Charley Brindley - Qubit's Incubator

The desk was turned away from the others in the bullpen, facing a brick wall that looked more like a weathered outside wall than the inside of a building.

Her hand, as if by its own accord, felt for the pocket in her skirt. Slipping her hand into the pocket, her fingers searched for something. When they touched the smooth surface of one of the objects, she smiled.

High above was a large skylight providing a view of the blue sky, but only a dim gray glow came through the ages of caked-on grime.

Opening her iPad, Catalina searched again for a Wi-Fi signal. Finally, she found ‘Qubit Inc.’ The curser blinked, then a message popped up, demanding, ‘PASSWORD.’

She looked over her shoulder at the other pissants. They’re not going to be any help.

The ‘low battery’ LED began to blink on her iPad.

She saw an electrical outlet embedded in the brick wall, twenty feet away. She took the charging cord from her purse.

Six feet long. How am I going to reach that outlet? Move the desk? Glancing at the others, she shook her head. Invisible little pissant. That’s all I am. Do I really want to do this? At least at home I can charge up my computer and get online.

Turning back to her iPad, she tried ‘qubit’ for a password, then ‘Victor,’ but neither was acceptable.

If I try a third time, it might lock…

“Bullpen.”

Catalina turned to see a man standing behind her. “What the hell? I took a cubicle, and someone told me to go to the bullpen. I went there and found a desk. Then some snippy guy told me to get out of his chair and come over here. So now I guess this is your desk and I have to go back to the middle of the floor and wait to see if any desk remains unused. Why is everyone so mean in this place?”

The man smiled, watching her smolder.

“Well, at least you can smile,” she said, then closed her computer and rolled up the power cord.

He was about thirty-five, heavyset, with a shaved head and thick black beard. His faded blue shirt had long sleeves buttoned at the wrist.

He toyed with a red rubber band using a sleight-of-hand trick where the rubber band seemed to flip from one pair of fingers to the other two when he folded them into his palm, then opened them. Using his thumb so smoothly in his palm, it almost seemed like magic as the band jumped back and forth.

Tattoos of beautiful jaguars slipped from beneath his cuffs, sinking their bloody claws into the backs of his hands.

Catalina stood, ready to go look for another desk.

“‘Bullpen’ is the password.” His voice was soft, unthreatening. He sipped from his bottle of Coke.

“Oh.” She sat back down. “Thank you.”

She opened her iPad and typed in the password.

‘Qubit’s Incubator. Connected, secured.’

After opening a browser, she went online to her webpage.

A blurred view of the Alps filled the screen. As the panoramic image sharpened, it slipped into a video from the viewpoint of a drone aircraft approaching the tallest mountain.

“The Matterhorn!” the guy whispered.

Catalina nodded as she watched the screen.

The drone turned slightly to the right, flying toward a huge glacier. As the video zoomed in closer, a red dot appeared on the snow-covered ice field. The dot grew larger and became a woman in a red jumpsuit. She waved to the drone. Closer still, and one could see skis, ski poles, and a yellow backpack.

When the drone was a few feet away, the woman smiled, adjusted her goggles in place, then pushed off.

The drone turned to follow her down the slope as if it were on a pair of skis fifteen feet behind her.

“Wow,” the guy exclaimed. “You did the CGI?”

“Yeah. That twenty seconds of footage took three weeks of coding.”

“I believe it. Beautiful.”

“Thank you.” She looked up at him. “I’m Catalina.”

“Adu Dhabi Wilson.”

“Really?”

“I was born in Abu Dhabi, in the United Arab Emirates, when my parents were stationed at the diplomatic mission there.”

“So, I should call you ‘Adu’ or ‘Will?’”

“Most people call me ‘Joe’ or ‘Pissant.’”

She smiled. “I like ‘Joe.’”

“It seems you need an extension cord.”

“Yes,” Catalina said.

“And desk supplies.”

She nodded.

“Come on.”

Joe led her thorough the bullpen, where half of the twenty-four people looked up from their work, glaring at him as if he were a turncoat.

She followed him along an aisle between cubicles.

Outside the last ring of workspaces, he motioned to his left. “Kitchenette.” A few steps farther. “Bathrooms. And…” He came to a door beyond the bathrooms. “Supply room.”

He pushed open the door to reveal rows of metal shelves.

“Cool,” Catalina said. “Pencils, tape, staplers, tablets–”

“Extension cords.” He handed her a new cord, along with a surge protector.

“Great. Can I take some other things?”

“Sure. Take whatever you want. All this stuff’s for everyone’s use.”

She loaded her arms and started for her desk. “What’s the deal with the bullpen and the cubicles?”

“Something to drink?” Joe asked as he headed for the kitchenette.

“Yes.”

He tossed his empty Coke bottle in a trash bin and poured a cup of coffee. “If you take the last cup of coffee, start a new pot. We put away two or three gallons a day. Sodas and juice are in the fridge. If you see something running low, add it to this list.” He waved toward a dry-erase board on the wall beside the fridge. ‘Jif Crunchy Peanut Butter. Mayo. M&Ms’ were listed on the board. “We take turns on runs to the grocery store.” He opened a small canister. “This is petty cash for the store. The Good Fairy replenishes the cash when it runs low.”

Opening the fridge, he showed her the contents—Coke, 7-Up, Mountain Dew, Dr. Pepper, juice…

“A bottle of OJ, please,” she said.

He reached for the orange juice, glanced at her load of supplies, then balanced it on top of her stack.

Closing the fridge, he led her back toward her desk. “When you’re accepted to incubate, they toss you into the bullpen to sink or swim. If, after the first thirty days, you’re still a viable tissue mass, you get a cubicle. Two months later, if the gods smile upon you, you rise to the top.” He pointed up.

Above them, Catalina saw the balcony going around the four sides of the bullpen and cubicle area. Two circular staircases led up to it. To the right, where Joe pointed, were fifteen doors. Some of them were open, but most were closed.

“What are they?” she asked.

“Private offices.”

“For who?”

“Monarchs.”

“Wow. And those, too?” She nodded to fifteen more doors on the left balcony.

A young woman with a Dr. Pepper went up one of the staircases and turned to her right, while the redhead from the outside office climbed the opposite staircase and went to one of the offices. She didn’t knock at the closed door, instead pushing it open and stepping inside.

“No. That side’s the dorm.”

“What?”

“Dorm rooms.”

“Who gets those?”

“The lucky ones.” Joe sighed. “How I would love to live up there.” They watched the other woman go into one of the dorm rooms. “Come on,” Joe said. “Let’s get you settled. I’ve got six days to become a drone, or die.”

“Will you make it?”

“Most pissants die of self-inflicted trauma before they metamorphosize into worker drones.”

Catalina leaned close to Joe. “Who’s that old pissant? The curmudgeon?”