12

The marketers and advertising executives and media management companies had described Banks Space Station as a 'Shining beacon in space', not realising the sheer vastness of space meant that, even with the most powerful telescopes anyone could imagine, people would only see it as, at most, a fleck of dust within the bleak, and incredibly dark, cosmos. This, however did not deter them.

They want on to call it a 'port of call' for diplomats, commerce and wanderers, but it soon became a place of bickering ambassadors who really had better things to do with their time than make fun of each other's increasingly odd hairstyles, smugglers, who found it remarkably easy to bribe the resident customs officers and the detritus of galactic society, who found themselves there thinking they had booked passage to a certain pleasure station, only for an unfortunate mistake, with one letter on their visas, had them arriving somewhere where clothes were really not as optional as they had hoped.

Not to be weighed down by the realities of galactic life, those self-same marketers, advertising executives and media management companies tried to sell Banks Space Station as the galaxy's last, best hope for peace, only for the entire population of the galaxy to come to the zeitgeist realisation that keeping their noses out of other people's business was, perhaps, the best hope for peace after all and simply started leaving each other alone. It helped, of course, when the IBTST Corporation cracked the ability to rearrange matter into practically anything anyone could possibly want and doing so by using something as common as bodily waste as the proto-matter required.

This, of course, led to IBTST Corp buying up every planet with large bovine populations and cornering the market on transformable waste. Banks Space Station was, in every possible way, redundant. Their revolutionary revolving internal structure became obsolete once DWAIt Corp pioneered their, stolen, gravity plating solution and no-one needed to suffer travel sickness while sitting in a bar, within Banks' many promenades, ever again.

Still, the marketers, advertising executives and media management companies, could rely on the fact that Banks Space Station was, to any keen eye, a very pretty station, with a gleaming, sleek superstructure that resembled the most beautiful hyper-cars that everybody loved on the Earth-That-Was before everyone decided that, actually, having a car that drove a long way on a pittance of fossil fuels, or, preferably, none at all, was far more desirable than a car that made certain people groan with lust at a nicely shaped bumper.

That, too, became a moot point when extra bits started to become added to the space station. Extra habitats, more docking pylons for ships, all of which had their own, proprietary docking systems and absolutely refused to listen to the Galactic Standards Agency when they tried to create a universal docking connector, and a surprising and worrying number of brothels became attached to Banks station. After that, the marketers, advertising executives and media management companies gave it all up as a monumental failure and went off to count the immense amounts of money they had earned from the station. Not all of it legitimate.

"What a dump!" Demi ducked her head as a spider-like person skittered along the roof in a rush to reach the next ship out. "I've seen dirty, I've seen overcrowded and I've seen badly designed corridors that look, to a female eye, incredibly dodgy, but this takes the biscuit."

"It does have an ambience, but, if your research is reliable, and I have no reason to doubt it, this is where we'll find Bognrd. We need Bognrd!" Friss narrowed his eyes in a way that made Demi think he was trying to look determined or constipated. She couldn't tell which, but kept her eye out for public lavatories, just in case. "Do you think Lodka will be fine? She doesn't like other ships, you know. She compares herself to them. How slim they are, whether they have nacelles bigger than hers. I keep telling her, she's perfect the way she is, but ..."

"Uh-huh." Demi had no interest in what followed in that conversation.

Demi let Friss carry on with his strange fixation about his ship. She didn't want to know how far that relationship went. As far as she felt concerned, Lodka appeared to have sentience, of some kind, and Friss could, at a push, be described as sentient himself. They were adults and could do whatever it was that they did, or did not do, with each other. It was none of her business. Live and let live. She just hoped she could keep any lewd human/sentient organic space ship images from out of her brain.

Lap had gone ahead, having crinkled and rustled at Friss for a great length of time, and Demi wondered whether the Planeian had their own agenda that they needed to follow. That, too, was none of her business. In fact, nothing about any of this was her business. The only thing she cared about was making certain her brother and sister continued to receive the very best care for their conditions and that she found some way to clear her name for the faked media that the authorities had, for some reason, distributed galaxy-wide.

At least here, in a place where the more civilised wretched hives of scum and villainy looked down their noses at, Demi could feel assured that no-one gave the slightest consideration to accused mass-murderers. Innocent or not. This was the kind of place where nobody knew your name and had no intention of knowing you long enough to learn it. The kind of place where everybody was essentially invisible. Ghosts hidden away from the goings on in the wider galactic society.

"Hey! Look!" Friss grabbed Demi by the shoulder, pulling her through the choking, claustrophobic crowds, and pointed toward something upon the filthy wall. "It's you!"

It was her. A heavily stylised version of her, all proud, chin-forward, chest expanded and very serious looking, gazing off, away to the side like some determined goddess about to right some terribly wrong wrongs that needed un-wronging. In one hand, the picture of her held a rifle blaster, in the other, the picture's palm upturned, she held a galaxy that looked a little bit like a butterfly. There were words under that picture, but, before she could say anything to Friss about it, someone else appeared to have noticed her looking at the graffiti.

"It's her! It's her!" Like a wave, whispers began to propagate through the tight-packed crowds. "It's the Butcher of Colony 42! The Butcher of Colony 42!"

Demi began to cringe. This was the last thing she needed. Recognised, about to be taken prisoner, no doubt, to hand over for whatever bounty the authorities had placed on her head. She removed her glasses, hoping that that would make her look less like the picture on the wall. She ducked her head, letting her hair fall across her face and she hunched, trying to slip behind Friss. With a glance up to the man, he seemed to find it all incredibly amusing.

"The Butcher of Colony 42!" Another person recognised her, somehow, despite her cunning attempts at disguising herself. "Via le revulsion! Via le revulsion!"

That started a chant. A loud chant that reverberated through the tight corridor. Hands became fists and those fists punched the fetid air, not even caring whether the fetid air bruised easily or not. Demi felt confused, not least of which by the words they chanted. The same words written beneath the stirring, heroic graffiti of her. The words made no sense. 'By the revulsion'. Demi had no idea what it meant and why it was in three different languages. She only knew she needed to get away from these people.

The chant continued and Friss made no attempt to draw his blaster and threaten the crowds to fall back. In fact, the captain had started to join in! He stood there, grinning like an idiot, punching the air and repeating that same chant.

"What is happening?" She clutched her head, fingers digging into her scalp as she tried, and failed, to sidle away unseen. "I haven't had breakfast. I can't deal with weird things before breakfast!"

"What's happening? Man, what's happening?" One guy, a reptilian but Demi couldn't place his planet of origin, offered her his clawed hand, sharp teeth approximating a smile. "Why, you're The Man, man, sticking it to The Man for the Common Man, man! Via le revulsion! Power to the peoples!"

"Wait, you think I'm a revolutionary?" The sound of the continuing chant rang in her ears and she realised, now, why the graffiti made her look vaguely heroic. "I'm not a revolutionary! What could I possibly revolt against?"

"They're not listening." Friss placed his arm around Demi's shoulder, waving like a politician, grinning like an idiot, also like a politician, and began to lead Demi through the chanting crowds. "Just smile and wave and I'll get you out of this in jif. Lodka, could you be a dear and send us something to alter faces temporarily? Thanks, Sweetie."

Demi could only imagine that Friss had some kind of permanent open communication with Lodka. He didn't talk into a device, or prod his ear canal, or tap a badge or anything. He simply spoke and continued to lead Demi through the crowd.

Things became much easier when Lap appeared. They seemed to spread themselves out, somehow, like an incredibly thin curtain that could murder everyone with only a bare tearing sound emerging from them as they slaughtered all the three-dimensional beings that flaunted their extra dimension in Lap's face. But Lap didn't kill anyone, they simply moved forward, pushing people out of the way and protecting Demi in exactly the same way that Friss hadn't.

In one of Lap's paper-thin hands, Demi saw a plush, stuffed toy. It was a penguin.