"Yes."

  I said to Chen, "What's happened? I thought you said we were taking a shortcut!"

  "We did take one," she insisted. "We got here in a fraction of the time it would have taken if I had never been a talented purveyor of black market cargo."

  I realized she must be right, because I'd only vomited a few times. If we had been in that wormhole for "ages," I'd be skeletal now—or dead.

  "Then we've traveled into the near future." In my panic, I reached for Chen. "You didn't tell me we would time travel!"

  "Gurgh. Mwerr guuu."

  "What?" I realized I was throttling her. "Oh. Sorry."

  She shoved me away. Rubbing her throat, she said, "You stay on your side of the bridge at all times from now on."

  "It’s not really a bridge. More like a cockpit."

  Over the comm, Sparrow said wanly, "I was hoping for a more experienced rescue team."

  "I'm so sorry, Sparrow," I said. "We seem to have accidentally time traveled."

  "No, we didn't," said Chen. "According to my chronometer, we're right on time. It took less than one galactic day to get here."

  "Yeah," said Sparrow, "but that's about eleven metric days. During which all hell broke loose here."

  "Metric days?" I repeated.

  Chen frowned. "Metric?"

  Sparrow asked, "Peacock didn't tell you we're on metric time here?"

  "No," said Chen with a disgusted sigh.

  "To be fair," I said, "I don't think Peacock knows."

  "How can they be on metric time?" Chen demanded. "Who does that anymore? It's so last empire."

  "Last empire ... Oh, hey, I get it!" I said into the comm, "Galactic Commonwealth, right?"

  Sparrow confirmed.

  "Okay," I said, "that makes sense now."

  "No, it doesn't," said Chen. "The Galactic Commonwealth ended centuries ago—in every system of time."

  "Yes," I said, "and as we learned in dip history classes, using metric time was one of the reasons the whole empire disintegrated."

  "Right," said Agent Sparrow. "Because metric time was too rigid to function well with galactic rotation, time paradoxes, solar variations, and interstellar travel."

  "Exactly," I said. "Therefore the empire outgrew the Commonwealth's logistic ability to manage it."

  "And so nobody uses metric time anymore," said Chen. "For good reason."

  "Actually," said Sparrow, "a number of systems do still use it. It's just not well known within the GU."

  "It's only used by former Commonwealth systems that never reverted to solar time after the empire broke up, and that also have not joined the GU and switched to GMT," I said. "So it's not very common."

  "Much as I've enjoyed this little history lesson," said Chen, "I think we should focus on the here and now."

  "Of course," I said, recognizing how serious the crisis was. "Back on Vatican IV, there's still time to secure the peace," I mused. "But on Vatican IX, it's too late."

  "Everything happens faster in metric time," Sparrow said apologetically.

  "Yes, I know," I said.

  "Metric days are shorter," he said.

  "We know," said Chen.

  "Metric minutes—ridiculously short."

  "We know."

  There was a long silence.

  "All right, we need to decide our next move," I said firmly. "We can't waste more time pondering time."

  "Well, I, for one, would really like to be rescued," said Sparrow. "I came here to secure the peace, not to become a casualty of war."

  As if to underscore the danger, a battleship on Chen's main screen blew up upon sustaining a direct missile hit.

  "Sparrow, where exactly are you?" I asked.

  "On Pius's flagship. We boarded it after my vessel was sabotaged."

  Chen shook her head. "I can't get closer to it without risking a hit."

  "Sparrow, can your pilot fly a shuttle out of there and rendezvous with us at a safe distance from the battle?"

  "My pilot is somewhere down on the planet, enjoying what is reported to be a bender of epic proportions."

  "Oh. In that case, can you pilot a shuttle?"

  "Sure. I'll just revive the handy piloting-a-shuttle-through-battle skills I learned at diplomacy school."

  I tried again. "Is there anyone on board with you who also wants to be rescued who can pilot a shuttle?"

  "Do we really have time for me to run a survey of Pius's whole crew?"

  "Hang on, Sparrow," said Chen, doing some calculations. "I may have a plan."

  "Good," he replied. "I'm aging fast in metric time."

  "Hm ... yes, I think this will work," muttered Chen, staring at her navigation console. Then she said into the comm, "Sparrow, you need to get Pius himself to shuttle you to my ship."

  "Wait, what?" I said to her. "Why?"

  "Pius is leading his forces in battle," said Sparrow. "I think he's a little too busy right now to give me a lift to—"

  "Get him," Chen insisted, looking excited. "Tell him I think we have a solution. I think we can do it, after all!"

  "Do what?" I asked.

  "We can get him to the Firg-xulb on time!"

  "I think Lark's right," said Sparrow. "The cough in the middle should be more gurgly."

  My resentful stomach was completely empty on our reverse trip through the wormhole—which was merciful, since the whole nausea-inducing, nosebleed-producing experience seemed to last much longer this time.

  "This is taking forever," I groaned.

  "Try tilting your head back," advised Sparrow, crammed into the cockpit between me and Chen.

  "No, that just makes the nausea worse."

  "In that case, if you could at least try not to bleed on my uniform?" Sparrow requested. "This is all I've got to wear to the ceremony."

  "Aren't we there yet?" I asked weakly. "Why is this taking so long?"

  Piloting the ship through the wormhole, Chen said, "Because my calculations didn't take into account that Pius would bring his whole entourage with him, including a ... a ... what is that thing?" We heard it trumpet loudly again from the cargo hold. "Some sort of mastodon?"

  "It's going to get hungry soon," Sparrow said anxiously.

  "So we're carrying a lot more weight and mass than I expected," said Chen. "It's throwing us off schedule, I'm afraid."

  She had calculated that by traveling in the reverse direction at appropriate velocity, going against galactic rotation rather than with it, we could still complete our mission and reach Saint Peter before the Firg-xulb began in galactic time, and—through the sort of paradox that made my head hurt—thus prevent the battle that had commenced in metric time at Vatican IX.

  "Chen, I don't mean to nag," I said, "but if we don't get out of here soon, the war will recommence in galactic time, too, and we'll be too late to do anything about it."

  "You are nagging," she snapped.

  Directly below us in the passenger quarters, we heard some ritual singing as Pius and his entourage optimistically prepared for the Firg-xulb.

  Chen muttered, "I don't even want to know what's in those snacks they brought with them."

  "You mean who," said Sparrow.

  "You just had to say that, didn't you?" I heaved a little.

  Shortly after leaving Vatican IX's system, I had transmitted a message to Special Envoy Borlov that we had Pius on board and were en route Vatican IV, where we'd collect Honorius just as Cazxl was ending, then proceed to Saint Peter. We expected to get there just in time—as long as nothing else went wrong.

  "Ah-hah!" Chen cried, as we emerged into regular space. "We're through!"

  I sagged back into my flight seat, relieved beyond words to be out of the wormhole.

  Sparrow asked, "Are we where we're supposed to be?

  Chen checked her navigation console. "Yes! We're on approach to Vatican IV."

  "Excellent work, Lieutenant."

  "All we need to do now is ..." Chen paused. "Uh-oh."

  "Uh-oh?" I sat up. "What is uh-oh?"

  Chen was looking at her chronometer. "Um ..."

  Sparrow asked, "What's wrong?"

  The comm system beeped an alert. A moment later, Borlov appeared on the screen. "Agent Lark, where in the blazing bloody universe are you?"

  Sparrow whispered, "Peacock seems stressed."

  "Oh, y'think?" I said.

  "I heard that," snapped Borlov.

  Chen said, "Slight miscalculation, I'm afraid."

  "How slight?" I asked apprehensively.

  "The added mass and weight, combined with velocity and direction ..."

  "What?" I said to her. "What's happened?"

  Borlov boomed, "Lark, report immediately! Where are you?"

  Chen said to me, "You noticed the journey seemed a little long?"

  "Yes," I replied tersely, "as I mentioned several times."

  "Wormhole travel can be a tad unpredictable."

  I reached for Chen. "Just tell me!"

  Sparrow removed my hands from Chen's throat and said, "Lark, maybe you should stay on your side of the bridge."

  Borlov shouted through the comm, "The Firg-xulb is supposed to start any moment! Where are Pius and Honorius? Where are you?"

  "We hit our spatial mark but overshot our temporal target," Chen said.

  "What?"

  Chen gestured to her chronometer. "It's three-point-five-zero-dash-B-L-G-eight-four. Right now."

  "What?"

  "She's saying," said Sparrow wearily, "the ceremony is scheduled to start any moment. Peacock's right. We're not going to make it to the Firg-xulb."

  Borlov said, "Sparrow, your pronunciation is terrible."

  "Hang on," I said, thinking hard. I took a deep breath. "The ceremony starts any moment in galactic time."

  "Yes," said Sparrow, "so we've failed."

  "Not necessarily." I studied the personal device on my wrist, rapidly scrolling through cultural reference data.

  My companions stared at me while Borlov made threats and demands over the comm system.

  I found what I was looking for. "Here it is! I've got it!"

  "Got what?" asked Sparrow.

  "Chen," I said, "you take us into orbit around Vatican IV. Sparrow, you contact Honorius and make sure he gets on board—right away!"

  "Why? It's too late to escort him to—"

  "No, it's not!" I said. "Not if we use Trisgladian-Irgh-Toxl time."

  Borlov heard me and made dismissive noises. "No one has used that system in centuries."

  "No one has held a Firg-xulb in centuries, either," I said. "But if everyone involved in the ceremony agrees to switch to the ancient Trisgladian-Irgh-Toxl calendar, then we can still get our passengers to the Firg-xulb before it starts."

  "But—"

  "You're a diplomat, Peacock," I said. "Persuade them."

  And so it was that, using an unmapped smuggler's route and an archaic system of time, our team was able to prevent a war that had already started and to escort our passengers on time to the ceremony they were late for.

  Sadly, Chen and I did not get promoted for our work; the GU is pretty bureaucratic and promotion is all too often based on time served rather than merit. However, along with Sparrow, we did receive grateful thanks and ceremonial gifts of appreciation from the new Trisgladian-Irgh-Toxl Alliance for our part in securing peace in their time.

  Campbell Award-winning author Laura Resnick writes the popular Esther Diamond urban fantasy series, which has received enthusiastic praise from Library Journal and Publishers Weekly. An animal rescue volunteer and part-time tour guide, Laura is also the author of the Silerian Trilogy, which made multiple “Year’s Best” lists, as well as dozens of short stories, several nonfiction books, and many articles and essays.

  Black Note, in His Transition to a Supreme State of Wokeness

  James Beamon

  Malcolm Maxwell is becoming increasingly suspicious that his entire existence has been contrived and ragtime pianist Scott Joplin isn't helping. When Scott isn't talking like a turn of the last century negro, he's humming “The Entertainer,” the melody that anyone who knows there was once a style of music called ragtime thinks of when they hear the word ragtime, and he's humming it on repeat in their shared head. It's enough to make Malcolm wanna holler, but that's a Marvin Gaye song and Scott Joplin isn't into soul music.

  "Seem like they can just use a piano instead of all that extra crooning," Scott Joplin's sentiment. "Bruno Mars ain't bad."

  Malcolm's in the command center of the Superleague's Superfortress. The fortress is a multi-tiered concrete edifice with large picture windows where superbeings can protectively look over their beloved city. Captain Power is sitting at the monitors, looking at feeds from the city's CCTV system.

  "Dr. Nefarious is rampaging downtown, but it looks like Cricketman's got the jump on him ... ha ha!"

  "Watch him," Scott Joplin's sentiment, "this man's cutting shines." Malcolm is instantly aware it means Captain Power's up to something.

  "Shut up," Malcolm Maxwell thinks loudly. He isn't exactly sure if that's how you talk to a disembodied ragtime musician currently residing in one's own head, but it looks less crazy than actually talking.

  "'Cricketman got the jump'? That ain't sound scripted to you?" sentiments Scott Joplin.

  Malcolm, more famously known as the acoustically empowered superhero Black Note, goes over to the monitoring station Captain Power's manning. He looks at the ensuing fight between Cricketman and Dr. Nefarious. It is a high-intensity battle featuring a man in a forest green spandex suit and a balding dude in a lab coat, with flips, kicks, and punches galore, the galoriest. An arsenal of robot minions is blowing up all over the place as if Dr. Nefarious intentionally installed C-4 in their chassis.

  There are no raised hairs on Malcolm's body as he watches the edge-of-your-seat action. It is increasingly difficult to get excited about the mechanics of crime-fighting when Scott Joplin's riding shotgun.

  "Ever wonder why all the geniuses become evil?" Scott Joplin asks. "It's like they trying to tell people education and postgraduate degrees ain't shit."

  "That's not true." Malcolm has recently given up on wondering how and why Scott Joplin came to reside in his head or how to get him out. When he thinks along those lines, Scott Joplin invariably joins in and solitary contemplation becomes a disturbing dialogue.

  "Ain't it tho? Name me one good supergenius."

  Malcolm muses for a while, unconcerned during this time for the safety of his friend and superpeer Cricketman. Malcolm is too busy trying to draw blanks into substance. "Well, Captain Power's been rated as a having genius level intellect."

  "’Course he do. Captain Power's got genius level everything. Lemme ask you something. You ever see Captain Power build an army of sci-fi robots the Pentagon couldn't produce with a trillion dollar budget? I bet you never seen him build a single lonely robot."

  "He doesn't have to. He's Captain Power."

  "You don't have to customize your ringtone on your phone but you do. ’Cause you can. Hell, you ever see genius Captain Power fix the toaster?"

  "He doesn't use the toaster. Heat vision."

  "So, he can save the city from evil but can't save y'all from tearing up your bread when you spreading butter that's too cold ’cause it's fresh from the ’frigerator? That's some selfish shit."

  "Shut up, Scott Joplin!"

  Scott Joplin goes back to humming the iconic ragtime tune he composed back in 1902. Somehow that's worse.

  The fight on screen concludes with Cricketman victorious, a criminally insane doctor of astrophysics wailing in defeat, all robots exploded husks, and downtown only partially destroyed. Cricketman looks at one of the CCTV cameras, all of which have somehow survived harm, and flashes the perfect smile beneath the mask.

  "Did you guys see? I barely pulled that one off!"

  "Magnificent victory, Cricketman!" Captain Power heartily gushes into the mic. "The citizens can rest easy with you on the job!"

  "Somebody shut his sauce box," Scott Joplin sentiments. "Why he over here pitching woo when he could have done the job in six seconds?"

  "Cricketman was closer to the scene," Malcolm explains.

  "You're standing beside a gum beater who can fly at light speed and is invincible as Jesus on Sunday. He could've popped over in two seconds, punched the good doctor into the sun in the most literal fashion the next two seconds, and then smiled for the cameras for the last two."

  "Captain Power can't be everywhere at once."

  "That an excuse you really wanna sell? Where he at now?"

  Malcolm sighs. Even if Captain Power didn't have hearing that could hear a mouse pissing on cotton, proven fact from the time they had to take on Squeaktessa the Rat Goddess, he would've heard it. He turns his chiseled chin toward Malcolm.

  "Something wrong, Black Note?"

  Yes, something is indeed wrong and that wrong is made more complicated by the context surrounding the question. There are pros and cons to telling Captain Power about the sudden emergence of a long-dead ragtime musician in Malcolm's brain space. As if the thought alone is invitation enough, Scott Joplin susses out the particulars.

  "Listen, this is how this shot scatters. You tell Captain Power I'm in here with you and he's gonna look at you with these googly, concern-rimmed eyes that'll sparkle like a kid's at Christmas. He'll reckon you've contracted a sentient alien parasite, gotten a bad taste from your last bout with the Mad Poisoner or some other spectacular far-fetched shit. He'll take you off field duty and subject you to an ever-increasing battery of tests and prods, treating it all like yet another super-powered predicament easily bested within the span of an episode."

  Malcolm gulps as he looks down at Captain Power. "And if I don't tell him?" he asks inside his own head.

  "Eventually you'll either be completely off your chump, trust me, I know crazy ... or you'll come to terms with sharing thoughts, which ain't so bad seeing how lonely you are and all."

  "I'm not lonely," Malcolm replied.

  "You ain't gotta woof smoke at me. It's not like I've seen every card-carrying member of this super-justice brigade, but I don't gotta to know you're the only black dude in it. That's some solitary shit, my brother."

 

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