behind the desk. “That incorrigible Italian ingenue is escaping. And she’s got our knife!”

Octavo leaped once more through the shattered window, an angry snarl marring her flawless features. She had the ancient artifact, but she had lost one of her precious Beretta pistols during the scuffle. Landing on the tarmac beyond the broken window, Demy Octavo took off at a run, the heels of her Italian leather boots clip-clopping against the ground as she made her way past the administration block.

“Where’s she goin’, Chief?” Little Ant asked as he watched the woman hurry away.

Instantaneously, Flag recalled the layout of the naval base. “She’s heading toward the main dock of the base!” he exclaimed. “Signorina Octavo is either planning to steal a boat…or my plane. Come on, let’s go.” As he said those final words, Flag was at the door to the office, running out into the corridor at a fast clip.

Outside, Demy Octavo had already reached the long airstrip where Flag has landed his experimental aircraft less than an hour before. She was as graceful as a gazelle as her arms pumped, and her long legs strove forward, the ancient knife clutched firmly in her right hand.

Two sailors were refueling Flag’s curious air vehicle as Octavo appeared from around the side of the two-story administration building. Nearby, another group of sailors—eight in all—were busy at work refitting a one-man submarine. The sub was still in the testing stages, the parts laid out along the concrete skirt beside the airstrip. All of the naval personnel looked up at the sound of running feet, and were surprised and baffled when they saw the striking form of the Italian special agent sprinting toward them.

Behind Octavo, the door to the administration block crashed open and Professor Flag came running out with his two mismatched partners hot on his heels. “Stop that woman!” Flag bellowed, his powerful voice needing no augmentation to be heard clear across the other side of the sunbaked airstrip.

One of the sailors who had been refueling Flag’s aircraft held up his hand, ordering Octavo to stop right where she was. In return, the cruel Italian doyenne brought up her right hand—the one that held the ancient stone knife—and swiped the blade across the unsuspecting sailor’s face.

With an agonized cry, the sailor fell to the smooth blacktop strip, a sudden crimson streak marring his youthful features.

Although they were rare, there were times when Abraham Flag regretted his policy of never carrying a gun. As he watched that brave sailor fall to his knees, the young man’s face a ruined mosaic of pouring blood, he felt that pang of regret once more. Despite Flag’s years training his body to an incredible level of physical fitness, Octavo had had too much of a head start and Flag’s own actions had not been fast enough. Now the young lad would wear that hideous scar for the rest of his life, evidence of the coldhearted cruelty of Mussolini’s fascist desires. Armed with the swift justice of a bullet, Flag might have halted Octavo in her tracks, wounded or killed her before she could cause any further damage.

As regrets darkened Abraham Flag’s mind, Demy Octavo drew her second Beretta handgun from its holster and began to wave it at the shocked sailors standing along the airstrip.

“Everybody keep back,” she warned, her voice as harsh as the ugly punishment she had just doled out to the sailor.

Showing their hands, the sailors backed away, their eyes fixed on the muzzle of that lethal handgun. But Abraham Flag’s eyes had been drawn elsewhere. Instead of stopping, he drove himself harder, running at full speed to catch up to the Italian infiltrator, outpacing his companions with his huge strides.

Still holding the sailors at bay with her silver-handled Beretta, Demy Octavo turned at the sound of Flag’s running feet. “Stop right where you are, Professor,” she ordered, “or their blood will be on your hands.”