Borrowed Time by Jack Campbell Page A

sure psycho-blond’s weapon had vanished along with her. Sometimes the strangest things get left behind even after the reason for their existing had looped out. But that’s another story. “Where’s your gun?”
    Pam smiled. “Already on me. But thanks for thinking of that. Now let’s go.”
    Pam and I ran again, this time out of the observatory. Once at the door, we slackened our pace to a walk, moving nonchalantly away from the growing crowd around the remains of His Majesty’s brave military men. I felt sick again, even though I knew that because of historical circumstances their deaths Here and Now wouldn’t even be a drop in the tides of history. Odds were that all of those soldiers would have died anyway within a few years, between 1914 and 1918.
    Or during the influenza epidemic that started in 1918. But that’s also another story and not one I like remembering. Then my shoeless foot hit a stone and another pain occupied my attention.
    We soon entered a built-up area where the streets meandered past still-closed shops and pubs. I wondered what the local time was, thinking it must be getting close to dawn. Pam finally paused and set down the trunk. “It’s high time we jumped out of here. The local cops are going to be looking for anyone who might know anything about those dead men. And as long as this homing device is still Here and Now there’s a chance someone might try to retrieve it. Do you want it?”
    I had Jeannie calculate the cost of jumping that extra mass uptime and winced. “Not unless you don’t want it.”
    “Okay. I think I know some people who’ll give me a few bucks for it.” She smiled and offered her hand. “Nice working with you.”
    “Likewise.” We shook hands, then I gathered my courage. “Pam, what would you think about getting together on a non-business basis?”
    “I’d like that.” She named a date about a century uptime from me, then saw my expression. “Are you up or down from that?”
    “Down.” I named my own date and Pam had the grace to look disappointed. There’s expensive get-togethers, and then there’s going on jumps for get-togethers, which only the incredibly rich and idle can afford. I didn’t fit either category.
    “Well, maybe something will work out,” Pam offered. “Come up and see me sometime.”
    “If I can, I will.”
    “Too bad we can’t see the sites of London together. Thanks again for the help. And the company. See you around.” Pam smiled, blew me a kiss, and then jumped uptime, leaving me gazing at the empty place on the sidewalk where she’d been.
    I checked in my pockets, confirming that my stash of ill-gotten cash had dwindled to a few small coins I suspected even beggars would turn up their noses at. Both of my feet hurt from running on cobblestones and the occasional tree trunk or rock.
    There I stood in Edwardian London, with no money, no girl, and no shoes, doubtless being sought at this moment by numerous Sherlock Holmes-wannabes from Scotland Yard. Hail the conquering hero.
    “Jeannie, prepare the jump back home.” Maybe I’d be able to hit up my friends for contributions to pay for my trip here and back. Bill sure as heck owed me some, but professors didn’t tend to have large bank accounts and he might not even remember the entire incident. “And look up any organizations that might give me some sort of reward for saving London and ensuring Hitler’s defeat. That ought to be worth something.”
    “You will have to convince them that the history they know is the result of your Intervention,” Jeannie reminded me.
    “I know. Hopefully they’ll accept your files on this trip.” When you’re a Temporal Interventionist, history is what you make of it, but you usually don’t make enough from making history. I faced east, where a gradual lightening of the night sky foretold the sun still rising on the British Empire. “Let’s go home, Jeannie.”

Author's Note on These Are the Times
    Our favorite Temporal