Fervent Followers
November 18, 1991. That was the day Yoo Jae-won led Dr. Shilov and six other researchers from the ID High Tech Research Institute into the United States. The journey from Germany to New York, then on to Redmond, required an exhausting series of long flights. Everyone had been assigned business class or better, with Dr. Shilov and his team given first-class seats. Even so, the extended travel proved grueling for them all. Adding to their fatigue was the anxiety of stepping onto American soil for the first time. U.S. immigration was notorious even in Russia, yet the feared ordeal never materialized. The supposedly rigorous interviews asked only a few questions. Even when interpreters had to relay Russian responses for those who spoke no English, clearance came swiftly—as though orders had already been issued to expedite anyone arriving with Yoo Jae-won.
Once through the airport, Yoo Jae-won escorted Dr. Shilov straight to the main building of the ID High Tech Research Institute. Located near the Android Division headquarters, the high-tech offices occupied a cutting-edge intelligent building. Microsoft had originally constructed it as an upgraded Alpha Lab to pursue the latest IT research. From the entrance onward, the atmosphere felt entirely different. The entire structure was a glass palace wrapped in reflective panels, and intelligent technology greeted visitors immediately at the main doors: a fingerprint recognition system. Only registered prints would open the doors, and Dr. Shilov’s group had already been enrolled. To prevent forgery, the scanner read all five fingers—an impressive device straight out of science fiction that left the researchers wide-eyed with curiosity. Their expressions made it clear they were itching to examine the mechanism up close.
“Would you like to see the supercomputer first?”
Yoo Jae-won redirected their attention and guided the group inside. The mention of a supercomputer drew an instant reaction. Because the machine was housed in a secure basement, the tour began underground and worked its way upward. The lower level contained the data center, while each successive floor held specialized research facilities. Equipment included high-resolution electron microscopes unavailable at ordinary institutes and machinery capable of fabricating small-scale semiconductors. Many of these instruments were on the U.S. export-control list, so each new revelation left Dr. Shilov’s team visibly stunned.
The final stop was the top floor.
“It feels like a hotel.”
“It’s not a hotel. It’s your residence.”
The uppermost level contained no laboratories. Instead, it had been fitted out like a home where researchers could sleep, cook, and live comfortably. The interior surpassed even deluxe hotel standards; several suites rivaled presidential accommodations. Dr. Shilov’s assessment was accurate—the facilities were so luxurious that calling them mere lodging would be an understatement.
“These are your quarters,” Yoo Jae-won explained.
He had never liked the idea of employees living, eating, and working inside the same building. After spending more than a decade that way in his previous life, the pattern had left him thoroughly disillusioned. The endless cycle of eat-sleep-work had isolated him from ordinary society; he had never managed a proper relationship, let alone marriage. In time, loneliness had hardened into something closer to solitude. At least his solitary status had made the regression gamble easier to accept. Had he possessed a wife and children, the decision might have carried heavier regrets.
This time, he was determined not to become a prisoner of his own company. He had kept that promise: not once since founding ID Group had he stayed overnight at any of his offices. Even when product deadlines forced long hours at the computer, he finished the work at home. He applied the same principle to his staff, though he stopped short of outright prohibition. Some developers in the Silicon Valley, Rodeo, and Redmond teams still chose to live at the office. However, the company had made it clear that excessive overtime or on-site living would negatively affect performance reviews, and the evaluations bore that out. Completing assigned tasks within normal hours earned higher marks—and those marks directly influenced year-end bonuses. As a result, the culture of late nights and all-nighters was gradually disappearing across ID Group.
Yet the same policy could not apply to ID High Tech. Dr. Shilov and the other senior researchers were Russian, and more Russian talent was expected to follow. Housing them in downtown Redmond would expose them to unnecessary risks. Even in progressive Washington state, extremists existed, and individuals handling sensitive technology could attract unwanted attention from rival organizations or corporations. For ID High Tech, the safest arrangement was to keep residences inside the secure main building; hence the choice of the top floor.
“The facilities are extraordinary,” Dr. Shilov concluded after touring the entire structure.
“If you need anything, just say the word. I’ll have it delivered immediately.”
“That won’t be necessary. The equipment and budget are so abundant that I hardly know where to begin. We will do our utmost.”
Gratitude shone in the doctor’s eyes. Yoo Jae-won intended to give far more than gratitude. He planned to support them so completely that they would willingly dedicate their lives to the institute, drawing in every contact they possessed until ID High Tech became the world’s premier energy research facility.
Afterward, Yoo Jae-won remained in Redmond for several more days. The institute required not only researchers but also administrative staff, custodians, laundry workers, and cooks. Hiring had already been completed, yet the absence of formal operations had created minor confusion. While the system stabilized, Yoo Jae-won handled every critical approval on-site. Within days, the ID High Tech Research Institute was running at full capacity.
“Still the same as ever.”
Returning to his old Palo Alto residence in Silicon Valley after a long absence, Yoo Jae-won checked the house. Though unoccupied, it had been well maintained. He subscribed to a cleaning service that visited every three days, had installed a comprehensive security system, and retained a patrol service that checked the property multiple times daily. Even without those precautions, the neighborhood ranked among the safest in America, but he preferred to remain prepared.
With the lights and heating turned on, the house soon felt cozy. His parents’ careful interior design kept the space from feeling lonely despite his solitude. After turning the living-room television up, he moved to the study and powered on the computer. The familiar Android robot mascot appeared, completed the boot sequence, and presented the login screen within seconds. He entered his lengthy password; the lock screen vanished and the familiar desktop materialized with its signature chime.
His hand naturally reached for the ID Web Browser. Checking the internet upon returning home had been a habit in his previous life, and the regression had not changed it. After business trips to Korea and Russia, no medium delivered the latest news more effectively than the web.
“Oh, the number of sites has grown quite a bit.”
Yoo Jae-won’s first task was to examine newly registered domain names on the DNS servers managed by Nextcom. The last time he had checked had been at the end of October; now, in mid-November, the count had risen by thirty percent—an unmistakable sign that the unknown territory of the internet was expanding rapidly. The sharpest growth appeared in hotels, travel agencies, and airlines. Once reservation systems via internet and PC communication became available, those sectors had exploded.
Many of the sites still looked amateurish to his eyes. Even the hotel homepage widely regarded as the best contained numerous gaps. None offered online payment, and functionality remained limited. Still, the sites represented progress over telephone reservations alone. The proliferation of websites had also sparked frequent calls for search engines capable of organizing the web and retrieving desired pages quickly.
“New business opportunities keep appearing.”
Even a brief survey suggested countless models to him. The most promising was the search engine. Search sites already existed; AOL, America’s largest PC communication and media company, operated one. Yet it hardly qualified as a true engine. Instead of automated bots crawling the web to gather information, human editors manually visited sites and compiled indexes. CompuServe’s online service followed the same approach. It was the very platform on which Keyboard Warrior had first been distributed during its U.S. beta test. Like AOL, CompuServe relied on human-curated indexes, though it incorporated user feedback—an early, limited form of crowdsourcing that had allowed it to close the gap with AOL despite starting later.
Nextcom operated differently. Because it managed the DNS servers, anyone wishing to run an internet server could register independently. However, the system did not categorize site content, forcing users to guess from domain names alone. That had been President Henry Samuel’s choice. Yoo Jae-won still judged the timing premature and had therefore kept silent about his superior automated search algorithms and site-ranking technologies.
“The moment still hasn’t come.”
His assessment remained unchanged. Although the Android operating system had accelerated the arrival of the internet era, most sectors remained undeveloped. The majority of active sites generated no revenue whatsoever. The few that did— AOL, CompuServe, and Nextcom—still depended on legacy PC communication models. Even though search engines would eventually become enormously profitable, they currently offered little practical value for the same reason.
“Reservation systems, on the other hand, would be different.”
Online booking was far more useful than telephone reservations. Customers could view room details and pricing at a glance on-screen. Travel agencies could likewise present their packages in far greater depth. “That side can be launched immediately.”
IT consulting was one of ID Technology’s newest business areas. The company had already supplied POS systems to Yoo Kyung Foods and Yoo Kyung Chicken in Korea, earning favorable reviews from both the headquarters and franchisees. Headquarters appreciated real-time visibility into nationwide sales, which allowed precise inventory management and the redesign of distribution networks that saved substantial sums. Franchisees found daily sales tracking and reordering far simpler. Discount promotions now applied uniformly because the POS system prevented the previous practice of franchisees purchasing cheap market chickens while reporting full-price sales.
Hotel and travel-agency reservation systems could likewise be brought to twenty-first-century standards using ID Technology’s expertise. Nextcom already handled online payments for games and office software. Hotels and agencies possessed their own servers, so separate payment-security modules would be required, but the task was straightforward. After all, Eugene Kaspersky—the world’s foremost expert on online-payment security—had already been recruited. Even without regression knowledge, his reputation as the creator of the Kaspersky antivirus and his strong performance in the ID Office Security Challenge marked him as a proven talent.
“Ah, we could also sell server services.”
One idea led to another. With few users online, running servers on ordinary PCs posed no major issues. Once reservation and payment systems matured and internet adoption surged, however, server capacity would become critical. Larger servers demanded more management and greater complexity, giving rise to data centers where companies owned the hardware but specialists handled operations. Even that arrangement proved cumbersome for some, leading to services that provided both hardware and full management—precisely the model later popularized by AWS. ID Technology had no reason it could not offer the same.
The hardware side presented a minor obstacle. Current 486 processors could not support efficient servers; at minimum, the upcoming Pentium or AMD 5x86 CPUs would be required. Networking technology, however, could be prepared in advance. Creating protocols that linked numerous PCs into high-performance clusters was feasible. “Cisco would make the perfect partner.”
There was no need to build the hardware themselves. Cisco remained the undisputed leader in networking equipment. Through ID Investment, Yoo Jae-won already held more than ten percent of Cisco’s shares and intended to increase that stake steadily. Routers and switches from Cisco, combined with ID Technology’s software-layer connectivity solutions, would deliver an unbeatable combination.
“Now then, time to handle some company business.”
After committing his thoughts to a memo, Yoo Jae-won launched ID Talk. A rapid succession of notification chimes greeted him; reports and messages had accumulated in his inbox and message queue. No urgent matters required immediate attention. He had deliberately delegated full authority to his executives, minimizing his own workload. Once he approved a new-business proposal, the responsible officers carried it through to completion. Most executives understood the principle intellectually yet hesitated to implement it; Yoo Jae-won felt no such restraint.
Reviewing the reports one by one, he nodded with satisfaction. By placing capable people in the right positions, the majority of ID Group’s ongoing projects were advancing smoothly.
“Oh, some results have already come in.”
The sender was Vincent Greenhill, vice president of ID Investment. The report concerned final selections for Hollywood investments. Not long ago, Yoo Jae-won had instructed Vincent to expand ID Investment’s scope and investigate music and film opportunities. The attached list of investable titles exceeded fifty entries—far more than expected. The ease of film investment stemmed from the product’s nature: massive hits generated enormous returns, yet failures could be catastrophic. Studios therefore sought multiple investors to spread risk, while investors themselves treated each project like a lottery ticket, diversifying across many titles.
The list ranged from films slated for next spring to projects still in production that would not reach theaters until 1993 at the earliest. Each entry included the production company, major investors, distributor, a brief synopsis, and current status. Notably, every description was uniformly positive—clearly the investment team had simply compiled materials supplied by the studios rather than conducting independent research. Yoo Jae-won understood; ID Investment was chronically understaffed because any embezzlement or breach involving large sums could inflict astronomical damage. Even candidates with impeccable résumés from Goldman Sachs or J.P. Morgan faced indefinite delays if they failed the information team’s rigorous vetting. Given the persistent personnel shortage, the fact that the list had been compiled at all was commendable.
“Oh, The Bodyguard is on here!”
Yoo Jae-won’s voice rose. He knew without consulting Memory Palace that the film had been a substantial hit. Whitney Houston starred as the female lead, with Kevin Costner opposite her. Critical reception had been lukewarm, yet box-office performance had been spectacular. Given the star power, he had assumed financing would already be secured, yet the project remained open—an unexpected opportunity.
“A River Runs Through It also needs checking…”
In contrast to The Bodyguard, that film had received strong reviews but underperformed theatrically. It had fared better on secondary markets such as VHS and DVD, thanks to its gentle tone and visual beauty, which made it ideal for family viewing.
“Whoa—Jurassic Park!”
At the very bottom of the list sat the decade’s defining blockbuster. Steven Spielberg’s masterpiece had established the modern Hollywood tentpole. Investment was guaranteed to succeed; the optimal move was to commit the maximum amount the studio would accept in a single tranche. A major stake would also open the door to a personal relationship with Spielberg himself.
“Excellent.”
Yoo Jae-won forwarded the relevant memos: ID Technology items to Allen, investment matters to Vincent, and networking issues to Kevin Johnson in Redmond. His own tasks were complete.
“All that remains is Remington’s wedding. Ah—Grandfather isn’t the right term anymore.”
Memories of his previous life remained vivid, making it oddly awkward to refer to Remington simply as “President.” The man was marrying while also preparing for the arrival of a child; the thought filled Yoo Jae-won with quiet emotion.
“I wonder how the wedding gift is coming along.”
He had been pondering the perfect present since the day Remington shared the news. The decision had come quickly, and the order had been placed immediately. Now curiosity prompted him to verify progress in person.
“I can’t wait any longer. I’ll go check tomorrow.”
High-ranking executives like Remington received routine reports on Yoo Jae-won’s movements, so a visit to inspect the gift would naturally reach Remington’s ears. That was fine. The item was far too large for a surprise delivery anyway. The gift Yoo Jae-won had chosen was a newly built mansion on the hills northwest of San Francisco—spacious enough to be called a palace, with sweeping views of the Pacific and the Golden Gate Bridge. Its price was correspondingly steep, yet still insufficient to repay the debt of gratitude he owed from his previous life.
“I hope the twenty-eighth arrives quickly.”
He looked forward to seeing Remington and Shannon’s joy, and to the lively encounters with guests traveling from every corner of the world. The wedding day could not come soon enough.