Charley Brindley - Qubit's Incubator

“Define ‘special circumstances.’”

“After two weeks, if you’re still here, we’ll talk about that. In the meantime, I need your statements from the four credit card companies and any other past-due bills you have.”

“They don’t send paper statements anymore.”

“But you can email them to me, right?”

“Yes.”

“And your bank statement.”

Catalina glanced at the redhead, who was taking notes again.

“Mr. Templeton,” Catalina said. “Why do you need my financials?”

“Curiosity. Is it a problem?”

She shrugged. “I guess not.”

“Is there anything else you need?” he asked.

“AWS Cloud Computing would be nice.”

“Why do you need that?”

“My iPad won’t be able to handle the data-crunching.”

“We have a Power Edge T-Six-Thirty server.”

“I used that to get online, but it’s too old and slow. It would take a year to process one hour’s worth of data.”

“We’ll discuss AWS after two weeks. Anything else?”

Catalina shook her head.

Victor opened a manila folder and removed some papers. He slid them across the desk.

“What’s this?” Catalina asked.

“Our contract.”

She flipped through the papers. “Eight pages?”

“No, just four. There’re two copies.”

After reading the first paragraph, she turned to page four and saw a place for her signature. He’d already signed his name.

“Take it home with you tonight and read it over. You can sign it tomorrow.”

“And if I don’t sign?”

“Then we can’t help you.”

She stared at the contract for a moment. “Can you give me the abridged version? Just the high points?”

“It says Qubit’s Incubator agrees to provide a safe and quiet workspace for you in exchange for five percent of the net profits, if any, from any product or idea produced during the term of this contract. You may receive other benefits as deemed necessary.”

“It takes four pages to say that?”

“There’s a lot of legal details. That’s why I think you should take the time to read it before you sign you name.”

“What if I never produce a marketable product?”

“Then we terminate the contract, and you’re free to leave us, owing nothing.”

Catalina held out her hand to the redhead, palm up.

“What?” the redhead asked.

“Your pen.”

Catalina signed the first copy, passed it to Victor, then signed her copy.

“Okay.” He placed the contract in the folder. “How’s your workspace?”

“It’s fine. A little bleak, but that’s okay. What’s the work schedule?”

He handed her a key card. “If you leave after six p.m., be sure the door is locked. I expect everyone to be here from eight to five, except Sunday and Sunday Plus One.”

“Sunday Plus One?”

“We used to call it Monday, but we no longer have Mondays. On the day after Sunday, everyone comes in late and leaves anytime after two. Tuesday is the start of eight-to-five. Saturdays are casual, come in late, leave early. You’re free to come in on Sunday if you want to.”

“Okay. Do many people work late?”

“Most of the probationers put in a lot of time.”

“Probationers?”

“You’re here on probation for the first thirty days. I think probationers are called ‘Pissants’ out there.” Victor tilted his head toward the bullpen.

“Yes, and the Drones get cubicles.”

“They do.”

“And Monarchs get upstairs offices?”

He nodded.

“How does a Drone become a Monarch?” Catalina asked.

“Receive a patent on an idea or device.”

“A patent. Okay.”

“Do you have to give that café…” He glanced at the redhead.

“Hugo’s Blue Plate Special,” she said.

“How did you…” Catalina began. “Nevermind.”

“Do you have to give notice when you decide to quit?”

“It’s just a phone call. I don’t have to do anything like a two-week notice. Hugo can easily find someone to take my place.”

“You should probably make that call today.”

“All right.” She stood. “I better get busy.”

“Don’t forget those financials.”

At 7:30 p.m., Catalina heated a cup of Ramen noodles.

“How you liking those noodles?” a slim Black guy asked as he took a glass bowl covered with aluminum foil from the fridge.

“Not bad,” Catalina said. “I like them because they’re quick and easy.”

The microwave dinged, and she took out her steaming mug, while holding the door open for him. “Your turn, Drover.”

He wrinkled his brow. “You know me?”

“Yes, and also your name is on the tin foil.”

He laughed. “Call me ‘Alex.’” After removing the foil, he placed his bowl of mashed potatoes and gravy in the microwave.

“I’m Catalina Saylor.”

“Really? Catalina is an island. How you spelling that last name?”

She spelled it.

“Cool play on words by your parents. An island and a sailor.”

“Yeah, they were pretty cool.”

He glanced at her but didn’t ask about the word ‘were.’ “Whatcha working on?”

“Converting echolocation sound waves to tactile impressions.”

“Holy crap.”

“I know, and I have only twenty-nine days left to prove the concept. How about you?”

“I’m working on flexible solar cells,” Alex said.

She sipped from her cup of noodles. “How flexible?”

“Like a cloth that could be made into clothing.”

“Nice. I could take a walk in the sunshine and charge my dead phone at the same time.”

“And your boyfriend’s phone, too.”

“Screw him,” she said. “He can get his own charger.”

“Ouch, harsh. What he do to you that’s so bad?”

“He dumped me. I’ve got to get back to it.”

“Yeah, me, too. I got seven days till I drop dead.”

“You’ll make it,” she said.

The microwave dinged. “Later.”

At the edge of the bullpen she noticed a large chalkboard on the wall next to a projection screen. It had a list of names, dates and information. Across the top was ‘Patents Granted.’

The first one was Wayne Ponicar, Therapeutic Water Body.

Next was Dwight Calister, Stair Climbing Wheelchair.

Followed by several more names and their inventions.

When she walked back through the bullpen, she saw nine people still working.

As she ate at her desk, she watched a YouTube video of a prosthetic hand. She turned off the sound so she wouldn’t get yelled at.

Halfway through her noodles, she began coding a new program.

When she leaned back to stretch her arms over her head, she realized it was after midnight. Swiveling around in her squeaky chair, she saw all the pissant desks were vacant. Through the doorway into one of the cubicles, she saw a guy working at his computer.

Drone dick McGill. Why are you still here?

She shrugged and turned back to gaze at her brick wall. After a moment, she stood, shoved her chair out of the way, then pulled the desk away from the wall.

She noticed McGill scowl at her when the screeching of the desk on the concrete floor caught his attention. She ignored him.

In front of her desk, she stared at the bricks for a moment, then opened her box of colored chalk.

Around 1 a.m., Catalina heard McGill make a lot of noise at his desk, apparently preparing to go home.

I guess he wants me to know he’s leaving. Good riddance to an ugly annoyance.

She didn’t turn to give him the satisfaction of knowing how irksome she thought he was.

It was after 4 a.m. when she went out through the side door, then checked to be sure it locked behind her.