LtCol Wes Greaves - The Music of Machines

[Jacob Rittenhouse]

LtCol Wes Greaves - The Music of Machines

 

((Far beneath the surface – A lively transit hub – Liminal Station, Marohu III))

The air thrummed with a strange, rising beat, a vibration that built into rhythm, bright and alive. Wes couldn’t tell if it was music or machinery at first. Then came the brass, sharp and playful, ricocheting off the vaulted walls until the whole chamber pulsed with sound.

 

Greaves: They sound like Earth instruments, and I swear I recognize this song. Or at least the style. It must be pulling from your memory Sam.

 

Nis: So that’s Human music? It doesn’t sound anything like the Beastie Boys. 

 

The corner of Wes’s mouth twitched upwards. He wasn’t sure what amused him more, the observation or how quickly the alien system had shifted from ominous to celebratory.

 

Woolheater: Yes, sir Colonel, I think so. Woo! I could get used to this.

 

Greaves: Doctor, I think you might be on to something with the dancing idea.

 

As he said it, the melody changed, the chaotic, jangly rhythm smoothed into something modern, more structured.

 

Woolheater: Aww, hell yeah. I can play any music in my head, and this’ll recreate it?

 

Nis stepped forward, smiling in a way Wes hadn’t seen since the mission began. Sam met her halfway, and the two of them moved out from behind the console. Light pooled across the floor in rippling lines that converged toward the tracks.

 

Wes stood back with the others, rifle slung low, watching the unlikely pair find rhythm together. The change in atmosphere was almost surreal. The air itself seemed lighter.

 

The Doctor’s movements were deliberate at first, uncertain, until she matched Woolheater’s tempo. The Marine’s confidence carried the steps forward, and soon they were in sync. Their shadows turned beneath the vaulted light like figures caught inside a memory of another age.

 

Greaves felt the corner of his mouth tug upward again. It was all wildly abnormal, but he couldn’t deny the strange brilliance of it. The ancient station, silent for untold millennia, was responding not to commands or technology, but to joy.

 

Nis: You’re pretty good, Sam!

 

Greaves: (Shouting over the music) The inscription said something about dreaming, too.

 

Woolheater: I’m pretty sure I’m unconscious on the floor, sir. Gotta be dreamin’.

 

Wes shook his head, but the humor helped. He’d been on enough missions to know morale could be as critical as tactics. If this system responded to mood or intention, then maybe it needed that spark, something alive.

 

Then came laughter. Pure, unfiltered, the kind that cut through the hum of machinery like a flare through fog. Nis’s laughter. The sound pulled even the most stoic of them into its orbit. She moved easily between partners, quick-footed and light, taking one of the younger Marines by the hand and spinning him into a clumsy shuffle that somehow found rhythm.

 

When she reached him, Wes almost stepped back out of habit. It wasn’t the sort of thing that belonged on an operation report but he couldn’t deny that it was working.

 

Her hand caught his, warm and steady, and before he realized what was happening, they were moving. The floor pulsed beneath his boots, the rhythm grounding him as much as the motion. He wasn’t graceful, dancing had never been a pastime of his. It made him feel like everyone was watching him, judging him. It was a performance he wasn’t good at, and his pride and leadership style demanded perfection in all public performances.

 

Despite his personal reservations, Jania made it easy. Her steps were light, guiding him through the pattern. He felt the weight of his gear shift with each movement, the hum of the air vents echoing in his chest. Somewhere above them, the lights responded, glowing brighter with every turn.

 

She spun away to another Marine, then back again, and Wes found himself smiling. Not the mask he put on all too often to calm those around him. An actual genuine smile. For a moment the burden of command fell away. He was moving, alive, part of something impossibly ancient and new at once.

 

When Nis danced back toward Woolheater, the rhythm shifted again, the two of them taking the lead once more. Wes stepped aside, breathing harder than he’d expected, the faintest smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth. He adjusted the strap on his rifle and looked around at his team, tired, dusty, bruised, and laughing.

 

The tempo picked up again, sharper now, more deliberate. Nis and Woolheater found each other at the center of the floor, their movements tightening into something that was no longer just playful. The rhythm between them changed, coordinated, fluid, almost rehearsed.

 

Wes caught it in pieces: Sam’s hand lowering, the shift in balance, the quick lift that drew a startled laugh from the Doctor. She went up easily, weightless for an instant in the golden light, before Woolheater set her back down. Her laughter echoed across the chamber, clear and unguarded, rolling through the space like another note in the melody.

 

When she came down, she didn’t stop. The tone of her movements changed, subtle but unmistakable. The Doctor began to move with a different rhythm, something slower, heavier, a style Wes didn’t recognize but could feel through the pulse underfoot. The station’s lights responded again, deepening in color, chasing her steps with hues of violet and red.

 

Woolheater: Oh myyyy… dear Doctor! You have got some moves on you.

 

Nis: We’re just getting started. 

 

The rhythm shifted again, deep bass replacing the brassy highs. The pulse underfoot grew stronger, resonating through the deckplates. Wes’s HUD lit up with faint energy spikes, the entire platform was drawing power.

 

Greaves: (Shouting) It’s working.

 

The sound of drums blurred into a continuous vibration. Along the far wall, the tracks blazed to life in cascading green. Sparks rained down from the ceiling in silent streams of light. Wes stepped forward as the first of the transit pods flickered on.

 

The music softened, fading into the hum of machinery awakening from a long sleep.

 

Woolheater: ::happy faced:: Well. That was fun.

 

Jania stepped back from Woolheater, brushing stray hair behind her ear, both of them breathing hard and grinning despite themselves.

 

Greaves: Looks like that did it.

 

Woolheater: ::shrugs:: The things we do in the service, ay?

 

Nis: It’s a tough job, but somebody’s got to do it. 

 

The humor faded as quickly as it came. Wes’s focus returned to the mission. He approached the pod, scanning the interior as the amber lights stabilized.

 

Rows of curved seating lined the inside like a commuter shuttle. Smooth, dark panels lined the walls, no visible controls, no interface. Just silence and potential. His tricorder pinged a steady series of green indicators: breathable air, stable energy flow, no radiation spike.

 

Greaves: It’s powered and safe, but I can’t tell where it goes or how to start it yet.

 

He paused, looking back at the team, Marines, scientists, survivors, bathed in the glow of something ancient and newly alive.

 

Woolheater: Maybe this is the dream part?

 

Inside each pod was a black, glassy obsidian-like panel. When one got close to it, each tricorder sounded off. Definite, rhythmic energy readings and, most curiously, coordinates.

 

Greaves: I figured the dreaming had to be part of the dancing, but you might be right. Dancing got them powered up.

 

Wes glanced down into the gap between the station platform and the transit pod. There were clearly illuminated tracks running off in each direction, yet now that he took a closer look, the pod was hovering over the tracks.

 

Greaves: Looks like the pods aren’t even connected to the track at all.

 

Woolheater: So, how does this move then, if not on the track?

 

Greaves: Hovers? Transporters? Maybe it lowers down when it activates?

 

Jania shrugged, but Thasho stepped forward and pointed to a small icon which appeared to be a backwards L with two dots inside it. The universal translator was struggling but failing to translate it, giving the symbol the strange sheen things got when the translator recognized languages but couldn’t make them out. 

 

Thasho: This logo also appeared in the Treasure Room. 

 

Before Wes could speak, Thasho stepped forward. He saw her hand move, quick and thoughtless, and his gut tightened.

 

Her fingers brushed the alien glyph, and the console reacted at once. Light burst upward in a cascading column that spread into a massive three-dimensional projection. Wes’s jaw locked as his first instinct fought against the urge to bark a reprimand. He had seen enough systems go volatile to know how quickly curiosity could turn into catastrophe.

 

The hologram stabilized, revealing a map of the planet covered in a network of fine, intersecting lines. At every junction, a red dot pulsed faintly, hundreds, maybe thousands of them.

 

He stepped forward, studying the projection. One red dot blinked brighter than the rest, likely marking their position. Around it, the universal translator struggled and flickered. Names appeared and dissolved in quick succession, phrases that were almost familiar: Fingermarks, Snow on the Mountains, J.C.’s Overcoat, Summer Equilibrium, Clouds.

 

Wes folded his arms, the light from the map casting shifting reflections across his armor. Beneath the irritation still burning in his chest, curiosity began to take hold.

 

Greaves: Must be waiting for us to select a destination.  

 

Something stirred deep below them. It sounded almost like gears, grinding. Big ones, if that’s what it was. It seemed like a different power mechanism than the rest of this machinery.

 

Nis: It’s a great point, sir. What about the dream part? That’s the part we haven’t done. 

 

Woolheater: Response

Greaves: I don’t know about you, but I’m not thrilled about taking a nap down here in order to dream. Maybe it’s not so literal. Could we just imagine a place?

 

The holographic map shimmered again as if reacting to the suggestion, the light bending through layers of data. For a moment, it almost looked like the red dots pulsed in sync with his words.

 

Nis/Woolheater: Response

 

Greaves: Even without knowing the location, maybe we can imagine a place based on these names. We know the tech here reacts to thoughts and feelings and these location names are seem figurative rather than literal. Should be enough if you’ve got a good imagination.

 

He took a step back, giving the others space, watching as their shadows cut across the glowing map. The idea of the system reading emotion or intent wasn’t new, what worried him was how precisely it might do so. Down here, a stray thought could be dangerous.

 

Nis/Woolheater: Response

 

He wasn’t sure if they had just uncovered a way out or opened another mystery they didn’t yet understand. Either way, it felt like progress.

 

Greaves: I think this is a good time to go collect everyone from upstairs.  This place is more defensible and hidden than the dome, and I’d feel better about trying this transit system all together.

 

Nis/Woolheater: Response

 

 

OOC – Left the ending here open. Feel free to disagree with Greaves and continue working on the transit, take us back the way we came, or fade to black with a time skip with us having retrieved everyone else. Or take things in a totally new direction if you’ve got a cool idea!

 

Tags/TBC

 

 

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Lieutenant Colonel Wes Greaves
Marine Detachment Commander
USS Octavia E. Butler NCC-82850
E239702WG0
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