Hotblack Desiato was an artist. And a technician. But mostly an artist. Crafting a decent rock song, he liked to think, was just as much a feat of engineering as it was an art form. Pulling notes out of thin air, combining them into phrases, riffs and hooks, structuring these into verses, choruses, bridges, instrumental breaks, and such-like, this was all part of a technical exercise. Fashioning these elements into a rock song about boy-beings meeting girl-beings, or exploding silvery moons, or any combination of the above, even that was the job of a construction worker; lay the foundations of this riff, build on it with that solid rhythm section, bolt this verse onto that anthemic chorus, whack that guitar solo in there, second-fix the lyrics; yep, that was all standard song building practice. But making it rock, really rock, now that was the artistic bit. That, and coming up with an ending. A cracking, head-nodding, ear-bleeding ending - that really was the artistic bit. Endings were Hotblack's speciality. The rest of the band didn't call him Hotblack 'Endings' Desiato for nothing, you know.

And so it was that as the songs got rockier, the silvery moons became more geologically unstable, and the endings became increasingly volatile. One night - in fact, very early one morning, if Hotblack remembered correctly - after a heavy session on the Arcturan Mega beers Hotblack had hit on an idea. Let's actually blow-up a moon during the stage show. An actual real moon. Actually exploding. An ending to beat all endings. Next day in the back of the Disaster Area tour bus, Hotblack the technician was already working out just how much Arcturan Mega nitro would be necessary, whether they should bring their own moon from gig to gig, what orbit would give the best post-explosion meteor shower, etc, etc. Hotblack the artist just knew that it was going look and sound great. Heads were going to nod. Ears were going to bleed.

Hotblack Desiato was rich. Money rich, but time poor. 'Look after the Flanian pobble beads', Hotblack's mother liked to say, 'and the Altarian dollars will look after themselves'. Back in the early days Hotblack was doing it for love, doing it for beer money: hot sweaty gigs in the Bistro Illegal basement club; impromptu jamming sessions at Slims. Those were the days. Hotblack was young, he was the best there was, he was on stage for a fistful of dollars. Until one night, after playing a blinder at the Evildrome, Hotblack and the band had met backstage with a record company executive from the Kneejerk Rendezvous label. By lunchtime the next day, Disaster Area had been signed-up for an unfeasibly large fee. Nowadays Hotblack was doing it for the big bucks: heady gigs in the dark Qualactin Zones; a run of sell-out outdoor coastal shows on Santraginus V; regular return visits to their hardcore fans on Kakrafoon. They weren't just playing clubs, they were playing whole planets, whole systems. The more Hotblack gigged, the more Hotblack earned. The more he earned, the more he had to keep gigging.

And so it was that as the fans became more discerning (or maybe demanding), the gigs got more extravagant, and the takings grew exponentially. One morning, during a breakfast meeting with Disaster Area management and some Kneejerk Rendezvous execs, their recently appointed chief accountant, Professor Axel Hrung III, had suggested a more aggressive financial strategy. 'Look after the Ningis', he advised, 'and the Triganic Pus will look after themselves'. They should move the band's money out of their Brantisvogan account to somewhere safer 'for tax reasons'. Offshore might be where the safe money was, but offworld was where the really safe money was. Keep their funds in one of the lunarbanks. Put their money on a moon. An interest accruing, tax avoiding, moon. A tax haven to beat all tax havens. Next day in the back of the Disaster Area tour bus, Hotblack the loaded rock star was on the vidphone to Professor Hrung convincing him to take care of his personal tax affairs. Hotblack was going to be very rich indeed. Interest was going to be accrued. Taxes were going to be evaded.

Hotblack Desiato was getting too old for this. Still young at heart. But too old. He was getting worn down by what he liked to describe as the constant grind of album tour album tour. Record a new album. Go out on tour to promote it. Spend the evenings on stage, the nights partying in some hotel room or other, the days sleeping it off in the tour bus, and the time in between writing songs for the next album. Then spend weeks in some cheap studio knocking up demos, months in a way more exotic studio laying down recordings, then back out on tour. Yes, the constant grind of album tour album tour, that was the only way to describe it. A galactic tour could last all year. Which might not be so bad if it were a year on some planet with a tight solar orbit that whizzed round a star in no time. But nowadays Disaster Area tours were lasting the length of a year on one of those tedious far-orbit planets that trundle round their sun with all the urgency of an Arcturan mega sloth.

And so it was that as the albums got louder, the gig schedule became more gruelling, and the time spent away from home got longer. One night, during a particularly outrageous post-gig party, Hotblack had hooked-up with Wildwind Salvicarr, lead singer of the Voltage Vixens, who were the support band on the Western Spiral arm section of their galactic tour. Wildwind, it turned out, had only got into the rock music business to meet guys, and, now she had met Hotblack, was quite ready to quit the scene, settle down and raise a family. By the time the second baby Desiato was on the way, Hotblack and Wildwind had moved away from the Gagrakacka Mind Zones. Planet Xannet on the Outer Eastern rim; relaxed, yes, but too populated. The Deavvon system on the South Western ripple; picturesque, yes, but too remote. Hotblack remembered a place where Disaster Area had gigged once. A rock in the middle of nowhere. Go live on a moon, he thought. A distant, isolated moon. A home to beat all homes. Next day in the back of the Disaster Area tour bus, Hotblack the burnt out musician ditched the song he was working on. Decided it was time to pack it all in, for a while at least. Heads were going to stop nodding. Ears were going to stop bleeding.

A rock in the middle of nowhere.

The Jr system once contained a single planet, orbiting a single star. The planet Jr - a gas giant - had followed a decaying orbit around its sun. Over eons it had spiralled closer and closer towards the star, until eventually it got so close that the gas planet evaporated altogether. Its twenty six moons (fortunately formed from rock) remain trapped by the gravitational pull of the sun, and continue orbiting, forming a planet-less solar system. While the inner moons, Jr A through Jr N, are little more than baking rocks in space, the outer moons, Jr O to Jr Z, orbit far enough from the sun to be habitable. The tax advantages of living on a moon without a home planet are not lost on the Jr system residents. Outside of the jurisdiction of the Interplanetary Monetary Foundation, and not beholden to the Galactibanks, the Jr authorities are free to set fiscal policies - and immigration strategy - to suit a particular variety of resident. The Jr system attracts beings with Altarian dollars to burn. And in return, a bit of well thought out terraforming has turned the Jr moons into a playground for the wealthiest beings in the galaxy. In a nutshell, the Jr system residents are filthy stinking rich.

Jr Z. A rock in the middle of nowhere. No one lived on Jr Z. That is, it had many residents, but none of them lived. They all were spending some time dead for tax reasons. Hotblack Desiato didn't live on Jr Z. That is, now that he lived there, he no longer lived. Wildwind and the two baby Desiatos lived (yes, actually lived) just a short shuttle ride away on Jr Y. They got to see each other every day. There were endless activities for the rich and reclusive in the Jr system. Breakfast in a beachside shack on Jr R. 18 holes of golf on one of the many courses on Jr T. Or galavant around town on Jr S. Hotblack spent many afternoons being wheeled around the dunes of Jr W. Early evenings were spent watching the baby Desiatos paddling in the gentle waves lapping at the shore on the endless white western facing sandy beaches of Jr O. Then the baby sitter would arrive back on Jr Y, leaving Hotblack and Wildwind to take in a show, or just wander around the theatre district, on Jr Q. Most nights they would end up sitting out on their favourite bench in the massive extensive parklands of Jr X, gazing up endlessly at the stars through the specially designed light-pollution-reducing artificial dome miles above their heads. From there it was just a short space-cab ride back out to Jr Y and Jr Z.

Being dead was not so bad.

Hotblack was allowed a statutory number of days out of the Jr system. He spent them gigging. Once the band had been informed of Hotblack's decision to become the late Hotblack Desiato, they had insisted that he hired a session medium to play his photon-ajuitar psychically. Disaster Area stood to make enormous financial losses if they undertook a galactic tour without a founder member of the band. This arrangement was mutually beneficial of course. Hotblack got to continue to earn a living whilst simultaneously spending a year dead. Genius. Most nights he would not attend the post-gig party. Some evenings he could be limoshipped out to the gig and be back on Jr Z before the night was out. If he had to stay away, he preferred to stay alone. He would travel alone and dine alone. His security guard would wheel him around in a suitably rockstar-esque platinum chair, in and out of suitably rockstar-esque establishments. But given the chance he would rather be home, and mostly, that's where he was.

Yes, being dead was not so bad.

Hotblack Desiato was back. Back on the road. Feeling refreshed after his year dead. His soul was lighter, his wallet heavier. He'd had time to think and compose and plan.

Taking it easy, he now liked to think, was something that should be embraced at the earliest opportunity. Disaster Area were rich enough to retire. However, it was one thing being rich enough to retire, and another thing actually retiring. They had, they agreed, seen it all. They had been there, done that, and their fans had the t-shirt. The band decided they would go out with a bang. A final tour. An end-of-the-road galactic tour. Well, okay, one final album, and a tour. An end to the constant grind of album tour album tour. So Disaster Area went back to their roots, back to Gagrakacka. There they effortlessly knocked together one final album of brain melting rock songs, then got down to the hard graft of rehearsals.

Hotblack had plans for the stage show too. In exchange for a vast sum of money - a vast sum of money - the Jr system authorities had agreed to part with their redundant moons - Jr A to Jr N - which were, after all, little more than baking rocks in space. Hotblack had Jr D tractor-beamed to a more agreeable orbit somewhere between Jr P and Jr Q, where it could cool down and be terraformed into a home. Jr D. Chez Desiato. The other Jr moons would be used by Disaster Area as stage props in their final shows.

And so it was that as the final album was released, the tickets for their farewell tour went on sale, and rock fans flocked from around the galaxy to be deafened one last time. Their tour would take in 13 planetary destinations across the galaxy, from the Western Spiral Arm, to the Outer Eastern rim, to the Central core.

Shortly before each gig, a Jr moon would be towed into orbit around the host planet. The purpose of the early arrival of a new moon was three-fold. Firstly, as each moon was emblazoned with the words 'Disaster Area - The End of Life as We Know It' in 500 mile high lettering in the local language, any beings not already informed of the impending rock concert on their doorstep would be now be made fully aware of what was about to hit them just by looking up into the sky. Secondly, the 500 mile high lettering itself was made up of a huge array of amplifiers and speakers, thus equipping the lunar surface with millions of square miles of sound system, making each moon into a huge orbiting public address system which could be used to play a selection of Disaster Area hits to get the locals in the mood. Thirdly, this gave each new moon a few days to cause all manner of natural disasters, from tidal waves and tornados to accelerated continental drift or, on one occasion, the re-awakening of previously dormant volcanic regions. By the time of the gig, the host worlds would be in a state of planetary emergency, and what better way to unite a civilisation in turmoil than to rock their socks off with a Disaster Area concert.

Down on the pleasant, paradise world of Kakrafoon, in the middle of the vast Rudlit Meadow, Disaster Area were full tilt into what would be the last song of their last show ever.

Hotblack looked up into the sky from the stage. The moon, he thought, could not be in a more perfect position. Far away on the horizon, the Belcebron people of Kakrafoon rocked and danced and played air guitar whilst simultaneously cowering from the thunderous noise being blasted at them.

As the band reached the climax of the blistering guitar solo, thruster rockets fired on the far side of the one remaining Jr moon, causing it to descend rapidly into the planet's outer atmosphere. The moon's sound system quickly ripped itself apart and was burnt up, leaving the words Disaster Area in 500 mile scorch marks across the lunar landscape. Any small reduction in the volume caused by the disintegration of the lunar sound system was more than compensated for by the huge sonic boom created by the moon as it tore itself to pieces in the sky above them. It looked good. It sounded great. Heads nodded. Ears bled. Ah yes, they didn't call him Hotblack 'Endings' Desiato for nothing, you know.