The vibrations from the hull of the Tube-in-Gene, an enormous space-station lightyears from any solid planet, weren't just mechanical. They were rhythmic, definitely repeating patterns. 

Deep within the pressurized bowels in the center of the Tube-in-Gene the air was thick with the scent of recycled oxygen and ozone. This gritty industrial hub was the Halm-Boog-Sector. This was the place where the massive amounts of energy were generated the space-station needed to provide the life-sustaining measures for its inhabitants. 

Standing in the center was Houba, a massive blue alien with skin like cured leather and eyes that glowed a dull, rhythmic red. He clutched his five-string bass-guitar, his thick fingers moving with surprising grace over the strings, just to hammer down on the instrument with his fist in brutal force as if there was no tomorrow, a moment later. Every note he struck sent a low-frequency pulse through the floor, vibrating the very marrow of anyone standing nearby.  At the same time this meant powering the Akk-Generators, machines that transformed the massive walls of sound into raw electric energy. By his side and also contributing large varieties of waves to be converted into watts was Dokk, perched on a makeshift riser. The violet-skinned alien was a blur of motion, punishing the drum kit. Dokk was known for his solar-flare beats - stoic, powerful bursts that sounded like a supernova captured in a tin can. A strange creature was coiling at their feet. The Metal Rattlesnake, a masterpiece of salvaged robotics and sentient scrap. It hissed and screamed, wailed and whined, seemingly in time with the beat. Its articulated silver scales scraped against the metal floor creating a rhythmic, metallic rasp that acted as the other's constant anti-percussionist. The snake’s red optical sensors flared, as it lunged forward from time to time, snapping its hydraulic jaws like in a choreographed display of mechanical aggression. 

The Halm-Boog-Sector  of  Tube-In-Gene-Station wasn't just a machine room but a sanctuary. An almost holy place. Around the musicians the ship’s infrastructure loomed. Glowing green CRT screens flickered with seismic waves and ship vitals, inadvertently serving as the musicians' light show. Vents hissed intermittently clouding everything in a thick artificial fog that smelled of oil and for some reason, Lavender. Shadowy figures watched from the catwalks, their faces obscured by the dim lighting and united by the deafening yet beautiful noise of the Tube-in-Gene’s power-grid.

As Houba hit the final ground-shaking chord of the day, the Metal Rattlesnake let out a series of mechanical moans that nearly sounded like an olden-times pipe-organ and for a moment the vast emptiness of space outside the space-station felt just a little bit smaller and there was light in the hearts of its inhabitants, lifting the shadows from their souls for the time being.