Qubit's Incubator. Charley Brindley

Pissant.”

      She almost fell over backwards. “W-what?” Looking up, she saw a young Black woman peeking over the wall.

      “Pissants live in the bullpen,” the woman said. “You don’t become a drone until you’ve accomplished something.”

      “Drone?”

      “This cubicle don’t belong to you.” The Black woman disappeared.

      Did she call me a ‘pissant?’

      Catalina collected her iPad and went to the open area of the bullpen.

      She found a desk with a Scotch tape dispenser, stapler, pencils, and an old-school computer.

      Sitting at the desk, she opened her iPad and searched for a Wi-Fi connection.

      “What’re you doing?”

      She jerked around to see a scruffy old man with one hand on his hip and the other holding a steaming cup of coffee.

      “I-I-I’m…”

      “I-I-I’m…” he mocked her in a singsong voice. “Get out of my chair.”

      Catalina grabbed her iPad, stood, and backed away. “Sorry.”

      “Over there.”

      The old man pointed with his coffee cup toward the edge of the bullpen, where a gray metal desk and matching chair stood like salvaged government-issued office furniture relegated to the outliers.

      She went to the desk, and when she sat in the chair, she could feel the cold metal through the fabric of her skirt.

      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