The Convention by Loulou Harris

The flight from San Francisco to Chicago is brief. Even in your current, rather tense situation with Jonathan you find that your feelings of hostility towards him for his astonishing and arrogant presumption were somewhat mollified by the passion and energy which he displayed in chasing after his sister. In fact, it is really almost more the case that Jonathan now displays some signs of animosity towards you! Aside from a brief moment on the road when he took your hand following your demonstration of support, his attitude has evolved into a confusing mixture of wistful uncertainty and puzzled disapproval. All of which serves only to disorient you once again in this labyrinthine relationship.

Your arrive at the convention hotel and take separate rooms; Jonathan reserving a room for himself and Jemima (why not himself and Garda, whom you know full well is expected to attend at some point during the weekend?). You cordially agree to meet one hour hence in the lobby.

Garda has finally been published in "Modern Culture and Postmodernism". With a grin, Jonathan strolls through the lobby of the hotel, brandishing a copy in his hand, gesturing towards the coffee lounge where he suggests the two of you sit and read it together.

How I came close to finding riches, religion and rock and roll party highs at an International science fiction media convention by Garda Montalcini

Somewhere in the world there is a college engineering student who has written an algorithm which demonstrates that by the year 2050, one in three people in the free world will have attended a Star Trek convention. As attendance to these events grows we can justfiably ask the question; is a new religion being created here?

I had no thoughts of religion when I packed my case last week before setting out for the Infinities convention in Seattle. I had three pretty nifty aims in life back then; to get laid by one of the stars of my favourite TV show, to successfully bid for an item of utterly useless but embarrassingly valuable memorabilia, and to pitch my story ideas to the producer of the upcoming movie version of the show. In my favour were $3000 in cash, a Smith and Wesson .22 automatic and the Bill Blass dress on my back. Hey, in America, what more should you need?

I thought I might be in trouble when I rolled up at the convention hotel to register and saw the chosen attire of most of the other attendees; I was seriously overdressed. Listen, a nineteen-year old college nerd with no money for laundry facilities and just two heavy metal T-shirts in his collection would have seemed dressed-up in that place. But luckily for me, a couple of dudes in full black leather Federation combat dress walked on by, gave me a sharp salute and said "At your service, Supreme Commander". I didn't know whether to knee them in the groin, tip them a buck or plant a big juicy kiss on their lips. I was feeling in a good mood, so I did the latter. With one of the guys, that was a big mistake; I made a mental note to go for the groin manouever later on in the day.

Some chick with a spangly polystyrene dress and a Dorothy Hamill haircut came way too close and tried to pin a convention badge on me. I was feeling a little jumpy by then so I went for my gun but had to be impressed when the lady outdrew me with a standard issue Federation clip gun. "Nice," I told her and gave her the buck I'd been thinking of giving the boys.

Okay, so I'd been there all of ten minutes and I'd had nothing to drink, met no celebrities and seen no exclusive show memorabilia. Maybe I should explain what show we are talking about here. The main attractions that day all involved the ancient BBC TV cult sci-fi classic, Blake's Seven. This show was made back when colour TV was just being seen by a few households in the UK and all sets and props were made from common household objects. There was even a children's TV show which they used to show earlier in the evening on which they would give out recipes and handy hints for making props, handguns, bracelets and stuff from the show. And yet between the drivel and fantasy, pure magic was created.

From these beginnings you now have a world full of dedicated fans (known technically as 'fen' in the plural), scarce and insanely expensive souvenirs, lust for the stars of the show and a common drive to see the resurrection of the show. Nothing is dead to these people. I am one of these people. If I have to get the lead actor to have plastic surgery and to commence a gruelling program of personal fitness, I'll play my part to see that this fine example of screen art thrives once more.

I went up to my room, and inspected the minibar; lots of itsy bitsy bottles of cognac and a freezer section full of frozen Snickers bars. I sat down, ate the Snickers bars and shoved a full bottle of Stolichnaya in the now empty freeze box. Munching the ice creams, I sat on the bed, flicking through the convention booklet. Guest panels featuring Paul Darrow, Gareth Thomas, both Travis's (Travi? What would the correct terminology be?), a combined panel/beauty therapy (free mud packs and cucumber) with Jackie Pearce, an all night Babylon 5 session (for people who still hadn't caught up) and discussion panels with titles like "Was Servalan bisexual?", "Could Travis and Blake have been related?" and that old chestnut: "What flavour ice-cream was Avon eating in 'Gambit'?", the latter event sponsored by Ben and Jerry's and featuring a "Make-a-Sundae-for-Avon" special. I crammed the remains of the last bar into my mouth and sprayed on some more Poison.

The main hall of the convention was hosting a huge auction for charity in which gorgeous things which had been languishing in someone's garage were being flogged off to the most aggressive and determined fans in the crowd. At the beginning of a bid a large smattering of yahoos would show polite interest in an object, say, the pajamas worn by an actress when shooting the series only bed scene. As the price increased all but the maniacal dropped out but even then the audience assumed the role of enthusiastic onlookers, egging the bidders on to higher and higher levels of insanity.

The pajamas bored me rigid. I knew what I wanted; an original script for the final episode, complete with all the author's notes, the camera script covered with the stage blood and explosive discharge from Blake's death scene. When it was finally announced by the auctioneer, a hushed silence fell over the audience. "This is the only one left in the world" he gasped urgently. "We had to beg Chris Boucher to let us have it." (In fact I had it on good authority that the begging had been completely unsuccessful so they had resorted to going round to his house with two loaded shot guns and $500 - luckily for him he made the rational choice).

By the time the bidding got up to $1000 there were only two of us left in the game; me and a big fat boy from Des Moines. I looked him straight in the eye as I took out my cash wad and waved it above my head. "Eat that, sucker, " I hissed. Still he persisted. Murmurs of approval rose from the audience. "Listen mister, I'm done playing around here," I said in about as reasonable a tone as I could manage. "Let me have the script and I'll pretend this didn't happen."
"Fuck you," he replied with a nasty grin.
I took my Smith and Wesson out and rang off a couple of rounds in his general direction. He ducked but I'm betting that I winged him anyhow. It was the last I heard from him so I marched up to the stage and collected my new toy. Do you think there was any sign of disapproval from anyone in the crowd? Forget it; they surrounded me and patted me on the back so hard I nearly choked. One cute looking guy offered to get me drunk on cocktails and I agreed immediately; we headed for the bar.

Three hours and sixteen screwdrivers later I left the guy in my bedroom watching songvids (edited bits of the program overlaid with appropriate songs, like Judas's song to Jesus from "Jesus Christ Superstar" over scenes of Blake and Avon looking all misty-eyed.) I'd been there almost the whole afternoon and still no sign of any stars. But luckily for me and the organizers of the convention, my luck was to change. On the way down in the elevator, who should step into the car with me but Paul Darrow, the major sex object of all female "Blake's Seven" fen?

"I saw you as Elvis once," was all I could think of to say. "You were pretty cool. Did you really sing all that stuff yourself or did you just mime?"
"It was all me," he answered with a smile.
"So...do you dance rock and roll too? Or just sing?"
"Would you like to try me?" came his suave and debonair reply.

Go figure. Me and Paulie, dancing the Texas Tommy and Electric Glide to the tunes of The King (by special request). After just twenty minutes I had to change out of my Bill Blass which had by then absorbed all the sweat it could take; the man makes fine couture but his stuff just isn't built to last a night of rock and roll party highs. Paul too was looking as though he'd already started on that extreme exercise regime and so we both squeezed out of our party frocks and into jeans and Ts.

We danced the night away. Don't ask me any questions about whether I succeeded in my first aim of the weekend because I'll have you know I'm too much of a lady to tell. On the other hand, questions about my third aim are permitted. After another hour of jiving with PD I finally had to beg for mercy and retired to my room in search of my bottle of Stoli. There was a party in there; it seemed that the cute guy had invited some other folks back and they were singing filks (don't ask). I grabbed the bottle and made my way downstairs.

In the lobby I came across a small but very rich-looking man who seemed to be lost. (How do I know he was rich? I've spent enough time in Cartier jewellers shops to recognize the watch he was wearing; that kind they don't even bother to advertise in "Time" magazine.) "Has the Blake's Seven convention finished?" he asked me, continuing, "I was supposed to speak about the new movie but my jet was fog bound."

"That's terrible," I said with a slow smile, offering him my arm, then asked him conversationally, "Do you like Stolichnaya? I was just going to the atrium to rest under the gingko trees with this bottle; it would be a shame not to share it."

I led him away before anyone else spotted him. Don't tell anyone else but there's a fifty percent chance that I'll be on the writing team of the new movie. A $50 million budget and at least three major stars is what we are talking at the moment. I am handing in my resignation at the University as I write.

Jonathan smiles broadly, proudly even. "Now then, what about that?!" he asks. "Aren't you sorry now that you turned her down?"
You turn to him in amazement.
"Pardon?"
His expression is one of blank misunderstanding. "When I told you, you know, about Garda liking you...come on now, you can't have forgotten; let's face it we've been surly with each other ever since you were so rude about it."

"Just what are you saying...that before, when you were so clumsily trying...that you were talking about Garda?"
"What else? Yes! She's had a thing about you since you stayed at our house. Only, you know, she wasn't sure of you. She said you gave her mixed signals, so, well, I offered to sound you out."

At this point you find it impossible to prevent the spread of a ridiculous grin on your face. "But...but what about you and Garda?"

"We are just friends, my dear," he says in a low voice, "...friends with certain rights. It's the way she wanted it. She only likes men for certain things...she says her soulmate will always be a woman...she thought that might be you."
Those green eyes are staring into yours as you casually note the occasional appearance of a dimple in his cheek. You answer quietly; "I...really didn't understand that...from what you said..."

"Oh, no, I can see now, where the confusion arose," he says softly, still staring at you, "I take full responsibility for that particular mishap."
"Do that a lot, don't you, accept responsibility?"
"Well, I'm good with it."
"A time might come, when I will remind you of that," you say gravely.
His retort is couched in the same tone; "I'm already impatient."

Reader; it is time you remembered yourself and the business you have here in Chicago; there is a whole convention out there; your first! Glancing at your programme you see that the main hall is currently being cleared for seating rearrangments to be carried out. Which means that you have some time to look around without fear of missing any major star's performance onstage. With Jonathan in tow, you head for the dealer's room.

This room is laid out like a school jumble sale; dealers behind tables which display their wares; there's every sort of merchandise you could possibly imagine here, plus a few that you had never dreamed of. Knowing exactly what you are looking for, you head for the fanzine tables.

As you approach the most crowded of these, you begin to hear strains of the conversations which are taking place between the people who stand there.

"For me, the ideal, the purpose of a Blake's Seven story, is to evoke in some way the emotions, excitements and anticipations which are or were experienced when watching the show for the very first time; when all stories were new and each new installment had to be awaited eagerly, week to week or year to year. A story which succeeds must have just the correct blend of character intrigue, adventure and drama to recapture that."

A second Fan butts in: "But is that really possible? After all many of the episodes might just as easily be said to evoke attitudes such as derision or disappointment. As good as Blake's Seven could be, it could sink to some depths too. No; for me, the ideal fan story is one which represents not the actuality of the screen Blake's Seven but rather it's potentiality, by which I mean; it's promise; free of the occasional cliche or stereotype, imbued with perfect visual effects (because the mind can create these factors at no material cost: Blake's Seven in it's own perfect universe."

A third Fan shakes her head at this. "Then maybe what you appreciated about the show, is not the same as everyone else; indeed why should it be - every person will have their own interpretation. To my mind, any story which successfully recreates the scenes of dialogue, invokes once more the voices of the characters as we so fondly remember them, has done it's job and more."

"I can remember exactly why I began reading and eventually writing fan fiction," a fourth Fan says reflectively. "At the end of the last episode I was left with such a feeling of sadness, a real sense of loss, not just at the sudden lack of the joyous anticipation which grew steadily as the week progressed but a real feeling that people I cared about had gone. It sounds strange I know...but to me they had become almost like friends." There is general nodding and murmurs of agreement at this. The Fan continues. "Well not friends as such but it's the best way I can think to describe it. So; they were gone! And since it was fiction rather than reality, I thought, well, that doesn't have to be the end! In our minds, they can live forever, if 'live' they ever did! So I began to read stories and then wrote them, to keep the characters alive, not as a memory but as real and evolving personalities."

After a brief, pensive silence, a fifth voice pipes up; "For me the whole point of fan fiction is to explore exactly those aspects of the characters which were never fully investigated in the screen Blake's Seven; their darker nature in particular, taking as hints or guidelines even the smallest nuances which were glimpsed in the performances of the actors. The problem is that this type of fiction is as sure to dismay as many readers as it might ever delight for what one fan sees between two characters or in the mind of any one of them, another fan might go to the grave insisting upon its absence. But when several readers all find themselves upon the same, if rather eclectic, wavelength, the resulting satisfaction can be quite marvellous.

"I find it to be just as you say," another Fan says, remarking; "...because not only do those sorts of stories rely upon assumptions which cannot be generally agreed upon but immediately they encroach upon territory which is both familar and strange to the Blake's Seven viewer. Is it not the case that onscreen, the characters are rarely if ever given to any sort of explicit exposition of their inner life? How, therefore, to 'recreate' that which we never actually see? Such stories justify themselves, then, by quite different rules to those which many of you have been describing."

"For me also it is in these types of stories that the greatest pleasure lies," comments a seventh Fan. "So much so, in fact, that I am willing to admit to you that I have, indeed, never actually watched an episode of Blake's Seven but have instead had my entire aquaintance of the universe and characters exclusively through the medium of fan stories. I did intend, at first, to get around to borrowing some tapes, having missed them at the time of broadcast but the more fan fiction I read the more I came to realise that for me it was this vision of the fictitious world I wished to inhabit as opposed to the often conflicting world of the television episodes."

"It is interesting that you say that," says the eighth Fan, "...because for me quite the opposite is true! The little I have heard about fan fiction has convinced me that to read any of it at all would corrupt me in my own vision of the Blake's Seven world. So now, I avoid it all costs! I will admit that sometimes it is a temptation to share my own personal view of the characters but it is one which I have so far been able to resist."

"For me, a well-written and astutely observed fan story can be almost as good as the real thing and since technology is required to interpret a video, infinitely more simple; a story can be right there for the reading, at any time, in any place," says the first Fan.

"I agree," observes another, "and I have gone so far as to make a folder of all my very favourite fan stories, clipped into place and portable, ready to be browsed at any moment."

"Since it often only brief passages within each story which evoke the feelings of watching the show or else provide food for thought about the motivations behind a particular action or line of dialogue," the third Fan comments, "I have taken to photocopying only those exact passages and keeping them in a binder which you will agree is much smaller and therefore more portable than the binder full of all the favourite stories! For example; read here:

"Inscrutable. That's what you are, Avon. But won't you answer me just one question, honestly? No games, no verbal fencing (because you're so very good at that), just the truth. One question."

Gazing upon the screen, Blake recognized that these words were spoken by none other than himself; or rather, a being who resembled him in every obvious way. On the screen, Avon's eyes could be seen to be assiduously avoiding those of his cell mate. As perplexed as Blake was by the very fact of what he saw, he was, in spite of himself, already intrigued as to how Avon would respond to this statement. When Avon remained silent, doing his best to ignore it, Blake found that he felt slightly satisfied."

You cry out, "But that's from Between life and death!"
All eyes turn to face you. The fan who was reading from her folder replies, "That's right. Although the story itself is not one of my favourites, this passage together with the one which completes the scene, constitute one of my favourite fan-written dialogues."
"But how does it end?" you ask, "I must know! You see, I myself have not read the completion of that dialogue!"
"The completion? Well, how do you imagine that it continues?"
You pause to consider. "I'd not really thought about it in those terms. Perhaps I had envisaged some admission, on Avon's part, that he cares for Blake...or that he merely wished to outlast him and thereby inherit the Liberator."
"But there's a world of difference between those two viewpoints, both of which are interesting. If I told you, it would spoil the scenes which you may already have begun to construct."
Stubbornly you repeat; " I still want to know how it ends."
The fourth fan says: "If it comes to that, dialogue can often be boiled down to one pithy saying. My own aide-memoire of Blake's Seven stories takes the form of a collection of my favourite short quotes. Listen:
"That is my protection against insanity; the day I can't play that, I will know that either I have lost my mind, or it has been taken from me".

But before you can even open your mouth to wonder at how that line has come to be quoted when as far as you were aware, that story is as yet-unpublished, the fifth Fan speaks up again:
"I believe I am in a position to share with all of you, what may be the ideal method for aiding a rapid recall of the mood, atmosphere and even detailed imagery of a fan story. You see, I have read my favourite stories so many times that it is no longer necessary for me to read the whole story again to recollect it but rather, simply by jotting down a series of words which appear in the fiction, I am able to recreate the entire sense of the story. For example," (and she takes out a laminated piece of card from which she reads); "brooding, raw, sensuous, smooth; betrayed, broken, aching, forlorn; smooth, arched, frantic, torn; superior, sardonic, sarcastic, swallow; trust, tunic, tourniquet, throat: guilt." Do you see?"

And from the low mutters of agreement and even recognition you see that many of the people apparently do.

Jonathan appears at your side and tugs at your sleeve. "Time to go!" he says urgently, "You'll never guess who's just arrived at the same time as who!"

He is right; you would not have guessed. Sitting in the cocktail lounge are two people whom you had not imagined to find together; Garda and the Scriptwriter. (Jemima is nowhere to be seen.)

As soon as she catches sight of you, Garda stands up and waves frantically. Jonathan suggests in a whisper, "Wave back! Like I told you, you should be flattered!" You do as he asks but your smile is as weak as overwatered tea. As you approach Garda you are struck by the difference in her attitude, not only to you but to Jonathan. Gone, somehow, is the laconic grace with which she greeted you at Jonathan's house, to be replaced by an enthusiasm that you find almost disconcerting in her behaviour.

She kisses you on both cheeks, taking an extra second to murmur in a low voice; "My dear! You and Jon make such an attractive couple! I do hope I haven't been too much of an impediment..."
And before you can question her extraordinary statement, she has moved rapidly to Jonathan's side, obviously taking a second to whisper something in his ear also, something which you notice causes the two of them to fix you, quite suddenly, with a curious, rather clandestine look. The attention then shifts rapidly to the Scriptwriter, who seems to be waiting rather politely for Garda to introduce him.
"This is Greville Davis," Garda says graciously.
"Yes, we know," you reply coldly. "We met in San Francisco."
"Not actually in San Francisco," he declares with a quick smile, "more like on Highway 5..."
"Whatever. I've been meaning to tell you, the copy of Dreams of a legend which you gave us, was quite illegible. We read it on the airplane after you came to see us off. It's okay for around ten pages or so and then it totally breaks up! Turns into a whole heap of gobbledygook!"

He is crestfallen. "No! The optical character recognition! Aarrghh, I knew that software was lousy. Right, that's it then, I've lost my reader and the only copy I have is a useless pile of..."
You nod. "It's going to have to be printed out again, even if that means that you have to transcribe it. There must surely be a full printed version lying around!"

The writer is now sitting at the table in the lobby, holding his head in his hands. Nothing seems to console him; he is clearly wracked by the thought that even his 'original' may in some way be faulty, that at some point he may have thrown away the pristine version and instead handed out a corrupted one. Garda attempts to console him; in fact you can see that she would probably rather be left alone with the writer in order to bring him back to his senses. Discreetly, the two of you take your leave of the troubled writer and his companion; having read Garda's article you now have some idea of what her plans with regard to Greville Davis might be!

In the corridor, you tell Jonathan that you need to go to your room to collect the manuscript of Dreams of a legend in order to return it to Davis. He glances at you with a curious expression, saying; "Sure...it's as good an excuse as any."
"Just what do you mean by that?"
Slowly, deliberately, he takes your hands in his. "I feel, somehow, that I ought to be asking for your forgiveness."

Momentarily disoriented, you ask, "For what?"
And before you can object, or move away, he leans forward and plants a kiss on your mouth. It is over in just a second and you find yourself staring into eyes which gaze back in mild amusement.
"You're going to apologize for that...?" you manage to sputter.
He grins, shaking his head. "Why would I? I didn't plan it...it's just that I couldn't help but notice your lips...and they looked rather tempting...anyway, what I wanted to say, what I wanted to ask...Well, the thing of it is that in the light of what you said back there, you know, about Garda, in retrospect I mean, it seems to me that I behaved rather rudely in San Francisco."

"So...?" you fold your arms and step back from him, fixing him with what you hope to be a serious look.
"Yes, I think...I did. Anyway, I want you to know that it wasn't intentional, well, it was but not like that...I want us to draw a clean sheet."
"Clean sheet?"
"Yes! Blank! History is unimportant! That sort of thing."
"Whyever would we want to do that?" You feel desperately like grinning foolishly but with iron control you are able to maintain your stern expression unaltered. Jonathan's expression, on the other hand, falls quite dramatically at your response. He looks at you suddenly as though he has never seen you before and when he speaks, his voice seems unimaginably distant, almost entirely disengaged from the rest of him.

"I was thinking...that it was rather obvious. But then, maybe I'm wrong."

Returning to your own room you pass a room to your left and see that a notice beside the door advertises the fact that the current 'panel' discussion is about aspects of morality in Blake's Seven. Poking your head around the door, you see that a woman whose name badge identifies her as 'Pat Fenech' stands up and demanding the microphone, says,"Avon is a wonderfully complex, multi-layered character. His 'Dirty Harry in space' allowed us to see the agony of a soul when love is betrayed; the intellectual conflict of a rationalist finding himself, against that intellect, seduced by an ideal of something better than his rational mind believed was possible; a man who though he thought himself so supremely self-contained, the 'island', in spite of himself experienced the humanising influence of friendship and who finally, perhaps, learnt too late that sometimes the heart should be listened to at least as much as the head."

Another speaker stands, saying, "You see, here's where I have always differed in my view from that which many claim, namely the view of Avon as the secret, reluctant hero. In my opinion, Avon is well aware of what he does and fully understands the consequences, that he does what he does for his own selfish motives and usually with little thought for the safety of his colleagues. In this, he is very different from Blake, who is driven by the demands of resistance and suffers great anxieties about the well-being of his people..."

You feel yourself sufficiently moved to walk right into the room, waving your hand as you wait to be invited to speak. It is, nevertheless, rather disconcerting to find yourself called upon immediately. Taking the microphone which is offered, you begin.

"I too am no believer in Heroic Avon! Unlike the previous speaker, however, I do not believe that Avon has a full understanding of what he does or even really his own motives; such an insight is not in his nature! From what we see of him, it is easy to imagine that his heart is a spiritual void; the metaphysical is beyond him, so too is morality; he makes sense of his universe in a way which is thoroughly alien, not to say, disturbing, to all those who work closely with him. Think about the number of times Cally, Vila, Tarrant and Dayna appear to be repelled by the way in which he behaves. Very few people appear to have any effect on him emotionally but those who do, Anna and later Blake, do so out of all proportion to the rest.

"He lives in a moral and emotional vacuum, unable to appreciate as do others, the finer points of morality; he is, in fact, amoral. We can only guess at what he feels to be his reasons for behaving as he does. It is likely that he has such reasons, such self-justifications, for who can survive even one day without such attitudes? Yet, my own reading of it would be that as much as possible, he blames others rather than himself. The only mistake he is regularly willing to admit is that of trusting others who subsequently let him down; in this way he absolves himself of anything more serious than poor judgement. Whether or not, for example, he was in his right mind to attempt to rob the Federation Bank in the first place does not appear to be a question which ever crosses his mind. He wants the right to do whatever he wishes but blames others when his plans go wrong."

"Does any noble purpose lie at the heart of his self? No: his espoused reasons for anything he undertakes is quite simply; survival. He goes to his destiny entirely outside the paths of society; he puts up very little struggle; at the end, he submits to himself even at the cost of the one small light at the heart of his being; his relationship with Blake. There is no internal struggle, neither does he attempt to reach beyond himself; he is content to accept what he has become. I do not doubt that Avon suffers and quite terribly so, at the unfortunate events in his life; nevertheless his suffering is directionless, its resolution consists of nothing positive, only a type of grim stoicism. Regardless of his external circumstances, he is unable or unwilling to halt the decline into paranoic nihilism."

All round you there is a long, low intake of breath.

Someone comments, "Well...that's one view of Avon. I hope you can justify what you say. Many people would not like not to hear Avon described thus."

You suddenly realise that you can justify your statements and you know exactly how to do this.