New Frontier
When Sambo Computer launched its seasoned media offensive, Yoo Jae-won began unpacking his own bundle in response. The tale that ID Investment had made a killing in the oil futures market had already spread across Wall Street. The Street watched closely to see what the newcomer would do with those profits. Some dismissed it as beginner’s luck, yet many paid close attention because the firm had achieved its windfall through the revolutionary technique of keyword analysis.
“First target: Microsoft!”
“If the board agrees to the acquisition, we’ll waive damages. If they refuse, a hostile takeover remains an option. Consider it a Christmas gift to Bill Gates and Steve.”
Yoo Jae-won made the announcement during a special year-end program on Korean national television, revealing ID Investment’s business plan for the coming year. The date was December 23—perfectly timed for the Christmas season. He also disclosed plans to invest hundreds of millions of dollars in promising Silicon Valley startups, but the press fixated on the Microsoft takeover proposal.
Microsoft’s situation was dire. Its market share had collapsed below fifty percent over the summer, and it had fallen to a distant second place. Not merely second to Android Alpha, but now forced to compete against a surging third-place contender. Without the massive preemptive discounts it had offered, it would already have slipped to third. In this precarious state, the company released Windows 3.0, its next-generation graphical interface operating system, yet the results were dismal. Android Alpha already held a commanding position, so few consumers showed enthusiasm for Windows 3.0. Moreover, the Windows Manager interface lacked the intuitiveness and convenience of the Ribbon Interface.
Microsoft had originally intended to adopt a graphical interface that faithfully inherited the strengths of the Ribbon Interface and had nearly completed a near-identical design. However, an unexpected court ruling made it impossible to abuse its former monopoly position. ID Technology was not a company that could be crushed at will. Microsoft had suffered a crushing defeat in the first trial, and the fallout continued through the ongoing appeal. While it contested the legality of the voice recording that had served as decisive evidence, overturning the verdict would not be easy. Under these circumstances, copying the Ribbon Interface outright would amount to self-destruction. Thus, Microsoft had no choice but to equip Windows 3.0 with the outdated Windows Manager—an act akin to choosing a slow death over immediate suicide.
These factors had driven Microsoft’s stock price into the ground. There was no fundamental basis for recovery, and the outlook for the following year looked even bleaker. Until November 1989, the share price had remained above one dollar—a so-called “paper stock.” The very next month, however, it collapsed below that threshold and became a penny stock. American coins come in quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies. By mid-1990 the price had hovered between two or three quarters; now it fluctuated between two or three dimes. Rumors circulated that, given Windows 3.0’s catastrophic failure and the near-certain loss on appeal, a single Microsoft share might soon be purchasable with two or three nickels.
The clearest sign of the company’s distress was the wave of mass layoffs. Microsoft was not only shutting down peripheral businesses but also dismissing developers essential to new-product development, demonstrating an extreme austerity regime.
Against this backdrop, the news of Yoo Jae-won’s five-billion-dollar investment—and his naming Microsoft as the first target—proved a miraculous catalyst for a stock that had been plummeting all year. Immediately after ID Investment’s announcement, Microsoft’s share price surged more than thirty percent, and trading volume exploded. Yet ID Investment’s capital had not actually flowed into Microsoft. Speculators and individual investors rushed in on the mere expectation of a possible hostile takeover. ID Investment intended to wait at least a week for a response from Microsoft’s management or board before taking further action.
Meanwhile, Yoo Jae-won had urgent matters demanding his immediate attention, so other issues were set aside. Three days before the new year—December 28—more than a hundred executives and employees of ID Technology and ID Investment who had been working in the United States arrived in Korea aboard a chartered flight. The media, having learned that ID Technology’s American staff were entering the country for the first time, expressed intense interest. Normally Yoo Jae-won traveled to the United States at year-end; the fact that the flow had reversed suggested something momentous was underway. Adding to the frenzy, Yoo Jae-won himself—who had remained largely secluded at home since the car accident—made the journey to Seoul.
“Chairman—sorry, Mr. Chairman—there’s a swarm of reporters gathered in front of the hotel.”
Ma Tae-sik, head of the security detail, reported from the passenger seat beside Kim Dae-seok, who was driving. Once, Yoo Jae-won would have brushed off such a reaction, but those days were gone. Ma Tae-sik now led a team of ten bodyguards. The vehicles carrying the security detail flanked Yoo Jae-won’s car front and rear. These were not privately hired guards; they were personnel dispatched from the Presidential Security Service at Cheong Wa Dae. Strictly speaking, they were still soldiers, and some carried sidearms loaded with live ammunition.
“Understood. Please handle it well today as well, Team Leader.”
“Yes, sir!”
Ma Tae-sik answered without hesitation. Yoo Jae-won turned his gaze back to the highway scenery outside the window. Yeoju, where his home was located, still retained much of its appearance from several years earlier, but as they approached Seoul, more and more buildings—large and small—rose into view. Just as the world was changing, Yoo Jae-won himself had changed in many ways.
The most immediate evidence was the car he now rode in. After the accident that totaled his previous Grandeur, Chairman Jeon Myeong-heon had presented him with a new vehicle bearing the Mirae Motors nameplate: the Grandeur Limousine V 3.0 AMG. In essence, it was a stretched limousine version of the Grandeur. The first-generation Grandeur had never offered a limousine variant; that option would not appear until the New Grandeur in 1992. Thanks to Yoo Jae-won, a limousine model existed even for the first generation.
The vehicle was not a crude stretch job. The Grandeur itself had been built using technology licensed from Mitsubishi Motors—the Mitsubishi Debonair. The second-generation Debonair platform had been applied directly to the Grandeur. The Debonair already possessed a limousine variant, and AMG had developed a high-performance AMG line. Chairman Jeon Myeong-heon had simply rebadged the Debonair Limousine AMG as the Grandeur Limousine V 3.0 AMG. The decision had been made with lightning speed, resulting in only five units being produced. One of them had been delivered to Yoo Jae-won as promised.
For someone who spent considerable time traveling by car, it was the perfect gift. The rear seat was spacious enough to stretch his legs fully, offering far greater comfort. The cabin also featured a car phone, a premium audio system capable of holding multiple CDs, and even a small refrigerator—every convenience the automotive technology of the era could provide. When he received the car, Yoo Jae-won could not help but murmur, “As expected of Chairman Jeon.”
The smooth-riding Grandeur Limousine soon arrived at the Walkerhill Hotel annex, the venue for the event. Reporters who had been camped at the entrance surged forward en masse. However, ten burly bodyguards emerged from the escort vehicles and physically pushed the approaching journalists back. The reporters reacted in various ways—some demanded to know who the guards thought they were, others shouted names. In an era when the press still carried the image of having resisted dictatorship, their response was quite aggressive. Yet the bodyguards did not flinch; they simply used force to clear a path. Before being assigned to Yoo Jae-won’s detail, each had received direct instructions from the President himself, instilling a strong sense of mission. Moreover, Yoo Jae-won had greeted the dispatched guards warmly and had begun presenting them with generous cash envelopes—especially on days that required physical exertion. Consequently, although they were officially Cheong Wa Dae personnel, they worked with the same dedication as ID Group employees.
“We really ought to establish something like a photo line in advance,” Yoo Jae-won muttered as he watched the commotion between reporters and bodyguards through the window. He had no objection to coverage, but disorder was unacceptable. Still, the photo-line culture would not take root in Korea until 1995. Ironically, the decisive incident that finally brought it about would be President Roh’s appearance at the prosecutor’s office. At present the man wielded near-absolute power, yet within a year of leaving office he would be wearing prison garb. Yoo Jae-won felt the transience of political power keenly. Economic power, however, was different. Unless one courted disaster as Microsoft had, removal from that pinnacle was exceedingly rare. Especially in Korea, where chaebol families resembled hereditary nobility. After the collapse of the military regime and the advent of a democratic government, they had been able to wield enormous influence over the nation.
“You may alight now.”
At Ma Tae-sik’s words, Yoo Jae-won checked his appearance and stepped out of the car. Even the reporters who had been shouting and struggling with the bodyguards fell silent the moment he appeared, raising their cameras and flashing lights to capture photographs and footage.
“What is today’s event about?”
“Why have you summoned all your American executives?”
“Hey! Give us a quick interview!”
“Is it acceptable to ignore the press like this?”
Though physically repelled, the reporters’ voices remained loud. As soon as Yoo Jae-won appeared, they hurled questions at him. He paused, turned toward the press corps, and met the eyes of several journalists.
“I would like to accommodate you,” he said. “However, I see reporters from The Korea Daily and Dongha Shinmun among you. Until those two outlets issue a formal apology for the accident they provoked, I will grant no interviews in the presence of their journalists.”
The parties responsible for the accident—and the newspapers that employed them—had been busy denying responsibility rather than apologizing. They claimed the photographers were freelancers, not staff, and therefore the newspapers bore no liability. It was a transparent attempt to cover their tracks. If the photographers were truly freelancers, they would have sold their images to other outlets as well, yet the pictures had gone exclusively to those two newspapers—because they had been commissioned.
“Reporters, could you please make way for the other outlets?”
Hostile glares turned toward the two newspapers’ teams, yet the targeted journalists planted their feet firmly, showing no intention of moving. Notably, none of the other reporters joined in the jeering. Their professional solidarity was remarkably strong.
“I’ll take your silence as an answer. Then.”
Yoo Jae-won gave a brief explanation of his boycott and turned away. Surrounded by the tight security cordon of Ma Tae-sik and his team, he entered the venue. Flashes erupted belatedly, as though the cameras themselves were spotlighting him.
In his previous life he had taken revenge, and now he would build a rock-solid enterprise capable of freely helping his family and anyone else who caught his eye. Today was the day he would declare that intention.
Yoo Jae-won smiled inwardly at the answer the press so desperately wanted. He had begun ID Technology almost by accident, yet the outcome had been favorable. He had established multiple subsidiaries and even struck it rich with oil futures. Still, the current ad-hoc structure had clear limits when it came to leading large-scale, serious business. The task of reorganizing the previously incomplete organization and preparing it to unleash synergy and potential had been completed. Today’s event was the launch ceremony for the ID Group system, which would bind all of Yoo Jae-won’s companies—previously operated as separate entities—into a single group. At the same time, he would unveil the vision that would guide ID Group in 1991 and beyond: the internet. Although Nextcom had offered a glimpse, the reaction had been muted. ID Group would demonstrate unequivocally that the uncharted frontier humanity must explore was not limited to jungles, the deep sea, or outer space, but extended to the digital realm of the internet as well.