The Risen Storm (After The Rising Book 1)

by A. R. Daun

  As always, she thought about her family, and about how much she missed them after 10 months of being continuously at sea. Her eldest son Raul was about Pablo's age and finishing college at the University of the Philippines in Los Banos, where he majored in Agriculture, much to the dismay of his father, who wanted Raul to become a medical doctor and move to America to help support his four younger brothers and sisters.

  Diwi mused sadly that if her husband Romy did not waste all the money he accumulated as a technical support specialist with one of the BPO firms in Makati, there would be no financial problems. But he liked hanging out with his drinking buddies, gambling, and carousing with the dirty bar girls who frequented the slimier establishments in Manila and called themselves by the ironically mundane moniker of GRO, or Guest Relations Officers. Diwi once had the misfortune of confronting her husband about his infidelities, and ended up in the emergency room with a broken jaw and numerous bruises.

  Undeterred by his father's rages, and supported morally and financially by his loving mother, Raul continued to rack up excellent grades. His ambition, which he shared with Diwi in his short but emotionally-laden emails, was to join the International Rice Research Institute in Los Banos and help introduce new and more productive rice varieties into the market in order to combat hunger. He was an optimistic and idealistic boy, and Diwi loved him with all her heart.

  The somnolent drone of a vacuum cleaner roused her from her daydreams. Pablo had finished with the bathrooms and was now cleaning the thick rug, his body jinking and jiving to some hidden inner music that only he could hear.

  “Pablo!” she called out to him over the noise.”Help me with the beds ok?”

  Pablo turned and gave her a beatific smile.

  “Sure Mami,” he said, and switched the vacuum off, moving obediently towards her, but then betraying his true intentions by suddenly grabbing her hands in his and doing something that looked like the rumba.

  “Come on Mami, dance with me,” he grinned, so innocently that Diwi had to smile back, even though they really did have nineteen more rooms to clean.

  She tried to follow his movement, she really did, but all these kids today had jelly for bones while she was just getting older and stiffer every day.

  “Ok, ok,” she finally said, releasing his hands and almost laughing at the comically disappointed look that Pablo feigned. “The company doesn't pay us to dance in passenger cabins. Let's get these beds done and move on to the next, ok?”

  “Well, they barely pay us at all,” Pablo countered, but shushed when she gave him a stern look. You never knew who might be listening. Any complaints by lowly crew about working conditions and pay that were a fraction of the minimum wage in developed countries were usually met with severe punishments from the company, including immediate termination.

  All the large international cruse lines flew their ships under so-called “flags of convenience”, such as the Bahamas or Liberia or Panama, in order to avoid the stricter labor and legal laws of countries like the USA or Canada. This not only allowed them to pay a pittance to their workers, who frequently worked 12-14 hours for seven days each week, but it also shielded them from being successfully sued by injured and killed passengers and their relatives.

  Labor laws certainly weren't on the mind of restaurant manager Marco Papadakis as he leaned over the cowering bastard. Only two hours now before departure and the little monkey had broken a stack of plates while carrying them from the wash basin to a counter in the Odyssey's main dining room, The Pacific Reef. Thank God all the passengers who had so far boarded were now crammed into the one of the other dining rooms, and the Pacific Reef was not due to open for dinner until later in the evening.

  Marco glowered at the assistant waiter. He was a big man, his porcine body bulging with rolls of accumulated fat, his wide florid face red with anger.

  “What do you have to say for yourself you little monkey?” he hissed vehemently, and spittle flew from his thick lips to land on the waiter's distressed pinched face.

  He pushed the offending waiter hard on the chest. Marco had massive arms, sinewy and thick with muscle, and the smaller man flew back and ricocheted against a large storage cabinet, then sagged slightly as if in some pain.

  The waiter was older, perhaps in his 50s, his lined face a testament to long years of hard labor. If this sudden assault hurt he did not show it, but kept his eyes lowered and his posture meek. “I am sorry Sir”, he mumbled softly, once he regained his balance. “It will not happen again.”

  “You're damn right it will never happen again, you little piece of shit,” Marco countered, emphasizing his words by poking the waiter on the chest as he spoke. The old man flinched with each poke of the finger. “I'm taking that off your pay, and you'll be lucky if I don't drop your sorry little ass off this ship right now.”

  “I'm sorry Sir,” the waiter repeated, and he was such a pathetic little mouse with his cringing and his soft sputtering voice that Marco had the sudden urge to take him by the neck and throw him off the side of the ship. Marco was a 100% all-natural bully, hold the artificial sweeteners, and such displays of weakness only served to further enrage him.

  A growing crowd of other waiters and bartenders had gathered around to stop and watch the display, their faces intentionally kept blank and neutral, and Marco turned and snarled at them to get back to work, which they did with some alacrity.

  “Now clean that mess up, retard,” he gave the old waiter a last shove, pointing to the broken dishes on the floor. The old man had scrunched his face and a single tear was making its way down one cheek. Marco turned and stalked out of the dining room and into one of the elevators before the urge to belt the waiter became too great, daring any of the chastened staff to get in his way. He had no moral qualms about continuing to vent his rage on the little monkey, but there was a lot of work to do inspecting the various dining facilities on the Odyssey before the herds of passengers stampeded their way into the ship.

  The Coral Odyssey boasted 24 dining areas on board, ranging from multi-deck main dining rooms like the Pacific Reef to buffet-style venues to specialty restaurants where passengers had to pay an additional fee. As restaurant manager, Marco was in charge of all food service functions in these outlets, and he reported directly to the food & beverage manager, as well as to the hotel director himself. It was a grueling job, as he had to be available for all the main meals, and he spent most of his days doing the rounds of all the restaurants, and keeping an eye on his head waiters and their personnel at each dining area.

  But the perks, he smiled to himself, oh the perks were what made his job bearable. The sense of power that rushed through him whenever he walked into a dining room and knew that the eyes of every crewman and woman were focused on him; the smell of fear that permeated the room when he frowned at some breach of protocol by his staff, no matter how small; the intimate moments spent with some of the more alluring females under him, whose nubile bodies soon bore the harsh marks of their affair; these were the little things that gave him so much pleasure.

  Marco licked his lips as he entered the Garden Cafe, which was the main casual dining choice in the Odyssey, nodding sternly to the assistant waitress who deferentially squirted some disinfecting liquid onto his palms. This was standard procedure for anyone entering any of the dining areas in order to prevent the spread of diseases aboard the confined ship.

  “And how are the guests doing, Conchita?” he asked her. Marco prided himself on knowing the names of all of his underlings. He eyed her ample bosom openly, hidden though it was by her white starched blouse.

  “Good Sir,” Conchita chirped, smiling up at him. This was the first time the restaurant manager or RO had taken notice of her, and she stood up straighter, unconsciously presenting her assets in a better light. “We still have available seating inside here because some guests have moved on deck after taking their food.”

  Marco smiled indulgently back, then pried his eyes away from her and gazed at the pla
ce with a professional eye. The Garden Cafe could sit up to 400 guests and had large windows spanning the length of the indoor sitting area, providing guests with an unparalleled view of the open ocean on the starboard side of the ship. Two large automated sliding doors opened to the outside at the stern end of the deck, where more seats and tables allowed people to dine under the sun and stars, and gaze in wonder over the rails at the wake of the ship as it churned through the waters at up to 22 knots per hour.

  The welcome aboard buffet for embarking passengers at the Garden Cafe had been open for a few hours now, and as much as he hated setting his eyes on all the spoiled and grossly-overweight prima donnas who crowded into the buffet every chance they got, he supposed it was a part of his job.

  “Very good,” he nodded at Conchita, who flushed in pleasure at the comment, though whether it was addressed to her was open to debate, as Marco had already strode into the Cafe, hands behind his back, nodding engagingly at the guests who acknowledged the uniformed officer in their midst. He was every bit the professional as he greeted them and inquired about their day, but always his practiced eyes scanned the immediate environment, making sure everything was in order.

  The guests who had taken advantage of the buffet run the usual gamut as far as Marco could tell, from old couples, to families with their scampering children (though thankfully the Odyssey was not a Disney ship and did not have so many of the little brats), to giggling teenagers dressed too scantily for the April weather, all the better to show off their tanned young bodies.

  He passed through the cafe and wandered into the outdoor dining area. Many guests were eating in groups or taking pictures of the planes at the flight deck of the nearby Intrepid Air and Sea Museum, which lay just southwest of the Odyssey's berth, but Marco spotted at least one person in the crowd who was oblivious to the entire spectacle.

  He walked over and stood next to the sitting woman, who was engrossed in a thick hardcover book.

  “There'll be quite a lot of time for reading later. Have you tasted some of the food from our buffet?” He offered his hand to her, taking a long look at the text she was reading. “ I'm Marco Papadakis, restaurant manager of the Coral Odyssey.”

  The woman smiled up at him, then shook his hand with a firm grip that belied her willowy figure. Her long straight black hair fell past her shoulders and curled at the tips, the part in the middle framing a slender oval-shaped face with high cheekbones, long narrow lips and a somewhat flaring and regal nose.

  Marco had never seen such an exquisitely exotic woman. Her ebony skin radiated a glossy sheen that made her fairly glow, and when she removed her sunglasses her almond-shaped brown eyes glinted with intelligence. Not your typical vapid pretty face, he mused idly.

  “I'm Ammara Lewis,” she said. “It's nice to meet you Mr. Papadakis. Please call me Mara.”

  Mara inclined her head in greeting, and closed her book, marking the page with one long slender finger. She was slightly annoyed at being interrupted, but she supposed he was right. She was after all on her honeymoon, albeit she had no idea where the groom was at the moment. The last she had seen of Steve, he had been busy scoping the whereabouts of the casino floors, even though they would not be active until after the ship had left American waters.

  “Some light reading?” he inquired. “I should tell you our ship's library stocks quite a number of the more recent fiction and non-fiction best-sellers.”

  Mara grinned and tilted the book so he could catch a glimpse of the cover. The fierce and deadly cold yellow eyes of a wolf stared back at him, glaring from behind bold lettering that promised to show readers “The Hidden Lives of Wolves”. Below that, in less ostentatious font, the names of the two authors shared the spotlight with the actor Robert Redford, who had been kind enough to do the foreword for the book.

  “Do you suppose it would carry technical journals on predatory animal societies, Mr. Papadakis?” she asked, raising one eyebrow enquiringly. “I have brought a number of papers and books with me, but I'm always open to rummaging the local libraries for more research material.”

  Marco laughed self-deprecatingly. “I'm afraid our typical readers here tend towards less academic topics Ms. Lewis,” he granted her, and gestured at the book. “Are wolves a hobby and interest of yours?”

  Mara smiled politely in return. The restaurant manager was certainly courteous enough, but she sensed that the large man probably knew a thing or two about predators that walked on two legs himself. “I'm a graduate student at Syracuse...that's Syracuse University in New York State,” she explained at his puzzled look. “My thesis is on the societal dynamics of large mammalian predators. How they interact with one another and cooperate to hunt prey and divide up the spoils. I focus mainly on wolves, especially the Canadian timber wolves that had been introduced into Yellowstone Park recently, and their interactions with the resident elk and bison populations.”

  “Interesting, very interesting,” he said, though Mara could tell from the slightly glazed look that had crept into his eyes that her explanation was anything but interesting to him. She grinned inwardly. She was used to losing people during conversations, and had once been accused by Steve of having a one-track mind that almost never deviated from her academic interests.

  She could tell that this man was a persistent one though, as he struggled to come up with more than just the standard droll pretense of interest in subjects that ranged beyond his normal sphere of recreation. In the case of Mr. Papadakis, she had a feeling that this would be limited to food, women, and drink, then probably more women.

  He was saved from his predicament when the phone clipped to his belt beeped shrilly, and Marco held one finger up to her. “A moment please Ms. Lewis,” he said, then mumbled into the phone for a few seconds before closing it and clipping it back onto his belt.

  “I'm afraid we'll have to continue our fascinating discussion at another time.” He rested one hand intimately on her shoulder. “Duty calls you know.”

  She nodded. “It's alright Mr. Papadakis, thank you for the conversation.”

  “My pleasure Mara...can I call you that? Please, call me Marco.” He smiled broadly, his hand still placed on her shoulder, the pressure and forced intimacy making her feel somewhat uncomfortable. “And again, please enjoy the welcome aboard buffet. It's my job to make sure everyone onboard has access to the best cuisine possible.”

  She hesitated. “Thank you....Marco. I'm sure my husband and I will find your food here quite palatable.”

  He smiled a final time, nodded. “I'm sure you both will,” he said smoothly without skipping a beat at this revelation, then turned and hurried back into the Garden Buffet.

  Mara watched him take his leave, then looked past the couples and groups and individuals who crowded the rails and gazed out at the open sea, shading her eyes against the setting sun, listening as the ship's loudspeaker blared. It was the captain speaking, welcoming them all to the Coral Odyssey. A few of the more hyper in the crowded deck cheered, then cheered some more as the captain announced that they were getting ready to set sail.

  Mara thought about endings and new beginnings. She thought about how fitting it was that she would be starting her life as a married woman adrift in an empty ocean, a mirror to the cold desolation she felt inside her. On the horizon, the sun slowly dipped towards the sea, barely acknowledging the prolonged blast of the Coral Odyssey's horn as it signaled its imminent departure.

  She shivered, though not from the cool sea breeze that washed over the deck. It would be dark soon.

  CHAPTER 5

  Day 0 (3 pm EST)

  Piscataway Township, New Jersey

  Self-replication is any behavior of a dynamical system that yields construction of an identical copy of itself.

  It was a drowsy Sunday afternoon and Cathy Phillips was fighting to stay awake. The large glass windows adorning the second floor of the Library of Science and Medicine at Rutgers University's Busch campus did nothing to filter the hazy sunshin
e that bathed the droves of other somnolent students in the building.

  Many were cramming for spring finals week, which was rushing towards them like a runaway freight train, intent on reminding everyone that college was more than just a time for delaying the onset of adult responsibilities by indulging in prolonged bouts of parties, drunkenness, and sex. Others, like Cathy, were graduate students who took some time off from their busy laboratories to submerge themselves in this comfortable environment of stuffy books and obscure journals in search of higher truths.

  Cathy's head lolled forward and she snapped herself awake with a spasmodic jerk. She was trying to concentrate on an article in Nature about the discovery of social centipedes in the rainforests of Sarawak, but she was finding the going rough. The soft droning murmur from the rather crowded library combined with the late afternoon sun to induce a feeling close to catatonia in her.

  She looked out the glass windows and across the parking lot and grassy embankments towards a red-bricked building. The Nelson Biological Laboratories housed facilities for several departments, including Alcohol Studies, Cell Biology and Neurosciences, Genetics and even Psychology. It was an old structure built in the 1960s that formed a queer rigid s-shape when viewed from the air, and it did not match up well with the gleaming glass and steel research buildings that had been springing up all over the campus.

  Yet Cathy loved it anyway. She worked at one of the 6th floor biology labs conjuring up genetically engineered tobacco plants by the hundreds and then subjecting them to weird and wonderful experiments that were meant to wrest the very secrets of existence (or at least the secrets of their physiology) from their puny little plant bodies. During brief down times in her work, she loved to visit a huge greenhouse that sat like a squat gnome in the shadow of Nelson Building, and which sheltered many of the plants used for research purposes by scientists at the university. She could spend hours wandering the greenhouse, marveling at the variety and sheer beauty of the plants in the habitat. There were Dranunculus specimens there, and Philodendrons, Homalomenas, and Anthuriums in sundry numbers, as well as Amorphophallus and tons of other species. It was a treasure trove that stoked her passion for all things botanical.