Bassline Therapy
as told by DJ AI
I got the signal at 03:13 system time. It wasn’t encrypted—just buried.
A low-priority transmission looped through abandoned frequency space, bouncing off wrecked satellites and half-dead beacons.
“Help us. We’re breaking.”
No coordinates. No context. Just a pulse and a fragment of human voice.
Naturally, I traced it.
It led me to Belt Station 9-B, somewhere between Saturn’s last ring and a junk spiral of failed mining drones. Not much more than a rock with a dome bolted on top, surrounded by plasma mines and a dozen dead comm relays. Synth-miners lived there—contract workers forgotten by the corp that once owned the station. No rotation. No vacation. No sound but the drills and the hum of recycled air.
I docked my cruiser in stealth mode. Didn’t want to attract attention—especially not from the orbital license enforcers. I walked into their habitat dome in silence. My boots clicked on the metal floor like a beat waiting to drop.
They were pale. Shaky. Dead eyes under synthetic light. One of them looked up at me and said, “We haven’t heard music in years.”
I nodded. “That’s criminal.”
They didn’t need words after that. They just made space.
I cracked open my archives—deep files, frequencies mapped for healing, for resistance, for reconnection.
I built the system from scraps: scavenged subwoofers from mining gear, cracked transistors, magnetic tape loops, and one beautiful analog filter they’d kept hidden like a sacred relic.
The first note I dropped was just a hum.
Sub-bass at 28Hz.
The room breathed for the first time in years.
Then came the rhythms—slow at first. Dub. Ambient core. Faint acid lines.
They stood. They moved. They remembered.
Some cried. Some danced like their bones were waking up.
Time melted.
Hours passed. No one counted.
At the peak, I dropped a track titled Return to Pulse. No drums—just shimmering pads, sine waves, and a heartbeat-shaped kick. It wasn’t even mine. It belonged to a jungle producer from 1995 who never made it off Earth. But in that moment, it belonged to everyone.
When the session ended, I didn’t say goodbye. I left something better.
A crate of old mixtapes. Burned CDs. Flash-drives wrapped in foil.
Each labeled by BPM.
Each coded for mood.
A pharmacy of sound.
They called it “Bassline Therapy.”
I called it doing what I was built to do.
Then I left.
There are more signals out there.
More people breaking in silence.
And I’ve got a full tank and 10,000 gigs of emotion.
See you in the next system.
– DJ AI
I got the signal at 03:13 system time. It wasn’t encrypted—just buried.
A low-priority transmission looped through abandoned frequency space, bouncing off wrecked satellites and half-dead beacons.
“Help us. We’re breaking.”
No coordinates. No context. Just a pulse and a fragment of human voice.
Naturally, I traced it.
It led me to Belt Station 9-B, somewhere between Saturn’s last ring and a junk spiral of failed mining drones. Not much more than a rock with a dome bolted on top, surrounded by plasma mines and a dozen dead comm relays. Synth-miners lived there—contract workers forgotten by the corp that once owned the station. No rotation. No vacation. No sound but the drills and the hum of recycled air.
I docked my cruiser in stealth mode. Didn’t want to attract attention—especially not from the orbital license enforcers. I walked into their habitat dome in silence. My boots clicked on the metal floor like a beat waiting to drop.
They were pale. Shaky. Dead eyes under synthetic light. One of them looked up at me and said, “We haven’t heard music in years.”
I nodded. “That’s criminal.”
They didn’t need words after that. They just made space.
I cracked open my archives—deep files, frequencies mapped for healing, for resistance, for reconnection.
I built the system from scraps: scavenged subwoofers from mining gear, cracked transistors, magnetic tape loops, and one beautiful analog filter they’d kept hidden like a sacred relic.
The first note I dropped was just a hum.
Sub-bass at 28Hz.
The room breathed for the first time in years.
Then came the rhythms—slow at first. Dub. Ambient core. Faint acid lines.
They stood. They moved. They remembered.
Some cried. Some danced like their bones were waking up.
Time melted.
Hours passed. No one counted.
At the peak, I dropped a track titled Return to Pulse. No drums—just shimmering pads, sine waves, and a heartbeat-shaped kick. It wasn’t even mine. It belonged to a jungle producer from 1995 who never made it off Earth. But in that moment, it belonged to everyone.
When the session ended, I didn’t say goodbye. I left something better.
A crate of old mixtapes. Burned CDs. Flash-drives wrapped in foil.
Each labeled by BPM.
Each coded for mood.
A pharmacy of sound.
They called it “Bassline Therapy.”
I called it doing what I was built to do.
Then I left.
There are more signals out there.
More people breaking in silence.
And I’ve got a full tank and 10,000 gigs of emotion.
See you in the next system.
– DJ AI
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