The American Dream and the Red Complex
Yoo Jae-won’s reaction was so unexpected that even the American Dream itself seemed to recoil. As he explained the situation, he half-expected someone to shout “Commie!” The memories of his previous life remained vivid, and the generational—rather, epochal—gap manifested in many ways. Clunky, rudimentary electronics were one thing, but the sharpest contrast lay in culture. Among them, the Red Complex struck him as particularly surreal whenever it surfaced. The Red Complex thrived most vividly in Korea. These days it had softened somewhat thanks to President Roh’s Northern Policy. A unified Korean team had even won the World Table Tennis Championships, and Korean athletes had competed in the World Youth Football Championship held that July. The simultaneous admission of North and South Korea to the UN was the talk of the town. By December, the two sides would sign the Basic Agreement. Many believed unification was just around the corner. It was an illusion, of course, yet the atmosphere of confrontation had eased considerably. As a side effect, the NLPDR faction—commonly known as the activist circle—gained strength on university campuses, spawning a flood of regrettable incidents. In any case, Korea remained a divided nation that had endured a civil war claiming millions of lives, so the Red Complex was practically the default setting.
Yet Yoo Jae-won had never imagined the same reaction would come from Americans. The era of anti-communist hysteria in the United States had been the early 1950s. It began with a name everyone recognized: Senator Joseph McCarthy. The phenomenon took its name from him—McCarthyism. Remington and Allen, both in their early forties, had never truly lived through McCarthyism, so their response caught him off guard.
“A Soviet specialist, you say……”
Remington still tried his best to dredge up names, if only because it was Yoo Jae-won’s order. Nothing came to mind. His own territory had been California, and finding someone who did business with the Soviet Union there was exceedingly difficult. Allen faced the same problem. As a lawyer active in California, he had no points of contact with the Soviets.
“Wouldn’t the head of the intelligence team know someone?”
Yoo Jae-won’s follow-up question hung in the air. The intelligence unit Remington had built from his police and detective contacts had been operating for some time now, capable of gathering news from across the United States. It was competent enough to deliver the latest Microsoft developments first. The unit was deliberately lean—only the team leader and a handful of middle managers, fewer than five full-time staff. The actual field agents operated as a cellular network. Even so, its annual operating budget exceeded one million dollars.
“I doubt it. His operational radius is similar to mine.”
Remington shook his head. Perhaps because the company was still so new, every fresh endeavor felt like banging one’s head against bare earth. Yoo Jae-won was considering posting an open recruitment notice for a Russian specialist when Allen, who had been deep in thought, finally spoke.
“Kevin Johnson might know someone.”
Kevin Johnson? Allen’s words lit a small spark in Yoo Jae-won’s mind. Kevin Johnson was one of the few Microsoft executives whose employment had been retained. He had served as director of marketing and services for Microsoft’s global organization. Yoo Jae-won immediately opened his computer and checked the organizational chart. Bingo! It was Microsoft, after all. Although they had not yet established a direct presence, they maintained a distributor arrangement in Moscow. Android 1.0 in Cyrillic was being supplied diligently, even if the flagship store conversion had not yet occurred.
“Oh, the Russian distributor is still active.”
Remington seemed to remember only then. Both men had been thinking of ID Technology’s scale in terms of Silicon Valley, Redmond, and Korea, and the realization hit them at once. Microsoft had been an enormous organization, after all. Even Yoo Jae-won, who had paid for the acquisition himself, had momentarily forgotten.
A status report on Russia uploaded a few days earlier sat inside ID Talk. According to the report, Russia’s political situation remained chaotic, yet Android 1.0 was achieving record results. Users of high-performance machines—286 and above—numbered enough that roughly one hundred copies were moving per day. Not sold for money, of course; they were being distributed through copying. Russia had its own finished-computer manufacturers, but the very notion of using licensed software did not exist. The report noted that even finished machines were being sold with personal-distribution adware pre-installed. There was nothing to be done about it for now. The collapse of the Soviet Union, the coup attempt, and the ensuing recession had sent the ruble into free fall, much like the won during the IMF crisis. The average monthly wage of a Russian worker was said to be 250 rubles, while a single sweater cost 125. Russia’s economy would continue to deteriorate. Genuine paid sales would not appear until the 2000s. Reading the report only sharpened Yoo Jae-won’s urgency to secure Russian talent. He was not the only one aware of Russia’s predicament. Other companies and nations were surely watching as well. Between the 1990s and 2000s, some five hundred thousand top-tier Russian specialists had emigrated. Russia’s fundamental and applied research capabilities had been shattered, and restoring them would require decades. Since the Russian organization still existed, Kevin Johnson could deliver exactly what Yoo Jae-won needed.
Yoo Jae-won’s seat nearly lifted him off the floor, yet he could not summon the man immediately. Kevin Johnson had returned to Redmond after the Android 1.0 launch event. Instead, Yoo Jae-won opened ID Talk.
“Ah, no response.”
Kevin Johnson’s status showed as away. Yoo Jae-won left a message asking him to contact him at once regarding Russia. Working hours still remained, so he could wait. Once the Russian matter passed to Kevin Johnson, Remington and Allen finally exhaled. The day’s work, however, was far from finished. Establishing the new entity called ID High Tech was a major undertaking. Almost nothing had been discussed in advance, so they needed concrete instructions.
“So ID High Tech is essentially a research institute.”
That was Remington’s summary after hearing the full vision. Correct. ID High Tech would not be a profit center. It would conduct basic technology research, build prototypes, and endure countless failures—cheerfully spending the money Yoo Jae-won earned elsewhere. Yet the institute was indispensable. Yoo Jae-won could not personally direct every endeavor, and he wanted ID Group to endure long after he was gone. Therefore, he intended to create an organization that would inherit his ideas and technologies, functioning like an avatar. ID High Tech would make that vision real.
“It shouldn’t be difficult.”
Allen spoke lightly. ID Group’s overarching structure was already in place; launching a small subsidiary was hardly onerous. Research personnel would be drawn from within the company—mostly former Microsoft employees. Hardware division staff with nothing immediate to do, Alpha Lab alumni, and others would be reassigned to ID High Tech. Consequently, the new division would most likely be based in Redmond rather than Silicon Valley. In addition, any companies whose management rights ID Investment had acquired and that possessed desirable technologies would be folded into ID High Tech. Although they were currently developing their technologies separately, gathering them would raise overall research capability and enable unexpected new products. Consolidation was clearly advantageous.
“Boss, I heard you scored a perfect SAT. Congratulations!”
Once the skeletal framework of ID High Tech had been established, a brief break arrived. Remington brought up the exam he had heard about the previous day.
“Huh? I don’t think I mentioned that to anyone at the company. How did you find out?”
Yoo Jae-won had never told Remington, so the question was genuine.
“Oh—um. Was it supposed to be a secret? Your mother mentioned it.”
The culprit had been very close indeed. If he had told Remington, who barely spoke Korean, then the news had surely reached his Korean relatives as well. The deduction required no great effort.
“It’s hardly a secret. Thank you, though. I appreciate the congratulations. Thanks to both of you, I could take the test with peace of mind. That probably helped the score.”
In America one was expected to trumpet one’s achievements, yet Yoo Jae-won felt no desire to do so with Remington and Allen, with whom he now shared genuine closeness. Even though he had prepared for the exam across two lifetimes, their assistance had undeniably mattered.
“We knew you would, Boss. Have you decided which undergraduate program to apply for?”
Undergraduate program? Of course he had decided—long ago, in his previous life.
“Yes. The College of Engineering.”
“That much is obvious. But every college has departments. Computer Science, I assume?”
The question was specific. There had to be a reason. Yoo Jae-won had been about to answer honestly when a mischievous impulse struck.
“What do you think? Did the two of you place a bet?”
Both men gasped.
“I bet on Computer Science. This fellow bet against it.”
Remington confessed. Unfortunately for him, Allen had won.
“I’m thinking of applying to Electronic Engineering.”
“Ugh, what sudden whim is this?”
“It’s not a whim. I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”
Electronic Engineering might have sounded abrupt at first glance, yet it encompassed every device driven by electricity—mechanical engineering, telecommunications, semiconductor circuit design. Examined closely, it aligned closely with Yoo Jae-won’s work. Within the broader field of IT, Computer Science handled software while Electronic Engineering led hardware development. Applying to Electronic Engineering had been decided in his previous life. Objectively, Yoo Jae-won had already reached the pinnacle in software development, particularly artificial-intelligence algorithms. Further study in that area would not raise his ability. Had a Computer Science person overheard his inner thoughts, they would have called him arrogant, yet the facts remained. He could lecture the era’s leading figures in artificial intelligence without embarrassment. The same held for other software fields; he already knew the core algorithms of most existing programs. Electronic Engineering, however, still offered much to learn. Of course, he carried knowledge from his previous life as well. Current semiconductor technology was so primitive that it could not deliver the performance he required. Like a thirsty man digging a well, Yoo Jae-won planned to major in Electronic Engineering and personally research high-performance semiconductor manufacturing. Through that effort he would bring 1 GHz CPUs into existence earlier than in the original timeline. He also intended to assist GPU development, raising the level of computer graphics accessible to individuals. Ultimately, his plan included ID Group designing and producing the TPU essential for artificial-intelligence systems.
“As expected of our adventurous Boss, you chose differently from us.”
Allen accepted the hundred-dollar bill Remington handed over with trembling fingers and smiled the victor’s smile.
“Well, I still don’t understand it, but I suppose the Boss knows what he’s doing. That said, once you start university next year, you’ll need to get yourself a car, won’t you?”
“A car?”
“A car is every college student’s dream. Besides, Stanford boasts the largest campus in America. Even though each department has its main lecture buildings, classes sometimes end up in distant ones. If you join any unusual liberal-arts courses or sports clubs, a car becomes essential.”
Allen explained. Although not a Stanford alumnus himself, proximity to Silicon Valley had given him an insider’s knowledge of campus life. Yet he had overlooked one detail.
“Can you even get a driver’s license at my age in America?”
Yoo Jae-won’s age. He was currently in the second year of middle school; next year he would be in the third. Even in America, middle-school students did not receive licenses. One had to be at least sixteen to sit for the driving test.
“Oh. I was so focused on you becoming a university student that I forgot your actual age.”
The usually dependable Allen looked uncharacteristically flustered. Yoo Jae-won simply smiled. The path he was walking was elite even among elite tracks.
“Ah, and I don’t particularly want to drive myself anyway.”
When going to school he could ride with Kim Dae-seok or a security detail, as he did now. On campus an electric bicycle would suffice. Lithium-polymer batteries did not yet exist, so charging would be slow and discharge rapid, yet within the campus it would be adequate.
“Pardon? You have no interest in automobiles?”
This time Remington was astonished. To Americans a car was an essential tool. Naturally there were many enthusiasts, and Remington counted himself among them. Upon receiving his first massive bonus, his first act had been to buy a new house—large enough to be called a mansion—distinguished chiefly by its many garages. With each subsequent bonus he filled those garages: after the Lincoln he had shown earlier came a Ford Mustang, a Dodge Challenger, and a Pontiac Firebird. He had been extremely conscious of Shannon’s opinion while making the purchases, yet afterward he had been thoroughly satisfied. To such a man, Yoo Jae-won’s indifference to cars was incomprehensible.
“My reflexes and spatial awareness aren’t particularly good. It would be dangerous for me to drive.”
The claim of poor reflexes and spatial awareness belonged to his previous life. This life seemed somewhat different. During the accident while riding in the Grandeur, he had sensed something sharp. Still, he had no desire to gamble with a single life. It was not merely about survival; having obtained regression, he refused to throw it away through carelessness.
“Well, unless the car moves by itself, I doubt I’ll find it interesting.”
“A car that moves by itself? You mean Kit, the one David Hasselhoff drove?”
Remington brightened at the mention of the American drama featuring Kit. The Pontiac Firebird he had recently purchased was the very model used as Kit’s vehicle, and even the color—black—was identical.
“Yes! Exactly that kind of car.”
“Boss, television dramas are only dramas. A car that talks to people and drives itself exists only inside the television.”
Remington enjoyed the show, yet his sense of reality remained firm. Such a vehicle did not exist now and never would, he declared with certainty. Yoo Jae-won merely smiled an inscrutable smile and nodded.
After entrusting the two men with their new assignments, Yoo Jae-won returned to his own corner. As he sat, he powered on the computer—not his usual machine. It ran the newly installed New Egg announced alongside the Android 1.0 launch. He had not discarded the original Egg PC; it had been moved to the house in Old Palo Alto. The machine had been built with the finest components available, so boot-up finished within seconds. After entering his ID and password, the Android 1.0 desktop appeared, and the programs set to launch automatically opened one after another. ID Talk, indispensable to every ID Group employee, completed first. In truth, it had become the default messenger for most people using the internet. There was no need to measure market share; at present, ID Talk was the only messenger worth mentioning, and the most powerful. A few websites offered simple browser-based chat, but they amounted to little more than text exchange. Until now Yoo Jae-won had personally added features and performed optimizations. A dedicated development team had since been assembled from Microsoft personnel, who were now diligently analyzing the source code he had written. ID Talk launched and logged in successfully. Immediately a message arrived.
Yoo Jae-won requested a one-on-one chat. Kevin Johnson accepted at once, and the window opened.
Kevin Johnson’s reply differed sharply from Remington’s. Where Remington had stalled at the word “Russia,” Kevin Johnson asked for specifics.
Yoo Jae-won clenched his fist at Kevin Johnson’s answer. He had prepared a Plan B, yet this was better than he could have hoped.
Thanks, Bill!
The words that had once accompanied curses every time the infamous Blue Screen of Death appeared now expressed pure gratitude. Yoo Jae-won felt so thankful that he genuinely believed no finer tonic than Microsoft existed.