Qubit's Incubator. Charley Brindley
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?”
“William Thomas Edison.”
“What’s he working on, a newfangled plow?”
Joe laughed. “He’s designing a system to collect water from the air using nanotubes.”
“Really? What’s inside the nanotubes?”
“No one knows. He’s not talking until he makes it work.”
After Catalina ran the extension cord from the outlet to her desk, she plugged in her iPad to charge the battery.
On her way back to the supply room, she stopped by the restroom. While washing her hands, her eyes fell on the cap of the cold-water faucet.
After drying her hands on a paper towel, she took two objects from her skirt pocket. The first was a small oval brass nameplate with ‘Evangeline Psychiatric Hospital’ engraved into the metal. The second was a micro screwdriver. She sipped the nameplate back into her pocket and removed the leather sheath she’d fashioned for screwdriver.
Working the sharp edge under the chrome cap on the faucet, she popped it off.
She rinsed the metal cap and dried it.
Holding it to the light, she admired the curlicue ‘C’ imprinted in the cap.
“Sweet,” she whispered. “A perfect oval.”
After removing the hot water cap, with its pretty ‘H’, Catalina cleaned it and dropped both caps into her pocket. She then slipped the screwdriver into its sheath and put it away.
In the storeroom, she found a desk lamp. She took the lamp and a box of colored chalk back to her workspace.
As she sipped her orange juice, she read research articles and doctorial theses from JSTOR—short for Journal Storage—a digital library of academic journals. Her interests were in the latest developments in organic electronics.
After two hours, she leaned back and rubbed her eyes. She looked at the brick wall for a moment, then up at the dim light coming through the dirty skylight.
Next, she read a scholarly thesis for over an hour, trying to decipher the technical jargon. At lunchtime, she went to the kitchenette, and in the fridge she noticed several containers with names written on them.
“Don’t touch anyone else’s food.”
The guy reached past her to take a pink Tupperware bowl with ‘McGill’ written on the side in black Magic Marker. He elbowed her out of the way to reach for a Snapple Peach Tea.
“Excuse me.” She stepped away from him.
Without replying, he took his bowl to the microwave. As his food warmed, he wrote ‘Chunky Beef Soup’ on the dry-erase board mounted on the wall where several other grocery items were listed.
He leaned back against the counter next to the microwave, folded his arms, and stared at Catalina.
His two-day-old beard was dark brown and neatly trimmed. His Persian blue eyes could have been cheering, had he let them. His longish hair was a shade lighter than his beard. Athletic and trim, he just missed being likeable.
She ignored him as she checked the freezer for something to heat for her lunch.
“Pissants eat Ramen Noodles.” He glanced at the timer on the microwave.
Catalina took a packet from the freezer; ‘Barbeque Beef and Rice.’ She read the instructions.
“Seven minutes,” he said when the microwave dinged.
“It says ‘Five.’”
“It takes seven, Pissant.” He took his hot food and cold drink, then brushed past her. “And clean up after yourself.”
She watched him go to one of the cubicles.
Obnoxious Drone dick.
She set the timer for five minutes.
After taking a Snapple Straight Up Sweet Tea from the fridge, she sipped it while waiting for her lunch to heat.
The barbeque beef was barely warm after five minutes. She set the timer for two more minutes.
Rude Drone McGill. He could have been nice about it.
She returned to her desk, and while eating, she found an article on synthetic nerves.
As she read about an artificial nerve system developed for use with prosthetic devices, she clicked on the links to more research papers.
Her forgotten lunch grew cold as she studied tiny organic circuits printed on a person’s skin.
Thirty minutes later, she was startled when her phone chimed.
“No phones!” someone shouted from behind her.
She turned to see several people glaring at her. The old man made a cutting motion across his neck.
After clicking her phone onto ‘Airplane mode,’ she answered the call.
“Hey, Cat. How’s it going?” Marilyn, her roommate, asked.
“I’ll text you,” Catalina whispered.
“Why can’t you talk?” Marilyn whispered also.
“Just text.”
“Okay.”
‘I just pissed off all the Pissants again with the phone call,’ Catalina texted to Marilyn.
‘You can’t use your phone in that stupid place?’
‘Apparently not. Like everything else, I learn by being yelled at.’
‘So,