The Kookmin PC Proposal
It took Yoo Jae-won a moment to recall the name Lee Sung-soo in connection with the Kookmin PC, but the moment he thought of Sejin Computer Land, a flood of information surfaced. After all, if his first computer had been Daeho Electronics' 286, his second had been Sejin Computer Land's Jindo Dog model. Sejin Computer Land had once swept across Korea as a specialized computer distributor, and a similar wind was blowing again now.
Before Sejin existed, there had been only two ways to buy a computer: purchasing an assembled PC from Yongsan Electronics Market or buying one from a major conglomerate's electronics division. The latter offered guaranteed after-sales service and solid build quality, but the price was exorbitant. Even in the United States, where 486 PCs had dropped to half their original cost, Korean conglomerates were still selling them for over 1.5 million won apiece.
Those who found the big-company machines too expensive inevitably turned to Yongsan. The appeal lay in hand-picking every component and assembling it yourself at a far lower price. Yet Yongsan was merciless to beginners. Prices varied wildly depending on the buyer, aggressive solicitation was rampant, and if you decided not to purchase, the staff's attitude flipped instantly to outright hostility—sometimes even outright insults.
Into that environment appeared Sejin Computer Land like a comet. Of course, ID Technology's own ID Flagship Store in Gangnam had already introduced a more civilized approach—fixed pricing, courteous staff, and the freedom to handle products without pressure. The catch was that everything there was expensive; even the Egg series and Shell Book models cost more than most conglomerate PCs, putting them out of reach for ordinary families.
Sejin was different. Its machines were slightly pricier than Yongsan's assembled units, yet the chain ran promotions year-round, and on deep-discount days its prices could undercut even Yongsan. The stores themselves were immaculate, modeled after department stores, and the employees were unfailingly polite. There was no haggling, no sudden outbursts of abuse when a customer walked away, and every display unit could be used freely—even for gaming. Sejin also operated free computer classes on a permanent basis; Yoo Jae-won himself had attended a few. Lifetime A/S was promised, easing the burden on parents' wallets. Starting from Seoul, the chain expanded aggressively until it blanketed the nation with fifty directly managed outlets and three hundred franchise stores.
Thanks to that network, Yoo Jae-won had been able to purchase the entry-level Jindo Dog as his second computer.
“The problem is the man himself—Lee Sung-soo.”
While Sejin Computer Land evoked mostly positive memories, information about its president was scarce and overwhelmingly negative. Yoo Jae-won had to dig through the news archive in his memory repository to find anything at all. The man was described, in the most charitable terms, as a charismatic, action-oriented leader. The fact that he had come all the way to the United States without an appointment certainly demonstrated that drive. Somehow he had even discovered that Yoo Jae-won had moved hotels and managed to contact Kim Dae-seok.
Those were the only positives. The negatives were far more serious. Lee Sung-soo suffered from a severe case of “Jeon Myeong-heon disease”—the occupational malady of believing oneself to be Jeon Myeong-heon and attempting to create something from nothing through arbitrary, impulsive decisions. He ran his employees like soldiers, enforcing rigid discipline while making unilateral calls on the spot. News articles frequently mentioned his violent temper and physical assaults on staff.
“He even hit his employees.”
One 1995 article described how, the day before the Ulsan store opening, Lee had flown in staff from the Jamsil branch in Seoul to help with preparations. When he deemed the advertising-sticker work insufficient, he began striking employees in the middle of the chaotic store. “Women were not exempt.” Declaring that he treated everyone equally, he punched the female staff member dispatched from Seoul as well. When she burst into tears from pain and injustice, he struck her again for crying.
The assaulted employee submitted her resignation that same day.
“What a piece of work.”
Lee's flaws did not end there. The aggressive year-round discounting was achieved by squeezing suppliers—postponing payments and diverting funds meant for parts into further expansion. The gleaming array of dozens of stores was, in reality, a castle built on bubbles. When the over-expansion finally collapsed, it did so spectacularly: with only three billion won in capital, the company carried four hundred billion won in debt.
“What on earth does he want from me?”
Yoo Jae-won could not imagine what proposal Lee Sung-soo had traveled so far to make. Sejin already had its own independent store in Yongsan, and public response had been favorable; explosive growth was clearly on the horizon, just as it had been in the original timeline.
“Is he here to ask for a cheaper Android OS license?”
Sejin Computer Land behaved like a tyrant toward powerless suppliers, yet it had always respected copyright law. Even the budget Jindo Dog PC Yoo Jae-won had purchased in his previous life had come with a genuine copy of Windows 95—unlike the pirated copies routinely bundled with assembled machines from Yongsan. Still, even the ad-free version of Android cost only $9.99. The price was so low compared with the expensive Windows licenses of the past that it imposed no real burden on manufacturers. There was therefore no reason to discount it further.
“More importantly, does he not realize how rude it is to show up unannounced and demand a meeting?”
Yoo Jae-won was not one to stand on ceremony when substance was at stake, but that courtesy did not extend to people who showed none themselves.
Having organized his thoughts, he picked up the intercom again.
“Secretary Kim.”
—Yes, Chairman.
“The man named Lee Sung-soo is in the hotel lobby right now, correct?”
—Yes, sir.
“It is admirable that he came all this way, but I cannot meet him without an appointment. Tell him to schedule properly—after the Langley appointment, if possible. And from now on, even Korean visitors receive no special treatment.”
—Understood. My apologies.
The Langley schedule was set for the following Tuesday, and the trip was expected to last at least four days for coding and testing. That meant Lee Sung-soo would have to wait another seven days. Whether he remained in the United States without contacts or returned home was his choice. The answer came quickly.
—He says he will wait.
A textbook case of advanced Jeon Myeong-heon disease.
A few days later, CBS aired David Letterman's Late Show. Though it carried no subtitle, it could easily have been called Yoo Jae-won's IT Special. He demonstrated the tablet PC that had caused such a sensation at the expo, discussed drones, and painted visions of the future they would enable. The segment also covered the Unabomber's parcel bomb and the creation of the big-data search engine. The heart of the broadcast, of course, was the conversation between Letterman and Yoo Jae-won—his American Dream, the utopia and dystopia that advanced IT would bring—skillfully edited and aired.
The Red Hack story was naturally included.
“You really sent your own lawyer after Red Hack? Did you actually find out who he is?”
Tiffany, watching the show with him, asked in surprise. The fact that they were watching a late-night program together meant she was staying at his hotel. Yoo Jae-won had naturally informed her of his appearance, and she had been astonished. He had suggested they watch the live broadcast together; after all, dramas and talk shows were best experienced live, especially with snacks piled high among close friends. Though the invitation carried obvious ulterior motives, Tiffany had agreed without a second's hesitation. She had only promised not to drink until she came of age; she had made no such vow regarding other forms of mischief.
Her parents had raised no objections either. Her mother had already met him and given her approval, and interfering in an adult child's romantic life was not the American way.
“Unfortunately, not yet.”
When he said it, he had expected the information team's search to be complete by Friday. Instead, Red Hack had apparently taken considerable care to conceal his identity. All fifty IPs had been traced, yet none pointed to a plausible suspect. Most belonged to ordinary users. The only remaining leads were a single proxy-server IP and one internet-café IP—both of which rented addresses indiscriminately to anonymous users, ballooning the number of potential suspects. As a result, Yoo Jae-won had lost interest in Red Hack. He had already given his advice on the Letterman show; whatever happened next was Red Hack's responsibility.
“What's a proxy-server IP?”
Tiffany's interest, abandoned by Yoo Jae-won, had shifted to her. As a Stanford computer-engineering student, she possessed enough knowledge to pursue the matter herself.
“555.222.148.147.”
The number was no secret, so he recited it. After finishing the Late Show, Yoo Jae-won and Tiffany moved to the computer and played games until drowsiness overtook them. A bottle of wine might have created a more romantic atmosphere, but a hotel date built around nachos and Mountain Dew was not unpleasant either. Tiffany's gaming skills were also respectable; when they teamed up as a duo, they became an ecological disturbance in the once-peaceful Ranker Village.
They continued in that fashion until Monday. It was not nonstop gaming from Friday onward—they simply worked when necessary and played when they could. On Tuesday morning, Yoo Jae-won departed for Langley with Tiffany seeing him off. He returned the following Saturday, a day later than planned.
“Chairman! You must have been exhausted.”
Kim Dae-seok greeted him warmly as he emerged from the underground server room. While ordinary visitors with passes could enter the Langley lobby and certain open offices, the underground facilities required special clearance. Kim had accompanied him to Langley but had not seen Yoo Jae-won from Tuesday until Friday evening. His welcome was as enthusiastic as a reunion after a long separation.
“Ugh, I thought I was going to die of boredom.”
It had been a long time since he had been cooped up like canned goods. In his previous life he could have endured a month without issue, but after regressing and growing accustomed to a luxurious, comfortable existence, even a few days of confinement had left both body and mind fatigued. He almost wished he had simply copied the search-engine program he had installed at the Coyote City data center. Still, he took satisfaction in having personally handled the coding and compilation, rendering reverse engineering nearly impossible. By leveraging the modular nature of cloud systems and distributing the program across a thousand machines—complete with numerous meaningless dummy modules—even the CIA would struggle to grasp its inner workings. Performance would suffer slightly, but contemporary experts would never detect the loss caused by modular programming. The CIA had already confirmed that the search engine functioned well and expressed satisfaction; they had even proposed joint drone research. Combining drones, digital cameras, and the big-data search engine would lay the foundation for the all-seeing surveillance state the intelligence community so desired.
Yoo Jae-won had avoided giving a firm answer, suggesting they revisit the topic once the technology matured further. CIA Science and Technology Director John McMahon had offered to book a luxury hotel for detailed discussions, but Yoo Jae-won declined. He was simply too tired and wanted to return home and rest. Consequently, upon arriving back in San Francisco, he went straight to the hotel and promptly forgot about Lee Sung-soo, who had been waiting since the previous week.
The meeting with Sejin Computer Land's president finally took place the next day—not at the hotel where Yoo Jae-won was staying, but at ID Technology's headquarters. While an informal hotel meeting would have been acceptable, the extra day's delay made him feel slightly guilty, so he arranged a formal appointment.
“Good afternoon! I am Lee Sung-soo of Sejin Computer Land!”
The moment he entered the office, Lee bowed deeply. His posture gave no hint of the Jeon Myeong-heon disease Yoo Jae-won had diagnosed. Despite the meeting being postponed a full week and then delayed another day, his expression remained cheerful.
“Yes, welcome. I'm Yoo Jae-won. You must have waited quite a while.”
“Not at all! I am honored simply to have been granted this audience.”
Even the smallest gesture of consideration from Yoo Jae-won delighted him. Refreshing coffee was served, and they moved quickly to the main topic.
“The reason I wanted to meet you, Chairman Yoo, is that I have a revolutionary idea for promoting computer adoption. However, to put it into practice, I will need a certain degree of your influence.”
“Computer adoption? And he needs influence rather than money?” Yoo Jae-won wondered what kind of business proposal this could be. Lee Sung-soo opened his briefcase, pulled out a neatly prepared business proposal, and handed it over.
“Oh?”
Yoo Jae-won let out a small exclamation upon reading the title on the cover. One phrase stood out immediately.
Kookmin PC.