Sales War Saga: S01 Ep01-Chapter 1
Something's Afoot
Behind Martha, Jerry’s phone beeped again. A woman on the opposite row of mourners frowned and leveled a look in his direction.
Jerry sighed again. "Blocked. That's the fifth one."
Martha rubbed her thumb against her skirt as she did when annoyed. “Could you at least set that thing to vibrate mode?” she whispered without fully turning.
She kept her eyes on the priest and the wind blowing against the plane tree branches, its roar almost drowning out the priest's words. His white robe fluttered one way, like an oversized flag, the silk hugging his round calves. He seemed like he didn't skip leg day. Martha had never seen a priest, or was this a shaman? Built like this.
He cupped the urn with the ashes between his hands, his head angled up, eyes closed as he chanted what Martha supposed was a prayer. To whom, she didn't know.
George was a weird guy. She'd known him since college but wished she'd known this spiritual side of him before his death. Or maybe not. Now that she thought about it, Martha vaguely remembered his ramblings about “finding the light” after a trip to South America. And she, like the dozens of times he’d come to her with a newly discovered life wisdom, tuned him out.
The shaman stopped the chanting, his eyes closed but focused on something in the sky as if he saw through those wrinkled eyelids.
"You think I’d make a good priest?" Jerry, the company's head of engineering if you could call it that, stood behind Martha, arms crossed, staring at the shaman.
John, his intern and cousin whispered back a raspy reply, louder than whispers should be. "No."
"Yeah, I think so too, I'd make a great priest. I'll add that to my list."
The priest unscrewed the urn's lid and walked towards the small group of mourners, none with tears. Arthur, George's older brother, stood at the front, a tuft of his salt and pepper hair rustling in the wind, brushing against the Ray-Ban glasses that hid his eyes.
"The creator makes, and the creator takes." The shaman yelled, startling Martha out of her thoughts. At the front, a young woman standing next to Arthur flinched. Martha wasn't sure, but the woman was likely George's niece, she knew he had one. And, judging by how close her shoulders were to Arthur’s towering figure, she must be.
The shaman dipped a hand into the urn and took out a handful of the dead man's ash. Martha frowned, she'd not seen that before.
"What on earth..." Jerry muttered behind her.
The shaman threw the ash at the first row of mourners' heads. Arthur didn't react. The niece recoiled, covering her mouth with her elbow.
"We came from nature. We return to nature. From fire to the wind." The shaman said, his calm rhythmic voice a contrast to the concerned faces of mourners staring up at him.
He walked to the opposite row, stopped in front of Martha, and went for another handful.
"Oh hell no..." Jerry said, turning to leave. Martha reached back and grabbed his wrist, angling her head to shoot him a look. "We stay."
"Today we say goodbye to George but a piece of him will always stay with you." The priest rambled on.
“Stay with us?” Jerry said, voice tight. “This is bad luck, considering whose ashes those are."
As the priest lifted his hand, Martha tucked her chin in. She could hear Jerry shuffling into a hiding place, directly behind her.
Jerry whispered into her ear. "Could this count as workplace abuse? Academically speaking…Work under hazardous conditio—."
The Shaman threw a heavy handful at them. Martha closed her eyes, holding her breath. Someone coughed to her right. But surprisingly, the gentle tingle of George's ashes on her skin felt comforting, as if the man she'd gone through so much with and yet had remained distant, had finally trusted her enough to show a soft side. But a little too late.
Jerry coughed, a burst of warm air hitting the back of Martha's neck. "I should have taken the Google job."
"Dear George." The shaman raised his voice. "Go forth in peace and the embrace of Mother Nature and your loved ones, may you find rest.”
A pause, and Martha heard the shuffling of feet then cracked open an eyelid peppered with George's remains.
The priest was talking to Arthur and the niece, while a few of the mourners hung behind, awaiting their turn to whisper comforting words to the bereaved. Some were heading for the entrance towards a woolen mat piled with shoes. The priest had requested all who came to the ceremony to come into the grounds barefooted
Martha wanted to have a talk with George's brother about an appropriate time to call a board meeting; he and George owned half of the company’s shares. The other half was split between Martha and Iva, a retired indie-media company founder turned investor, whom she clashed with every time he opened his mouth. And he opened that mouth a lot.
"Um, this is bad," Jerry said, behind her.
Martha turned. Her head of engineering and John huddled over a phone, faces knotted with concern. "Is it still going on?
Jerry lifted his head from the screen, eyebrows bunched. "All our email accounts have been blocked now. All of ‘em. All existing convos dead."
She ran a hand through her hair. “How many are they?"
“Twenty emails,” Jerry said, typing into the phone. “Spread over ten domains... So it's not like one domain is burned and they're hitting everything associated with it.”
"Twenty. Why'd you need twenty?"
Jerry shrugged. "It was George's idea, I just helped automate the thing."
John craned his neck to see what Jerry was typing. "With George dead... um, gone. And all these emails under his name. Who's going to take over sales?"
Jerry stopped fiddling with the screen and faced him. "That's why we have interns."
John paused, and then realization filled his face."Me? C'mon, I'm an engineer. I know nothing about cold emails." He gestured at the phone. "And ... calling people."
Martha held back a smile. "We had interviewed a growth person to come take over the go-to-market from George but he's flying in next month."
Jerry swiped at his phone. "Good thing we have an engineentern to hold the Fort till then." He paused, squinting. "It seems we're not alone. Two posts in the Sales API Folks FB group from people who've lost their ZOCO accounts."
"Talking business at funerals I see." Said a chirpy voice.
Arthur stood with arms folded, his mouth twisted in a smirk, his glassy eyes sizing them up.
"Well, you heard the priest, we all got a piece of him now. And George did love his company." Martha said, turning to face the man.
He nodded, a smile crossing his face."That, he did."
John, wearing a solemn look, inclined his head to Arthur. "My condolences."
Arthur waved it off. "He lived his life how he wanted it." Then switched his gaze to Martha, an awkward silence hanging in the air.
"Guys, could you..." Martha began.
"Yes, I'm going to get this sorted. Let's go, sales guru," Jerry said without looking up and started towards the pile of shoes, his dreadlocks swinging behind him. John gave Arthur another nod and followed, his ashy heels stark against the green grass.
Martha watched them go, waiting for the right moment to broach the subject.
Arthur cut into the silence. "I wanted to talk to you about the company's future. You've already read his will I think?”
"Hm mh."
She knew about the will. When George had shared it, she'd thought it a prank. In the event of his death, George's shares were to be sold equally between Arthur, Iva, and Martha at a rate of 1.15 Pselt dollars per share, and proceeds of that sales donated to Seismic, a struggling alternative rock band, and George's obsession. Martha had the privilege of once hearing them croak the night away at his over-the-top 42nd birthday party.
"George was..." Arthur paused, clearing his throat. "He was a lot of things. A visionary. A dreamer with a strong will. And that will pushed everything he was involved in forward, no matter what."
Martha nodded, staring past Arthur, at the spot where the priest had stood while conducting the ceremony. George was a force of nature, Martha had to admit, he had the uncanny ability to make you believe anything was possible. Especially when he looked at you wide-eyed, as if he was seeing something you didn't and was willing you to open yours just as wide.
"In cases like this, bringing in another CEO to try and wear the shoes of a founder whose company was built around their identity rarely goes well." Arthur put his hands into his pockets. Martha crossed hers.
Arthur powered on. "Look, I've been talking to a few of my private equity contacts to see whether there's interest in the company—"
"No." Martha shook her head. “I won't go for it.”
"I know it's difficult parting with something you helped build from the ground—"
"We're on the cusp of something big here, Arthur." Martha interrupted.
"Exactly, that's why the PE guys are interested in us." Arthur cut in. "Let's not waste this chance. Let's get ahead of this before things go downhill."
"Nothing is going downhill."
Arthur sighed, a vein in his neck surfacing. "I know this is difficult to hear but your entire go-to-market strategy is founder-led and that founder is dead." His eyes darted towards the barefoot shaman walking towards the garden entrance with his daughter. He frowned.
"We've got a team in place.” " She closed her hand into a fist and raised it. “A tight-knit team. Worked together for two years. Plus, George and I already hired a growth marketer. He's starting next month."
"Did you know that SalesThisEasy just raised GBP 20 million to build the same thing you're building?" He pointed behind him with his thumb. "That happened on the morning of his funeral. If that's not a sign to sell. I don't know what it is."
Martha waved a hand, her brass bangles clanging. "I've tested SalesThisEasy's AI sales agents. Their product is clunky at best."
“Clunky is about to get a 20 million pound makeover," Arthur said.
He glanced past Martha's head and pursed his lips. "Just have an open mind alright? I've called over one of the private equity people to come speak to you. Here he comes."
Martha let out an incredulous laugh."Never one to let an opportunity pass you by."
"Just hear what he has to say."
"I'm not in the mood to play these games." She said, turning.
“Look, to be honest, I'm telling you this out of courtesy,” Arthur said. Martha stopped mid-step, her expression hardening.
He broke eye contact, his attention shifting past her. He waved someone over, the private equity buyer. "I've already asked Iva, and he's on board with the move."
Martha scoffed, turning to leave.
"We got the majority," Arthur said, raising his voice and dragging out the words.
A man in a blue suit and jellied hair smiled at her. And teeth that seemed too white glinted down at her. “Hi, Martha?”
"I'm sorry. We're not selling," she said without stopping, her heavy steps taking her past the thinned-out pile of shoes and towards her car nestled underneath a row of yew trees.
She was not going to let that vulture gut her company, not on her watch. She should have known, thought as she threw her shoes into the passenger seat. When she and George had first shown Arthur a working prototype of their AI sales agent, the first thing out of his mouth was, "I know someone we can sell this to." 3 years on, he'd not helped them land a single client. Now she knew what type of selling he meant.