The Lawsuit Arrives
Yoo Jae-won returned from Yeong-sik’s house that day having eaten not only snacks but a full dinner until he was stuffed. Though the hamburgers he had shared with his friends had already filled him considerably, Yeong-sik’s mother kept offering more until there was simply no room left. Coming home with nothing but a full stomach would not have been like Jae-won at all. To Yeong-sik’s mother and Yeong-sik himself it might have seemed like a joke, yet he had made sure to obtain a properly stamped contract. It had been a day that filled both body and mind.
The next day brought a steady stream of news from North Korea. Most of it, however, merely repeated what had already been said the day before. Because Prime Minister Jeon Myeong-heon, the delegation, and the small number of accompanying journalists could not send real-time reports back to Korea, there was little new information. Physically, the telephone network was not connected. Since the normalization of diplomatic relations with China in 1992, communication routed through China had become possible, but China could not be trusted completely, making it difficult to relay anything important. All that remained was to piece together fragmentary reports about Prime Minister Jeon’s visit.
One interesting aspect was the way Prime Minister Jeon had directed the visit. The gift of ten thousand cattle was essentially a personal present. Giving cattle between nations was bound to spark controversy on both sides. In Korea it would revive the tiresome “giveaway” debate, while in North Korea it could invite comparisons of the two systems—how prosperous must South Korea be to simply hand over ten thousand head of cattle? Of course, the cattle had been prepared by Jeon himself, which made the gesture all the more remarkable, and it could at least be framed as an expression of affection for his homeland.
That did not mean Prime Minister Jeon had traveled to the North entirely in a private capacity. He also carried the official status of President Kim Young-sam’s special envoy for North Korean affairs. Thanks to that, North Korea accorded him state-guest-level protocol, and his counterpart was set as Premier Kang Kyung-san of the North Korean cabinet. Jeon also carried a personal letter from President Kim Young-sam to Kim Il-sung. It was widely assumed to contain content regarding a summit meeting between the two leaders. Discussions for such a summit had already been underway for some time and had made considerable progress. They had reached the stage of setting a concrete date and location. Jae-won suspected the letter Jeon carried already included a proposed date.
“They need to meet before summer.”
Jae-won had repeatedly told Jeon that the meeting had to take place before the summer of the following year at the latest. There was no need to consult the Memory Palace to know that the biggest event of 1994 would be Kim Il-sung’s death. It would be best to meet Kim Il-sung before he died and secure at least a minimal agreement or joint declaration. On the surface North Korea looked like a lawless rogue state with no system at all, yet it possessed its own internal logic, the most important element of which was Kim Il-sung’s dying instructions. No matter what the successor truly thought, those instructions would be observed at least formally. If an improvement in inter-Korean relations could be enshrined as one of those instructions, many of the unfortunate events and wasteful rivalries of the twenty-first century might be prevented.
“President Kim is such a maverick that I’m not sure how well the advice was received.”
Jae-won’s expectations had risen slightly, yet he had already decided not to be disappointed even if nothing changed. Kim Jong-il’s succession as the second-generation leader was a foregone conclusion, and his reclusive nature was unlikely to change no matter what.
“By the way, has the computer been turned on yet? Or is there no internet connection over there?”
There was still no signal indicating that the rootkit had activated. The special-edition computer commemorating the cattle visit had been designed to send a specific packet the moment it was powered on and connected to the internet. The packet would look like an ordinary internet-speed test, but in reality it would signal that the rootkit was functioning properly. Naturally, it would also contain the IP address of the sending PC, allowing remote access to the rootkit and control of its functions. The continued absence of any signal was disappointing.
“Chairman, we’ve arrived.”
“Already?”
At Kim Dae-seok’s words, Jae-won looked up. The silver Hanbit Tower, symbol of the Daejeon Expo, now stood close by. Nothing passed the time quite like letting one’s mind wander. It felt as though they had only just left Yeoju, yet here they were already in Daejeon.
Jae-won had come to Daejeon today for the Expo’s grand finale. Just as every feast must end, the Daejeon Expo, which had begun in the heat of midsummer, would draw its colorful curtain today, November 7th. Contrary to Organizing Committee Chairman Oh Myung’s concerns, the Expo had been a resounding success. Nearly every elementary, middle, and high school student in the country had visited at least once, and so had most adults. Many had come more than once; the sheer scale of the event meant a single day was not enough to see every pavilion.
As expected, the most talked-about pavilion was ID Group’s ID Technopia Pavilion. Designed as an interactive experience, it had begun with twenty-minute viewing slots that were later extended to thirty minutes by the end of October—an important factor in its popularity. Visitors could take sticker photos, try the internet, handle various IT devices, and even see drones that seemed to have flown straight out of the future. The souvenirs were generous as well: a one-month free subscription to Nextcom was standard, and lucky winners received either the Android operating system or ID Office.
That did not mean there had been no controversy. The 100-percent reservation system had caused confusion, and the organizing committee had complained that the daily visitor count was lower than at other pavilions, demanding that more people be admitted. The biggest issue, however, concerned the operation of the guides. While the guides at the ID Technopia Pavilion worked in shifts and received salaries, guides at other pavilions were unpaid volunteers who endured grueling labor. It was only natural that complaints arose from both the companies running the pavilions and the guides themselves.
Nevertheless, Jae-won refused to yield. Chairman Oh Myung supported him, but the other committee members did not. Other large corporations had even tried to apply collective pressure, yet it had no effect. Although ID Group’s headquarters were in Korea, its main stage of operations was the United States and the wider world. In the end, the organizing committee had raised the white flag. They could not pay salaries to volunteers, but they settled the matter by distributing cash gifts in celebration of the successful event—three million won per person. With roughly one thousand guides selected by the committee, the total came to three billion won. Although this had been an unplanned expense, the Expo had not run a deficit. Final accounts had not yet been settled, but both the committee and the media had already declared it a profitable event. Including admission fees, lottery sales, emblem sales, and government subsidies, total revenue was estimated at 450 billion won. After subtracting construction and operating costs, the surplus exceeded 50 billion won. For a national event, simply reducing the deficit was considered a success; no one had expected a profit. The happy problem of what to do with the surplus had made the distribution of cash gifts to the guides an easy matter to resolve.
The finale of the Daejeon Expo was as splendid as the event itself had been successful. Jae-won watched the closing ceremony together with the ID Technopia Pavilion’s operating committee members and guides, and they took commemorative photographs. Believing that only the photographs would remain, he posed for group shots as well as one-on-one selfies with anyone who wished. The word “selfie” was still unfamiliar in the outside world, yet inside the Technopia Pavilion it had already become everyday language. Naturally, the selfies were taken not with film cameras but with the digital cameras built into the tablet PCs. Since all the guides had created email accounts, Jae-won promised to send the photos later by email.
The ID Technopia Pavilion would soon begin dismantling. Knowing that keeping the building would serve little purpose, Jae-won had constructed it from the start as a temporary structure using H-beams, so disassembly would be quick. Among the devices used inside the pavilion, those that could be safely released to the public would be donated—most notably the New Egg 2 PCs. Although their top-of-the-line specifications made them somewhat excessive for children, they would be donated to schools in Daejeon. After all, if children grew up using New Egg machines, they would naturally seek out ID products later in life. More sensitive items such as the tablet PCs, sticker-photo machines, and drones would be returned to the United States.
Jae-won also collected a few charming souvenirs—Dreamdori badges and dolls that had already sold out. They were gifts for Tiffany. He was not entirely sure whether they matched her taste, but whenever he saw pretty, cute little things he thought of her, so he had bought them anyway. He had already gathered quite a bundle, yet it still felt insufficient; he suspected he would keep collecting until it was time to return to America.
Jae-won did not return to Yeoju until after eleven at night. Chairman Oh Myung and the other organizing-committee members and business leaders who had worked for years to make the Expo a success stayed behind for an after-party, but Jae-won slipped away early. The gathering naturally turned into a drinking session. Since Jae-won was still too young to drink, almost no one tried to press him. A few men who were already flushed with alcohol insisted that drinking was something one learned from adults and attempted to force liquor on him, but others quickly intervened before the situation could escalate.
“You’re home? Shall I fix you a late-night snack?”
His parents had stayed awake waiting for him.
“It’s all right. I ate at the venue. I’m going to use the computer for a bit before bed, so please go ahead and sleep.”
Although tired after returning from the event in Daejeon, Jae-won still sat down in front of his computer. Skipping a shower was acceptable, but skipping the computer for even a single day was not. Since ID Group had begun expanding its subsidiaries, the speed at which messages and emails accumulated in ID Talk had increased dramatically. In particular, the newly launched ID Entertainment and the independent Android division had an unusually large number of reports to submit. He needed to check in frequently; if he skipped even a few days, his inbox would explode.
“Quite a lot today.”
As expected, dozens of reports had piled up the moment he booted the computer and automatically connected to ID Talk. Even a quick glance revealed several important items: a meeting report from Stephen Barber, president of ID Entertainment, regarding his discussion with Richard Garriott of Origin Systems, and a demo version of Warcraft sent by Mike Morhaime of Silicon & Synapse.
Stephen Barber had originally been a manager in the film division of ID Investment. A Wall Street veteran, he possessed an aggressive and intuitive investment style. His appointment as head of ID Entertainment—the next-generation growth engine of ID Group—had come about because his eye for talent had proven exceptionally sharp. The overlap between the 1994 release list Jae-won had selected through his master plan and the list Barber had curated reached a remarkable 48 percent. It was a pity they had fallen just one short of 50 percent, yet in the film industry, where even one success out of ten investments could be considered a hit, achieving nearly half was an extraordinary result. Barber’s taste aligned perfectly with commercial sensibilities; rather than chasing unique or artistic projects, he gravitated toward safe, mainstream appeal. Consequently, he excelled at selecting films that, while perhaps lacking in artistic merit, were likely to perform well at the box office. Remarkably, this foresight was something he had learned through painstaking effort. He had discovered that meticulously crafted, high-quality films sometimes failed while films with obvious shortcomings occasionally became massive hits within the same year. After analyzing the differences, he had eventually developed an instinct that could not be put into words.
Since ID Entertainment aimed to become a comprehensive entertainment company investing not only in games but also in films, music, television shows, and dramas, Stephen Barber was the ideal choice. True to expectations, he had thrown himself into his work the moment he became president. Jae-won had suggested that the best way to grow ID Entertainment quickly was to absorb smaller but talented game developers. Barber had immediately approached Origin Systems. The studio was famous for Wing Commander, an interactive space-flight simulation that demanded punishing hardware specifications yet delivered outstanding graphics. Even more renowned was the Ultima series, which had been releasing games steadily since the early Apple II era. Originally, Electronic Arts had acquired Origin Systems around 1992, but history had changed because of Jae-won, and the company had remained independent until now. The reason traced back to Jae-won himself. At the time, Electronic Arts had bet everything on Doom. Chairman Hawkins had launched an enormous promotional campaign not only in the United States but worldwide—an enormous gamble that had paid off handsomely. After pouring such massive resources into Doom, however, Electronic Arts no longer had the capacity to pursue additional acquisitions. Once Doom succeeded, Electronic Arts found itself sitting on a fortune and its merger capability had risen to another level. Yet problems soon arose at Origin Systems. Wing Commander, the project on which Origin had staked everything, was crushed by the unexpected rival Doom. The fallout severely damaged Origin’s finances, and many capable developers left. As a result, Electronic Arts abandoned the acquisition entirely and turned its attention elsewhere. It was an ironic twist of fate. Origin Systems had fallen so far that even the predator Electronic Arts had turned away, yet Jae-won was pleased. It did not matter if other famous developers had departed, so long as Origin’s president, Richard Garriott, remained. Whenever the first MMORPG was mentioned, Ultima Online inevitably came up, and that game had been created by Garriott’s own hands. Thanks to the internet spreading far faster than before, the online-game sector was filled with uncertainty, but the probability that Richard Garriott would achieve another massive success remained very high. Origin Systems’ financial situation had deteriorated so badly that an acquisition was now highly feasible.
“A Warcraft demo, is it?”
Jae-won immediately moved the mouse and began downloading the Warcraft demo sent by Silicon & Synapse. Even though it was only a demo, the file size reached a substantial 60 megabytes. Moreover, because it was being transferred from an American server, the maximum ADSL speed could not be fully utilized. Still, compared with the modem era it was a dramatic improvement; he would only have to wait a few minutes.
“Unfortunately, it isn’t the very first real-time strategy game.”
Real-time strategy simulations had existed before; Dune II, developed by Westwood Studios, was a masterpiece whose technology later led to Command & Conquer. That game would form a fierce rivalry with the Warcraft Jae-won was now receiving. Warcraft’s level of completion was exceptionally high, and the franchise would grow enormously over time, snowballing into something massive.
“I wonder how much the quality of the first demo has improved.”
As computer hardware advanced, so did the quality of games. Naturally, Jae-won expected Warcraft to be vastly different from before and waited for the download to finish.
Ding!
“Hmm?”
Just as the download was nearing completion, an alert sounded from ID Talk. It was a message from Alan, the head of ID Group’s legal department, tagged with the word “Urgent.” Other departments occasionally used the urgent tag, but the legal department almost never did. Especially not when Alan himself sent it under his own ID. Jae-won opened the message at once. Though short, its meaning was immediately clear.
Nextcomcast and ID Technology have been jointly sued by Electronic Arts and approximately twenty other companies. The plaintiffs allege infringement of their intellectual property rights and claim that the defendants encouraged and aided illegal copying.
A lawsuit. Encouraging and aiding illegal copying? And Electronic Arts, of all companies.
Jae-won immediately picked up his mobile phone. He had been about to call Chairman Hawkins, but realized he needed to understand the details first. He set the phone down again and initiated a voice call to Alan through ID Talk.