The Song of Time’s Current

When funding is cut, the time peering team turns to other means for support.

In the year 2147, the First Time Peering Program (FTPP) was humanity’s boldest leap yet—a fusion of quantum temporal mechanics and neural mapping that allowed scientists to glimpse moments from the past with unprecedented clarity. The catch? It was wildly expensive. Governments and corporations had pulled funding, deeming it a “frivolous history lesson.” But Dr. Frank Stein, nicknamed FrankieStien by his cheeky research team, had a plan to keep the program alive: monetize the past’s greatest untapped resource—its music and stories.


FrankieStien, a wiry man with wild silver hair and a penchant for mismatched socks, wasn’t your typical scientist. He’d once been a busker in New Chicago, strumming a guitar made from recycled drone parts. When he joined the FTPP, he saw more than dusty artifacts in the temporal streams—he saw performances that could captivate the world. “Why study bones when we can hear their songs?” he’d say, grinning. His team, a ragtag crew of grad students and eccentric coders, shared his vision. They rigged the temporal scopes to prioritize audio, capturing the raw, unfiltered voices of history.


The FTPP’s breakthrough came early. Peering into a Neolithic gathering by a river in what would later be called Brittany, they recorded a group of 20 chanting in unison, their voices weaving a haunting melody about the stars. The rhythm? A thunderous beat created by the group cupping their hands and plunging them into the shallow water, sending waves crashing in syncopated fury. The “water pounding” technique, as Frankie dubbed it, was primal, visceral—a sound that made modern drum machines feel sterile. The vocalists, especially a woman whose voice soared with a clarity that could shatter glass, left the team speechless. “Adele who?” quipped assistant researcher Lila, uploading the clip to their archives.


Frankie realized they had gold. The team began scouring history for more. From a Bronze Age festival in the Indus Valley, where a hundred hands slapped river water to drive a frenzied dance, to a 12th-century Andean village where a singer’s voice seemed to bend the wind itself, the FTPP’s archives grew into a treasure trove. Water pounding was everywhere—Mesopotamian priests used it to honor river gods, Polynesian storytellers to punctuate epic tales, even 18th-century Caribbean rebels to signal uprisings. Each splash carried the pulse of its people.


To fund the program, Frankie and his team launched Time’s Stage, a weekly global broadcast. Every Sunday, they presented the best performances culled from their temporal dives, curated like a talent show from the ages. The setup was simple: a holographic stage in New Chicago’s Unity Dome, where Frankie, in his signature lab coat and neon sneakers, introduced the acts. His assistants—Lila, a sound engineer with a knack for isolating vocals; Raj, a coder who could stabilize a temporal signal in seconds; and Taro, a historian with an encyclopedic memory—handled production, weaving context into each performance.


The first episode aired to a skeptical world. Then came the Sumerian singer, a woman whose voice, backed by the rhythmic slap of hands in the Euphrates, felt like it could summon storms. Viewers were hooked. Social feeds exploded with comments: “This makes autotune sound like a crime.” Subscriptions poured in, each viewer paying a small fee to access the FTPP’s growing library. By week three, when they showcased a 9th-century Viking skald whose water-pounded saga of sea monsters outshone any modern rock opera, the program was fully funded.


Each episode of Time’s Stage had a theme. One week, “Voices of Defiance” featured a 17th-century Yoruba griot whose protest song, backed by the booming rhythm of hands in a lagoon, rallied a village against invaders. Another, “Laments of the Lost,” showcased a 3rd-century Chinese poetess whose mournful ballad, accompanied by the slow, deliberate splash of lake water, left audiences weeping. The water pounding unified them all—a universal beat that transcended time, tying humanity’s stories together.


Frankie’s team worked tirelessly. Lila fine-tuned the audio, stripping away temporal static to let the voices shine. Raj hacked the scopes to peer deeper, catching a 14th-century Mongolian throat singer whose harmonies seemed to vibrate the earth itself. Taro wove narratives, explaining how water pounding wasn’t just rhythm but ritual—a way to commune with rivers, gods, or each other. Frankie, ever the showman, hosted with infectious enthusiasm, often joking, “If I could sing like that, I’d still be busking!”


The world changed. Music schools taught water pounding. Pop stars tried (and failed) to replicate the raw power of a 6th-century Polynesian chant. The FTPP’s funds grew, allowing upgrades to their tech and deeper dives into history. But Frankie kept the heart of it simple: every song, every story, was a thread in humanity’s tapestry. “We’re not just saving the program,” he told his team one night, watching a hologram of a 2nd-century Saharan tribe pound a desert oasis into song. “We’re saving ourselves.”

Time’s Stage ran for years, each episode a reminder that the past wasn’t silent—it sang, it splashed, it roared. And FrankieStien, the scientist-showman, made sure the world never stopped listening.