The Special Edition
Yoo Jae-won left Seoul headquarters after receiving the full report and headed straight for the TG Building on Teheran-ro. As expected, he was warmly welcomed from the entrance and escorted directly to President Lee Yong-kwon’s office on the top floor.
“You look younger every time I see you,” Yoo Jae-won said, settling into the plush sofa. He offered the small compliment to ease into the conversation. It was also true. Though they spoke often online, nearly a year had passed since they last met in person. At that age, a new wrinkle would not have been surprising, yet Lee Yong-kwon’s face remained remarkably smooth.
At Yoo Jae-won’s remark, Lee Yong-kwon picked up a hand mirror and examined his reflection. “Really? I thought I looked the same. If even you say so, maybe something has changed after all. Truth is, these days are the most enjoyable I’ve had in a long time.”
TG Computer was sweeping the premium PC market, and TG Mobile’s network was being built so rapidly that pilot service could begin soon. While the computer division raked in profits and the mobile division spent them just as quickly, Lee Yong-kwon showed no concern. Market research conducted while preparing the mobile service revealed an enormous pool of potential subscribers waiting for launch. Multiple reports projected that the investment in infrastructure would be recovered and profits realized within five years. Even real estate prices in Seoul continued to climb. The TG Building on Teheran-ro and the other properties he had acquired had nearly doubled in value in just a few years.
“That phone you sent over was something else,” Lee Yong-kwon said, naturally moving to praise the device Yoo Jae-won had created. He had forwarded the units to his team for testing, but had used one himself for several days. Like all ID Group products, its design and performance were clearly a cut above anything from rival electronics companies.
“Especially that little dial pad. I never expected Korean input to be so easy.”
“It’s a bit slower, though.”
“Even so, it’s far easier to learn. For older users who aren’t used to IT devices, it’s much better than the old systems.”
In the field of double-byte language input, ID Group had already conquered the world. ID Office’s language input engine had become the standard for computers in Japan, China, and any region using its own double-byte characters. Yoo Jae-won had applied the same principle to mobile devices from the outset, creating the ultimate input system—the Sejong Code. He had poured considerable effort into the mobile language input section of his master plan precisely to prevent wasteful patent disputes and fragmentation. The code was patented, yet he intended to license it even to competitors such as Ilsung Electronics. While the effort invested in his previous life was not insignificant, broader adoption ultimately served his interests. Unified input would reduce hesitation when users upgraded devices, increasing the likelihood they would choose a phone made by ID Group.
“By the way, have the rate plans taken shape?”
Yoo Jae-won had come to TG both to collect the special gift for the North Korean delegation and to discuss the most critical element of TG Mobile’s launch: its pricing structure.
“We haven’t finalized anything yet, but the commissioned research report is ready.” Lee Yong-kwon handed him a bound booklet. “The raw data won’t mean much to you. Just look at the last section.”
Yoo Jae-won opened the report from the back. The conclusion outlined the proposed rates: a basic monthly fee exceeding ten thousand won even with zero usage, ten-second billing at twenty won per interval, and an astonishing ten won per kilobyte for data. A separate plan offering free voice minutes was suggested, but at a higher base rate. The structure closely resembled the pricing when PCS first launched in Korea, and the misunderstanding of data communication was severe.
“These are extremely expensive.”
“They are?” Lee Yong-kwon had clearly expected a positive reaction. Disappointment showed plainly on his face.
The mobile telecommunications business was an oligopoly. At present only TG Mobile and Shinsedae Telecom existed, and an implicit agreement to maintain similar rates was already in place. It was therefore natural that the commissioned study had maximized carrier profits.
“Voice rates do seem a little high,” Yoo Jae-won continued, “but with the included minutes they might be acceptable. The data rates, however, are far too expensive.”
“Data rates?”
“Yes. There’s no consideration at all for ID Group. Mobile data is ID Group’s next major growth engine. At ten won per kilobyte, who would actually use it?”
Korea’s internet infrastructure was already the best in the world and still improving. Although begun with mixed motives, the Information Superhighway project had been completed ahead of schedule. Fiber-optic cables now ran from Seoul to Busan and through all major cities, connected to Pacific submarine cables. Once routers were upgraded, bandwidth could be expanded to megabit or gigabit levels at any time. Yet this superb wired network had not extended to wireless. That failure rested entirely with the carriers. Yoo Jae-won had no desire to recall the early days of mobile data service, when each carrier’s portal was a single button press away on every handset and an accidental tap triggered a data bill that could ruin a household. At ten won per kilobyte, even Yoo Jae-won would hesitate to use mobile internet. Checking a single email could cost a hundred won; receiving an image or document via ID Talk could cost hundreds or thousands. An accidental video stream would be financially catastrophic.
“Even so, the report says almost no one will use the internet on their phones. Your phones have large LCD screens that make email and messaging practical, but many other companies’ models have no screen at all. Providing special service for a tiny user base naturally raises costs and, therefore, rates.”
“That’s not acceptable.”
If the public came to fear pressing the portal shortcut, Yoo Jae-won’s plans would be severely hampered.
“The internet must not become something special. It should be as easy to use as making a phone call. After all, the operating costs of the equipment are fixed.”
Operating wireless base stations was inexpensive; the main expense was stable power. The real costs had been spectrum fees, land for towers, and regulatory approvals—expenses already incurred. Yoo Jae-won had shared that burden by investing in TG Mobile.
“If the backbone usage fee is the issue, I can reduce it. I also have a say in the management of Dacom, which owns the backbone, so I can lower TG Mobile’s burden further. Offer a certain amount of free data included in the basic plan, then charge by usage once that allowance is exceeded. One won per kilobyte should be reasonable for now.”
At present, mobile internet use was limited to email, reading news on Nextcom, or browsing bulletin boards—all text-based. One won per kilobyte would not deter users. Later, when video streaming and large mobile games became common, rates could be adjusted, but for the moment one won per kilobyte was appropriate.
Lee Yong-kwon let out an involuntary gasp. Had anyone else been sitting across from him, he would have protested that the price was practically free. Yet he could not argue with Yoo Jae-won.
“Is that so? Very well. I’ll take it under advisement.”
In the end, Lee Yong-kwon surrendered without further protest. Had Yoo Jae-won demanded voice calls at one won per ten seconds, the conversation would have gone differently, but data rates—expected to generate little revenue at first—were not worth a fight.
“Then let’s go assemble the special edition. Did you bring the board?”
Having broken into a light sweat, Lee Yong-kwon seized the chance to change the subject. Continued discussion of mobile rates felt like watching his treasury being emptied.
“Of course. I prepared something special.”
Yoo Jae-won saw through the obvious deflection but let it pass. Changing the data pricing alone was already significant progress. Besides, the NewEgg 2 Special Edition was equally important, so he rose at once.
They did not need to visit the factory. Descending to the first floor of the TG Building was sufficient. Lee Yong-kwon, a fervent supporter of Yoo Jae-won, had adopted his methods as much as possible, including opening a flagship store on the ground floor. The old direct-sales outlets had resembled the franchise stores from the Sambo era. He had transformed them into sleek ID-style flagship stores. The change in interior alone produced remarkable results: sales surged, high-spending foot traffic increased, and surrounding commercial districts benefited from the synergy.
Inside the store, an assembly area had been prepared. All components for the special edition commemorating the cattle delegation’s visit to the North were ready. Yoo Jae-won signaled Kim Dae-seok, who placed the 007 briefcase he had carried like treasure onto a shelf and unlocked it. With a crisp click the case opened, revealing the motherboard inside.
“Is that the special-edition board? It doesn’t look any different.”
“Computer parts are all pretty much the same.”
Lee Yong-kwon had evidently hoped the special edition would feature something distinctive on the board itself. With other accessories one could gild or jewel-encrust them and call them special, but computers did not work that way. One could gold-plate the case or embed gems, yet it would still be just a computer.
“I used only the highest-grade components and verified stability. This is a gift for the Prime Minister. A crash during use would be extremely embarrassing.”
“True. If Kim Il-sung’s computer froze, the atmosphere would turn rather chilly. Still, aren’t all semiconductor chips the same?”
Lee Yong-kwon referred to North Korea’s dictator by his personal name. Although the official title was Chairman, even television and newspapers rarely used it, and ordinary citizens followed suit. Some progressive papers occasionally printed the title, but few viewed the man favorably. The practice felt strange to Yoo Jae-won, yet he accepted it as a sign of the times. That, however, was not the issue at hand.
“Actually, there is a difference. As president of a computer company, you should know this.”
Chips fabricated from the same design and the same wafer could still vary subtly in performance because the chemical processes that form semiconductor circuits produced slight differences in quality from chip to chip. This variation gave rise to the concept of yield. For Intel and other manufacturers, yield meant how many chips on a wafer functioned at all. Any chip meeting minimum specifications passed. From the user’s perspective, however, even chips that passed the manufacturer’s tests could be sorted by performance. Some operated flawlessly only at the rated clock speed; others remained stable at higher speeds. Overclocking was not yet widespread, so few people discussed the distinction, but in time it would become a selling point.
Yoo Jae-won had personally selected every component for the special-edition motherboard—CPU, memory, DSP chip, LAN card—with meticulous care. The CPU was Intel’s top-tier model, the single best performer chosen from a batch of one thousand. The LAN card was not the cheap 1 Mbps version but the latest 100 Mbps model used in research labs. Most importantly, he had embedded a sophisticated rootkit into the LAN card’s firmware.
His preparations did not end there. Once Kim Dae-seok handed over the motherboard, waiting TG engineers began assembly. These were professionals who did nothing but assemble computers; they finished quickly and precisely. Excellent design often made disassembly and reassembly more difficult—an eternal truth that applied to the NewEgg 2 as well. Yet the engineers handled it with ease.
When everything was ready, Yoo Jae-won powered the machine on. The familiar Android robot logo appeared, followed by the desktop. The screen then switched to the welcome page shown only on PCs with a fresh Android installation—a tutorial that collected basic personal information and adjusted a few settings.
“Hmm? That’s North Korean.” Lee Yong-kwon, studying the screen, spoke up.
Indeed. One of Android’s strengths was allowing users to operate their computers in their own language. Japanese users could choose Japanese; Chinese users could select Chinese characters. North Korea was no exception. Its standard language was called Munhwa-eo. Yoo Jae-won had prepared and installed a Munhwa-eo version of Android. It was not perfect—only the welcome page, desktop, file manager, and web browser menus had been translated. He had searched in vain in the United States for a North Korean language expert and had instead worked from memory, consulting the latest edition of the Joseon Language Dictionary stored in his mind. The tedious task had taken longer than creating the rootkit itself. He had wondered whether such effort was worthwhile for a single recipient, especially since there was no guarantee the Kim family would even use the gifted NewEgg 2. If they never turned it on, the entire effort would be wasted. The rootkit carried the same uncertainty. Important information such as nuclear launch codes, troop movements, or asset lists would never be stored on a gifted PC. What Yoo Jae-won hoped to obtain were personal details—diary entries or search queries—that might reveal the inner thoughts of the Kim family. Search queries, in particular, held promise. Only poll manipulators would deliberately enter false queries; ordinary users revealed their true interests. Knowing the psychological state and preferences of a nation’s leader was invaluable intelligence. In a one-man dictatorship like North Korea, it was nothing short of extraordinary.
“It’s done.”
The completed NewEgg 2 Special Edition was immediately packaged with its accessories. The box design remained unchanged except for the addition of the phrase “Commemorating the ’93 Visit to the North” and the simple serial number 01/01. Yoo Jae-won’s signature, requested by Jeon Myeong-heon, was included—not on the computer itself, but on a special-edition certificate bearing an appropriate gift message.
“You’re leaving right away?”
“Yes. I don’t have much time.”
“All right. Let’s meet once more before you depart.”
“Thank you.”
After brief farewells, Yoo Jae-won headed directly for the Prime Minister’s official residence. Unfortunately, Jeon Myeong-heon was not there. With the visit to the North imminent, preparations were overwhelming. He was in frequent contact with President Kim at the Blue House and receiving intensive briefings from the Ministry of Unification and the National Intelligence Service. Yoo Jae-won could only deliver the special edition and return. That evening, however, a brief thank-you call from Jeon Myeong-heon put his mind at ease.