POS Systems and Political Stability
The American Dream. “A POS system? Something like this actually exists?!”
Ryu Jun-sik, president of Yugyeong Foods, burst out in admiration before Yoo Jae-won had even finished his presentation. For days he had agonized over how to root out franchisees who joined the Yugyeong Chicken chain yet used cheap market chickens, damaging the brand’s credibility. The moment he saw the POS system, he slapped his knee in realization. If he had simply asked Yoo Jae-won earlier, the problem would have been solved at once; instead, trying to handle it alone had only given him a headache.
“The core is the shared database,” Yoo Jae-won explained. Once real-time data on the distribution routes of Yugyeong chickens entered the database, inventory levels of live birds could be tracked instantly. The system would also record every stage after the birds reached Yugyeong Chicken—marination, processing, and packaging.
Yugyeong Chicken had to manage a surprising amount of data: marinated chickens, batter powder, seasoning sauces, boxes, parchment paper, cooking foil, and clear containers for cabbage salad. At each franchise store, employees only needed to scan barcodes. When stock arrived, a quick scan updated the inventory; when an item sold, scanning the product automatically deducted every related component. All data converged and refreshed in real time, so each partner simply viewed the screen relevant to their role.
Building client programs tailored to individual businesses and configuring the servers and data tables was unfamiliar territory for people of this era. Only a veteran like IBM could have pulled it off—except Yoo Jae-won was no ordinary client.
“Convincing franchise owners of the system’s value will be crucial. It will cost money to implement, won’t it?”
“Yes, but the POS system is necessary for the owners themselves,” Yoo Jae-won replied, nodding at Ryu Jun-sik’s concern. The upfront expense would be real, yet the long-term advantages were undeniable.
“When owners press the closing button at the end of the day, they can see exactly how much they sold and how much profit they made. Inventory management happens automatically—no extra work required.”
Ryu Jun-sik agreed. Inventory headaches had plagued him since the days he raised chickens and pigs in his front yard. Deciding how many birds to ship to maximize profit against feed and labor costs had always been a puzzle. This time the live-chicken supply chain had kept him awake at night. Receiving birds from contract farms was already a chore; sometimes orders exceeded supply, sometimes the opposite. He had even considered switching to frozen distribution for easier storage, but that would ruin the taste.
“Excellent. I’ll formally request the POS system build from ID Technology.”
“Understood. I’ll prepare the specifications and quotation as quickly as possible.”
Ryu Jun-sik was a man who listened to reason, so the contract was secured at their very first meeting. Even though Yoo Jae-won was the majority shareholder of Yugyeong Foods, President Ryu never spent money without clear value. His immediate approval proved the system’s worth. It was an auspicious start.
The next day.
“Ah, another IT solution project?” Lee Chan-soo grumbled. The note that had suddenly arrived from Yoo Jae-won outlined the POS system and broader IT solution business. The ID Office suite was already nearing completion and demanded enormous effort; now another major task had been added. Moreover, this was a field somewhat removed from pure software development, so his bewilderment was understandable.
Yet there was no choice. When Yoo Jae-won searched for someone capable of tackling the project immediately, only Lee Chan-soo fit the bill. Other developers lacked the experience or leadership to helm a large-scale initiative. Lee Chan-soo himself was not vastly experienced, but relative to ID Technology’s average age, he counted as a senior.
“I’m not asking you to lead the entire project alone, Team Leader Lee. I’ll handle the database design and client-program development myself.”
Yoo Jae-won planned to build the database and management tools using ID Database. Yugyeong Foods employed just over a hundred people; Yugyeong Chicken had roughly thirty franchise stores and twenty headquarters staff. There was no need for expensive enterprise solutions like IBM DB2 or Oracle. ID Database was a solid relational system that followed SQL standards. Even if the operation scaled later, migrating or expanding the files would be straightforward.
“Team Leader Lee, you’ll simply need to recruit additional staff, organize a consulting department, and manage the hardware side.”
Calling it hardware development sounded grand, but the POS setup did not require cutting-edge machines. Yoo Jae-won envisioned inexpensive XT computers—already being phased out of schools—fitted with a 20 MB hard drive, barcode reader, and ISDN modem. Even a green-screen monitor would suffice, since the interface only displayed text. For the production plants, the same simple barcode scanning would track goods entering warehouses or loading onto trucks. Only the server that collected and managed all data needed to be a reliable workstation capable of 24-hour operation.
“Understood.”
At Yoo Jae-won’s explanation, Lee Chan-soo quickly reviewed his mental list of contacts—university seniors and juniors, former club members who had worked on Arae-a Hangul. They were talented and computer-savvy, the sort large corporations would gladly poach. A year ago, few would have answered his call; Yoo Jae-won’s reputation had been that of a brilliant but unproven genius. Now everything had changed. ID Group’s name carried more weight than Yoo Jae-won’s alone. After the spectacular success of ID Investment and the acquisition of Microsoft, the company had become an object of envy rather than mere curiosity. A job posting would bring applicants flooding in.
“What’s this?”
Yoo Jae-won frowned as he flipped through the May 23 newspaper. The front-page story he expected had still not appeared. A major cabinet reshuffle—the prime minister’s resignation and the replacement of several ministers—had been absent for days. The cause in his previous life had been political instability. April and May of 1991 had been brutal months: nationwide university protests met with harsh crackdowns, culminating in the death of Myongji University student Kang Kyung-dae on April 27. The tragedy had ignited a wave of self-immolations and the phrase “self-immolation political crisis.”
This time, however, the protests had remained relatively contained. No self-immolations had occurred. Searching Nextcom for the keyword “self-immolation” returned nothing. Even the physical newspapers Kim Dae-seok had clipped and stored contained no such reports. With the political situation stable, there had been no prime-ministerial resignation and therefore no reshuffle.
The reason was obvious. The only variable capable of altering the flow of his previous life was Yoo Jae-won himself. His punctual tax payments had filled the national coffers, allowing President Roh to distribute generous populist budgets. While university students still criticized the administration, provincial regions praised it. The first local elections had delivered a landslide victory. With food on the table, citizens were less susceptible to political agitation, and protests never escalated to the point of violent suppression. Consequently, Kang Kyung-dae’s death never happened, and the chain of self-immolations never began.
A search on Nextcom’s news board using “university student” revealed an entirely different set of headlines—most of them celebrating the rise of a “third great success story” after Yoo Jae-won of ID Group and Kim Cheol-su of V6. In the 1990 entrance exams, computer-engineering departments had topped competition rates at nearly every university, even surpassing medicine in science-track cutoffs. It was no exaggeration.
At least no one had died. That alone was a relief. Especially welcome was the absence of tasteless columns such as “Stop the Death Festival!”
“Still, those gentlemen won’t remain idle forever.”
Yoo Jae-won felt a twinge of concern. The public’s desire for democratization remained strong. Though dampened in the 1987 election, it had not vanished. Organizations and politicians were always ready to exploit that fervor. If the expected explosion failed to occur at the proper moment, the eventual backlash could be worse. Conversely, an emboldened Roh regime might accelerate Korea’s conservative turn and eventually cause a larger crisis.
“Well, it’s not an immediate problem. At least lives were saved.”
It was an achievement no one would ever recognize, yet Yoo Jae-won felt quietly proud.
A knock sounded at the chairman’s office door.
“Chairman, it’s time for your next appointment.”
Executive secretary Kim Dae-seok had arrived with the schedule. Yoo Jae-won was already prepared, so he rose at once.
After roughly an hour’s drive, the car reached Pangyo in Gyeonggi Province. Apartments were sprouting rapidly in the newly designated city, and among them stood Sambo Computer’s second factory. Following Yoo Jae-won’s advice to acquire every money-making asset, Sambo had aggressively purchased real estate. When an additional production line became necessary, they built a large assembly plant in Pangyo. The location near the Pangyo Interchange was ideal—prime land that would later host countless IT firms and whose value would skyrocket.
When Yoo Jae-won’s Grandeur limousine entered the factory grounds, familiar faces lined the entrance. Lee Yong-kwon and other Sambo executives stood waiting, a red carpet rolled out to the exact spot where the car would stop. The gesture spoke volumes about how Sambo Computer regarded its partner.
As the vehicle halted, a suited employee stepped forward and opened the door.