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I hope as you read these pages, that you do not find Vulpa too obtrusive.
The subject of this biography is the man, Adama, sometime Senior Confrere in the Benevolent Order of St. Dionysos., and Commander of the Galactica. However, in writing about him, I find that I too 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 fair-mined a way as possible, I am now deeply conscious that it is I, Vulpa, that has selected the incidents. Vulpa that has made the guesses and Vulpa that must take the final responsibility for all errors of omission and all errors of emphasis and for the very shape of the tale. My fingerprints are everywhere.264Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGdMR6OKTTy
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I think I can state all that better for I am not yet comfortable with figures of speech and it is not my wish to sound menacing. I want to warn you that though parts of this narrative will seem objective, even if one might say Gods-given, they are not. My serviced and elaborate brain, almost I want to say my mind, like a color filter placed over a camera lens, has given the whole tale an odd cast of thought. As I have discovered, it is one of the paradoxes of biography that in straining to reveal my man, I have unintentionally revealed myself. So be it.
Recognizing this, I want to use this preface to introduce myself and my colleague, Serpentine. Adama will have his space, but this preface is about us. We are not human and at best we can only be described as half-living. We are Vulpa the Scribe-class Cylon and Serpentine the Nurse-class Cylon. We brought the man back to health. 264Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡte3kB951PM
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Let me begin by giving some indication of what we look like. Remember that we are both ancient and have been shaped by circumstances, and I mean that literally. We are both dented. Both have bits welded on and both of us have had our competence upgraded multiple times to fulfill the needs of our changing duties. I say with confidence that there are no other two like me and Serpentine anywhere in the universe.
So Serpentine first.
Cylon Serpentine manages the little hospital associated with the Jadriel Garden in the Great Caprica Monastery. This is an ancient Callrine garden of healing complete with its own powerful Pectanile (pronounced as PektanKneely). Serpentine is slightly younger than me in yahrens and we are both children of the ancient bio-crystalline technology. However, if experience of the world were a measure of age, Serpentine could well be my grandmother.
She has worked at Great Caprica Monastery for many generations. Without a doubt, the olden garden where we labored to save Adama is most often referred to as Serpentine's Garden and the name Jadriel Garden is only used on formal occasions such as when the ancient statue of St. Dionysos is carried there ceremonially to be shriven.
Serpentine was built during the vinegary days of the War of Stupid Fools. 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 Great Caprica Garden and 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 Adama. 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 dextels and manipulators of her craft.
Like most Nurse-class Cylons who have survived, Serpentine is registered to perform a full range of operations from craniectomies to removal of ingrowing toenails and can, in situations of danger such as smoke and gas, protect her charge with an artificial atmosphere. She can also conduct an autopsy. When about her craft, Serpentine's service-nest lowers until it is just above the patient. The dexetels move with incredible speed and deftness as they cut, tuck, massage, or sew.
Serpentine 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 yahrens. There are those among the younger humans who visit her garden who find her hard 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 Serpentine was new-made.
But what makes this ancient Cylon into Serpentine 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 snallum and painted with a child's assurance for eye and for what really matters. The paint is old and cracked now, but the design is unmistakable and has brought comfort down through the centuries to legions of sufferers. The face is a reminder of Serpentine's early days when she was the one and only attendant in charge of a children's ward during the worst combustible days of the War of Stupid Fools. I hope you can picture her.264Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡp1WJCX49fJ
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Now Vulpa.
I am as I say, a Scribe-class Cylon. I came to consciousness and had my first circuits inscribed before the War of Clever Geniuses. We ancient scribes 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 rouge, there will be no question of finding spare parts. The planet where I was made has been ash for many yahrens. However, let us hope that day is not close at hand.
At present, I work in the same monastery as Serpentine. To give it its full name, it is the Great Caprica Monastery of the Benevolent Order of St. Dionysos and it is one of the four monasteries located on the planet Gemon. We are a center of learning and healing. Gemon 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 worn by the Colonial warriors at the battle of Gomoray. If that helps you visualize me, all well and good. But you must also realize that I am four and a half metrons high from my base to the tip of my crest. Some helmet! I have also been described as looking like a gray worship bell cast from ferrium and even the evacuation nozzles 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 vacu-dextels 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 reference powers. I can translate all widely used languages and can read many that are no longer spoken. As befits a scribe, I provide secretarial assistance 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 greatest interest, I forgot to tell you, is history.
For the time being, these descriptions of Serpentine and myself must suffice. Please be aware that in assigning gender to either of us I am merely following convention for Serpentine 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 he be, can possibly understand how Serpentine and I saved Adama and brought him back to his right mind, without first appreciating the influences that have shaped out bio-crystalline brains and the forces that make us tick.264Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBpPtIxuJs0
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I knew Adama in a general way from the time he first joined the monastery and came for a training period to Gemon. 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 Great Caprica Monastery is a quiet and possibly boring prelude to the more hectic life at Kobol Central. Few of the young pilots find their way to the archive section of the library, fewer still take a real interest in History. Adama was no exception although I can remember that there was a seriousness and wistfulness about him. He served his time here and then departed for Kobol. He saw active service on a variety of planets 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 evaluated. I now know that this was a period during which Adama was being tested by the Senior Confreres of Kobol. Adama however saw his downgrading from deep space contact pilot to local ferryman as an act of Fate and as such something to be pondered upon but not fought.
Adama returned to the Great Caprica Monastery on Gemon. 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 was not quite peace. I 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 Callrine women of Gemon named Ila. Adama 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 spaceways" as Ortega calls it in one of his early poems and found satisfaction in Ila'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 with the human psyche although superficially they are frequently seen as opposed.264Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAnqe9iHNXO
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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 landscape of the human mind? I have learned more about being human from working with Adama than is, maybe, good for a simple bio-crystalline entity such as I. 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.
All of this is an elaborate way to warn you that I have made things up when I have needed to, as, when describing events which happened but at which I was not present. I have tried to be fair. I showed this manuscript to Senior Confrere Adama during the later period of his convalescence and he asked me not to change anything. Needless to say, maybe, but those sections in which I quote Adama directly, as when he spoke frankly to me during his wanderings in Serpentine's Garden, are completely accurate and only the syntax has been altered to allow the meaning to shine out more clearly.
I am a Cylon, and I have approached the human as closely as I can. Being a machine I have maybe been able to stare fixedly at those things that make a human vomit. I do not, for example, suffer from moral guilt or despair and hence can look at the temptation to suicide and see it for what it is. Despair is the dark unreality that humans so frequently live with. Serpentine and I look on and try to help. Being Cylons we tender no threats and I find it appealing that Adama mentioned so many times that he found it easier to speak to us than to a fellow human being because we were Cylons.
Adama's sole comment when he read my manuscript was that he was surprised at how human I sounded. I think he meant that as a compliment. Let me turn it on its head. Let me tell you: linguistics is easy, noting references and allusions is easy, using verbs like "to feel" and "to sense" is easy. What I am saying is that it is not hard to sound like a human. But being a human is not easy. I know. I have watched the struggle. I have heard humans affirming lies and denying truths. I have seen people choose hell over heaven and rejoice in the fact. As I say, I have watched the struggle, and if I knew what envy was I would say with great certainty that I, Vulpa, the scribe, do not envy any one of you, not a one.
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I have already mentioned that I love History. What more you need to know is that like all historians, I seek to discover patterns of cause and effect. Whether it be the fall of daggits and buriticians or the rise of Superpowers or the effect of disease, famine, and drugs on the vitality of populations, there are always patterns, and these can be discovered by the dedicated historian.
Existence, such as it is, seems to be Chaos. And Chaos is an enemy to both man and Cylon. In the course of his life a man moves from hurdle to hurdle, from crisis to crisis, and counts himself lucky if, at day's end, when the light starts to fade, he can enjoy peace and a silent death. Life by its very nature does not allow or encourage contemplation. I am not subject to life or death and so can contemplate even when I am burning.
The soaring aquilon sees patterns which are denied to the running rodentoid, and I like to think that historians, at least in their art if not their life, are aquilons. And of course a medley (as I call this book) is a pattern which requires the eye of distance for it to make good sense.
In the cast of Senior Confrere Adama, we have a life which I cannot deny has something of tragic inevitability about it. A happy man, reduced to ruin----or near ruin. His ending, however, is not tragic. It is the near tragic that concerns me, for we can all learn from that. Adama was a gifted man who had found some happiness. Then Fate stepped in and took hold of his life and shook it like a daggit that is killing a rodentoid.
Fate. I do not know that I believe in Fate. As a Cylon I am detached from the rhythms and patterns that human beings detect in their lives, which is not to say that I cannot detect patterns in my own period of consciousness. I am, after all, a trained pattern detector. The difference is that I do not ascribe metaphysical significance to my patterns of experience while Adama does, or did. He saw his whole life as shaped by Fate from the day he stumbled into an outpost of the Benevolent Order and took his first vows.
However, since i cannot explain the first cause of things better, I must defer to him. We will left fate stand.264Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtzYTzgVw76
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We shall begin at the moment when Fate comes a-knocking.....
