Chapter 1

Cindy’s turn:

Dan says it’s what REAL companies do. Everybody whose name shows up on the payroll – official employees – plus all our hangers-on -college students, interns – is assembled in the middle of the chaotic main room of 3Sigma Robotics.

I’m standing on the little platform against the wall that serves as a projector screen sometimes, a whiteboard of gargantuan size at others. Standing beside me are the pTerridactyl – Terri Addison Stengall – fourteen and married – and Aaron Kettler, our official CEO.

I start the thing off. “Okay folks, we don’t do meetings like this very often, but here we are. Looks like everybody’s back in place after the holidays...”

“Some of us never left...” came the loud whisper.

“I know, Vivek. And we appreciate it.” I know this because we ‘officially’ shut down the shop three days before Christmas until January 3, giving everybody time to trek off for family Christmas or Hanukkah or winter solstice or whatever.

That works if you have a regular company. We don’t. I can’t think of anybody under this roof that’s in the ‘work here or starve’ category. I’m looking at geeks and nerds and people whose hobby is NOW providing a paycheck, or I’m looking at college students who know that 3Sigma on the curriculum vitae is a great wedge to get into some other companies.

We’ve got gamers and programmers and hardware hobbyists and yes, engineers. There’s even an English Lit major who writes obscure science fiction and has some sort of worm in his brain that makes him an interesting addition to our ‘wouldn’t it be neat if’ bunch.

Age? Vicki’s the youngest of the Munchkins, the original core that reached critical mass. The oldest is sixty-seven year old Jim Harris, retired as manager of a big machine shop, now on the payroll as our REAL machinist.

“Just a few things, then we can get to work.”

“Slavedriver!” came a loud whisper.

“Don’t make me get my whip out,” I countered. “While you were out pickin’ the cotton, we closed that Boston Robotics deal. That’s the lump of coal y’all all found in your stockings. Raytheon’s expecting a milestone that we passed up the first week in December, so as soon as the check clears...”

“More toys!” squeaked a female voice.

“That’s a two-way street,” I replied. “We make interesting toys, we can buy more toys. And we make better toys, we get more toys. Clayton, your furcot beat Boston Robotics’ dog in a footrace. Sealed the deal.”

“Dad’s fault,” Clayton Felter said. “Old Sci-fi is GOOD sci-fi.”

“Well, just know that we appreciate the efforts. Better yet, each of you appreciates the efforts of the ones you work with...”

“For the most part...” came a stage-whispered comment.

“ ... and we play nice together, and we appreciate the efforts. Anybody got anything?”

“Major Kettler,” somebody yelled, “when can we do outdoor tests on our robotic bat?”

“As long as you stay below two hundred feet and stand there with the kill button, go for it. I’d prefer that it wasn’t a public venue. I’m beginning to suspect our competition might be watching.”

“We HAVE no competition,” came a remark.

“Admirable,” Aaron said, “but to keep it that way, we need to play our cards close to the vest. I know, ‘Major Kettler’s soooo paranoid’ and all that, but I’m not ‘major’ any more, and I have the interests of 3Sigma at heart, so at least put a little paranoia in your genius...”

Terri stepped to the front. “And remember, folks, success is fun. If you’re stressing too much, you’re trying too hard. Share the load. Talk the problem out among yourselves.”

“That’s it, folks,” I said. “I’ll be around today if you need something.”

I left the dais, headed for the coffee room, followed by Nikki and Vicki.

I poured myself a cup. Nope, it’s not the factory stuff. I brought the makings of a drip pot from home. Okay, two more cups, mugs, actually. Kills the pot.

“Well, no flying this week?” Nikki asked.

I shook my head. “Next week’s when the work starts unless something blows up somewhere. Nope, if I fly, it’s because we decide to run off for the weekend, or it’s a nice day and the sky deserves a biplane.”

“It does make a pretty picture, doesn’t it,” Vicki said. “And fun ... Some more fun I’ll have to wait for until I’m older, I guess.”

“Somebody feeling a bit blue?” Nikki asked her.

“Just a little...”

“Baby...” Nikki said softly.

“That’s the problem, Nikki. I get treated like a baby.”

“Well, you know...”

“I know,” she hmphed. “But Terri’s married, and Rachel’s well, they just as well be...”

“They are,” I said. “In the eyes of this community, their families, and God himself, they’re married, but you, you’re in the same boat Terri was with Jerry. If Billy touches you, he’s a criminal.” And I reflected on how I determined that my Dan was The One and that he was ready to risk all to be with me. And I was Vicki’s age.

That’s a twinge in my conscience.

“Sometimes, darlin’,” I said, “we have to endure things for the good of the community. If it got out that you and Billy were having a physical relationship, he’d end up in jail, and neither of you deserve that.”

“I got that speech from Terri,” she said. “There’s my example.” She smiled at me. “You too, although I kinda doubt you exercised as much restraint.” She projected a knowing smirk at me, then, “And Nikki, exactly how innocent are YOU in this?”

“Look at me,” Nikki said. “I’m an engineer and a wife and a mommy. Very respectable.”

You can’t get anything past Vicki, especially if she’s given a subject a bit of effort. “Respectability sometimes arrives late. Maya Angelou was the madam at a house of ill repute before she became a noted poet.”

“One man, and one man only, has ever touched me, Vicki. Sometimes ‘illegal’ and ‘immoral’ are not congruent.” Nikki looked a bit stern. “Getting you and Billy in a legal case would not be a good thing.”

“I knowwww,” she admitted sadly. “Doesn’t stop me from wishing...”

I glanced to make sure my door was closed all the way.

“What exactly ARE you wishing...”

“You know...”

“Pretend we don’t know,” Nikki said.

“Well, you KNOW I kissed ‘im first...”

“I’ve heard that. Suppose he’d rejected you...”

“I would’ve pined away from unrequited love...”

Nikki turned her head. She’s my sister, though, and I KNOW that when she’s laughing, her ears wiggle. They jiggled.

I sighed. “I can see I need to talk with Mizz Lee about your reading materials.”

“I love Mizz Lee to pieces,” Vicki said, “but she’s not my only source of input.”

“I know. Terri. Rachel.”

“Oh, yeah ... Rachel was Little Miss Drama herownself for quite a while. Suddenly she’s all placid. Don’t you wonder why?”

I looked to Nikki. Her lips were tight but her ears wiggled.

Vicki’s turn:

We – that’s US, the Munchkins, although we’re a little bit bigger and more mature now – were tasked with bringing one William Hardesty, age nineteen, up to speed in various college subjects, mainly math.

Allow me to present a little background about Bill Hardesty. He’s smart, but he’s also athletic, quite adept at the various skills one would expect of a highly rated football player. He was a standout in high school, and he parlayed that into an athletic scholarship for college. He wanted one of the big named schools – Alabama or Auburn are natural choices if you live in this state – but he wasn’t quite THAT good, or, he thought, he didn’t get the exposure, so he took a scholarship to, as he puts it, Ditchwater U.

His first year was pretty memorable. There was talk of him being recruited by a big school, but in spring practice it all ended with a knee injury. A summer’s worth of surgery and physical therapy and rehab, and he hoped and prayed. Wasn’t to be.

Mister Hardesty had to re-assess his goals.

Fact: The Hardesty family – Bill’s dad and mom and sister and he – play a prominent part in The Rise of the Cindy, as we call it.

Naturally, when Bill Hardesty, Football Star was off the screen, he had to swap over to Bill Hardesty, Serious College Student. He called Cindy. Story is that she lowered the boom on him, raked him about his college record, majoring in, in her description, beer, ball and bimbos.

I dunno how premeditated it was, but she determined that he’d work with US – the Munchkins – to get his skills in academics up to the level he’d had on the playing field.

A description in in order: He’s six – two, two hundred very well carried pounds, muscular, grey-eyed, hair is short, a couple of shades darker than my honey blonde. His face still has a boyish quality to it, he smiles readily and looks good doing it.

Did I mention smart? He is. Also had developed a habit of academic laziness because the curriculum for ‘student athletes’ is not notoriously rigorous.

We started in the middle of high school algebra. Once he determined everybody was serious, HE got serious, and progress was faster than expected.

We shed Munchkins from the team. Terri got really serious with her Jerry for the months before they actually married. So did Rachel and Derek.

That left me and my student. Oh, for sure we studied. High school math? In the rear-view mirror. (Or the back-up camera. Our new SUV’s got one.) We moved on to college-level stuff. Also talked about the other subjects – English, history, physics.

“Cindy’s got a doctorate in this stuff?” he said in the middle of one of those lessons.