Armor was the first and most obvious application of our new super-steel stuff (We really needed to find a better name for it). Armor could be made of large, simply shaped pieces. We could use historical designs to speed our own prototyping. And there was a ready market, starting with the military and moving along to police, security firms, private individuals, foreign governments, and mall ninjas.

The best part is that it didn't need the same infrastructure backup that other products would. A small startup could conceivably break in quickly, much more quickly than something like a new building materials firm could. Building materials would require modular design, a wide array of parts to allow for connections, assembly, customization, shipping, etc. And that didn’t even mention the careful testing, licensing, state permits, and on and on. Testing armor was pretty easy, in comparison.

I finished hashing things out with El and Alan, leaving the carbon fiber helmet with them to take measurements. When they were done (a bit less than two weeks later, Alan worked weekends for me), I had two blocks of green glass that fit precisely over and inside the solid piece of the helmet, linked by a clever ceramic hinge. He had also made a smaller piece of glass that was drilled out so that the bolts holding the straps could be made of the same material. I think he used waste glass there, as it was a kinda smudged grey piece with little swirls of random color inside.

In case you’re curious, those molds, along with that first puddle-looking piece of Plasma Steel are on display. I made a point to save them, there was no way this wouldn’t be a big deal in history. Oh, Hansen and I had finally settled on “Plasma Steel” as the name of our new super material. Plasma was already becoming the word used to describe both the particles and energy generated by Angat’s discoveries, so we shamelessly decided it made a good name.

Those two weeks we spent waiting for the molds were relatively placid. Hansen and our new engineer (who didn't last long) designed a new drive that could pass plasma over multiple molds. It was a necessary step if we were ever going to mass-produce anything. Meanwhile, the mechanic and I kept up with the monkey work of actually assembling, repairing, and refining things. We continued tweaking, varying, experimenting with ratios and materials. Our immediate goal was to figure out exactly which parts of the linoleum were necessary, and what was just exploding into a nasty cloud of dust. For the record, the linseed oil was important, as was pine resin and calcium carbonate. A very small amount of wood flour or sawdust was necessary too.

I was also spending time organizing. We were spending a lot of money, on materials, on the mechanic’s salary, on the engineer's larger salary, and on other smaller operating expenses. I was assured that the admin office was fine with it so far, but it made me nervous. By the time I'd picked up the mold, we'd spent about three-quarters of the money in the account. We needed some prospects lined up, or it'd be back to the normal school grind and French Realism.

I was getting excited about this – this was new, huge even. A year ago I was looking forward to teaching high school or managing a Walmart somewhere. Now my name was going to end up in history and science textbooks. I'll admit my ambition was getting teased a little. But other than keeping careful track of expenditures, and thinking about possible products, there wasn't much to actually do.

The mechanic’s name was Austin Beck. Big guy, with a bushy white beard. He had a disconcerting habit of tucking the beard into his shirt when he was working. Not to keep it out of the way, but as like a nervous tick. You'd ask him a question, he'd pause, stroke his beard, and tuck the ends into his shirt. He had been part of the university's custodial staff, with a lot of experience with the school's HVAC systems.

“This place sucks, you know,” Austin told me, for possibly the eighth time this week.

“I can’t do anything about it,” I replied, again. “I can’t even get Sarah fired, never mind how much acetone he drinks.”

“Nah, I’m talking about the lab itself.”

“Still can’t do anything about it,” I replied. Again. “At least they took the asbestos out already.” I'll admit I hadn’t appreciated his help at first, but he could track down and fix breaks in the drive in a quarter the time it took me, even with all my experience on the system.

“Ward, you want to expand, right? We’ve got this helmet, and we’ve sketched out and talked about all sorts of crap – folding chairs, tables, hammers and tools, doors, dining ware, planters, structural beams, and on and on and on. You want this Hansen Manufacturing thing to get big, right?”

“What do you think we’re working on?” This was new, I’d gotten used to complaints, but Austin didn’t really ask a lot of questions. He’d mostly just been along for the ride and the salary. And probably because he no longer reported to any university admin.

“Ok, so you want to grow – this lab isn’t going to cut it. We’ve got enough room for one machine, barely. We can produce twelve units at a time with this design, and if we’re lucky we can get two runs an hour. You’ve got the numbers, we’re averaging what, five runs a shift? That’s sixty units a machine in eight hours?”

I didn’t answer. The actual number was closer to forty.

“So we need space for more machines. Or maybe more workers per machine? People who know it and can fix it fast? Maybe both? I’m not an MBA, so don’t ask for cost-benefit from me, but either option isn’t going to work here.”

“I still can’t do anything about it, Austin.” Now I was just irritable. “I can pay you for about three more months, and then we’re done if we don’t start getting more investment or customers. And you want me to what, go drop first and last months rent on lease for some warehouse somewhere?”

“I’ll invest.”

“And you’ve got seven digits handy for the lease and deposits for a better place?” I had looked into this already. The lab seriously did suck for any sort of bigger use. Not enough square footage, getting large volumes in and out was tricky, bad lighting, no parking, and on and on and on. The absolute bargain basement places would run a buck fifty per square foot, and the machine itself occupied more than a hundred square feet. But if we were going to store product, components, material, space for employees, etc., a single machine and its support would run about seven-fifty a month. In reality, though, the smallest spaces would need ten or more machines to get our money’s worth, and that would run almost a hundred thousand a year. Figure in deposits, new staff, material expansion to build the additional machines, and so on, and we were looking at half a million, easily. Figure in the need for a buffer when unexpected costs crop up, as they always did, and a million dollars made a nice round figure. Oh, and that’s still not looking at salaries for the people we’d need to hire to run all of that.

“Nah. But I do have a building.” He smiled. “Want to take a break and see?”

It turns out his mother owned a grocery store. An empty one. An old one. The building was almost as old as the physics building we’d been working out of. The wiring sucked. I said as much.

“So? We’re not running industrial fab units. Each of these drives pulls what, 60 watts? A hundred? That’s a tiny generator you’ve got hooked up, and I doubt you’ve ever hit 10% capacity even for a moment.”

He was right, the generator only took a gallon of fuel, and we only refilled two or three times a week. Technically, if Dr. Hansen did the oil mix and refueled it, his time cost us more than the fuel itself did.

He tucked the ends of his beard into his shirt as he led me into the back rooms, “It’s not as much space as you’ll need, eventually, but there’s room in here for a good dozen machines and plenty of stock. There’s loading docks, just two, but that’s probably more than enough and plenty of room for hand trucks. There’s offices and break rooms. Won’t even have to do remodeling, just gotta move racks around.”

“Ok, fine. It’d be an improvement. Doesn’t change the fact that we can’t afford it. I already told you, we’ve about burnt through our capital.”

“Listen, I have to manage this place for my mom. The chain pulled out, and it’ll take a year of work and a major loan to get it into shape for a new lessee. We can move in as is.”

“Property taxes are paid up through the year already, so she’s not really losing anything leaving it vacant for a bit. And you’re not really out of assets, either. Hansen still has, what, forty percent? Give me ten, and you can move in, rent-free for a year. Just take over water and power.”

“Five.” It was reflex, I’d have to take anything back to Dr. Hansen anyways.

“Five and the lease lasts until the end of the year, not twelve months.”

And suddenly I had more to organize. We were still short on cash, and I was nervous about spending us out, but I got things ready. We moved over, and I got orders ready – I just had to hit a button and the components we needed to assemble new manufacturing drives would be there in a few days. I also posted job openings and dropped a line with some recruiters and temp agencies. I dragged my feet on actually hiring anyone, but got things ready. By the time Alan and El finished the first molds, I was beyond busy.

I had just picked up the glass molds from the Bearded Glassworks and had cranked out a single helmet on our old drive to take to Hansen. It was kind of exciting. We had made a lot of toys, bits of waste material that were more about stretching the technique than about any real usefulness. This was our first actual product – the first thing with inherent worth. Hansen knew the mold was done, but I thought it would be fun to surprise him with the helmet.

His new office looked nothing like the old one. For one thing, it was an actual office, with just enough room for a desk and a few chairs. The wall was dominated by a faded poster advertising ice cream. When I came in, Hansen was pecking away at his computer, working on an autocad design. His landline shattered across the room from him, broken plastic and electronics still attached to the cord in the wall. I cleared my throat.

He didn't look around, but the Prof still knew it was me, “The engineer quit. You probably ought to too. Finish your degree or whatever.” Yeah, I don't remember the engineer's name. Sue me.

I scoffed. No, really, I made that huffing noise. “I can't quit. If I did, Steve would just have me mopping floors again. I still need something to graduate.”

“Then don't graduate. You can work a box store like this without a degree just fine.”

I pulled up one of the other rolling chairs and sat down next to him. “Ok, fine. The engineer quit – nothing new. So what? You've had plenty of people quit before.”

“It's not me this time, he just saw the writing on the wall. It's damn procurement processes. All the pentagon wonks already have contracts lined up for now, but they'll be happy to have someone come consider our product in four years.”

“Four years?”

“Yeah. And you know the score – we have to get the commercialization moving before next summer or the school takes back control. Suddenly I’m understanding why people want a war.”

“Well, that's plenty of time. Let Austin go back to his day job, scale back the experimentation, and our overhead drops to practically zero. We’ve got the store for another seven months. The Beards even have enough of a retainer left to make a couple more molds. I was thinking strike plates for kevlar vests. I know that strike plates won't be as effective as the clamshells we've talked about, but it gives us something we can sell right away on all those body-armor sites.

And Hansen blew a raspberry at me. He stuck out his tongue and buzzed away. Once in a while, I can see why people keep quitting.

“What? It's a good suggestion. We could make those plates for a few bucks worth of material and sell them for a couple hundred apiece. Hell, we could even afford to sell at fifty and undercut the rest of the market. We already know the quality will be significantly better. Even at cut-rate prices, we'd only need to sell a few hundred units to satisfy the school.”

“It feels wrong. This metal is huge. And making a bunch of convention trash isn't the way to do this.” Dr. Hansen saved his work and shut down his computer. We both kept quiet while he shifted his attention.

“The Manhattan project ended the largest war humanity has ever fought. Penicillin lengthened people's lives. Fleming and Oppenheimer didn't spend years flogging their ideas from the back of a train car, or whatever the equivalent of a shady internet sales page was.”

“Yeah, I’m arrogant and prideful. This is big and needs to be big. We need to start as we mean to go on. But this could fail big too. And right now, Ward, you’re attached to me. You should know that if I lose this I'll probably be done. No more research, no chance at tenure. I’ve already burnt my chances at a corporate research gig. If I'm lucky I'll get an associate professorship at some community college. See how many little undergrads I can make drop out.”

I smiled. I actually laughed a little. Laughed, chuckled even. However, I did not giggle. “Professor Hansen? You know me, right? My big goal in life is fifty k a year and health insurance. Failing here would disappoint my parents, but they won’t be surprised either. You can’t really damage my prospects if I don’t have any. So you want to be big? Lets be big.”

“Believe it or not, I do know how to get people's attention. You just need food and fireworks.”

It took trips to a few different surplus stores to get what I wanted, and I presumed on my acquaintanceship with the Beards to go a bit beyond their retainer. I also presumed on them to find a few other specialists. It's funny, really, how many old-fashioned craftsman types were involved in this cutting-edge tech. We got this little Native American guy – John Akins – who was utterly obsessed with the conquistadors and late medieval Spanish history. The guy made a living as a blacksmith, making bits and pieces for Renne Faires and those weirdos who dress up and pretend to be knights and serfs and stuff. But he did know and understand body armor as well or better than any military history PhD.

Austin, the mechanic, went back to work at the motor pool, with the understanding that we'd call him as soon as we could. He kept coming around and helping in the evenings, “protecting his share” he said. But he still needed a weekly paycheck.

John designed some pieces, and quicker than I had expected we had a suit of armor. It looked kinda ridiculous – like something Cortez would have worn if Cortez was also both a riot cop and a stormtrooper. If you want to see it, it's on display in our corporate headquarters. He even did it for free – said the work was a blast. Hansen gave the dude a few percentage points anyways. Something about liability or copyright or whatever. I think Hansen just felt bad.

The armor John designed had a clamshell breastplate that flared widely into a skirt shape over the hips, a tall gorget that snapped on to cover the neck joints, a helmet with an opaque visor that could be drawn down over the face. The pauldrons were just circular plates that covered arm joints, and similar overlapping plates protected elbows and knees.

It was a mess. The range of motion was limited, and it offered very little protection to anything not aimed straight on. But it would get some attention, and it only weighed twenty-five pounds.

I made up some flyers and talked to a few range masters at the local guard armory and a nearby airforce base. Dr. Hansen made some calls and ensured we had all the permission and permits that might be necessary.

I offered a thousand dollars to anyone who could knock a piece of armor off the dummy with a firearm. Any gun, any ammo. With the promise of a free barbeque, the local unit let us set up on a mortar range. I also made sure those supply contracts guys knew about it. They didn’t have to buy, but we had free food and some enthusiastic shooters ready to go. I also made sure they knew that if they didn't want this stuff, I'd find someone who did.

The range got set at a hundred yards, to start with. After a few hours of attempts, the range was opened up so that a few eager soldiers could bring out RPGs and other high explosives.

In the end, a staff sergeant earned the money by lodging a mortar shell between the neckpiece and the visor, which broke a strap inside, sending a couple of plasma steel bolts flying. We also made sure to record the whole event, did some editing, and sent it out to internet land.

We got a contract. Fifty thousand dollars deposit to design and test a prototype suit of armor for the infantry. If the armor was up to spec, and usable, they'd start with 500 units, and ten thousand dollars a unit. Procurement made sure I understood that there was room in the budget for prototyping and design overruns, too.

We were in business.