Borrowed Time

  OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR

  Stark's War

  STARK'S WAR

  STARK'S COMMAND

  STARK'S CRUSADE

  Paul Sinclair: JAG In Space

  A JUST DETERMINATION

  BURDEN OF PROOF

  RULE OF EVIDENCE

  AGAINST ALL ENEMIES

  The Lost Fleet

  DAUNTLESS

  FEARLESS

  COURAGEOUS

  VALIANT

  RELENTLESS

  VICTORIOUS

  The Lost Fleet: Beyond the Frontier

  DREADNAUGHT

  INVINCIBLE

  GUARDIAN

  The Lost Stars

  TARNISHED KNIGHT

  PERILOUS SHIELD

  Short Story Collections

  SWORDS AND SADDLES*

  BORROWED TIME*

  AD ASTRA*

  *available as e-books from Jabberwocky Literary Agency

  Borrowed Time: Short Stories

  Copyright © 2013 by John G. Hemry

  Cover art by Tiger Bright Studios.

  Collected for the first time in this e-book by Jabberwocky Literary Agency, Inc. in 2013

  ISBN 978-1-625670-168

  PUBLICATION HISTORY

  "Small Moments in Time"

  first published in Analog (December, 2004)

  "Where Does a Circle Begin"

  first published in Amazing Stories (Fall, 1999)

  "Working on Borrowed Time"

  first published in Analog (June, 2005)

  "These are the Times"

  first published in Analog (November, 2007)

  "Joan"

  first published in Analog (November, 2009)

  "Betty Knox and Dictionary Jones in The Mystery of the Missing Teenage Anachronisms"

  first published in Analog (March, 2011)

  "Crow's Feat"

  first published in Analog (November, 2000)

  CONTENTS

  Small Moments in Time

  Where Does a Circle Begin?

  Working on Borrowed Time

  These Are the Times

  Joan

  Betty Knox and Dictionary Jones in The Mystery of the Missing Teenage Anachronisms

  Crow's Feat

  Author's Note on Small Moments in Time

  Until AIDS, the Spanish Influenza was the worst plague of modern times. It also had a somewhat odd origin and an odd pattern of who it killed. Unlike most illnesses that are dangerous for the old and weak, the Spanish Influenza killed those who were the strongest. Young adults were at the most risk. Modern science has determined that was because the Spanish influenza killed by turning the human body’s own immune system against it. The stronger the immune system, the more at risk you were. Now, in recent decades, official rates for all sorts of auto-immune diseases where the immune system attacks the body have been rising dramatically. The reasons for this remain unknown, but what it has in common with the Spanish influenza is the paradox that a strong immune system can be the human body’s worst enemy. As a result, in this story when a time traveler gets involved in the Spanish Influenza, he faces the most difficult choice imaginable.

  Small Moments in Time

  The odd truth of working as a Temporal Interventionist is that some there and thens are better than others. History books make the past sound like one thrilling event after another. But for every Shoot Out at the OK Corral moment of excitement, there’s days, weeks, months and years of people just doing the things that people have to do. Things important enough to keep them alive and their society functioning. Plenty of the all-too-usual human drama, but not the stuff of great historical drama. Most people don’t believe that when I tell them, though.

  I leaned against the window frame, squinting against a dry, hot wind blowing across the Kansas prairie and into my face, bringing the gritty taste of fine dust into my mouth whenever I licked my lips. Sometimes I think about the fact that the dust might literally have once been part of someone I knew in another long ago there and then. Usually, I try not to think about that, but something about the apparently endless prairie and the seemingly endless wind brought it to mind now, along with memories of the Earps and their brief moment in another western town where the wind had always seemed to be blowing hard.

  The thin curtain drawn back from the hotel window fluttered in that wind. From my second story room, I could see down the main drag of Junction City, Kansas circa July, 1918 A.D. Such as it was. Lots of wood structures, some brick and some sandstone block construction, primitive internal combustion-driven automobiles contending for space on the road with horse-drawn wagons, and a few clouds in a faded blue sky as yet contaminated mainly only by that damned dust.

  A cluster of men wearing drab military uniforms came around a corner, offering a small reminder of the hosts currently grinding each other into the bloody mud of Europe, just as they’d been doing for the last four years here and now. I knew that particular war was finally drawing to a close. If I wanted to, I could find out the names of the soldiers I saw and learn which of them would die before the end of the war. I didn’t want to.

  Instead, I gathered up the coat local fashion demanded I wear despite the weather, wished I could do without the neck-tie local fashion likewise demanded, took a drink of the lukewarm water remaining in the pitcher the room boasted instead of a sink, and headed for one of the local grain suppliers.

  I had to walk into the sun to get there, but local fashion at least had the wisdom to also demand hats with brims, so I was protected from the worst of the glare. “Jeannie. Confirm my directions to this place.”

  “One more block down, then two blocks south. Just before the railroad track.”

  “Thanks.” Jeannie, my implanted personal assistant, had a wonderful navigational package. A female friend of mine had once remarked that my having Jeannie inside me was perfect for a man, since it meant I could ask for directions without anyone knowing I’d done so.

  The grain supply office was filled with the musty smell of a different kind of dust, this from the endless bushels of wheat which passed through the office or the nearby grain elevators. I could see the grain dust as well, clouds of it floating gently in the air currents, as I walked down the line of sample bags, looking for specific seeds for wheat variants which had gone extinct between now and the future I came from. A lot of people needed those extinct plant seeds, and needed them enough to be willing to pay the large sum needed to bring me to Kansas in the early years of the twentieth century.

  I found a couple of wheat varieties listed among the requirements Jeannie kept track of for me, as well as a bonus rye variant, and purchased sample bags with some of the better-than-real counterfeit local currency I’d outfitted myself with. Such are the exciting adventures of a Temporal Interventionist.

  I stopped by the town’s other major grain supplier and found a few more samples I needed, then walked back to the hotel to drop off my purchases and have lunch there. Lunch turned out to be fried chicken. Again. But at least it wasn’t chicken and dumplings. Again. The iced tea made up for it, though. Downtime farmers know how to make iced tea like nobody else.

  Conversation among the other hotel guests was mostly about The War, of course. One of the couples were put out because they couldn’t see their son, who was at the big Army base nearby. I shrugged it off as the usual sort of wartime security, until they said the word ‘quarantine.’

  Downtime diseases make any Temporal Interventionist nervous. You can’t develop an immunity or sometimes even get a vaccination for some bug which died out centuries before you were born. Even if decent medical records existed for the period, those records were only as good as the medical theory and technology of the time. And primitive armies were notorious for attracting epidemics. T
he little nano-bugs which helped out my immune system could deal with a lot of things, but you never knew just how virulent something unknown might turn out to be. I hurriedly finished my lunch and headed for my next objective in town, determined to get my work done and then out of here and now as fast as possible.

  “Jeannie, did any serious disease outbreaks take place in or near Junction City, Kansas in 1918 A.D.?”

  “Only the Spanish Influenza.”

  Anyone watching would’ve seen me jerk with momentary shock. “Is that all?” It’d been a long time since the Spanish Influenza when I’d first learned about it, but it still held the dubious record of being the deadliest epidemic in history, which was why I immediately recognized the term. “Here?”

  “It apparently originated in Camp Funston.”

  “I thought the big Army installation here was named Fort Riley.”

  “That’s correct.”

  I felt briefly reassured, then remembered why ‘artificial intelligence’ is still a disparaging term. “Is Camp Funston related in any way to Fort Riley?”

  “Camp Funston is located on Fort Riley.”

  “Thanks for elaborating. How serious is the threat at this time and place?”

  Jeannie, as always, sounded authoritative and calm. “Very limited, which is why there is no disease warning flagged on this here and now. The early phases of the Spanish Influenza were widespread in some areas but had low mortality rates consistent with usual influenza outbreaks.”

  That was reassuring. “When did the later phases begin?”

  “August, 1918.”

  Plenty of time to work with. Still . . . “Here?”

  “No. Simultaneous or near-simultaneous outbreaks of a much more deadly variant of Spanish Influenza will erupt in Freetown in Sierra Leone, Brest in France, and Boston in the United States.”

  That was even more reassuring, but also odd. “Simultaneous or near-simultaneous outbreaks, in three different widely-dispersed areas, of the same deadly variant?”

  “Yes.”

  “How could . . . how did that happen?”

  “Insufficient data.”

  “Just in your database, or insufficient data, period?”

  “My database contains all information available in our time of origin.”

  Very odd. But I’d just have to live with that oddity. I wasn’t surprised no one had yet made jumps into downtime to investigate whatever had brought about the Spanish Influenza’s multiple simultaneous deadly assaults. Jumping into plague zones isn’t the smartest thing to do. In the case of the Spanish Influenza, for which I confirmed with Jeannie a specific vaccine had never been developed, it could be suicidal. And I was only here and now to collect extinct seeds, not to try to stick my nose into dangerous and unresolved medical mysteries.

  But I’d only made half a block toward my next destination when I got diverted anyway.

  “I’m detecting a nearby temporal field,” Jeannie advised.

  Another jumper here and now? There’s not that much demand for extinct seeds. “Coming or going?”

  “From the temporal jump field echo it’s an arrival.”

  I looked around, trying to remember what the street had looked like moments before and whether there was an extra person suddenly out there now. Instead, I saw a rapidly forming crowd peering down at someone or something on the ground across the street from me. I weighed the term ‘Spanish Influenza’ and the risks of mixing with people against the chance that the crowd might be forming around a fellow Temporal Interventionist, perhaps one who’d been injured.

  By the time I got there, though, the crowd was breaking up. A pale, skinny man was being helped to his feet by a stout character. Jeannie did a quick visual diagnosis. “Seizure disorder.”

  “The pale guy just had a seizure?”

  “Correct.”

  “I guess that rules him out as the person who jumped in.” I meant the comment to be sardonic, but Jeannie surprised me.

  “He is carrying a jump mechanism. The fading field signature indicates it is a primitive design.”

  I took another look. The man was indeed skinny, with the look of someone who’d never gotten enough to eat. He was tall, though, like someone who ought to be very big and healthy if he wasn’t starving. The skin seemed paler than a seizure could account for, and I wondered if he was anemic as well. His eyes blinked, watering heavily, and the man sneezed violently several times before he fished a handkerchief out of one pocket and held it over his mouth and nose.

  “His clothes appear to be original to here and now,” Jeannie added. “Their fabric has indications it has aged substantially since its manufacture.”

  The sick man in the old clothes smiled weakly at his helper, waving off further offers of assistance, and stumbled away, one hand carrying some sort of valise. If the jump mechanism was as primitive as Jeannie thought, it might in there instead of being an implant. I saw the jumper pause after several steps and look around in the fashion of someone who was unfamiliar with their surroundings. But as soon as his eyes fell on the same hotel where I was staying he headed that way as if he knew the place on sight. More strangeness. “Any idea when he’s from, Jeannie?”

  “I cannot correlate the apparent age of the garments and his apparent ethnic mix with any specific uptime period which would account for his physical condition.”

  “Maybe he’s from inside a closed loop.” Somewhen created by an attempted temporal intervention, and then choked off by a countervailing intervention, so it’d been but never been.

  “A loop born of a late Twentieth Century full-scale nuclear war might correlate to his appearance and the apparent age of his garments.”

  An ugly possibility, but that could certainly explain the man’s physical ailments. “Why would someone from that kind of loop come here?”

  “Insufficient data.”

  A refugee fleeing a horrible future and seeking what he thought was an idyllic rural past? That wasn’t impossible, but if so I needed to see what he was up to. An amateur messing around in my history might create any number of inadvertent interventions with big consequences down the road. If he did intend some deliberate intervention, now was an important period, but he’d picked an odd here to do it. All the Temporal Interventionists I knew of in 1918 A.D. were working in Europe or in national capitals. I’d picked 1918 myself only because the year was so well mapped for temporal jumps. Like me, though, this guy had jumped into a here where nothing of great importance had ever happened.

  Except the start of the Spanish Influenza. But that’d apparently already been underway for a while. “When were the first reports of the Spanish Influenza?”

  “March, 1918 A.D.”

  “And he just got here. So he couldn’t have brought that germ with him and introduced it by accident.”

  “Not unless he had an earlier or subsequent jump to the earlier date,” Jeannie reminded me.

  Oh, yeah. But that made very little sense. Why jump back a few months, or forward a few months, in a small Kansas town in 1918? Even if jumps weren’t extremely expensive, they also involve physical stress, and my unknown traveler obviously wasn’t up to the stress of pleasure trips. Nor did wherever and whenever he came from seem wealthy enough to pony up money for jumps that frequent.

  I sat down on a handy bench and thought about it, my eyes on the door to the hotel. I was still thinking when the jumper came out again, his handkerchief once again over his nose and mouth, and walked unsteadily down the street. The other hand still held the valise. I waited until he’d gone a good distance past me and then followed, ambling along as if I were talking a pleasure walk in the Kansas heat and wind and dust.

  “He appears to be headed toward Fort Riley,” Jeannie advised.

  “Why is an obviously physically frail man heading for the place where a lot of sick people are located?”

  “Insufficient data.”

  “Somehow I knew you’d say that.”

  The swelling of Fort Ril
ey’s population due to the demands of the so-called Great War had resulted in a fairly steady stream of transit between Junction City and the not-too-distant main entrance to the Fort, which far from being a stereotypical wooden stockade turned out to actually be a pretty large expanse of northeast Kansas dotted with military facilities and housing.

  The jumper didn’t try to enter, instead mingling with those outside the gate. I wandered close enough to hear him asking about the epidemic. How many were sick? Had many died? Were people worried? Understandable questions, which attracted no special interest from the locals. Their replies were fairly reassuring, speaking of not as many sick as before, not too many dead, and a general feeling that the epidemic was winding down. After asking those same questions of numerous people, including soldiers heading on and off the Fort, and getting roughly the same answers from all of them, the jumper went back toward town. The whole process should’ve reassured me, except for the unmistakable depression the jumper radiated on the way back to Junction City. He didn’t seem to regard the information he’d acquired as good news.

  The trip had clearly worn out the jumper, who stumbled back to the hotel. I waited for a few minutes after he’d entered, then went in myself and cornered the desk clerk. “Did a tall, skinny, pale-looking fellow just come in?”

  The clerk nodded. “You just missed him. Goin’ to his room, I expect. Sickly fellow. I’d have thought he’d be better by now.”

  “You’ve seen him before?”

  “Yes, sir. He stayed here a few months back.”

  “A few months?” I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature.

  “That’s right. Um, lessee, that’d have been . . . ” The clerk frowned, checked his ledger, then nodded. “February. Yes, sir. Checked in February the 26th and checked out March 5th.”

  And the Spanish Influenza had first been noted around here in March. I faked a smile I didn’t feel. “That’s my friend, all right. What room did you say he was staying in?”

  “I didn’t.” The clerk grinned at his own joke. “3B, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Had the man jumped ahead a few months to avoid the disease he might’ve carried here? But if so, why had he seemed so morose after finding out at the Fort that the epidemic seemed to be under control? Depression over knowing he could’ve caused the deaths which had occurred already? I had too many questions to which Jeannie would only answer ‘insufficient data.’