Predator Prey - 12. New Environment

The research vessel RV Feigenbaum had been named after a generous University benefactor who'd made the lead gift to buy the ship. Built as trawler, then refitted as an oceangoing research lab, the Feigenbaum made regular cruises in the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico and the gulf stream.

The Captain, or Master, as he was called, George McCallum, signed him on as a student volunteer with almost unbecoming speed. Apparently, there was a shortage of volunteers for January term, and had been for a while. Volunteers were usually undergraduates whose main tasks were to assist the Master, Mate, Engineer and crew to keep up with the needs and schedules of the graduate scientists carrying out their research during each cruise. Occasionally, volunteers were required to help with academic projects and so on, as needed.

All this was carefully explained to him by the Master over coffee the morning of his arrival. The Captain ("yes, you have to address me by my title," the Master told him with a smile) also explained that he'd be issued work clothes for sea duties, and that fresh water on board was a very, very scarce commodity once they were at sea. He also got a list of stuff he'd need to buy.

Suddenly, he was glad of the money he hadn't given away.

In the meanwhile, he was made to be useful by giving a thorough a cleaning to as many parts of the ship as he could. Apparently, it wasn't too unusual for student volunteers to appear early for a cruise. He doubted he was the only rootless student to have walked up that gangway. At least he was being fed by the University; the Master gave him some cash to go grocery shopping in the small town where the research station was located. He managed to find enough food to sustain the two of them for a couple of days.

He spent a very quiet New Year's Eve in a tiny, narrow stateroom meant for two student volunteers located below decks. The Master was gone for the evening, and he was alone. He pondered what was in store for the next four weeks, and decided that, despite the four weighty instruction books and manuals he'd been given, he had no clue. He shook his head in wonder that he'd actually taken the time to study.

He remembered previous New Year's celebrations he'd gone to. Two years ago in Tampa he'd found a clothing optional party. Lots of alcohol, drugs, plenty of eye candy. He'd skipped the drugs, of course, but he'd had maybe four guys before dawn broke. It was hard to remember, now. What in hell was he doing here? Why didn't he just disappear and try to start over the way he knew how?

Maybe it had something to do with the way Marc had left him. Maybe it had something to do with a desire to prove to Marc and Lee that he could do something worthy of their gift to him. The gift of their Christmas. Had that only been a week ago?

He slept through the desultory fireworks that greeted the New Year.

The actual New Year saw the regular crew return from their holidays.

The Purser – the official title of the man who kept the interior life of the crew and scientists going – the Purser cooked, in addition to other duties, and was the first to arrive. This addition turned out to be a big, balding man in his late fifties with a broad Boston accent. He introduced himself as Martin Sinclair (pronounced 'Maht'n Sinclayah'). The Master called the Purser 'Cookie,' and Sinclair seemed not to need any other title.

Cookie was as loud and talkative as the Master was reserved.

Inspecting the new volunteer's handiwork at cleaning, Cookie clapped a hand to his shoulder and said, "Wally, this is A-one work. You're hired."

It didn't matter what his actual name was; Cookie had named him 'Wally,' and that was what he would be called throughout his time on the Feigenbaum. Wally.

"Hey, Wally," Cookie's voice sounded distantly from farther forward beyond the kitchen – no, galley, he corrected himself, "come on over here." Except it came out 'ovah heah.' He wasn't sure he'd get used to deciphering Cookie's accent.

He moved farther forward through a doorway into another compartment. He found Cookie in a room marked "Stores."

"Here, Wally, catch," Cookie tossed him a clipboard. "We're takin' inventory." Cookie kept up a stream of largely mundane comments throughout the whole task.

Together, they went down a long list of items for the galley. As they neared the end of the list, they heard footsteps in the corridor

"Hey, Cookie, I see you got a victim." A short, fireplug shaped individual filled the doorway. Short brown hair, neat, trimmed beard. Green eyes. He looked friendly enough.

"Cal, how are ya? Have a good Christmas?" Cookie boomed out at the visitor.

The man grinned. "You bet, Cookie. So who's this?"

"This here's Wally. New volunteer. Came early, can you believe it?" both men laughed. He wondered what the joke was.

"Nice to meet you, Wally," the new arrival stretched out a hand in greeting. "I'm Calvin Scheck, the Mate."

Oh. The Mate. The second in command, he thought quickly.

"Cal's pretty much gonna be god to you, Wally," Cookie put in with a chuckle. "He assigns you your watches. Your work schedule," Cookie added, clarifying.

God, would he ever catch up with these nautical terms

"So, you gonna give me Wally for this cruise?" Cookie challenged the Mate.

"We'll see, Cookie." The mate turned back to him. "I'll have the watch list done in a day or so. Then you'll know if you're under the thumb of this tyrant or not," the man grinned.

Basically, he had to tag along with Cookie for now, anyways.

Later, Cookie directed him to make coffee. "Hey, you making a fresh pot?" A low, gravelly voice interrupted his actions.

He turned, and beheld another new addition. Dark haired, Hispanic, middle aged, five o'clock shadow. Intense brown eyes, almost black.

"Yeah. Be ready in a minute," he replied to the stranger.

"Who are you?" the new man challenged.

"Wally. You can call me Wally," he shrugged, choosing to adopt Cookie's name for himself as his own. It wouldn't matter, really. Nobody knew him anyway.

"Javier Cabrera," the name came out as abruptly as the hand to be shaken. "Engineer."

They stood for a moment in silence. Javier Cabrera did not appear to be a conversational sort. The Engineer waited with seemingly impenetrable reserve while the coffee brewed.

He busied himself inventorying equipment for a moment. He heard the coffee machine gurgle, but the Engineer beat him to it. Moving swiftly, Cabrera grabbed a mug, poured a cup, and strode for the nearest doorway. He wondered if he had done something wrong.

Not long after, Cookie pressed him into service for dinner preparations. It was a feast of sorts, Cookie having brought plenty of delicacies back from the holiday break in New England. This included clam chowder and a case of awful beer labelled 'Narragansett,' which everyone but Cookie drank, and which the Master insisted they finish before the sober scientists came aboard. There was a strict no-alcohol policy for everyone at sea.

As the most considerably junior member of the table, he spoke rarely and watched and listened a great deal. He was good at that, or so he thought.

During the meal, he learned the Mate and the Engineer shared quarters on the lower deck; Cookie and the Marine Technician – who hadn't yet arrived – shared another.

Another senior member of the crew was the Chief Scientist, who wouldn't arrive until later. This anomalous person had a tiny stateroom to himself. He wasn't exactly crew, and not completely scientific staff; this was a professor from the University whose role was to supervise and coordinate the work of the Scientific Party – the graduate students who booked time aboard the Feigenbaum to complete their experiments and lab work.

After supper, he did much of the cleanup, under Cookie's supervision.

"Wally, let's see how good you are as a pearl diver," he called out to him. Of course he was mystified.

"Pearl diver?" he had to ask.

"Dish washer – here in the deep sink," the man grinned.

He got to work. "We're gonna get along just fine Wally," Cookie told him approvingly as he finished up about an hour later.

He appreciated that Cookie didn’t ask questions. He made conversation, yes – about women, hockey, unpopular Chief Scientists – but refrained from exploratory inquiries with the new volunteer.

The following day saw the arrival of the Marine Technician – a very pleasant middle aged fellow with a civil manner and a capable air named Mel Haskins. This man knew pretty much everything about how the shipboard scientific equipment worked, and how to use it for the experiments that were performed. And if something broke, Haskins would be the one to fix it.

Also coming aboard that day was the Chief Scientist, Professor Claudine Boudreau. Professor Boudreau was a French Canadian, and spoke with a decidedly strong accent. But she had made cruises on the Feigenbaum before, and she appeared to be well-liked by the crew. Cookie approved, so he supposed Dr. Boudreau would be all right.

He helped with dinner again – Cookie had taken him on a monumental shopping trip for what was termed 'ship's stores' that day, an excursion requiring the use of a large rental truck. He got to drive; the big yellow truck was quite a comedown from his jet black BMW. They'd had to drive nearly to Tampa to buy from a wholesaler Cookie knew. By the time the afternoon began to fade, he was tired from shifting boxes and frozen packages into their appropriate spaces.

But he could truly swear the swordfish they ate that night was purchased fresh that morning.

The next day saw more loading of supplies and stores; more of the permanent crew came on board. He heard Spanish being spoken more frequently. And he was finally joined by the other three volunteers, two women and another male, all at least a year younger than he was.

On arrival, his roommate tapped on the door and peered in. "Hello, you must be my bunkmate," he said sticking out his hand. "I'm Joshua Berman." He beheld a thin, wiry, bespectacled and earnest looking kid with a head of messy black curls. He sported a desperate scraggle of wispy beard on the margins of his jaw and chin. "Um, is this our room?"

He nodded. "I'm…Wally," he answered, deciding again to use the name Cookie had bestowed. They shook hands.

"So where do I put my stuff?"

Joshua came fully equipped, with two huge duffel bags. In a stateroom built more like a slot with bunks, Joshua's gear filled every available space and then some. It took them almost an hour to negotiate how to place everything.

"Wally, why don't you take the bottom bunk?" Joshua asked at the end. The boy was trying, at least.

"Sure. No problem." He didn't really care.

"You a senior?" Joshua asked.

Well now, that was a question. Nominally, he supposed he was. But, he really hadn't paid attention; he doubted he had enough credits in any single department to major – he'd been too busy running his business.

"I'm doing some extra semesters," he answered, choosing his words carefully.

Their conversation was interrupted by the sounds of laughter from the stateroom next door. The two women volunteers were settled in, by the sound of it. The walls were quite thin.

"How about you?" he asked, turning the conversation back onto Joshua.

"I'm a junior. I work in Dr. Bainbridge's lab. You know, the stuff on demersal fish? I'm hoping this trip will let me get a spot as a pre-grad student next summer."

Joshua was enthusiastic, if nothing else.

There was a knock on their door.

"Hi guys, I'm Brenda," a bright, rosy cheeked blond-haired girl stood in the doorway. A darker haired girl hovered in the corridor behind her. She wasn't shy about checking out the two men.

He returned her frank appraisal with a distant smile. He couldn’t make any enemies here, but he had no intention of encouraging Brenda. "I'm Wally. And this is Joshua," he completed the introductions.

"Don't we have a meeting now?"

"Oh, damn, you're right," Joshua was galvanized into action. "We'd better get going."

He sighed, and wondered for the millionth time what he had gotten himself into.