[Adrics] 2002 Awards Show, Part 5/9
BKWillis
ADRIC: How wonderful! A second co-win for me! Shall I make my
acceptance speech now?
AUDIENCE: (yelling) NO!
ADRIC: Fine. Be that way. [cheers up] But the great part is, I get
to be pleasantly surprised all over again tomorrow night! Ah,
sometimes it's good to be me! [smiles, then frowns] Although,
not very often...
At any rate, it's time for another word from our beloved and too-
generous sponsors at NorInCo, so we'll be rolling out another
musical guest.
[A loud whimper arises from the audience.]
ADRIC: This time, we're pleased to introduce the Verity Lambert
Public High School Marching Band, who will play for us a piece
entitled 'Seattle Medley'!
[As ADRIC exits stage right, the rear curtain rises to reveal the
VLPHS Marching Band: JAMIE MACCRIMMON with his
bagpipes; SUSAN FOREMAN with a tuba; VISLOR TURLOUGH
with a bass drum; LEELA with a flute that looks suspiciously like
a Sevateem blowgun; NYSSA with an accordion; and ZOE
HERRIET with a baton. The five musicians are all wearing stiff
blue band uniforms, while ZOE is dressed in a majorette's tights.]
ZOE: [twirls baton, then bows] Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.
We will now play for you a piece composed of selected highlights
from songs from the popular 'grunge rock' era of the early 1990s.
We call it 'Seattle Medley', and it begins with a tribute to the band
'Nirvana'...
[To preserve sanity, we fade out just as the 'music' starts.]
----
[Commercial]
[SCENE: A spaceship construction yard. Huge starship hulls loom
all about in various states of completion as cranes, lifters, welders,
and other pieces of automated machinery bustle purposefully
among them. A pretty brunette woman in an expensive business
suit steps into shot as a caption appears at the bottom of the
screen, reading, 'Perpugilliam Brown III, Public Relations Director,
NorInCo, Inc.'. She smiles in a sunny yet subtly predatory way as
she looks into the camera.]
PERPUGILLIAM: Here at NorInCo's shipyard complex on
Ansbach, our crews work around-the-clock to produce the great
starships that make interstellar commerce possible. Indeed, nearly
half of all merchant shipping in the Alliance is in NorInCo hulls,
some of which are sold commercially, but many more of which
are operated directly by our Freight and Transit Division. Here
also are produced the hulls, engines, and weapons systems of
the vast majority of both the Alliance Navy's warships and the
State Fleets of the various Alliance worlds. We also produce and
man warships for the protection of our own convoys, with the
NorInCo Security Forces fleet being the second-largest military
force in Alliance space. In fact if, say, we were to increase
production rate to full capacity and cease all sales to outside
forces, within less than three months our fleet would outnumber all
other military forces combined. An impressive concept, isn't it?
Our corporation having all the firepower and intelligence data
needed to physically conquer the entirety of human space!
So, the next time you're thinking about what products to buy, just
remember: we're NorInCo, and nothing in the world can stop us
now.
[Fade out to NorInCo hammer-and-chain logo.]
[End commercial]
----
[ADRIC, wearing a turban, walks back on-stage as the curtain
closes on the VLPHS Marching Band. The sounds of hysterical
weeping, crazed gibbering, and vows of personal vengeance
against Terpsichore can be heard from the audience. As ADRIC
takes his position at the podium, he unwinds the turban to reveal
a set of earmuffs. He takes these off, then removes several cotton
balls from each ear.]
ADRIC: A big hand to the Band members for that... stirring...
performance. And on a related note, the concession stand is now
offering a fine selection of generic Prozac substitutes.
Moving right along, our next presentation is from a man who does
not ordinarily seek the limelight, but who for purely altruistic and
selfless reasons has volunteered to assist in our program tonight.
Presenting the Best Original or Crossover Character award, in his
first public appearance, we have the Proprietor of This Time
Round!
[ADRIC sticks another tape in the 3V unit and turns it on...]
----
[The scene is the karaoke stage at This Time Round. The
PROPRIETOR stands before the camera, arms folded. He is a
big-framed, overweight man in his late forties, balding and with a
drooping mustache that makes him look somewhat like a stern,
anthropomorphic walrus. He is wearing his normal barman's
garb and apron, with a badly-stained tie hanging down his
chest.]
PROPRIETOR: 'Evening, all. I told these fancy-pants author
types they could use my pub for their little Awards-thing, but
only if I got to be in it. That's right, I'm the Proprietor of This
Time Round, the most popular establishment in Outside. If you're
feeling down, come to the 'Round! That's our motto, it is.
So, it seems I'm supposed to announce the Award for the Best
Original or Crossover Character, which is a fine job for me, since
I know just about everybody. Now, the first chap up for
consideration is my good mate and employee, Francois the Ogron,
from the 'To Die For' series...
[The PROPRIETOR holds up a photo of Francois, a very large,
brutish-looking Ogron with a sock-puppet on his hand.]
PROPRIETOR: Francois is a good sort. First came on back in '99 as
a fill-in for young Adric, but something about him convinced me to
put him on full-time. Perhaps it was that spark of talent I saw in him
that made me hire him on, or maybe it was his integrity and sense of
professional ethics. More likely, though, it was the whopping-
great double-headed axe he was holding over my neck. At any
rate, the decision's not been one I'd dare to express regret over. So
now Francois and certain of his kin are regular fixtures 'round the
'Round, where he's our main bartender, bouncer, bill-collector, and
bestower of avuncular Ogron wisdom. Give the big lad a cheer and
mind you don't make fun of the puppet.
Next, we have Number One, aka 'Ember Ashe', also from the 'To
Die For' series...
[The PROPRIETOR holds up a pair of photos. The one on the
right shows a dark, thuggish, scowling man wearing mirrored
sunglasses, while the left is of a pretty, sweet-looking girl with
red hair and big blue eyes.]
PROPRIETOR: A true enigma. That's what Number One would
be, except that enigmas are things people want to know more
about, a condition that does not apply in this case. On the one
hand, he's this evil fanatical assassin-type who got high marks on
the shouting and shooting people part of his vocational skills test.
On the other, he turns into this girl who's also an evil fanatical
assassin-type, but is at least easier to look at. Those are his bad
points. His good points are that he's quite astoundingly unlucky
and has a really amusing identity crisis going on. Those may not
sound like good points to you, but with a guy like this, you take
what you can get.
Next come those two little darlings that cause Calliope to reach
for the bottle, the Muses Nyssaias and Embericles, from
BKWillis's 'Shock Value' series...
[The Proprietor holds up a photo showing two tiny winged
women draped across one another in a pose that stops just
short of being something that would get the Awards show an
NC-17 rating. One is an angelic-looking girl with curly brown
hair and feathery white wings, who is about halfway out of a
gauzy white gown. The other is a redhead with black bat-wings,
clad in a black halter-top and a miniskirt that's smaller than many
dog collars.]
PROPRIETOR: Though these two may look like something out
of a Hammer film, they're actually fully-qualified Muses, trained
in the arts of literary inspiration. Nyssaias is a Light Muse, who
comes up with all the happy, lighthearted, whimsical ideas and
tries to keep her writer cheerful and upbeat, while Embericles,
there, is a Dark Muse. She balances out Nyssaias by providing
gloomy, violent, terrifying notions and tries to keep the author
in a grim and cold-blooded state of mind. Since they're polar
opposites in all respects, I suppose the fact that they're madly in
love with each other only goes to show.
Next, we have Taliesin, from Helen Fayle's 'Books of Taliesin'
series...
[The PROPRIETOR holds up a photo of a dashing, handsome
man with the deep, magnetic eyes of a poet, long flowing hair,
and a neat beard. His garb somehow conveys the impression
'bard'. Before the photo is put away, the sounds of feminine
swooning can be heard throughout the room.]
PROPRIETOR: Strangest of the lot, this chap, which is saying
quite a bit. A version of our very own Doctor, but in another
Reality. A mysterious sort, astoundingly popular among the
ladies. He's the bard to Lord Elphin, a fine chap, and he and
his lass Vivienne go about fighting the same good fight that
our dear Doctor does, but in the Thirteen Worlds instead of
on planets that look like gravel-pits. Types like him are good
to know when you're in the alcoholic-distribution trade, since
they've such a way of tugging at the old heart-strings and,
thereby, loosening the old purse-strings.
Lastly, there's Ken Young's shapeshifting senorita, Varne, seen
most recently in 'Derelict', by Young and Willis...
[The PROPRIETOR displays a photo of a tall, elegant redhead
dressed in combat leathers. The woman is quite attractive, but
has an expression on her face that looks as if she is imagining
the photgrapher roasting on a spit and covered in barbecue
sauce.]
PROPRIETOR: This lady's got a lot going for her. She's smart,
pretty, quick with her hands, fifteen kinds of Hell in a fight, can
change shape at will, and has a wit like a straight-razor. Suitors
need not apply, though, as she's quite definitely taken. Or at least,
she considers herself to be taken. What the other half of that
equation thinks about the subject remains a mystery, and that's all
I'll say on the subject, since I've no wish to involve myself in their
affairs and thereby end up dismembered and the object of an ironic
joke about being 'mostly armless'.
[The PROPRIETOR reaches into his apron and pulls out the
envelope with a flourish. Making a big production of it, he slowly
tears open the envelope and removes the results.]
PROPRIETOR: And the winner of the Best Original or Crossover
Character Award is... Number One, aka 'Ember Ashe', from 'To Die
For'! Congratulations and a five percent discount on all drinks for
the winner for the next half-hour! And the rest of you, don't forget
that This Time Round is open twenty-four hours, with a full stock
of all potables and a menu that's second-to-none in Outside!
That's This Time Round, where the Greats Gather to Guzzle and
Gorge!
----
[ADRIC turns off the 3V and pops out the tape, looking slightly ill.]
ADRIC: [sighs] Yeah, I know. But when we're doing 'To Die For', I
_don't_ know, so you can all quit looking at me like that.
Anyhow, our next presentation is... is... [looks around] ...not here,
apparently.
FRANCOIS: (off-stage) Hold horses, dead boy. Tapes just now
getting here.
ADRIC: Tapes? As in plural?
[FRANCOIS enters from stage right, carrying a stack of video
cassettes.]
FRANCOIS: (annoyed) Yes, tapes. Francois not having speech
impediment.
[FRANCOIS dumps the tapes on the lectern, then walks off stage
right. As he does so, ADRIC counts the tapes, frowning.]
ADRIC: Eight tapes? Why in the...? Oh, well. Only one way to
find out.
Ladies and gentlemen, presenting the award for Best Crossover
from This Time Round sometime tomorrow night, we have that one
and only paragon of workers' virtues, the classiest man in the class
struggle, the author avatar of the brilliant Graham Woodland, the
Grey Steward!
[ADRIC picks out a tape, places it in the 3V, and starts it up.]
----
**CARRIE ON CROSSOVERS**
*Post the First*
*In Which the Presenter Introduces an Unexpected Assistant*
===
{TTR. The stage is shrouded in impenetrable darkness. All chairs
and standing-room are packed with a throng of AUTHORS,
READERS, DOCTORS, COMPANIONS, FANFIC and CROSSOVER
CHARACTERS. Baskets of complimentary sausage rolls infest the
bar, most of the tables, and several of the plant-pots. They do not
seem to be much in demand.
Slowly, the darkness lifts, to reveal a shadowy couple upon the
stage. The larger outline is male and middling-tall, broad-
shouldered, and muscled in a way that bespeaks years of hard
hacking at a thousand keyboards. Its stance, by sheer casual
confidence and infusion with Authorial Fiat, conveys a
combination of invincible proletarian nobility and Doc-Savagesque
omnicompetence, and stirs the hearts of all who experience it with
a profound and moving recognition.}
ANJI: Oh, don't tell me Comrade Clot's picked up a *girlfriend*...!
ANYA: AAAAAAH! Kill the Anti-Money before he spawns!
ANTIMONY: Please do not do this.
THE PROPRIETOR: Fear not, gentle maiden, for I have tamed He
Who Strikes and brought him under the yoke of true capitalist
liberty at last! [Swigs champagne and chuckles.]
ANJI [sniffing]: Yeah, as if!
SAM JONES [passionately]: As if the likes of you could corrupt
the Grey Steward -- Man of Lead, bold champion of the oppressed
legions of fanfic!
{The lights have been rising all this while. The back and wings of
the stage are cluttered with computers and what appears to be
gratuitously elaborate light-and-sound equipment. The familiar
mild-mannered Englishman with the grey-tinted skin and Look-of-
Eagles (TM) contact-lenses has a comradely arm around the
slender shoulders of a lady not previously seen on this
newsgroup.}
POLLY [to self]: It's all behind me. I am not a running joke, I am a
free glamourpuss! I will not ask. I will not ask...
{NYSSAIAS and EMBERICLES flutter uneasily on recognising the
newcomer, peer around the room as if expecting Additional
Company, and immediately find it necessary to comfort each other.
No-one else pays much attention.}
FITZ, CHRIS CWEJ, CATS HAMBRIDGE, MEG OF TERMINUS,
JULIAN BASHIR, XANDER, and other USUAL SUSPECTS:
*Babe-o-rama!*
{ANYA slaps XANDER. CATS and MEG slap hands.}
{THE GREY STEWARD's companion is an ethereally beautiful
woman of perhaps thirty, with short blonde hair and an expression
of serene, alert cheerfulness. Her dress is such a striking shade of
celestial blue that it practically glows. Actually, such is this
lady's presence that one could almost feel that she sheds a gentle
luminosity all her own...}
THE GREY STEWARD [attempting to whisper out the side of his
mouth, but forgetting that his Star Age throat-mike is live:] Carrie,
you're fluorescing again.
CARRIE [dimming]: Got it.
{THE STEWARD inhales deeply, and begins the presentation in
those mighty oratorical tones that have shaken the foundations of
despotisms, slave-states, and hamburger franchises across a whole
bargain-basement of fictional universes:]
STEWARD: Brothers, sisters, comrades, ladies, gentlemen, pointy-
haired bosses, bloated plutocrats [nods amiably at PROPRIETOR],
and members of any other category which I have accidentally
omitted from consideration (the which is not to be taken as a slight
upon any such group, even if it is one of which I am not presently
aware, as everyone has a basic sophontly right to be assigned to
that group to which they self-identify even if such a group must be
defined extempore in order to grant said right!) -- welcome to the
BEST CROSSOVER awards for this year's Adrics, for which the
competition has proven exceptionally fierce and for which the
procedure shall --
{CARRIE's expression is glazing throughout this speech, though
not as fast as most of the audience's. SAM JONES is raptly taking
notes.]
SPIKE [loudly]: Bloody hell, any more whiches in that sentence
and we'll have a coven!
STEWARD: Would you like to critique my speech-patterns a bit
more, Comrade Cod-Accent and Chips?
SPIKE: Yeah, okay. You have less use for periods than James
Bond, you're more redundant than a whore in the House of
Commons, and you're pathetically straining to delay announcing
my inevitable victory because I am the Daddy Cool of Englishmen
and you are a tedious tosser. Does that help?
STEWARD: Nyaah. At least I don't need to mock up my
girlfriends out of a Program-Your-Own-Sex-Dummy kit!
SPIKE: Nice for you. By the way, your hand's in your bimbo.
{THE GREY STEWARD's arm has indeed been slowly sinking into
CARRIE's shoulder. She commits facefault and flickers abruptly to
the other side of the stage.}
THE STAR TREK CHARACTERS [singing]: And we'll have fun,
fun, fun, till some blue-nose turns the holodeck off...
STEWARD [angrily]: Carrie is *not* my 'bimbo'! She is my
honoured Muse!
THE AUDIENCE: Rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb!
CARRIE: It isn't rhubarb, gammon, spinach, or any other flesh-type
foodstuff. I just happen to be an Artificial Intelligence --
STEWARD: -- which is an estate of equal dignity to the fleshly,
and which --
THE AUDIENCE: Shut up!
CARRIE: -- and it's more convenient to do this as a hologram than
as some silly sprite in a cathode-ray tube. Now, shall we get on
with the awards?
THE PROPRIETOR: *If* you please.
SPIKE: Sorry, didn't realise you were his Muse. Got the wrong end
of the stick there. [To STEWARD] So... a bit of a goer, is she?
STEWARD: Do you want to come outside, afterwards?
SPIKE [barely able to hold in mirth]: The Man of Lead is going to
kick me around the courtyard a few times with his big lead-heeled
boots, is he? Yeah, c'mon then! I'm game...
STEWARD: Specifically, and not forgetting that I'm an Authorial
Avatar --
SPIKE: Yeah, yeah, and how impressive your pen is, now stop
wiggling it and give me my award, and I can beat the crap out of
you afterwards.
STEWARD: Specifically, do you want to come, outside this ficton,
in ungrammatical and physically implausible detail, in a double
crossover slashfic with the Terminator and Mr. Blobby?
SPIKE: Um. Tough. Tell you what -- not! [Subsides, looking
deeply shaken.]
{CARRIE materialises a bucket and proceeds to be violently ill into
it.}
A MOTHER NEAR THE BACK OF THE BAR: Unprecedented
cosmic evil and outre obscenity, paraded shamelessly before my
innocent kids! All my worst suspicions about 'Doctor Who' fall
short of the truth! Come, young ones, let us leave these monsters
to wallow in their own depravity, before they drag you down to
their own unspeakable level!
{She shepherds her offspring through the door. This process
takes some few moments.}
ANYA [waving]: Way to go, Ma'am!
SHUB-NIGGURATH, THE BLACK GOAT OF THE WOODS WITH
A THOUSAND YOUNG (for it is She): The Broadcasting Standards
Council shall hear of this...
{The room is no longer quite so crowded. The door is slammed
with the force of many tentacles. Many sighs of relief ensue from
those who are not still struggling to retain previously consumed
sausage rolls. CARRIE straightens, banishes her bit bucket, and
turns coldly upon THE GREY STEWARD.}
CARRIE: If you ever again suggest I write something like that, I'll
flit back to the City of Dreams before you can say _barf_!
STEWARD [panicked]: You didn't think *I* would seriously
associate myself with such vileness?
CARRIE and SPIKE [relieved]: Well, no....
CARRIE: ...but my accumulator did...
SPIKE: ...I didn't really think you were trying to wuss out...
STEWARD: I would have had to subcontract it to my evil
doppelspammer Stewite, of whom it is not permitted to speak.
CARRIE: You just spoke of.
STEWARD [fwaps self with hefty Union rulebook]: Whoops. Ow!
Anyway, now that the lightning wit of Social Consciousness has
once again put to flight the running jumping boxing kangaroos of
the lumpenproletariat [nods affably at SPIKE], we can proceed to
the awards for Best Crossover!
{Wild applause, cheers, sobs, and waking-up noises from AUDIENCE}
----