As August approached, Reed found himself settling into his new life with surprising ease. The combination of challenging academic work, meaningful research, and a warm family environment felt like everything he'd been missing without knowing it. Sue's intellectual companionship, Johnny's boundless enthusiasm, MaryGay's artistic wisdom, and Herbie's unconditional love created a home that felt more stable and nurturing than anywhere he'd lived since his parents' deaths.
The only shadow on his happiness was the knowledge that Sue and Johnny would be returning to their mother in New York at the end of the summer. The thought of losing their daily presence felt surprisingly painful, given how short a time he'd known them.
"What happens in September?" Reed asked MaryGay one evening as they sat on the front porch while Sue and Johnny played with Herbie in the yard.
"The kids go back to their mother," MaryGay said simply. "Their grandmother is recovering well, and Franklin should be finished with his current work project by then."
"Franklin?"
"Sue and Johnny's father," MaryGay explained. "He's a mechanical engineer who works on government contracts. Travels constantly, which is why the kids spend so much time with relatives."
Reed watched Sue patiently explaining something to Johnny while Herbie provided enthusiastic but unhelpful commentary. "They're going to miss them."
"They'll miss you too," MaryGay said gently. "Sue especially. She's never had someone who understood her interests the way you do. You've been like the big brother she never had."
Reed felt his chest tighten with an emotion he couldn't quite name. "I've never had a little sister before either. Sue's... she's special. They both are."
"Yes, they are," MaryGay agreed. "And they'll stay in touch. Kids today are much better at maintaining long-distance relationships than we were at their age."
Reed nodded, though the thought of communicating with Sue and Johnny only through letters and phone calls felt inadequate compared to their daily interactions. He'd grown accustomed to Sue's morning questions about his research, Johnny's afternoon adventures with Herbie, and the evening conversations that ranged from molecular biology to the philosophical implications of space exploration.
"MaryGay," Reed said quietly, "thank you. For letting me live here, for welcoming me into your family, for letting me be part of Sue and Johnny's summer. This has been exactly what I needed, even though I didn't know I needed it."
MaryGay smiled, her expression warm with affection. "Reed, you've given as much as you've received. Sue's confidence in her scientific abilities has grown tremendously this summer, and Johnny's learned that smart people can also be fun people. You've been good for all of us."
As they sat together in comfortable silence, watching the children play in the gathering dusk, Reed felt a profound sense of gratitude for the unexpected turns his life had taken. The scared, isolated boy who had once hidden from attention had become someone capable of nurturing and inspiring others. The brilliant but lonely student had found a family that celebrated both his intelligence and his heart.
—
September 1993 - August 1996
The house was too quiet after Sue and Johnny left. Reed kept expecting to hear Johnny talking or Sue asking questions about his research. Herbie checked their empty rooms for the first few days, then spent most of his time waiting by the front door.
"They'll be back next summer," MaryGay reminded him gently as Reed stared at his untouched breakfast on the first morning after their departure. "And Sue's already planning to write you letters about everything she's learning in her advanced biology classes."
The first letter came within a week. Sue wrote on paper that smelled like their mother's vanilla perfume. She told him about her new school in New York, complained about science classes that moved too slowly, and described a genetics project she was working on. But Reed could tell she was lonely too, having trouble connecting with classmates who didn't share her interests.
Reed wrote back carefully, trying to stay connected while encouraging her to be more social. He shared updates on his graduate work, described problems he was solving, and asked about her research. More importantly, he suggested ways she might connect with her New York classmates.
"Remember," he wrote, "intelligence is just one part of who you are. Let people see your sense of humor, your kindness, your curiosity about their interests too. Sometimes the best friendships start with the smallest shared experiences."
Johnny's letters were shorter and more energetic. He drew elaborate rocket ships with swimming pools and roller coasters, and wrote short notes like "Reed, I taught my new friend how to make exploding volcanoes with baking soda!" or "Sue says hi and that DNA is still boring but she read a whole book about it anyway."
Graduate school wasn't intellectually challenging for Reed—the coursework came easily enough—but it was socially isolating in ways he hadn't expected. Most of his undergraduate friends had graduated and moved on to jobs or different schools. Ben was in Air Force training, Tony was running Stark Industries, and the football team that had been such a big part of his MIT experience was mostly filled with new faces who knew him only by reputation.
"You're starting over," Professor Williams observed during one of their regular meetings. "It's harder than most people realize. Undergraduate friendships are built on shared experiences over four years. Graduate school relationships have to develop while everyone's focused on their own research."
Reed looked up from the electromagnetic field equations he'd been working on. "I knew it would be different. I just didn't expect to feel so disconnected from everything."
"That's why I've arranged for you to work with the interdisciplinary think tank," Professor Williams said. "NASA wants to see how your propulsion theories interact with other advanced research areas. You'll be collaborating with some of the brightest minds from different institutions."
The think tank met twice a week in a conference room that always smelled like coffee and whiteboard markers. Reed was the youngest member by several years, which felt familiar by now. The group included researchers from Harvard, Columbia, and even some international collaborators who participated via video conference.
The first person Reed noticed was Bentley Wittman from Columbia. He was maybe twenty-five, with prematurely graying hair and the kind of expensive clothes that suggested family money. Bentley had a PhD in theoretical physics and made sure everyone knew it.
"So you're the undergraduate prodigy we've been hearing about," Bentley said during Reed's first meeting, looking him up and down with obvious skepticism. "I have to say, your plasma containment theories show promise, but there are some fundamental flaws in your mathematical framework."
Reed blinked. "Which flaws specifically?"
"Well, for starters, your assumption about magnetic field stability under high-energy conditions is overly optimistic," Bentley said, pulling out a folder of papers. "I've run some calculations that show your system would collapse within minutes of activation."
Reed studied Bentley's work for several minutes while the rest of the group waited. The math was impressive but based on outdated assumptions about plasma behavior. "These calculations use the Henderson-Morrison model from 1987," Reed said finally. "NASA's updated research shows that model breaks down at the energy levels we're working with."
Bentley's face reddened slightly. "The Henderson-Morrison model is well-established. Just because NASA claims to have new data doesn't mean we should abandon proven theoretical frameworks."
"It does when the proven frameworks don't account for quantum effects at high energy densities," Reed replied mildly. "But your approach to the mathematical modeling is elegant. Maybe we could combine your methodology with the updated plasma physics."
The suggestion was meant diplomatically, but Bentley clearly took it as condescension. "I don't need advice on methodology from someone who's barely old enough to vote."
Reed felt the familiar sting of age-based dismissal, but before he could respond, another voice cut in.
"Actually, Richards is right about the Henderson-Morrison limitations." This came from Julius, a thin man with thick glasses who worked at IBM's research division. "I've been modeling similar problems for computational applications, and the quantum effects are significant."
Julius was probably thirty, with the pale complexion of someone who spent most of his time indoors staring at computer screens. He spoke in precise, measured sentences and seemed to approach every problem as a mathematical puzzle to be solved.
"The real question," Julius continued, "is whether we can develop predictive models for these quantum effects. If we can't predict them, we can't control them, and Reed's propulsion system becomes too dangerous for human spaceflight."
Reed found himself genuinely interested in Julius's perspective. "What kind of computational power would we need for real-time modeling?"
"More than currently exists," Julius said with what might have been a smile. "But if we could build the right kind of specialized computer system, integrate it with the spacecraft's control systems... we might be able to create something that adapts to changing conditions automatically."
The discussion that followed was exactly what Reed had hoped for from the think tank. Different minds approaching the same problem from completely different angles, building on each other's insights to find solutions none of them could have reached alone.
But not everyone in the group worked well together.
George Tarleton was a biochemist from Harvard who had been assigned to analyze the biological challenges of long-duration spaceflight. He was a few years older than Reed and seemed to resent being included in what he called "the rocket boys' club."
"This is all fascinating theoretical work," George said during their third meeting, "but you're ignoring the fundamental biological limitations. The human body wasn't designed for extended periods in microgravity or exposure to cosmic radiation. No amount of clever engineering is going to solve that problem."
"That's exactly why we need your expertise," Reed said. "How do we design life support systems that can maintain human health for months or years in space?"
George's expression suggested he thought Reed was missing the point. "You don't. The smart approach is to focus on unmanned missions until we develop better radiation shielding and artificial gravity systems. Putting humans on Mars with current technology is essentially a suicide mission with better publicity."
"But if we don't push the boundaries, we'll never develop the technology to make it safer," Reed argued. "Every advancement in space exploration has required accepting calculated risks."
"Calculated risks are one thing," George replied. "This is throwing people into space and hoping they don't die before they reach Mars."
The disagreement wasn't just scientific—it was philosophical. Reed believed in pushing forward despite risks, while George favored waiting until technology was safer. Both positions had merit, but they made collaboration difficult.
Things got more complicated when George started bringing his friend Aldrich Killian to meetings. Aldrich walked with a crutch due to what looked like a severe leg disability, but he carried himself with the confidence of someone who had overcome significant challenges. He was working on biological enhancement research and spoke about his work with an intensity that bordered on obsession.
"The real breakthrough won't come from better rockets," Aldrich announced during one particularly tense session. "It'll come from enhancing human beings to survive in space naturally. Genetic modifications, biological adaptations, maybe even regenerative therapies that can repair radiation damage in real time."
"That's science fiction," Bentley said dismissively. "We're trying to solve real engineering problems here."
"Everything's science fiction until someone builds it," Aldrich shot back, his grip tightening on his crutch. "People said the same thing about powered flight, about computers, about space travel itself. I'm working on therapies that could eliminate human biological limitations entirely."
Reed tried to steer the conversation back to practical solutions. "Those are interesting long-term possibilities, but NASA needs working propulsion systems in the next five years. We can't wait for genetic engineering to catch up."
Aldrich studied Reed with obvious dislike. "You're thinking too small, Richards. Incremental improvements to existing technology instead of revolutionary changes to human capabilities. That's the kind of limited thinking that keeps people trapped by their weaknesses."
There was something personal in the way Aldrich said it, something that suggested his research wasn't just academic but deeply connected to his own physical limitations.
"I'm thinking about what's actually possible with current resources and timelines," Reed replied. "Revolutionary changes are great, but they don't help us get to Mars this decade."
Meanwhile, Bentley's attitude toward Reed was becoming increasingly hostile. What had started as professional skepticism was turning into personal animosity.
"The fundamental problem," Bentley said during their next meeting, "is that Richards here thinks his undergraduate success qualifies him to lead a project of this magnitude. But there's a difference between being smart for your age and actually understanding complex theoretical frameworks."
Reed felt his jaw tighten. "Which specific aspects of my theoretical framework do you think are flawed?"
"The assumption that you can scale up plasma containment without accounting for quantum interference effects," Bentley said smoothly. "Your mathematics work fine on paper, but they ignore real-world complications that someone with more experience would anticipate."
"I've run extensive simulations accounting for quantum effects," Reed replied. "The results are in my latest report. Did you actually read it?"
Bentley's face reddened slightly. "Of course I read it. I'm saying your simulations are based on incomplete data and oversimplified models."
Julius looked up from his computer. "Actually, Reed's quantum effect modeling is quite sophisticated. I've been using his parameters for my computational work, and they're holding up well under stress testing."
"Julius, you're a computer scientist, not a theoretical physicist," Bentley said condescendingly. "You might not recognize the subtleties that Reed is missing."
The tension in the room was getting thick. Reed realized that Bentley wasn't just disagreeing with his work—he was actively trying to undermine Reed's credibility with the group.
"Look," Reed said, trying to keep his voice level, "if there are specific problems with my approach, let's identify them and work on solutions. That's what collaboration means."
"Collaboration requires mutual respect," Bentley shot back. "Which is difficult when one member of the team thinks his undergraduate achievements make him qualified to lecture his seniors."
"I've never claimed my undergraduate work qualifies me for anything," Reed said, his patience wearing thin. "My qualifications come from the fact that my propulsion theories actually work, which is more than I can say for your constant criticism without alternatives."
"Oh, so now I'm not contributing anything valuable?" Bentley's voice rose. "Maybe if you weren't so convinced of your own genius, you'd be able to see the value in other people's perspectives."
Professor Williams had to step in to prevent the argument from escalating further, but the damage was done. The working relationship between Reed and Bentley was essentially over.
George and Aldrich seemed to enjoy the conflict between Reed and Bentley. It validated their own skepticism about the project and gave them ammunition for their arguments about fundamental problems with the entire approach.
"This is exactly what I'm talking about," George said after one particularly heated exchange. "You're so focused on proving who's smartest that you're ignoring the real ethical concerns about human safety."
"The ethical concerns are exactly why we need to get this right," Reed said. "If we don't develop better propulsion systems, people are going to attempt Mars missions with inferior technology. That's when people get killed."
"Or," Aldrich said quietly, "we develop better humans instead of better rockets. Eliminate the biological limitations instead of trying to engineer around them."
The breaking point came during a meeting in November. Reed had presented updated calculations showing how his propulsion system could be scaled up for a Mars mission, including detailed analysis of fuel requirements, acceleration profiles, and safety margins.
"This is impressive work," Julius said, studying the data. "The computational modeling suggests it could actually work."
Bentley looked over the calculations with obvious irritation. "The mathematical framework is still fundamentally flawed. You're making assumptions about magnetic field stability that can't be verified experimentally."
"Which assumptions specifically?" Reed asked, though he was thoroughly sick of this routine.
"All of them," Bentley said dismissively. "The entire theoretical foundation needs to be rebuilt from first principles by someone who actually understands advanced plasma physics."
Reed felt something snap inside him. "Bentley, either point out specific errors in my calculations or stop wasting everyone's time with vague criticisms. You've been undermining this project for months without contributing a single constructive suggestion."
"I don't need to waste time fixing your amateur mistakes," Bentley replied coldly. "Maybe if you'd spent more time learning proper theoretical methodology instead of playing football, you'd understand why your approach is doomed to failure."
The room went dead silent. Reed stared at Bentley, feeling years of accumulated frustration boiling over.
"At least I'm trying to solve actual problems instead of tearing down other people's work to make myself feel important," Reed said, his voice dangerously quiet.
George and Aldrich exchanged meaningful looks.
"I can't ethically support a project led by someone this unstable," George announced. "The biological risks are too high, and the interpersonal dynamics are completely dysfunctional."
"George is right," Aldrich added, standing up and adjusting his crutch. "This whole approach is backwards. You're trying to adapt primitive human biology to space instead of adapting humans to space. Reed's too invested in his own theories to see the bigger picture, and Bentley's too jealous to be constructive."
He looked around the room with obvious disgust. "George and I are working on something revolutionary. Real solutions to human biological limitations, not just better ways to throw people into space and hope they survive. When we're ready to announce our research organization, maybe some of you will be interested in actual innovation instead of academic politics."
"What research organization?" Professor Williams asked.
"Something George and I have been discussing," Aldrich said vaguely. "Private funding, no academic bureaucracy, focus on practical applications of biological enhancement. We're calling it Advanced Idea Mechanics. Real forward-thinking research for people who aren't afraid to push boundaries."
The meeting fell apart after that. George and Aldrich gathered their materials and left, muttering about "wasted potential" and "small-minded thinking." Bentley sat in sullen silence, clearly pleased that his antagonism had helped blow up the collaboration.
"Well," Julius said after a long pause, "that was dramatic."
"George and Aldrich have decided to pursue their own research direction," Professor Williams told Reed after the winter break. "They've secured private funding for some kind of biological enhancement research group. Apparently they're convinced that modifying human biology is more practical than improving space travel technology."
Reed wasn't surprised. "What about Bentley and Julius?"
"Bentley's staying with the project, though he's made it clear he has serious reservations about your leadership role. Julius is developing the computational modeling systems we'll need for real-time control of the propulsion systems."
Reed felt a mixture of relief and concern. Relief that the constant arguing was over, but concern that he'd somehow failed to manage the collaborative aspects of the project.
"It's a learning experience," Professor Williams said. "Not every brilliant person is cut out for collaborative research. Some minds work better in isolation or competition than in cooperation. And sometimes personalities just clash, regardless of the quality of the work."
The reduced group functioned better without George and Aldrich's constant skepticism, but Bentley remained a problem. He stayed with the project but made his disapproval clear at every opportunity, turning meetings into subtle battles for intellectual authority.
"Maybe Bentley should lead his own research track," Reed suggested to Professor Williams. "Let him develop alternative approaches while I focus on my propulsion work."
"That might be the best solution," Professor Williams agreed. "Some collaborations work better when people aren't forced to work directly together."
But the experience left Reed feeling isolated again. His undergraduate friends were gone, his graduate collaborators had turned competitive or left entirely, and he was spending most of his time either alone in the laboratory or in meetings with people who saw him as competition rather than colleagues.
It was during one of these late-night laboratory sessions that Reed's life changed again, though he had no way of knowing it at the time.
The knock on his laboratory door came at nearly midnight, when Reed was alone in the building working through a particularly stubborn set of electromagnetic field equations. He looked up to find a young Black teenager standing in the doorway, wearing clothes that had clearly seen better days and carrying a backpack that looked like it held everything he owned.
"Sorry to bother you," the boy said quietly, "but I was wondering if I could ask you a question about your plasma containment research."
Reed blinked in surprise. The kid couldn't have been more than fifteen or sixteen, but he was discussing Reed's most advanced work with casual familiarity. "I'm sorry, how do you know about my research? Most of it isn't published yet."
"I've been reading your progress reports to NASA," the boy replied matter-of-factly. "They're available through the public records database if you know where to look. Your approach to electromagnetic field manipulation is elegant, but I think there might be a more efficient configuration for the containment geometry."
Reed stared at the teenager, processing what he'd just heard. "You've been reading my NASA reports. And you think you've found improvements to my theoretical work."
"Michael Holt," the boy said, extending a hand with surprising confidence. "I'm fifteen, I'm a freshman here at MIT, and I think your containment fields could be thirty percent more efficient with some adjustments to the harmonic resonance patterns."
Reed shook the offered hand, his mind racing. He'd heard rumors about an exceptionally young student who had started classes in the fall, but he hadn't expected to encounter someone who was not only intellectually gifted but bold enough to critique graduate-level research.
"Show me," Reed said simply.
What followed was one of the most stimulating technical discussions Reed had experienced since his undergraduate collaborations with Ben. Michael's insights were not only correct but demonstrated a theoretical sophistication that rivaled advanced graduate students. More impressively, he could articulate complex concepts with the kind of clarity that suggested deep understanding rather than rote memorization.
"Where did you learn electromagnetic field theory?" Reed asked as Michael sketched improved containment configurations on the laboratory whiteboard.
"Self-taught, mostly," Michael replied. "Libraries, online resources, some textbooks I borrowed from college courses when I was in high school. I've always been interested in how systems can be optimized for maximum efficiency."
Reed studied the young man more carefully. Despite his obvious brilliance, there was something guarded about Michael's demeanor, a wariness that Reed recognized from his own childhood experiences. "Michael, can I ask you something personal? What's your living situation like?"
Michael's expression became more closed off. "I'm managing fine. MIT provides housing for all students."
"That's not what I meant," Reed said gently. "I meant, do you have family support? People who understand what you're going through as someone starting college at fifteen?"
The careful walls Michael had constructed seemed to waver slightly. "My parents died in a car accident when I was twelve. I've been in foster care since then, but most families don't know what to do with someone like me. Being smart doesn't make you easy to live with."
Reed felt his heart clench with recognition. The isolation, the sense of being different, the challenge of finding adults who could provide both emotional support and intellectual stimulation. He'd lived through all of it.
"Michael," Reed said carefully, "would you like to get some coffee? There's a place near campus that stays open late, and I'd like to hear more about your ideas for improving my research. But more than that, I'd like to talk to you about what it's like being the youngest person in the room all the time."
Over coffee that stretched until nearly three AM, Reed learned Michael's story. But it wasn't just about his tragic background. Michael had earned his high school diploma at thirteen, then spent a year accumulating college credits through correspondence courses and community college classes. By the time he arrived at MIT, he already had associate degrees in mathematics and computer science.
"I've been essentially educating myself since I was ten," Michael explained, stirring his coffee absently. "Foster families mean well, but they're usually just trying to keep up with basic needs. Nobody really understood that I needed intellectual stimulation as much as food and shelter."
"What made you choose MIT?" Reed asked.
"Honestly? Your research." Michael looked up with something approaching enthusiasm. "I'd been following NASA's advanced propulsion projects, and your electromagnetic field work was the first thing I'd seen that actually seemed achievable. Most theoretical physics feels like academic exercise, but your approach has real practical applications."
Reed felt a familiar spark of excitement. "You see the engineering possibilities, not just the mathematical elegance."
"Exactly. Math is beautiful, but only when it describes something real." Michael leaned forward. "That's actually why I wanted to talk to you. I've been working on some related problems, and I think there might be commercial applications for some of the principles you're using."
"Commercial applications?"
Michael pulled a notebook from his backpack and flipped to a page covered with circuit diagrams and mathematical equations. "I've been studying microprocessor architecture in my spare time. The current generation of computer chips is hitting some fundamental limitations in processing speed and efficiency. But if you apply some of the same field optimization principles you're using for plasma containment..."
Reed studied the diagrams with growing amazement. Michael had essentially redesigned the basic architecture of computer processors, incorporating electromagnetic field calculations that could dramatically improve performance.
"This is incredible," Reed said. "These modifications could increase processing speed by orders of magnitude."
"That's what I think too," Michael said, his enthusiasm finally showing through his usual guardedness. "But I'm fifteen and living in a dorm room. I don't exactly have the resources to build prototype chips or approach companies with commercial proposals."
Reed looked at Michael's designs again, then at the young man who had created them. "What if you did have those resources?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, what if we worked together on this? I have contacts in the tech industry through my NASA work, and I could probably arrange access to fabrication facilities. You clearly understand the theoretical framework better than anyone I've met."
Michael's eyes widened. "You'd want to collaborate with me? On something this big?"
"Michael, this isn't just big. This could revolutionize personal computing. And honestly, I need a project that's more immediately practical than Mars missions. Something that could generate income while I finish graduate school."
They spent the next hour going through Michael's designs in detail. Reed was consistently impressed not just by the technical sophistication, but by Michael's intuitive understanding of how different systems interacted. The kid thought like an engineer, not just a mathematician.
"There's something else I've been working on," Michael said as they prepared to leave the coffee shop. "Something that builds on these same principles but takes them in a completely different direction."
"What kind of direction?"
Michael hesitated, then pulled out another notebook. This one contained sketches of small spherical devices covered with complex geometric patterns.
"I call them T-Spheres," Michael said. "Theoretically, they'd be self-contained computational devices capable of independent operation. Imagine having dozens of tiny computers that could coordinate with each other wirelessly, performing complex calculations collectively while each one remains individually controllable."
Reed studied the sketches with fascination. "Like a distributed computing network, but in physical form?"
"Exactly. Each sphere would contain its own processor, memory, and communication system. But they'd also incorporate some of the electromagnetic field principles from your research to maintain position and coordinate movement. You could have a swarm of them working together on different aspects of the same problem."
The concept was years ahead of anything Reed had seen in computer science literature. "Michael, this is science fiction level technology. The computational requirements alone..."
"Would be handled by the distributed processing power of the spheres themselves," Michael finished. "Each one individually isn't much more powerful than current microprocessors. But fifty of them working together could outperform any supercomputer currently in existence."
Reed set down the notebook, looking at Michael with new respect. "How long have you been thinking about this?"
"Since I was thirteen. I started with the basic question of how to make computers more adaptable, more responsive to changing conditions. Traditional computers are limited by their fixed architecture, but what if you could reconfigure the computational resources dynamically based on the specific problem you're trying to solve?"
"The T-Spheres would physically rearrange themselves?"
"In formation, yes. Different problems would require different geometric arrangements to optimize processing efficiency. It's like having hardware that can adapt to software requirements instead of the other way around."
Reed was quiet for a long moment, processing the implications of what Michael was describing. "This would change everything. Not just computing, but robotics, artificial intelligence, maybe even space exploration."
"That's the idea," Michael said quietly. "But it's years away from being practical. The microprocessor improvements are something we could potentially work on now. The T-Spheres are more of a long-term goal."
Over the following weeks, Reed and Michael began collaborating on the microprocessor project with an intensity that surprised them both. Reed arranged access to MIT's computer science facilities through his NASA connections, while Michael refined his designs and worked out the technical specifications for prototype chips.
"The key insight," Michael explained during one of their late-night work sessions, "is that current processor designs treat electromagnetic interference as a problem to be minimized. But if you incorporate controlled electromagnetic fields as part of the computational process, interference becomes a feature instead of a bug."
Reed watched Michael's fingers fly across the computer keyboard, implementing complex calculations with the fluency of someone who spoke mathematics as a native language. "You're essentially turning the processor into a controlled electromagnetic environment."
"Right. Instead of fighting the physics, we're using the physics. Your plasma containment research showed me that electromagnetic fields could be manipulated with incredible precision. I just applied the same principles to silicon chip architecture."
The breakthrough came in February 1994, when their prototype design successfully passed initial testing at a fabrication facility that Reed had contacted through Professor Williams. The test chips showed processing improvements that exceeded even Michael's optimistic projections.
"Thirty-seven percent increase in processing speed," Reed read from the test results, hardly believing what he was seeing. "And forty-two percent improvement in power efficiency."
Michael looked at the data with the satisfaction of someone who had solved a puzzle that had been bothering him for years. "The electromagnetic field optimization is working exactly as predicted. We've essentially created a processor that coordinates its own internal operations at the quantum level."
"Michael, do you understand what this means? We're not just talking about faster computers. We're talking about technology that could be worth millions of dollars."
Michael's expression grew more serious. "I've been thinking about that. The commercial potential is enormous, but we need to be careful about how we approach it. We're both students, we're using university resources, and there are probably patent issues we haven't considered."
Reed nodded. "We need legal advice, and we need to think carefully about licensing arrangements. But Michael, if we handle this right, we could both be financially set for life."
"That's not why I'm doing this," Michael said quickly. "I mean, the money would be nice, but I'm more interested in seeing the technology actually get used. I want to build things that make the world better, not just make me rich."
Reed looked at his young partner with growing respect. "That's exactly the right attitude. But there's no reason we can't do both. Make money and make the world better."