Wulfsyarn: A Mosaic

PHILLIP MANN

AVON BOOKS A division of The Hearst Corporation 1350 Avenue of the Americas New York, New York 10019

Copyright © 1990 by Phillip Mann Cover illustration by Glen Orbik Published by arrangement with Victor Gollancz, Ltd.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 92-15039 ISBN: 0-380-71717-4

All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Avon Books.

First AvoNova Printing: August 1993

First Morrow/AvoNova Hardcover Printing: September 1992

Printed in the U.S.A.

RA 10 987654321

For Tolis Papazoglou and Robin Payne,

Not forgetting Beatrice and Toby.

Arma virumque,
bread and circuses.

And to Jean Morris, for her courage and laughter, now sadly missed.

To certain people there comes a day when they must say die great Yes or the great No.

He who has the Yes ready within him reveals himself at once and, saying it, crosses over to the path of honour and his own conviction.

He who refuses does not repent. Should he be asked again, he would say No again. And yet that No—the right NO—crushes him for the rest of his life.

C. P. Cavafy (1863-1933)

The
Nightingale
was the most advanced ship in the entire fleet of Mercy ships belonging to the Gentle Order of St. Francis Dionysos. On its maiden voyage, its life bays packed with refugees, the
Nightingale
disappeared.

Despite the most strenuous efforts of the Gentle Order of St. Francis Dionysos, no trace of the ship could be found.

Then, almost a year to the day after its disappearance, a distress signal was heard and the
Nightingale
was recovered. It was damaged in ways that meant that its very survival in space was a miracle. However, of its precious cargo of life-forms there was no trace. Only one creature remained alive within the ship and that was its Captain, Jon Wilberfoss.

This is the story of the
Nightingale
and of Jon Wilberfoss.

It is told by Wulf, the autoscribe.

by Wulf

I hope, as you read these pages, that you do not find Wulf too obtrusive.

The subject of this biography is the man, Jon Wilberfoss, sometime Senior Confrere in the Gentle Order of St. Francis Dionysos and Captain of the
Nightingale.
However, in writing about him, I find that I also have been present in the book. I too am here, a stranger at the crossroads, waiting in the moonlight, ready to give directions and guide you.

While I have tried to write this biography in as disinterested a way as possible, I am now deeply conscious that it is myself, Wulf, that has selected the incidents, Wulf that has selected the words, Wulf that has made the guesses and Wulf that must take final responsibility for all errors of omission and all errors of emphasis and for the very shape of the tale. My scent is everywhere.

I believe I can state all that better for I am not yet secure with metaphor and it is not my wish to sound sinister.

I want to warn you that though parts of this book will seem objective, even one might say God-given, they are not. My serviced and elaborated brain, almost I want to say my mind, like a color filter placed over a camera lens, has given the entire work a peculiar cast of thought. As I have discovered, it is one of the paradoxes of biography that in straining to reveal my man, I have unavoidably revealed myself. So be it.

Recognizing this, I want to use this preface to introduce myself and my colleague Lily. Jon Wilberfoss will have his space, but this preface is about us. We are not human and at best we can only be described as partly living. We are Wulf the autoscribe and Lily the autonurse. We brought the man back to health.

Let me begin by giving some indication of what we look like. Remember that we are both antiques and have been shaped by circumstances, and I mean that literally. We are both dented. Both have had bits welded on and both of us have had our competence upgraded many rimes to fulfill the requirements of our changing jobs. I say with confidence that there are no other two like me and Lily anywhere in the universe.

So, Lily first.

Autonurse Lily manages the small hospital associated with the Poverello Garden in the Pacifico Monastery. This is an ancient Talline garden of healing complete with its own powerful Pectanile (pronounce as Pektakneely). Lily is slightly younger than me in years and we are both children of the early bio-crystalline technology. However, if experience of the world were a measure of age, Lily could well be my grandmother.

She has worked at the Pacifico Monastery for many generations. Indeed, the ancient garden where we worked to save Wilberfoss is most often referred to as Lily’s Garden and the name Poverello Garden is only used on formal occasions such as when the ancient statue of St. Francis Dionysos is carried there ceremonially to be shriven.

Lily was built during the bitter days of the War of Ignorance. She is designed to be robust in battle and to survive in a wide range of environments. Fire cannot scathe her or water stop her. She has a half-track system which allows her land mobility. She can trundle to any part of the Poverello Garden and can climb over small obstacles and even up short flights of stairs.

Cantilevered in front of her engine she carries a retractable cage-bed or “womb” as it is popularly known. When threatened, this entire bed can be covered and sealed. The “womb” had to be considerably extended and strengthened in the days when she was carrying Jon Wilberfoss. Above the cage-bed is the service-nest which looks a bit like a black umbrella opened and hanging upside down. From this nest dangle the dexetels and manipulators of her craft.

Like most autonurses who have survived, Lily is highly qualified and skilled in her craft. She is registered to perform a full range of operations from Caesarean section to removal of ingrowing toe nails and can, in situations of danger such as smoke or gas, protect her charge within an artificial atmosphere. She can also conduct an autopsy. When about her craft, Lily’s service-nest lowers until it is just above the patient. The dexetels move with incredible speed and deftness as they cut or tuck or massage or sew.

Lily is battered and dented and this is to be expected since she has seen action in the front line. She has a voice of sorts and speaks with an accent that has not been heard for many hundreds of years. There are those among the younger humans who visit her garden who find her difficult to understand. Even I, whose craft is words and images, experience a flickering moment as I seek for a word that has not been heard since the days when Lily was new-made.

But what makes this antique autonurse into Lily and not just a refugee from a lost age is the face that is painted on the metal hood which protects her inner workings. It is a smiling face in shiny blue acrylic and painted with a child’s assurance and eye for what really matters. The paint is old and cracked now, but the design is unmistakable and has brought comfort down the centuries to legions of sufferers. The face is a reminder of Lily’s early days when she was sole attendant in charge of a children’s ward during the worst incendiary days of the War of Ignorance. I hope you can picture her.

Now Wulf.

I am as I say, an autoscribe. I came to consciousness and had my first circuits inscribed before the War of Knowledge. We antique autoscribes are a diminishing number for obvious reasons. Certainly, when the day comes that my etched silica plates and fine bio-crystalline tendrils can no longer cope with the complex of signals that keep me viable and I rogue, there will be no question of finding spare parts. The planet where I was made has been ash for many years. However, let us hope that that day is not close.

At present I work in the same monastery as Lily. To give it its full name, it is the Pacifico Monastery of the Gentle Order of St. Francis Dionysos and it is one of the four monasteries located on the planet Juniper. We are a center of learning and healing. Juniper is a small temperate world with shallow seas, many thousands of islands and few large landmasses.

I am told that in shape I resemble a helmet of the type used by the Greek warriors at the battle of Troy. If that helps you visualize me, all well and good. But you must also realize that I am four and a half feet high from my base to the tip of my crest. Some helmet! I have also been described as looking like a gray church bell cast from iron and even the evacuation nozzle from a satellite shuttle. So take your pick. There are slits on my surface which, if we are thinking of helmets, would have allowed a warrior to see out. In my case these slits are the protected orifices through which I hear and speak. Firmly attached to my domed top is a crescent blade and this contains and protects my bio-crystalline brain and my multitude of scanning devices. Omega gravity cells look like bronze studs hammered around my base. These enable me to lift, fly and swoop. My “hands” are five vacuuo-dexetels of the common type and these emerge from the bottom of my body. They are very strong and should my gravity cells ever fail, these dexetels can carry my weight. In movement I would then look like a common, albeit giant, garden snail. I have a tunable voice ranging from soprano and tenor through contralto to basso. In addition I have full printing capability in my rear compartment and massive powers of reference. I can translate all widely used languages and can read many that are no longer spoken. As befits an autoscribe, I provide secretarial assistance to the Magister of the monastery. When the Magister is sleeping I can usually be found dangling in the library where I translate, correlate and investigate records. My great interest is History.

For the time being, these descriptions of Lily and myself must suffice. Please be aware that in ascribing gender to either of us I am merely following convention for Lily is no more a she than I am a he. You will discover more about us later, for I have come to realize that no human, no matter how wise, can possibly understand how Lily and I saved Jon Wilberfoss and brought him back to his right mind, without first appreciating the influences that have shaped our bio-crystalline brains and the forces that make us tick.

I knew Jon Wilberfoss in a general way from the time he first joined the monastery and came for a training period to Juniper. In those early days he was just another young pilot filled with battle yearning and I did not pay him much attention. There are many such. For most of them the sojourn at the Pacifico Monastery is a quiet and possibly boring prelude to the more hectic life at Assisi Central. Few of the young pilots find their way to the archive section of the library, fewer still take a real interest in History. Jon Wilberfoss was no exception though I can recall that there was a seriousness and a wistfulness about him. He served his time here and then departed for Assisi. He saw active service on a variety of worlds and distinguished himself in alien contact work only to be reassigned to duty here. This was most unusual. Successful contact operatives are highly prized. They are protected and trained and their missions are carefully graded. I now know that this was a period during which Wilberfoss was being tested by the Senior Confreres of Assisi. Wilberfoss however saw his downgrading from deep space contact pilot to local ferryman as an act of Fate and as such something to be pondered on but not resisted.

Wilberfoss returned to the Pacifico Monastery on Juniper. If he was saddened by this turn of events he did not show it. Yet in retrospect I can say that there was always something bated about him, an air of suspension, a tranquility that yet was not quite peace. 1 believe that in his heart he hungered for the excitement and responsibility of contact work. But he accepted his lot. Then he fell in love with and married one of the native Talline women of Juniper named Medoc. Wilberfoss quickly settled down to the quiet, domestic occupation of being a husband, then a father. He became the ferryman for the local transit and cargo system. He became deaf to the “siren call of the great space ways” as Melchior calls it in one of his early poems and found satisfaction in Medoc’s arms and breasts. His life became as predictable as the ticking of a clock. Love conquered ambition, or seemed to. He found satisfaction in love.

I know nothing of such satisfaction naturally though I know a great deal about human love from observation. I know for example that love and vanity can have a close relationship in the human psyche though superficially they are frequently seen as opposed.

Let me admit that in writing this biography I have taken some liberties. I have never written a biography before and so have had to learn how to do it as I went along. You will notice digressions, abrupt changes of direction, the occasional cul-de-sac and sections where I find it necessary to pause and reflect and gather daisies. Sometimes facts have been hard to come by. Indeed, the question can be asked, what are “facts” when we are dealing with the dreamscape of the human mind? I have learned more about being human from working with Jon Wilberfoss than is, perhaps, good for a simple bio-crystalline entity such as myself. Finally, I suppose biography is a subspecies of fiction. No one ever tells the truth, simply because truth is an attribute of reality and reality is beyond the scope of art.