Cows Across the Border
The television screen filled with the familiar voice of the anchor. “Good evening, viewers. Today marks the historic opening of Panmunjom, once a symbol of division and tension. Though they cannot speak, the cattle seemed to carry our heartfelt wishes in their gentle eyes. First, Prime Minister Jeon Myeong-heon and the delegation to the North, along with 2,501 head of cattle, have arrived at Panmunjom. Reporter Park Sang-yong brings us the story of their crossing of the Military Demarcation Line and the Prime Minister’s expression as it happened.”
Yoo Jae-won’s family, along with relatives from the main house, had gathered in the living room to watch the special news broadcast. The television was, of course, tuned to KBS. For their parents’ generation, KBS was simply the default for news. Thanks to the extensive remodeling that had stripped the house down to its bones and rebuilt it, a surprisingly large number of relatives had fit inside without making the space feel cramped. Another clear sign of their changed circumstances was the abundance of snacks—bananas, apples, and oranges piled high on the table. Banana prices had become realistic after the Uruguay Round in 1991, but oranges were still another matter. Fresh oranges were not merely expensive; they were genuinely difficult to obtain. Yet at Yoo Jae-won’s parents’ house, boxes of them rolled around freely. The main house was no different. The pine mushrooms that poured out of their ancestral mountain were exported entirely to Japan, and yen continued to flow steadily into the family’s bank accounts. Even when the relatives had come for the housewarming of Yoo Jae-won’s new home, they had all flown first class without any assistance from him. It was no exaggeration to say that the most basic requirement of je-ga—managing one’s household—had already been achieved among his grand ambitions.
“Look at that herd. Quite a sight,” his eldest uncle remarked. Yoo Jae-won, who had been lost in thought, turned back to the screen. Cargo trucks carrying five cattle each stretched endlessly down the road. The procession had begun at the Saemangeum farm. Even Yoo Jae-won felt a surge of admiration. He had been the one to propose sending the cattle north, and he had increased the scale tenfold from his original plan. On paper, it had only been an extra digit, but seeing the actual footage made the sheer magnitude undeniable. What was even more astonishing was that three more such shipments were still scheduled. And all of this preparation had been handled personally by Prime Minister Jeon Myeong-heon. The trucks came from Mirae Motors, which he had built himself, specially modified for transporting livestock. The cattle themselves came from his personal farm at Saemangeum.
Soon the broadcast cut to Prime Minister Jeon Myeong-heon and the Mirae Group executives waiting in the VIP room at Panmunjom. Though they were introduced as the Prime Minister and his executives, they were, in truth, the Jeon family. His children had joined the delegation under the pretext of their positions as Mirae Group executives. Because events had unfolded five years earlier than in his previous life, Jeon Myeong-heon looked far more vigorous than Yoo Jae-won remembered, while the executives appeared noticeably more tense.
“Prime Minister, how are you feeling right now?”
“It feels good to be going home. I even dreamed of pigs last night.”
The reporters were the ones who had struck gold. Questions poured toward Jeon Myeong-heon and the executives, and in unusually good spirits, he answered every one.
“North Korea has cheap labor and hardworking people. Most importantly, they are fellow Koreans who speak the same language. That is their greatest strength. I believe large-scale economic cooperation projects are entirely possible.”
His immediate answer to questions about economic cooperation could only have come after consultation with the civilian government. It was clear that those discussions had already concluded.
A short while later, the main event began. Jeon Myeong-heon personally led the finest bull from the Saemangeum farm across the Military Demarcation Line. Nearly a thousand Mirae Group employees lined the roadside, waving banners and scattering flower petals. It must have been cold, yet they had come out in force. The actual cattle crossing commenced at ten in the morning. The first truck passed through the open lot east of the North Korean guard post at Panmunjom and crossed into the North. The road was unpaved, and a low concrete curb marking the demarcation line caused the vehicle to jolt heavily, but it crossed without incident. Countless trucks followed in its wake. South Korean officials and North Korean agents in sunglasses watched with sharp eyes. Not only Korean networks but also foreign broadcasters like CNN were broadcasting live to the world, and everyone’s expressions were tense. Kim Cheol-soon, the Mirae Construction executive in charge of general affairs and president of the Saemangeum farm—who had coordinated the entire operation—sweated profusely as he directed operations on the spot. If the cattle in the cargo holds grew restless or a truck broke down, it would become an international embarrassment. The only way to prevent that was thorough inspection and preparation, and the burden on Kim Cheol-soon was immense. Remarkably, he had carried out the enormous task without fail. At least his responsibilities would end once the herd reached the North Korean Panmun Pavilion; from there, North Korean drivers would take over, and the South Korean drivers would return.
“The North Koreans must be stunned.”
“That may be, but I just hope the Prime Minister returns safely.”
The adults’ minds were still filled with the old framework of South-North confrontation and distrust of the North. Yoo Jae-won agreed. He did not yet know how much inter-Korean economic cooperation would expand because of this event, but the immediate priority was ensuring Jeon Myeong-heon and the delegation returned unharmed. Everything else—North-South relations, the economy—could come after. Still, Jeon Myeong-heon possessed decades of experience. Moreover, Yoo Jae-won had spoken with him directly before the trip and offered various pieces of advice, all drawn from records of his previous life. He expected that, barring any extraordinary problems, the Prime Minister would handle matters well and return safely.
The next day, while the television was still filled with news of the cattle crossing, Yoo Jae-won went out. He climbed the hill behind the village and wandered through the neighborhood, experiencing firsthand how much Deokjin-ri had changed since his elementary school days. In his previous life, decades could pass without any noticeable difference in the village. Now the transformation was so vast it felt almost unreal. Paved sidewalks reached every corner, drainage ditches had been properly maintained, and the remaining asbestos slate roofs had all been replaced with yellow clay tiles. Running water was a given, and streetlights stood at regular intervals along every maintained road, lighting up faithfully each night. Even a walking trail had been built all the way to the summit of the hill behind the village. Where there had once been only bare dirt and stone paths, wooden stairs now climbed the slope. Though only the steepest sections had been improved, the ascent had become far easier. It was the result of a shared hobby between his eldest uncle and his father—a real-life SimCity played out in their own village. His uncle’s ambitions ended at the village boundary, but his father’s were broader. After becoming president of the handball association, he had spent the entire one billion won Yoo Jae-won had given him that very month. He had paid out the prize money that had never been properly awarded to the athletes who won gold medals at the 1988 and 1992 Olympics. According to Chief of Staff Choi Kang-wook, it had not been an excessive gesture. Yoo Jae-won had assumed prize money would be distributed according to the official roster, but in reality only the players who had appeared in the final matches received anything. Those who had not played received nothing. His father had divided four hundred million won equally among every player on the Olympic entry list. Teamwork, he believed, was the most important aspect of handball. No single player was greater than the team; the decision had been made to emphasize collective effort over favoring exceptional individuals. The coaching staff had also been considered. One hundred million won was allocated to the head coach and team doctor, with slight differentiation in distribution. The remaining five hundred million won was sent as development funds to middle and high schools that operated handball teams—for equipment, uniforms, and even team dinners. Yoo Jae-won’s mouth had fallen open at the sheer scale of his father’s generosity. His father had then boasted confidently about the 1994 World Championships. Everyone’s sense of purpose was so strong that he expected far better results than the usual disappointments at the World Championships. Yoo Jae-won shook his head.
“At most, less than half of that money will actually be used properly.”
It was not the money itself that concerned him. Ten billion won was a negligible amount within the vast cash flows ID Group managed. The real problem was that the funds his father had intended for the development of handball would likely end up in the wrong pockets.
“I should have a word with the audit department.”
His father was chairman of the ID Foundation, which belonged to ID Group. Although the handball association was independent, because his father served as its president, requesting an external audit through ID Group’s audit office would present no legal issues. “They’ll be shaken down like dust on a rainy day.” In Yoo Jae-won’s memory, only the archery association among Korea’s sports federations functioned properly. Once the problematic individuals were thoroughly removed and competent people appointed in their place, the handball association could become like the archery association. Yoo Jae-won, who had gone hiking to prepare for next year’s major business plans, came back down the mountain thinking only about auditing the handball association.
His next appointment was with his elementary school friends, and his steps felt light. Meeting old friends was always enjoyable. Watching how they had changed with age was entertaining in itself. They were still just children who would only become high school students next year, full of youthful energy. Jumin and Yeong-sik were beginning to show clear signs of puberty—facial hair and acne appearing. The girls—Su-gyeong, Eun-hye, and the others—had completely shed their tomboyish appearances and grown prettier. They seemed well aware of this, emphasizing their individual charms and dressing up as much as possible. Unfortunately, Tiffany had raised his standards so high that he felt little romantic attraction. Still, they were all going through the turbulent period of adolescence, and to Yoo Jae-won they simply looked fresh and innocent.
Surprisingly, the gathering ended quickly. Outside of business, there were only so many places teenagers their age could go in Yeoju. They ate hamburger sets at the McDonald’s that was currently the hottest spot among local kids, sang a few songs at a karaoke parlor, and by the time they emerged, dusk had fallen. If they had been adults, they might have gone for a third round at a pub, but that was impossible. A PC bang would have been perfect for some multiplayer games, but such places did not yet exist. An arcade was also out of the question. The arcades of 1993 were hardly suitable environments for mixed groups of boys and girls. Cigarette smoke hung thick in the air, and there were plenty of thugs who would snatch money from children. Of course, with his armed bodyguards, no one would dare approach Yoo Jae-won, but it was still inappropriate for the group. Instead, they agreed to meet more often while he was in Korea and parted ways for their homes.
But Yoo Jae-won did not return to Naeo Village. “This is my house,” Yeong-sik said as they arrived. There was a hint of tension in his voice, and an unmistakable trace of embarrassment he could not quite hide. Yeong-sik’s home, located along the South Han River road on the western side of Yeoju, was an old two-room house. He had rarely invited friends over because he did not want them to see it. The reason Yeong-sik had brought Yoo Jae-won here stemmed from a casual conversation they had while eating hamburgers. The friends had been listening attentively to Yoo Jae-won’s activities, and naturally the second Security Challenge had come up. They had asked how much one hundred million dollars was in Korean won and whether he had truly intended to award the prize if someone succeeded. Yeong-sik had mentioned that he had come up with a good idea and tried to participate, but had failed because of slow connection speeds. It had been nothing more than a complaint about bad luck, yet Yoo Jae-won had not let it pass so easily. When he heard the idea Yeong-sik had conceived, it was far from ordinary. Unable to contain his curiosity, Yoo Jae-won had decided to see a demonstration for himself and followed Yeong-sik home.
Though the exterior of Yeong-sik’s house was old, the interior felt cozy. In Yeong-sik’s room stood the New Egg 2 Pro version Yoo Jae-won had given him, treated like a family treasure. Just as Yoo Jae-won had once done, the computer was covered with a cloth—probably made by Yeong-sik’s mother. Seeing his friend using his gift so carefully filled him with quiet satisfaction.
“Show me quickly.”
“Ah, okay.”
Yeong-sik removed the cover and sat in front of the computer. He began explaining at once.
“Wow! That’s incredible!”
A short while later, admiration escaped Yoo Jae-won’s lips. Just as he had expected. Yeong-sik’s approach was completely different. Most other challengers had tried to obtain the safe’s password through user IDs and passwords, or root IDs and passwords. They had analyzed Yoo Jae-won’s psychological state and scrambled to find patterns from previously disclosed passwords. Yeong-sik had changed the method entirely—he had attempted to induce an error in the login system itself.
“While entering the password, I suddenly wondered how long it could actually be.”
The official manual for the personal Android operating system stated that IDs could be up to twelve characters and passwords between eight and sixteen characters, using numbers, uppercase and lowercase letters, and special characters. Yeong-sik had wondered what would happen if someone entered a password longer than that. Naturally, an error message appeared saying the password was too long. Most people would have given up at that point and changed direction, but Yeong-sik was different.
“I figured there must be a function that distinguishes between normal-length passwords and overly long ones when they’re entered. So I was testing how well that function worked. Then somehow it malfunctioned.”
Yeong-sik had created several nonsensical strings longer than sixteen characters with unusual patterns. When he repeatedly input them, a message he had never seen before appeared. To Yoo Jae-won, it was clearly not an error message but part of the user authentication process. Fortunately for Yoo Jae-won—and unfortunately for Yeong-sik—the contest had ended before Yeong-sik could fully implement his idea as a working program. If he had refined a few more details and timed it better, Yeong-sik might have been recorded as the first person to break through the login stage. Since the program was now complete, Yeong-sik had been running experiments on an old 486 computer tucked away in a corner of the house, and he was recreating it now for Yoo Jae-won.
“This is a technique called buffer overflow.”
“Ah, so it’s an existing technique?”
It was familiar to Yoo Jae-won. It was an error that occurred when variables or memory management were mishandled during programming. When it did occur, however, the consequences were severe. Malfunctions were common, and in extreme cases the entire program could crash. Elite hackers with real skill had tried to induce buffer overflow errors in the same way Yeong-sik had, but only Yeong-sik had actually succeeded.
“Still, it’s impressive. No other challenger came at it with such sharp insight.”
“Really? Wow!”
“Yeah. We need to draw up a contract right away. Once you graduate high school, don’t go anywhere else—come straight to our company.”
“Of course I will!”
Yeong-sik nodded playfully, but Yoo Jae-won was completely serious. Finding a trustworthy and capable colleague like Yeong-sik was incredibly difficult. Even founding members like Remington and Choi Kang-wook, though still young, would retire long before him. He needed to nurture people who could work alongside him in the future, and Yeong-sik was the first to meet his standards. Sincerely intending to formalize the agreement, Yoo Jae-won picked up a pen and paper to draft a simple contract when a knock sounded and the front door opened. Yeong-sik’s mother had returned from work.
“Mom! Jae-won’s here.”
Yeong-sik, who had been watching Yoo Jae-won hurriedly writing the contract, rushed to greet her.
“Hello! I’m Yeong-sik’s friend, Yoo Jae-won.”
Yoo Jae-won set aside the paper and pen and greeted Yeong-sik’s parents with proper respect. Yeong-sik’s mother looked startled. From a professional standpoint, Yoo Jae-won was the distant chairman of the company where she worked at the Yeoju packaging factory, the Korean branch of ID Technology. She had suspected something when she arrived near the house. She had known through morning assembly announcements and the news that Yoo Jae-won was staying in his hometown while in Korea. But the luxurious car parked openly in the empty lot in front of the house and the massive foreign bodyguard had confirmed her suspicions.
“Please treat me like any of Yeong-sik’s friends.”
Yet Yoo Jae-won, who had no intention of receiving formal greetings from his friend’s mother, remained courteous.
“Ah, yes. Of course. Make yourselves comfortable.”
With his mother’s permission, the two boys returned to the computer and sat side by side, resuming their complex discussion. To her eyes, it was a strangely unfamiliar yet deeply pleasing sight.