Second Sister Page 10
“Is anyone in the world really such an idiot?” whispered Ma-Chai to his friend.
“Which country is the VC from?” asked Chung-Nam.
“No pressure, but it’s SIQ from America!”
Chung-Nam, Hao, and Joanne jumped at that name, though Ma-Chai and Thomas didn’t react.
“Is SIQ famous, Chung-Nam?” asked Ma-Chai.
“Thomas is a print designer, I can forgive him not knowing. But you’re supposed to be a programmer—shouldn’t you know what’s going on in the field?” Chung-Nam frowned. “SIQ is America’s number one investor in internet technology. They’re as famous as Andreessen Horowitz.”
“Andrewhat Whatowitz?”
No point talking to such an ignoramus. Chung-Nam snapped, “Anyway, they have a lot of money and foresight.” He understood the reason for their boss’s anxiety: having SIQ Ventures come visit was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. The name was the initials of its founders: Szeto Wai, Satoshi Inoue, and Kyle Quincy. In 1994, while still at UCLA, the computer wunderkind Satoshi had come up with a new method of compressing images, allowing more images to be transferred at the same time even if bandwidth was limited. This changed the whole trajectory of the internet. He and his classmate Szeto Wai set up a software company, Isotope Technologies, in Silicon Valley, coming up with new algorithms for transferring pictures, videos, and music. Next, they took on the encryption of wireless communication, filing hundreds of patents. Thanks to Szeto Wai’s business acumen, Isotope’s patented technologies were used in every major company’s hard- and software. This placed Szeto and Satoshi within the ranks of Silicon Valley’s most influential talents before they’d even turned thirty, not to mention earning them more than a hundred million dollars. In 2005 they partnered with Kyle Quincy to form SIQ, a VC investing in new small- and medium-scale tech enterprises. Just as Andreessen Horowitz got a huge return on its investment in Facebook and Twitter in just a few years, SIQ was able to turn its seed investment of four hundred million American dollars into almost three billion.
Although GT wasn’t remotely in the same league as Isotope, Mr. Lee had unrealistic hopes that he could acquire the same sort of wealth and reputation as Satoshi and Szeto. Chung-Nam had a sense of his boss’s aspirations, and he sneered at the idea of someone who’d waited till he was in his forties to sell off his family business, a textile mill, and start all over again in IT. Such a person was hardly going to become a tech mogul. As a matter of fact, Chung-Nam had an ambition of his own: to set up a business and become the next Jack Ma or Larry Page.
At least I have a science background, unlike that loser Lee Sai-Wing, he thought to himself.
After college, Chung-Nam found a job in a small company with the intention of using that as a stepping-stone to greater things. With his strong credentials, he could have gone somewhere bigger, but he was aware of his own limitations, and he knew it would be harder to catch the attention of the higher-ups and gain promotion in a larger outfit. He refused to struggle in silence for decades and taste success only in middle age. GT had fewer than ten employees, making it easier to suck up to the boss, as well as giving him many more opportunities to shine.
Soon, for instance, he would come face-to-face with the key figures of SIQ.
He had no interest in helping the despicable Mr. Lee persuade SIQ to invest, but for his own sake, he would still go all out. If he left a good impression, he might have a chance to work with them himself and win a chunk of seed money for his own business. He’d once heard of a local investor who met an entrepreneur for coffee and decided on the spot to pour millions of American dollars into his business. In the tech world, VCs were willing to spend big on the right talent or idea, and as long as he was able to convince them of his ability, a poor guy could transform himself into a mogul. This, Chung-Nam thought, was the opportunity he’d been waiting for.
“Huh, the boss actually managed to get a meeting with SIQ,” said Hao to Chung-Nam in the elevator after work. “I guess some people are born lucky. He ran his dad’s textile mill into the ground, but he just has to reach out his hand and money drops into it … I bet Ma-Chai says this is a reward for his good deeds or something.”
Chung-Nam didn’t believe in cosmic justice. For many years now, he’d watched unscrupulous bastards pull dirty tricks and get rewarded while nice guys got bullied. Although he never said so out loud, he despised the weak, but society forced everyone to be a “good person,” so he went along with it. The hypocrisy of these rules was obvious. Government ministers and tycoons used morality as a smoke screen, and the law was just a tool for them to gain even more advantage and keep regular folk down. Good deeds weren’t rewarded; it was every man for himself. If there really were such a thing as retribution, the things he’d done would have been punished long ago, but in fact he only saw people who’d done even worse steadily scaling the ladder. God helps those who help themselves, he thought.
At nine the next morning, the GT staff were ready for the visitors—even though they weren’t expected till eleven. Thomas, who normally dressed casually, looked uncomfortable in a suit that didn’t quite fit, and he had to keep tugging at the collar so he could breathe. Joanne was in a white blouse and black skirt, much more somber than her usual outfits. Although Mr. Lee was fairly lax when it came to their dress code, Chung-Nam felt that as a software engineer, he ought to dress like a professional. If he went around looking like a nerd, that’s all he’d ever be.
“Nam, my English is terrible. If the SIQ guys ask me anything, you have to help me,” said Ma-Chai, whose normal clothes screamed “nerd.” He’d been working for only a couple of years, and like many computer science students, his humanities grades hadn’t been great, with English as his weakest subject.
“Don’t worry. If they ask tech questions, I’ll take over.” Chung-Nam put on the expression of a dependable older colleague, and Ma-Chai nodded, reassured. Chung-Nam had been intent all along on speaking to the SIQ people, not giving his younger coworkers a chance to butt in. Although they had the same job title, Chung-Nam had never seen Ma-Chai as anything other than someone to be used. If anything ever went wrong, he’d be the first to throw Ma-Chai under the bus.
In contrast to the usual relaxed atmosphere, the next two hours passed in dead silence. Everyone was far too tense for idle chatter. Chung-Nam was in no mood to work. His programming tool was open on his screen, but his eyes kept drifting to the little clock in the corner, calculating to the second how far away eleven o’clock was.
When the door buzzer sounded, everyone sat up straight and Mr. Lee jumped to his feet. Seeing this, Joanne stood, too, and scurried to the main door. GT might be small, but it would never do to have the boss open the door.
Chung-Nam, Ma-Chai, and Hao kept their eyes fixed on their computer screens, but they pricked up their ears. At the main door, Joanne greeted the visitors in English, only to get a reply in Cantonese.
“We have an eleven o’clock appointment with Mr. Lee Sai-Wing,” said a crisp female voice.
“This—this way,” stammered Joanne, switching back to Cantonese.
As footsteps entered the office, Chung-Nam couldn’t resist turning to look. Walking next to Joanne was a striking woman in her twenties, petite with brown hair, her features suggesting both Asian and Western heritage. Like Joanne, she was in a suit, although with trousers instead of a skirt, which gave her an air of capability. She had no bag, just a dark gray iPad, which added to the neatness of her appearance. She was pretty enough that Chung-Nam’s eyes lingered on her for a few moments, until the man behind her grabbed his attention.
He looked about ten years older than Chung-Nam and was in a dapper gray suit, his black tie contrasting nicely with his white pocket square. Behind a pair of rimless glasses, his eyes radiated confidence. With his sharp eyebrows and floppy hair, he looked like Richard Gere in Pretty Woman—the Asian version, of course.
Chung-Nam wasn’t drawn to his handsomeness, though. He looked familiar somehow.
“Hello,” said the Eurasian woman, gesturing at the man beside her. “This is Szeto Wai of SIQ Ventures.”
Mr. Lee’s jaw hit the ground, and Chung-Nam almost leaped into the air with excitement. Now he realized where he’d seen this man: he’d found an old photo of him on a foreign IT news website. Szeto Wai and Satoshi Inoue stayed out of the limelight, leaving Kyle Quincy to face the press. A decade ago, when Isotope was founded, they’d taken some media interviews, and the photos sparked some witty comments. Satoshi was a typical nerd, living in T-shirt and shorts, while Szeto Wai, who was about the same age, dressed like an old fogy in a stiff suit. Standing next to each other, they looked like a businessman and his teenage son.
Looking closely at Szeto Wai, Chung-Nam was certain that this was indeed the man he remembered from the photo. He’d never expected SIQ to send its number two man to visit a tiny firm of only five employees,
“Mr. Sze—Szeto Wai, it’s n—nice to meet you,” Mr. Lee stuttered in English, though he was so nervous he actually said, “Night to miss you.”
“Feel free to speak Cantonese,” said Szeto. His accent was a little off, but every word was clear. “My mom’s from Hong Kong, and I went to primary school here. I haven’t forgotten my Cantonese.”
“Oh, uh, great to see you. I’ve heard good things,” said Mr. Lee, even more flustered as they exchanged business cards. “Mr. Szeto … as in the Mr. Szeto?”
“That’s me. The job title isn’t fake, you know.” He smiled, pointing at the card. “Everyone asks me that when I do a site visit.”
“For—forgive my presumption,” said Mr. Lee, getting into even more of a tangle and forgetting the flattering opening speech he’d prepared. “I didn’t expect the famous Mr. Szeto to come in person. Welcome to our humble office.”
“I happened to be in Hong Kong visiting friends. I’ve handed over a lot of the business to Kyle and moved to the East Coast. I don’t do much except short video conference calls with them. This semiretired lifestyle gets boring, though, so when an interesting project comes along, I like to get personally involved.” Szeto grinned. “In the internet age, a company’s size doesn’t necessarily correlate with its potential. When I set up Isotope with Satoshi, there were only four of us. Small firms can end up much more profitable. To be honest, I prefer lean outfits to those huge companies with hundreds of people. When it comes to talent, it’s all about quality, not quantity.”
“We’re honored to have you here. Let’s go into the conference room, and I’ll tell you more about our services and prospects.” Mr. Lee gestured for the visitors to follow him.
As the higher-ups filed in, Hao darted over to Chung-Nam and whispered, “My god, they sent in the big guns! Is that really the founder of SIQ?”
“Yes. I’ve seen his photo.” Chung-Nam opened a browser and searched for Szeto’s and Satoshi’s names. The first result was that image of the nerd and the gentleman.
“Click on their company website, let’s have a look,” said Ma-Chai, pointing at one of the links.
Chung-Nam clicked, and the SIQ Ventures home page filled his screen. There was nothing snazzy about this. The main page consisted of a series of posts and images, covering all sorts of topics: the direction social media was taking, examples of collaborations between Silicon Valley and the American military, the future of virtual reality, the ups and downs of the video game market, and something about quantum computing that even Chung-Nam couldn’t decipher.
“Why’s there a tab for Portfolio? Do we need to see samples of their work?” said Hao, jabbing at a corner of the screen.
“I think they mean investment portfolio.” Chung-Nam clicked, and sure enough, the browser filled with a long list of firms, their CEOs’ names, and links to their home pages. He recognized a number of them as web companies.
“Let’s have a look at Team,” urged Ma-Chai, pointing at the next tab.
There were fewer employees than Chung-Nam had expected—forty-odd head shots popped up on this page. Of course, these could have been only a portion of the higher-ranked staff.
“There, Szeto Wai.” Chung-Nam moved the mouse over to the picture of a man in a suit. Most of the people in the other photos were dressed much more casually. Many of the men weren’t even wearing ties.
With a click, the door of the conference room opened. Hao leaped back to his own seat, and Ma-Chai swiftly bent over his keyboard. Chung-Nam hit alt-tab to return to his programming screen. After all that, the only person who stepped out was Joanne, who’d been sent to get coffee for the visitors.
Ma-Chai and Hao stayed at their desks after Joanne went back in, but Chung-Nam wanted to find out more about Szeto Wai. Clicking on Szeto’s picture brought up his LinkedIn profile, but there was nothing particularly interesting in his work history, so Chung-Nam went back to the SIQ site.
As he scrolled, he scolded himself for his carelessness. When Mr. Lee said yesterday that they’d be getting a visit from SIQ, he’d rehearsed answers for any tech questions he might be asked in English, but he hadn’t thought to look up SIQ and make sure he knew more about the company than Mr. Lee did, thus making an impression on their guest. Luckily, it wasn’t too late—he could seize the moment to take in as much information as possible.
After he’d spent almost twenty minutes looking up SIQ’s investors and familiarizing himself with its staff roster, the conference door opened again, and he hastily minimized the browser.
“Mr. Szeto, allow me to introduce some of our outstanding employees,” said Mr. Lee, rubbing his hands together and trotting over to their desks. “This is our director of technology, Charles Sze, and next to him is our chief software engineer, Hugo Ma.”
Chung-Nam was slightly thrown at being introduced in this way. It’s true, his English name was Charles, but he hardly ever used it, except maybe with certain women. And he’d had no idea that Ma-Chai was also called Hugo. More than the Western names, though, it was the job titles that left him on the verge of laughter. They were the only two programmers in the place. Even with such lofty titles, weren’t they still responsible for everything down to the lowliest tasks?
“Good to meet you.” Chung-Nam and Ma-Chai shook hands with Szeto Wai. Chung-Nam noticed that his sleeve was monogrammed with his surname, his cufflinks silver inlaid with black enamel.
Mr. Lee went on to introduce Thomas and Hao to Szeto, by the equally grand titles of art director and customer experience designer.
“I’m interested in your systems,” said Szeto, turning back to Chung-Nam and Ma-Chai. “For example, could GT’s server handle a hundredfold increase in user numbers? Have you considered parallel data processing? You’ll be offering video streaming soon, which will be a big strain on your server and database and will have a domino effect on the customer experience.”
“We’re prepared for that,” said Chung-Nam. “When a user uploads a video, the program will chop it into thirty-second segments, which will reduce the pressure on the server and also prevent other users from using an external plug-in to download the entire video.”
Chung-Nam went on to explain GT’s streaming and encryption systems. Although Ma-Chai had actually been responsible for designing these, Chung-Nam was afraid he’d steal the limelight, so didn’t let him get a word in. Next, Szeto asked about the mechanics of G-dollar trading, what their keyword search algorithms were, how the system placed a value on each item of gossip, and so on. Chung-Nam answered each question with aplomb.
“Charles is our most outstanding employee. His tech skills are definitely up to the task of expanding GT,” Mr. Lee interjected as soon as there was a pause in Szeto’s rapid-fire questioning.
“I’ll be frank, Kenneth,” said Szeto, smiling and shaking his head. “Charles is clearly talented and very familiar with your system, but when it comes to GT’s core business of buying and selling information, I
still have some reservations … or I should say it’s not quite what I expected. I don’t think this model will be profitable in the long term.”
Mr. Lee froze. He worked hard to keep his smile in place, but the stiffness of his lips and his wandering eyes betrayed his feelings. Stammering a little, he said, “Th—that’s not all we have to offer. We’re pr—preparing to expand our range of services.”
“Such as?” asked Szeto.
“Um—”
“Such as packaging G-dollars and information trading like financial products,” said Chung-Nam abruptly.
Szeto looked interested. “Oh?”
Mr. Lee nodded frantically. “Yes, yes, that’s right.”
“Could you say more about that?”
“Well, uh …” Once again, Mr. Lee fell silent.
“We’re still designing this, and of course it’s proprietary information, so we can’t say too much at the moment,” said Chung-Nam. “But I can reveal that by treating the buying and selling of information like the stock market, we’ll be able to provide futures and options. The twenty-first century is the age of information explosion, and GT’s future depends on being able to keep information locked down so it becomes a product that can be traded.”
“Mmm, that makes sense.” Szeto stroked his chin.
Mr. Lee’s head bobbed up and down like a pestle in a mortar. “Right, right—that’s the direction we’re expanding in, though it’s still early days, so I didn’t say anything in my report just now.”
“In that case, could you give me a brief proposal?” Szeto turned to look at Mr. Lee. “I’m happy to sign an NDA—that’s not a problem. I guarantee I won’t breathe a word to any third parties about your proprietary information.”
“Well, let’s see—”
“We’ll need some time to put this together,” Chung-Nam interrupted yet again. “How long will you be in Hong Kong, Mr. Szeto?”