by Thomas Waite
The door opened and a narrow-faced youth in his early twenties appeared. The muffs of a headset bulged over his ears. He blinked his large eyes, furrowed his brow, and pursed his lips. “You’re not pizza.”
“I’m Dylan Johnson, from Mantric.”
The kid gave him a blank look. Long enough for the star on the left earpiece of the headset to flash blue twice.
“We’re a technology firm,” Dylan explained. “I head up the mobile computing division.” He handed the kid his business card.
“Oh Jeez,” said the kid. He eyeballed the card, then offered a hand. “Darryl Bachman. You’re here about the letter Mulroney sent. About the funding.”
Dylan opened his mouth to deliver a polite denial then stopped. He had no idea what Darryl was talking about, but it didn’t take much imagination to realize the kid had handed him an in, and he might be able to use it to get the information he wanted.
“Is there somewhere we could talk?”
“Yeah, sure. Come on up.” Darryl led Dylan up the dark staircase. The scent of stale pizza and dirty carpet wound its way through Dylan’s nostrils. He scrunched his nose.
The apartment was not the cluster of unkempt little rooms that Dylan had expected. Instead, it was one high-ceilinged chamber, furnished with minimalist furniture and a scattering of stainless steel computers and flat-panel displays. It was clear the original structure had been modified; the attic was taken out and skylights were installed in the peaked roof. Another youth, built like an apple with legs and arms, barely glanced up from his computer when they entered. Darryl pointed Dylan to a comfortable vinyl chair and offered him a Coke.
Dylan had the whole picture within fifteen minutes. Darryl and his friend Mulroney, the apple-shaped youth, had joined forces after both had graduated from Rutgers the previous year and started up a small, somewhat sketchy unlocked mobile phone business. They had very little overhead, as all orders were taken over the Internet and fulfilled from a warehouse in Elizabeth. This paid the bills and left the boys time to pursue their passion, which turned out to be interactive gaming.
“We do a good trade in selling and reselling unlocked phones. Amazing how many people want them. It’s cool because we deal with a bunch of different wholesalers, and our fulfillment house ships the stuff.” He laughed and snorted. “Most of it we never even see.”
“He knows this, Darryl,” rasped Mulroney. “Talk to him about Inventure.”
“Sure.” Darryl said, oozing excitement. “It’s a new technology we have for role-playing gamers. Imagine really fighting the dragons and killing those bastards in a truly 3-D virtual reality environment. This will make Wii seem like a hobby horse.”
Dylan nodded—not too encouraging, but listening.
Mulroney rolled over to join them, helping himself to a Coke. “We’ve got a lot of bugs to work out, which is why we’re looking for sponsorship.”
“I see.” Of course they were. “Let me ask you—why don’t you incorporate and manage it yourself?”
“We’re not business types,” Darryl said with a shrug. “We just want to take a fat cut in perpetuity, which will be a hell of a lot more if an established company does the marketing for us. Right?”
“Could be.” Dylan marveled silently at their naiveté, but this wasn’t the time for a lecture on the cold realities of the corporate world. “What’s your competition doing while you’re looking for corporate sponsorship?”
“The same as us, probably,” said Darryl with a smile.
His cheerfulness annoyed Dylan. “Well, that’s not in your favor.”
“Hence the ‘sell-it-now’ idea,” said Mulroney, wriggling his eyebrows.
Dylan took a swig of his Coke. “In my day, it was easier to keep ahead of the curve because everything was new. You could make a killing and then move on before the floor fell out.”
“You were there at the beginning, weren’t you?” Darryl asked, in awe. “That must have been some fun.”
Dylan looked around the loft. Was it so different, after all, from how he and Tony and Rob and Heather had gotten their start five years earlier? Had they been smarter, or just lucky? In fact, wasn’t Darryl a tiny bit like the Tony he had first met at MIT?
“Yeah. It was.” He drew a hand across his eyes. “But it’s a lot different now. You’ve really got to come up with something different. You guys heard of Prometheus?”
Darryl and Mulroney exchanged glances. “Yeah.”
“He’s the kind of guy who could make something like what you’re talking about a reality, don’t you think?”
Darryl shrugged, suddenly impatient. “I think we’re the kind of people who can do this.”
“Maybe. If you’re serious.”
“What’s your point?” asked Mulroney, suddenly wary. “That it’s all about the fame, not the fun? I guess you made it big, and you think everyone who didn’t is a jerk—right? Big deal. We’re not egomaniacs.”
“I’m not—” Dylan stopped, suddenly confused. “I’m not questioning your motives. I didn’t bring up Prometheus to show you up. Actually, I wondered if there was any chance you could bring him on board your project. Do you know him?”
“Sort of,” said Darryl.
“Wait a minute,” said Mulroney, shoving back his chair. “Who are you with?”
Darryl handed the round young man the business card.
Mulroney scowled. “I didn’t send the letter to Mantric.”
“I know. I heard about you through other channels.”
“From who?”
“I’d rather not say. But—”
“Man, I don’t believe you guys!” said Mulroney, springing to his feet. “You’re not interested in us! You just want Prometheus!”
“Sorry.” Dylan held up a hand. “Look, it’s not like that—”
“I think you’d better leave,” Darryl said unapologetically.
Dylan rose and walked to the door, where he turned and gave it one more shot before leaving. “Listen, it’s true I came here looking for Prometheus, but it’s not like you think. In fact it has nothing to do with business at all.”
“Oh that’s reassuring,” said Mulroney. He flipped open his phone and punched in three numbers with his thumb.
Dylan nodded. “Okay, I’m going.” He still stood with his back to the door. “Look, my best friend died this week. We were like you guys once. He was a friend of Prometheus. I’m just trying to get in touch with him.”
Darryl looked sympathetic, but Mulroney smirked. “Right. Are you going?”
“Just tell him I’m looking for him. Please.”
“I bet,” Darryl said. “Get out.”
“Just tell him it’s about what happened to Tony.”
Dylan opened the door and rushed down the stairs, cursing himself. What good was he if he couldn’t handle a couple of wet-behind-the-ears wannabes!
Chapter 16
May 6, 2:00 p.m. New York
Dylan arrived back in New York at two o’clock, depressed and disillusioned.
“Dylan?” Rachel, his New York secretary, looked up anxiously as he entered his outer office. “Matt Smith has been looking for you. He’s frantic.”
Dylan gritted his teeth. Matt was the most competent, and composed, senior consultant at MobiCelus. He only called Dylan during a crisis.
“I’ll call him right away.”
He went into his office and closed the door, then settled in at his desk and punched up Matt’s number. Matt answered on the first ring.
“Dylan! Where’ve you been?”
“Chasing some ghosts.” No point in advertising his extracurricular activities. “What’s up?”
“Haven’t you checked your e-mail, for God’s sake?”
“No, sorry, I didn’t.”
“Well, we have a problem with Hyperfōn.”
Shit. He hadn’t paid much attention to Hyperfōn since Tony’s death. “What kind of problem?” he asked.
“LC is about to announce the launch
of Gazi. My contact tells me their website is ready and they will be taking orders as soon as their national advertising campaign rolls out next week.” Matt paused for a moment. And then he added, “Dylan, Gazi is an exact replica of Hyperfōn, and they’ve beaten them to the punch. Hyperfōn’s screwed.”
Dylan opened his browser and read the press release. LC was one of the largest technology conglomerates in the world. Dylan and his consultants knew LC’s businesses backwards and forwards. There was no way LC could develop a competing business like Gazi this fast.
“Matt, how the hell can that be?”
“I don’t know. I mean, once we launched Hyperfōn, it should have taken any competitor at least a year to launch a competing business from scratch. Nine months at a minimum. They’d have to reverse-engineer the technology, get around the patent protections, develop the software—”
“Exactly. And Hyperfōn’s only been up and running for—what? A month?” Dylan’s mind raced through the ad campaign and the launch over the past month, unable to determine how LC could have developed their product and gotten it rolled out so quickly.
“I know. It doesn’t make any sense. It must be a coincidence. LC must have had this new business in development for the last year. We must have missed it when we did our research.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“No, but what else could it be? We worked our asses off and studied every possible competitor. And we looked hard at LC. Things were crazy during the buyout, but we did our homework, Dylan.”
“I know you did.” This was bad, very bad. They had promised Joe that Hyperfōn was going to be one of a kind, with at least a year’s head start on the competition.
“Dylan, I’m up here doing everything I can to try and hold this together. Ferrano is furious, and the venture capitalists are all over him.”
Dylan’s concerns over Prom3th3u5, and Tony’s death, so omnipresent for the past three days, were pushed back by this new disaster. “Listen, Matt, tell Joe right now that I’m taking the next shuttle up to see him in person.”
“Okay, I will. What are you going to do when you get here?”
“We’ll think of something. Our work was solid; I know it was. I want Joe to know that we stand behind our work, and I am personally going to help his company through this. I should be there in less than two hours. In the meantime, do the best you can. And get the team to dig around. See what you can find out about LC and how they did this. Hang in there—okay?”
“Okay. Thanks. Call me when you get here.”
Dylan hung up the phone and ran out of his office and stopped at Rachel’s desk.
“Listen, Rachel, something’s come up. I have to go to Boston.”
“I know.”
Dylan was confused. “Did Matt tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“About Hyperfōn?”
“No. Michelle called,” she said, referring to Art’s assistant. “Art’s in Boston getting ready for the funeral. He wants to meet with you this evening for drinks at Radius. I told her I would check with you and get back to her.”
Dylan frowned and looked at his watch. “Fine. Call Michelle back and have her tell Art that’ll work, since I have to go to Hyperfōn for an emergency meeting.”
“Okay.”
Dylan paused, biting his lip. Did he really want to draw Art’s attention to Hyperfōn right now? “You know what? Don’t tell Art that. Just tell him I’ll meet him at seven.” He rushed out of the office. What the hell could be so important that Art wanted a private meeting?
* * *
May 6, 3:30 p.m. Boston
Dylan jumped into a taxi at Logan Airport, and within twenty minutes he arrived at the Hyperfōn offices. He pulled out his cell phone and hit the speed-dial number for Matt Smith.
“Hello, this is Matt.”
“Matt, it’s Dylan.”
“Where are you?”
“Three stories below you. Can you meet me in the lobby? We should probably talk privately for a few minutes before I come up.”
“I’ll be right down.”
Dylan walked into the lobby of the building and took a seat in one of the chairs. Moments later, Matt appeared and took the chair next to him.
“Christ, am I glad you’re here.” The normally cool Matt looked paralyzed with fear.
“How bad is it?”
“Real bad. After I told Joe you were flying up to see him, he abruptly ended our meeting. Our team is holed up in the workroom. They’re scouring the Internet and making some calls to try and figure out how LC could have possibly pulled this off. It’s like they knew everything we were doing for Hyperfōn all along.”
“Any ideas?”
“No. None. We’re all stumped.”
“Does Rob know?” Dylan asked.
“Yeah, I told him as soon as I saw the news. He’s been in constant contact with me. He’s doing some research from his end. Wants you to call him when we’re finished here.”
Dylan ran his fingers through his hair and let out a sigh. “Well, I guess it’s time to face the music. Any advice for me before I meet with Joe?”
Matt stood up, looked at him and shrugged. “Bring a heat shield?”
Dylan smiled. Matt was very talented, and this wasn’t his fault. “Okay. Let me see what I can do. In the meantime, start thinking about how Hyperfōn can respond. Maybe there’s a way to turn this situation around to their advantage.”
“I’m already on it,” said Matt, but he didn’t sound confident.
They went up to Hyperfōn’s office, and as they emerged from the elevator, Matt turned right and returned to the workroom, while Dylan turned left, hurrying toward Joe’s office. Joe’s secretary was expecting him and showed him in.
Joe’s usual warm and friendly demeanor was absent. He was grim. “I’d offer you a drink,” he said, “but this isn’t going to take long.”
Not a good start, thought Dylan. “Listen, Joe—”
“It’s over, Dylan,” he interrupted. “It’s a hard decision because I consider you a friend. But I can’t afford to be sentimental. My board is furious, and they want blood. Your blood. They’re demanding we terminate our contract with you. And, if we don’t, the venture capitalists say they’ll pull our funding.” Joe wiped his face. “And frankly, I agree. How the hell did your team miss the Gazi project?”
“Honestly, Joe, I have no idea. We did exhaustive research on LC. It doesn’t make any sense. But I have the team looking into it right now. We’ll figure this out.”
Joe shook his head. “Don’t waste your time. It doesn’t matter anymore. With their resources, LC is going to crush us.”
“We don’t know it’s over yet, Joe. Hell, there may be a way to use LC’s move to our advantage.”
Joe regarded him thoughtfully. “Listen to me carefully, Dylan. You’re good with people. You could talk a teetotaler into having a drink with you. But it only works when you’ve got the goods. This is a goddamn catastrophe for an outfit the size of Hyperfōn. We could be out of business within three months. I have to let you go.”
Dylan thought quickly. There had to be a way to recover this. “Joe, give us two weeks. I promise you we’ll come back with a new strategy for your company.”
“Sorry, Dylan. I can’t do that. And I hate to do this to you, but I can’t pay you what we already owe you. As far as we’re concerned, you didn’t deliver what you promised.”
“But Joe—”
Joe stood up. “It’s over, Dylan.”
“It’s not over, damn it! Look, Joe, we did our job right. We made sure the market was wide-open for you. Somebody’s fucking with us.”
Joe shook his head. “I’m sorry, Dylan. I hate to say I told you so, but I saw this coming. This is the sort of thing that happens when you sell your company but think you’re still in control. I warned you, but you could only smell the dollars you’d get if you went with Mantric. You were smart kids once, and MobiCelus was a great company. You killed i
t when you went with Mantric. I sincerely hope you get the message.”
“Listen to me, Joe. You have to give me a little time. I’ll figure it out.” Dylan’s mind went into overdrive, thinking back to the very beginning with Joe and Hyperfōn.
Joe shook his head. He walked over to the door and opened it. “You’ve got other things to do, Dylan. I’m sorry about Tony. Go bury your friend. Under the circumstances, I think it’s better if I don’t go to the funeral.”
Dylan walked down the hall to the workroom, where he motioned for Matt to come out into the hallway.
Matt took one look at Dylan. “It’s over, isn’t it? I might as well pack my bags now.”
“It’s not over,” Dylan said, his eyes flashing with anger. “Not yet.”
“So what do I tell them?” Matt said, nodding towards the team.
Dylan paused for a moment. He didn’t want his people making a scene at the client site. “Wrap it up and get everyone back to the office. Then I want you and the team to find out what the hell happened. That’s your one and only priority.”
“How?”
“I don’t know, Matt,” Dylan said sharply, “But the last time I checked, this was your damn project. Why don’t you figure it out?”
Matt blanched. Dylan had never spoken to him like that before.
Dylan looked at his watch. It was almost five o’clock. “Shit! I’ve got to go. Look, I’m sorry, but call me the minute you find anything, no matter how small, no matter what time.”
“Okay. I’ll do my best, Dylan.”
Dylan said nothing. He turned and walked back to the elevator.
* * *
May 6, 6:30 p.m. Boston
Dylan raced home, took a quick shower, and changed clothes for his meeting with Art. It was six-thirty when he left his house for the drive to Radius. He would be a few minutes late, but he decided not to call Art. He checked his voice-mail. Nothing.
Damn LC! How was it possible all these things were happening to him? He felt pressured from all sides. Tony’s death. Hyperfōn. What was next? He seemed cursed with bad luck.