02 - Deadline

“I’m giving you two weeks to live.”

Gary said the words while staring out his office window onto Vancouver Bay, his gaze fixed on a distant yacht hand desperately attempting to dislodge his anchor from the bay.

“You’re going to have to work on your bedside manner, Gary,” said Miles.

“You know I like you guys, it’s a simple case of needing more space.” Gary sounded almost sincere. Almost. “The extended labs won’t be done for another three months and we have some very promising projects lined up. You understand our process here at Blueprint, yes?”

Miles rubbed the pain from his eyes, but the bags slung beneath them remained. He wanted nothing more than to long-press his brain’s power button and bypass this conversation altogether.

The glare from Gary’s shoes was blinding, but Miles couldn’t stop staring in the way one does at the sun, knowing all too well your lack of action is causing damage. Miles wondered if Gary ever used them as a mirror to check his own appearance. Maybe the shine was just for those who would hang their heads in his presence. A way for them to reflect on their shortcomings. Whatever their intended use, they floated Gary over to his desk before he slid an Armani-clad ass across the top. He found a restful spot and liberated an intricately engraved silver vape from an inner coat pocket. Miles leaned back in an uncomfortable designer chair and peered into the purple void of silk lining Gary’s suit jacket. He remembered the last time he saw it. How different Gary’s tone had been the day they signed the contract.

That was as good an argument as any, thought Miles. “When we started together, you said you ‘saw the future in what we were building’, and then you promised to ‘get us over the finish line’. I imagine a finish line for you only comes with a big fat payday, am I wrong?”

Gary considered the question, pulled his lips from the vape and exhaled a cloud of mist from the corner of his mouth. It hovered over his cherry desk, then curled into the intake vents of his laptop.

“Tell me, Miles, are you a fan of history? More specifically, of the arts?”

Gary, never without his sidetracking rhetoric.

“You may have heard I attended a conference in Rome last week.”

“I wasn’t aware,” Miles replied in monotone.

“On the last day of the trip I found myself in front of the Galleria Nazionale di Arte Anticua, and just a few minutes later I was surrounded by the masters of the renaissance. The interesting thing about the old masters—” Miles’s cheeks dimpled slightly under the strain of his tightening jaw.

“—You know, Da Vinci, Caravaggio, Ingres, is that we look at them with such incredulity. Captivated by their ability to craft a photorealistic representation of the world around them.”

A growing hum from the hall told Miles that people were taking notice of the interrogation happening in Gary’s office. An office he seldom inhabited.

“Most people admire their work for the simple reason that they can’t understand how it was done. They conjure images of these masters spending lifetimes in some ateliér, women straining under long-held poses, the artist agonizing over their every detail. You get the point.”

Miles shifted his weight to the other butt cheek, “am I the artist in this story, or the muse?”

Gary didn’t seem to hear the question and stole another puff from his silver friend.

“The funny thing about it though, is how people’s opinions of those masters would change if they knew just one thing…”

Another dramatic pause, no doubt for his now plentiful audience.

“That they, in fact, used a camera.”

Miles hadn’t expected the sentence to end quite that way.“What do you mean they ‘used a camera’?”

“Exactly what I said. There’s no doubt that their techniques were extraordinary. That they had the patience and dedication to master their craft, but dedication means little to the universe when it comes to success. You see, their ability to transfer what they saw to the canvas…” Gary made a flourished brush stroke in the air with his vape, “…had more to do with process than it did with talent.”

Miles tried not to lose focus of his goals in the conversation. His father would have said that every negotiation had a losing side, even if that side didn’t realize it. Despite this knowledge, the slurry of exhaustion and curiosity spinning round his head was winning.

“Fine, I’ll play along. How’d they do it?”

“It’s easy to think we’re living in the best time in history, but people soon forget that just because technology moves forward doesn’t mean something isn’t lost along the way. You might think of the 16th century as lacking technologically, but Italy was a booming center of craftsmanship in that era. They were producing many items at a level of quality that no longer exists. I mean, Artists could spec-order the fabrication of any material available, not least of which was glass—‘Cristallo’.”

The rats in the hallway were multiplying. Miles could feel it in the growing heat of their eyes lasering the back of his head.

“So,” he continued, “how is it that something invented and used by Da Vinci himself, which went on to be used by Vermeer over a hundred years later—my personal favorite, I might add—isn’t common knowledge today?”

“I don’t know, Gary… trade secrets?”

“That’s right!” he said with a finger snap in Miles’s direction. “Trade secrets, or what we at Blueprint like to call ‘process’. Process is just as much a form of technology as invention itself. And you must. Protect. Process.

In the case of our classic painters, their process was to use something called the ‘camera obscura.’ A simple lens placed in one wall of a darkened room which transformed light from the outside.” Gary held a hand up like a wall, then animated the flow of light between his fingers with a stream of vapor, “The image would then project onto the wall opposite, albeit upside down.”

“They traced it.” Miles replied in monotone.

“Once they drew the lines, they had only to paint over them. Of course, no one would dare diminish the level of skill required to do that. Color mixing, stroke technique, shadow, lighting. These are the things they really mastered, which they now had time to practice without wasting time getting the dimensions right. I mean, when you’re painting the complex shape of a chandelier, or the fat face of a duchess, it’s nice to have a place to start from. Some artists were quartered for misrepresenting their subjects, you know.”

Miles shifted uncomfortably, searching for a section of his butt that wasn’t completely numb.

Gary spun round on his heels to face the office door, sending the rats beyond the glass audibly scurrying back to their nests.

“Which is a round-about way to say this newly found knowledge set me back on the path to Blueprint’s own process, which in turn led me to reevaluate our existing portfolio of projects alongside incoming opportunities. You see, what we’re really interested in here are people that have discovered a unique process which allows them to go beyond the competition. To jump light years ahead of everyone else. True disruptors.

We’ve fostered the success of no less than 150 startups. Different products, different market segments, hardware, software—it doesn’t really matter. Our role as mentors is to guide founders along the fastest path to revenue. That was our process until the last couple years, before we became a bit too complacent with our new digs here overlooking the ocean. Let’s just say that I’m returning us to form.

Miles searched for a life preserver in the conversation, “OK, so what about our process can be improved?”

“Thirty-one months.”

“Thirty-one months?” Miles parroted.

“That’s how long you and… what’s your cofounder’s name again?”

“Simon”

“Right. Thirty-one months since you and Simon joined our merry band. You should know that that period is the longest we’ve incubated any pre-revenue startup in the history of the fund, not to mention the cost of getting you to a working prototype is at the top 1% of our historical expenditure. Now, I’ve looked into your history here—your process, as it were, and what I’ve found is a single factor limiting our mutual satisfaction,” he said before crossing his arms and peering down at Miles. “No one is buying your cooling tech.

Now, this ‘process’ concept I’m talking about doesn’t just relate to development. You have to find a way to accelerate interest. Market it better, target sales in a different way. Hell, it could be just changing the copywriting in your outbound sales messaging. Whatever the secret ingredient is, you’ve got to find it.”

Miles knew the VC game just as well as Gary. This is what they always did. Promise you the world, push you over the edge of burnout, then drop you for the next hot trend. The only way he was going to turn the negotiation table was to inject him with a double dose of FOMO (the Fear Of Missing Out).

Miles was tired of being literally looked down on. He stood up and stepped to another of the wide bay windows and mustered up a confident tone.

“In a few years, every Fortune 1000 company will have its own quantum computing system powered by our CRYOPULSE cooler. Our product achieves absolute zero faster, more efficiently, and for a longer period of time. Anyone who knows anything about this market understands that stability is everything for those companies, and without cooling, truly useful quantum computing won’t happen.”

Miles looked back at Gary, hoping he’d made a positive impact, but was only met with a smirk.

“I don’t need your pitch. I’ve heard it. It’s a good pitch, which is why we took you onboard to begin with. Your potential customers are the ones who really need to hear it.”

Miles’s mind darted to the face of Simon, his integrated circuit expert and salesman cofounder. Thirty-one months and only one signed ‘Memorandum of Understanding’, a meaningless document, not unlike a 3rd grade valentine that says nothing more than ‘I like you’. With all the budget going to parts and quantum chip partnerships, there was nothing left for hiring sales teams. They’d sold exactly zero units of their cooler. It seemed even the big market players didn’t like the three-million-dollar price tag. Or perhaps Simon was just not the salesman he thought he was.

Gary put his back against the wall next to Miles’s window and leaned in close. “Look, there’s no question quantum cooling is a profitable gamble. The question really, is whether you boys are the ones who will pull it off. To prove you are, we need sales up on the board. After all, history is littered with people who almost made it big, even when they were first out the gate.”

Miles’s gaze fell back to the bay, to two seagulls hanging on the stream of air driven up by the cliffs below. If Simon were here, he’d know what to say. He was the mouth of the team. But with no sales over those thirty-one months, Miles was beginning to wonder if meeting your cofounder at a “Departing from Grief” group was the best origin story for their company.

Miles remembered the day before his first work interview. His dad sat him down at the diner down the street and told him over a BLT sandwich that, ‘you’ve got to think laterally, Miles. Figure out what the person across the table wants, then use that greed against them.’ He’d spoken with a big leaf of lettuce hanging out one side. ‘Life never gives you what you deserve. Only what you negotiate.’

What did Gary want? Miles knew two details that could give him the advantage. One; he was a sucker for a good story, as was shown by his painting analogy, however bad it may have been. And two; when it comes to investments, venture capitalists always drool for a quick exit. The ultimate FOMO.

“There’s something I’ve been saving to tell you, but given these new circumstances perhaps now is the time.” It was always hard to tell what Gary was thinking, but his eyebrows seemed to say he was curious.

“We’ve made something of a breakthrough last week.” Miles flung open the cobwebbed doors of his brain’s story fabrication department. He forced a wide grin for show.

“’Something of a breakthrough.’ Ok, and?”

“We’re putting CRYOPULSE into a relevance bracket that nobody else can possibly catch up with. I’m talking high-figure exit potential to any number of companies within the very near future.”

Gary made a motion of reeling in a fish “You’re teasing me now. Gimme the juice!”

“We’re currently in the testing phase, but if we could agree on an extended timeline with some additional runway, I’m confident we could have a production-ready version within the next six months—a year max.”

For a moment, Gary pondered Miles’s dodge of the details. He stood, poured himself a glass of something amber colored and looked back out the window. The yacht hand seemed to have finally dislodged his anchor. Now it was Gary’s turn to pull up or cut loose.

“From our position…” Gary’s voice dropped in tone, “there is a significant lost-time cost to this equation. We have three other startups vying for your spot in the labs and all of them have recurring revenue that’s hitting an exponential stride. I don’t have to remind you that our original incubation period was contracted at twenty-four months. Beyond that, we have no obligations.”

“We’re well past the expensive development phase. What we need now is time. Time to hone our product and sell… and that’s cheap. Call it a follow-up seed round. You tack on twelve additional months of salary to our runway and let us keep the space. In return, we’ll give you—” A voice was screaming inside him Don’t say it! Don’t say it! But he also knew it was now or never to save his company, “—15% more equity.”

The slightest trace of a smile built near Gary’s left dimple and his intonation took a turn into downright friendly, “Alright, Miles. If you’ve got an extra ace up your sleeve… I’ll play.” Somehow, that sounded scarier to Miles, like the grin of a bear right before it mauls you.

Gary returned the vape to its silken home, signaling the end of his lecture like an old professor with a pipe. Miles tried to hide the rush building inside him. For now, he had bought them time, literally. And it hadn’t been cheap.

“Good. Glad we could talk, Gary. Let me know when the updated contract is ready for review.” Miles’s hand landed on the artisan-crafted door handle just as Gary’s voice slithered across his ears.

“There’s a pitch event on the 18th for new projects. That gives you…” Gary checked the date on his Patek Philippe watch, “two weeks to prepare a sample of your ‘breakthrough.’ I’ll give you until then to show us something mind-changing.”

Miles felt the fibers rooting his stomach begin to twinge and rip. Two weeks? Whatever ‘breakthrough’ he was going to manifest, it wasn’t going to happen by then.

He pressed his back to the door. “I just pitched you for an additional year. Your counter-offer is two weeks?”

“I think you’ll find you’re capable of extraordinary things when you know the date your baby is going to die. Go save your baby, Miles.”

He felt duped. Swindled. Like he’d talked himself into someone else’s plan. He was now on record for offering 15% more equity for a measly year of funding and for it he’d only added a week to his company’s death certificate. There was nothing more to be said. He’d lost.

He stepped out of the office and into a swarm of dismantled solar panels being carried down the hall like a coffin. How fitting, he thought. The cofounder of Calypso popped his gum and clipped Miles with a shoulder before snickering “How’d the meeting go? Any idea when we’ll be moving into your lab? If you could make that absolute zero days from now, we’d appreciate it. New hires need space to work.”

The rest of his crew chuckled in rhythm as they passed.

Miles just stood there, emotionally drained, his motivation demolished. A final stab echoed down the hall, “Be careful when you clean up, OK? Wouldn’t want your fridge water to discolor the flooring.”

He waited until they’d passed, the youngest of the pack, an intern’s lanyard and no gum, who’d hung back while the others had their fun. Then he stepped over.

“I’m sorry about them,” he said. “The opinions expressed are those of management and don’t reflect the views of the staff… and may also be full of shite.” A small smile. “For what it’s worth, I think Cryopulse is doing something really cool—no pun intended.” If you ever have room for one more, I’d sooner join you than continue with these clowns.”

Miles looked at the kid offering to climb aboard a ship he’d just been told was sinking. He couldn’t pay for a proper place to live, let alone a new hire.

“What’s your name?”

“Theo.”

“I’ll keep you in mind, Theo.” It wasn’t true, and some part of the kid probably knew that, but he nodded anyway, smiled, and followed on after the other Calypsos members.

The words ‘two weeks’ echoed in Miles’s head as he trudged back to his machine.