Eighteen
The numbers aren’t making sense to me. I can see how we got to where we are, but you cannot rest on your laurels in the tech
industry. Our development team are constantly looking at new parts of the world to conquer; what to bring out next, how to
keep ipryy fresh, and relevant. Marty is a visionary, who always saw the next great thing. Part of his magic was the way he
would announce things at the conferences, getting people excited, engendering goodwill long before the products were even
close to coming out. He would talk about the past year, all the things ipryy would achieve, and just at the end, when everyone
thought he was done, he would gather his notes and prepare to walk off the stage, then turn as if he had just had an afterthought.
“I almost forgot.” He would add with a grin, this being what he always said before unveiling something seismic, something
that would continue to revolutionize the security world. The room would go wild, shouting and cheering for my father as if
he were Mick Jagger.
The first time my father brought me to a conference, I was thirteen.
I knew he was famous, but he was also my father.
It was hard to reconcile his public image with the man who sat next to me on the counter, eating oatmeal in the morning, the man who sat on my bed and squeezed my feet through the duvet when it was time to go to sleep.
I saw something of the effect my father had on a room when he entered it, how a hush, a collective intake of breath would
descend upon restaurants when we walked in, but I had never seen his magic, how he held a crowd in the palm of his hand, until
the conference.
I had sat in the front row next to Clara, crossing my legs in a bid to appear more sophisticated, more like her. I wanted
to be taken seriously, hoped that I might even be able to pass for an adult, someone who worked for ipryy. Instead of my usual
jeans and sneakers, I was in a knee-length skirt and kitten heels my father had bought for me especially for this. I had a
silky top and a blazer, and my hair was in a low ponytail. I wasn’t allowed to wear makeup when I was with my father. At my
mother’s house it was a different story. Lucy and I had just discovered eyeliner, and shimmery lip gloss that was so jammy,
our lips would smack together as we talked, leaving tiny mountains of iridescent gloss each time we opened our mouths.
The chairman of the board spoke, before Clara took the stage. ipryy had hit some tough times, had gone from leading the way
to being superseded by other, newer companies. The buzz was that there would be a big announcement today that would change
the future. Even at thirteen I could feel the anticipation in the room.
Clara stood behind the podium, loose tendrils falling from the bun at the nape of her neck.
She looked impressive, and regal. “As many of you know, these have been trying times of late. I’m not going to lie to you, we’ve had a rough year, but the passion and loyalty to ipryy remain, and the market still wants ipryy to succeed.
Having been in this space for over a decade, today we are going to hear a vision for the future.
A vision that will persuade independent software and hardware vendors that ipryy represents a solid business opportunity.
I want to leave this expo knowing that ipryy is still one of the most exciting segments of the computer industry.
I want to again reinforce that ipryy is not just relevant, but leading the way.
And now it gives me great pleasure to introduce a man that really needs no introduction .
. .” Behind Clara, on the darkened stage, on a screen that filled the space behind him, shot up the best-known picture of my father.
The one in which he’s throwing a ball, smiling, the picture of masculinity, of success.
The room went wild. Applause built, louder and louder, the crowd whooping and cheering. They stood up, preventing Clara from
saying anything else, stamping their feet so the whole auditorium rumbled and shook.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the man who has been at the center of the technological revolution for the past decade,
ipryy’s own Marty Cooke.”
My father strode onto stage, in his signature faded jeans and expensive sneakers, his usual faded T-shirt replaced with a
crisp button-down for the occasion, his Rolex Daytona glistening on his wrist. His hair was salt-and-pepper and he had the
beginnings of a beard. He was so handsome, so charismatic, the room exploded.
“Marty! Marty! Marty!” The chant began, and carried on, as my father stood and smiled, shaking his head as if he were bashful,
but he must have been loving it. Who could not have loved the adoration from thousands?
I had never seen anything like it. It was like being at a rock concert without the music. My father extended his hands, palm down, to quiet the crowd. It took several minutes. He talked about ipryy’s tough times, why he was so sure they were moving into a future more successful than ever before.
He talked about his personal beliefs. That failure wasn’t an option. He talked about his childhood, how he watched the kids
around him mess around at school, get terrible grades, get into trouble. That was his destiny as well, but even then, failure
wasn’t an option. He found a charter school, and contacted them himself, and they turned him down.
“I wasn’t taking no for an answer,” he said, amidst much laughter, for this was the Marty Cooke the crowd knows and loves.
“I took the day off school and went to the charter school with my transcript. I refused to leave until I had seen the principal,
and by the time I had finished speaking to him, I had a place.” The room erupted with cheers. “Failure was not an option.”
He talked about the computer games that first brought him to the public’s attention, how, when they came up with the idea
of a shareware game, everyone told them they couldn’t do it. They did it, which launched my father’s career.
“Again.” He smiled. “I have never doubted my future, and I have never doubted ipryy. When the media turns on you, when you
think you have problems, it’s a message to go back to the drawing board, to rethink, to find a different route. The future
of ipryy is as bright as the sun. Failure is not an option.”
Amidst the whoops and cheers, I sat there feeling so proud. His words, his energy made me shiver, made me want to run outside
and make my own mark on the world. I wanted to work for ipryy! I wanted to change the tech space! I watched this demigod up
on stage, this man who held the room in the palm of his hand, marveling that he was my father.
He was about to leave the stage, when he stopped, touching his forehead, as if berating himself for just remembering something.
“I almost forgot.” He grinned. “Today, we are publicly announcing that we are going to be collaborating with Apple. Apple
computers are buying one hundred million dollars of ipryy stock.” There was a rumble of discontent that went through the audience.
My father paused, waiting for quiet. “They are nonvoting shares.” A cheer went up around the room. “And they have agreed not
to sell them for at least five years. ipryy and Apple are partners, working together, and Apple now have a vested interest
in our stock going up. Whatever the press may have reported over the past couple of years, this partnership is the greatest
endorsement yet and cements the future of ipryy as the world leader in security. Failure—” he paused “—isn’t an option.” And
the room went wild.
We have continued to develop ipryy, expanding globally, adding other apps, buying other companies, but our core has always
been privacy.
Our next iteration, one I know my father is excited about, is an ipryy for the home. About the size of a deck of cards, it
looks like a small brass globe that sits in your house, on a coffee table perhaps, as beautiful as any decorative accessory
you may have, that blankets your house with privacy.
Whatever devices you have that feed information to the manufacturers (and yes, you have devices that feed information to the
manufacturers, whether you know it or not—refrigerators, computers, microwave ovens) will only be able to offer encrypted
information with this new ipryy device.
ipryy. Giving you back your privacy.
The chip is being manufactured abroad. There is no way to manufacture in the United States and stay profitable, however much we may want to keep it homegrown.
I had seen documents about this, about the projected revenue from ipryy home being $806 million, but I am now looking at a document that projects the revenue from ipryy home as being $1.
2 billion. Where did this extra money come from?
Is there a mistake? I am careful with the numbers, and I check my notes.
The reports that my father had supplied indeed projected $806 million.
I wonder what has changed, and why I don’t know about it.
Clara will know. I head to her office.
A handful of people are also there. Jerome, two people from the product development office, including Ron Johnson, the head,
Lisa Newstead, the head of IT, and two of her team.
“Missy!” Clara seems startled. “We didn’t expect you.”
I find myself apologizing before saying hello to everyone in the room. My father micromanages. It is part of both his greatest
genius, and greatest flaw. He is known for having tantrums if he discovers meetings he does not know about, which, as everyone
will testify, is ridiculous, given how busy he is. He, on the other hand, will say that the reason ipryy is so successful
is because he involves himself in every aspect.
I am not interested in micromanaging. If you can’t trust people to get on with their jobs, to make smart decisions on your
behalf, you should not be employing them.
“Clara, I wanted to talk about the revenue projections. There appears to be a discrepancy, and quite a large one. I’m going
to leave you the documents to review, and perhaps you can come and see me when you’re done?”
“You don’t want to stay?” Jerome seems surprised, and I smile. I know my father would have stayed, would have wanted to know
exactly what they were discussing. He would also have been furious that there was a meeting going on with senior executives
that he didn’t know about.
I am not my father.
“Is there a reason I should stay? Or can I trust you to fill me in later?” They wave me out, and I try to hide my smile. I
don’t want to come across as smug, but I am proud of myself for how I just handled that.
Maybe I’m not so bad at this after all.