The Price of Justice

Just hearing the words National Security Act made his heart skip a beat. After all, that infamous law had spent far more time rounding up innocent civilians than actual spies. It had been the perfect tool for crushing anyone who dared criticize the regime, and whenever the ruling party faced a crisis, they simply labeled ordinary citizens as communists and used the Act to escape accountability.

“Our employees haven’t actually been sued under the National Security Act, have they?”

“What? Operate by force? What are you talking about? We must obey the law.”

Choi Kang-wook had apparently planned to ignore the police’s closure order, since the Korean Nextcom news page was serving as an excellent forward base for their public opinion war. In truth, the police order itself was legally shaky. Police were just police. What authority did they have to order a shutdown when they weren’t even a court? If you dug into it, the measure was clearly unlawful.

But this was 1993. The word “commie” still carried real weight. While Jae-won had the judiciary and the government cornered over their pro-Japanese past, if the “red” issue exploded here, public opinion could flip in an instant.

“Yes!”

“It’s fine. We must prevent any sparks from flying onto our employees. Besides, once we shut down the server, you’ll understand why I said it’s okay.”

In his previous life, this incident had been dubbed the Modern Philosophy Club Incident. It had been big enough to make the newspapers. When Yoo Jae-won had been gathering materials to build his master plan, this case had naturally caught his eye.

“By the way, as Chief of Staff Choi said, someone must have escalated what could have been solved by simply blocking one club into a full site shutdown. Find out who that person is.”

Choi Kang-wook was always one step ahead of Yoo Jae-won’s instructions. He knew Jae-won would naturally ask who had given the order, so he had prepared the full picture in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠advance—including both the investigator who issued the order and the chief prosecutor overseeing him.

Kang Im-seok?

Yoo Jae-won felt a faint sense of déjà vu. Feeling déjà vu meant the name was prominent enough to have been etched into his memory. He would need to search for it inside his Memory Palace.

“Understood. For now, comply with the closure order when it is issued. I will give further instructions after observing the situation.”

The call between Yoo Jae-won and Choi Kang-wook ended.

At around the same time, a private meeting was taking place at the Blue House between Director Kim Deok of the Agency for National Security Planning and President Kim.

President Kim had a deep and complicated history with the Agency for National Security Planning—no explanation was really necessary. Since his days in the democracy movement, he had lived under constant surveillance. While not to the same extent as opposition leader Kim Dae-jung, Kim Young-sam had also endured daily wiretapping and threats. When martial law was declared, armed troops had blocked him from entering the National Assembly, and he had even been placed under house arrest.

Now that Kim Young-sam had become president, a major overhaul of the Agency was inevitable. The symbol of that change was none other than Director Kim Deok, who now sat politely across from the president.

The fact that Kim Deok—a former professor of political science and diplomacy at Hankuk University of Foreign Studies—had been appointed director had been a shock to the entire agency. His inaugural statement had perfectly reflected the president’s will: he would boldly abolish the political surveillance functions that had given the agency such a negative image, and instead focus on gathering overseas intelligence and information on North Korea appropriate for a divided nation.

At first, it seemed those words were being kept. Reports on politicians’ movements had indeed been suspended. However, domestic intelligence collection in other areas was still operating at full capacity.

The report that Yoo Jae-won had poured an enormous amount of money into launching a public opinion war had come in just a few days ago. This was already the third time he had been flagged for intensive monitoring.

“Chairman Yoo Jae-won appears to have sharpened his blade for this matter. It does not seem the formation of public opinion will end anytime soon. The number of participants in the fundraising campaign for victims of the Japanese colonial period is increasing by the day.”

“Is that so? How much has been raised?”

“Officially, it has already surpassed one billion won.”

President Kim looked slightly surprised.

“Then that means they’ve already hit two billion. Since Chairman Yoo promised to match whatever the public donates.”

“Yes. He deliberately had the two lawyers from the Kim & Jung Law Firm contribute six hundred million won, so they have served as very effective shills.”

“Shills? Director Kim, you need to broaden your perspective.”

Having listened to the Agency director’s report with various reactions, President Kim clicked his tongue at this point.

“What do you mean, sir?”

“No matter how many hundreds of millions the public raises, in the end Chairman Yoo is the one contributing the largest amount. From that, even I can tell that he intends to use this money for some major project. But wouldn’t such a project require national participation and support? And it will likely be related to the Japanese colonial period as well.”

At the president’s words, Director Kim Deok bowed his head in shame. Failing to grasp something so basic and only reporting the numbers was clearly his own mistake. At the same time, while it might not be a major issue for Koreans, it could cause problems internationally. Korean media had been digging up the Japanese colonial period quite frequently lately, which had made Japan extremely uncomfortable. The problem was that pressure from the Japanese side kept coming in. A significant portion of foreign capital entering Korea came from Japan; if that decreased, it could create serious issues at a time when explosive economic growth was expected.

“Is there anything else?”

At the president’s question, Director Kim Deok immediately moved on to the next report.

“We have also confirmed that Chairman Yoo’s people are actively operating around the courthouse, working hard to identify those who exerted external pressure on the first-instance verdict.”

“Has the Agency identified the higher-ups?”

“I am ashamed to say we are still in the process of identifying them.”

If President Kim had used the Agency the way the military regime had, they would have already found the person pressuring the trial. However, he had publicly declared that he would show a different Agency, and by actually banning the illegal wiretapping and surveillance the Agency had previously conducted, their intelligence-gathering capabilities had significantly declined.

“Work harder. Wouldn’t it damage my dignity if I learn about it after Chairman Yoo?”

“Yes, I will do my utmost.”

Although President Kim had spoken politely, to Director Kim Deok it felt like enormous pressure. He resolved that before their next private meeting, he would absolutely uncover the name of that damned judge.

“Do you still have something to say?”

It seemed the meeting should have ended there, but seeing that Director Kim Deok remained seated, the president asked again.

“This is the last item. A temporary closure order has been issued against Nextcom. It is a measure from Special Division 4 of the Seoul District Prosecutors’ Office on grounds of violating the National Security Act.”

“The National Security Act?”

President Kim’s expression turned sour. Memories of being tormented by the Act had resurfaced. Back then, he had ground his teeth and sworn that if he became president, he would strike down the National Security Act first. But after the three-party merger, he had joined the Democratic Liberal Party—the former ruling party of the old military regime—making it difficult to push the issue. Although he had believed that becoming president would let him do anything, and had indeed accomplished monstrous feats like dismantling the Hanahoe faction, abolishing the National Security Act was another matter entirely. If next year’s North-South summit produced good results, there might be room for improvement, but not now.

“Will you intervene immediately?” Director Kim Deok asked cautiously.

Even before taking office, President Kim had strongly checked Yoo Jae-won. After all, the man had been a major obstacle on his path to power. But after meeting him face-to-face in the United States, his attitude had changed somewhat. Moreover, while it was uncomfortable to be lumped together with the judiciary and criticized by the public, the work of settling historical issues aligned with the president’s own thinking.

“Let’s wait and see for now.”

A question mark appeared on Director Kim Deok’s face at the president’s words. He had naturally assumed the president would order a favorable response toward Yoo Jae-won.

“Shouldn’t he experience some hardship first so he can truly appreciate the value of help?”

Director Kim Deok immediately understood the meaning behind President Kim’s follow-up ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠words. With that, the briefing on Yoo Jae-won’s movements came to an end, and the private meeting concluded.

However, Yoo Jae-won’s response far exceeded anything President Kim or Director Kim Deok had anticipated.

The next day, Korean news focused on ID Group for the first time in a while.

Just as people were growing tired of the endless flood of news about forced labor and comfort women during the Japanese colonial period, the unresponsive attitude of war criminal corporations, and the nonsense spouted by Japanese politicians, the news that Nextcom had been caught under the National Security Act hit the front page of the Daehan Ilbo in massive headlines.

The Daehan Ilbo boasted the highest circulation in the country and possessed correspondingly powerful reporting capabilities. Moreover, it had countless voluntary informants planted throughout politics and the judiciary. Whenever a major incident known only to insiders occurred, the Daehan Ilbo was the first to receive the tip. Thanks to this, they were also the first to report that Nextcom had been hit with a National Security Act violation and ordered temporarily closed.

The Daehan Ilbo had already felt uncomfortable with the Japanese colonial victim controversy that ID Group had stirred up. If it collapsed here, they sensed that one of the pillars of the vested interests they had built would come crashing down. And with good reason—tracing the newspaper’s roots inevitably revealed its pro-Japanese past.

Apparently believing they had caught the thread of a counterattack, the Daehan Ilbo rolled out one of their signature distorted articles. The comfort women lawsuit had begun about two years ago, and the Modern Philosophy Club incident had only erupted yesterday. Yet the newspaper twisted the facts to make it seem as though the Japanese colonial victim issue had been deliberately raised to cover up the club incident.

The article that poured fuel on the fire was the one reporting on the Blue House. It had come from the so-called “out-of-office reporters” in Sangdo-dong. President Kim’s management of the press had been famous for a long time. His signature move was opening his wallet for reporters at every dinner or event. As a result, the reporters liked him and did not hesitate to write favorable articles. Naturally, when they did criticize him, their edge was dulled.

When the three-party merger had occurred, the uproar had lasted only a few days before they demonstrated what full-throated support truly looked like. Even after the civilian government was launched, the reporters President Kim had cultivated continued to commute to the Sangdo-dong office, where they gauged the mood at the Blue House and wrote their articles. These journalists were called the “Blue House scholarship students of Sangdo-dong.” Now, sensing that the Blue House felt awkward about the National Security Act issue surrounding Nextcom, they had stepped forward to scratch the itch for them.

To the general public, it looked as though ID Group’s momentum had been broken by this sudden National Security Act charge. Some with more radical views expressed strong disappointment upon hearing that ID Group would meekly accept the police measures, seeing it as a retreat. Outlets with ultra-progressive leanings like the One Nation Newspaper even ran editorials calling for the immediate abolition of the National Security Act.

However, the vast majority of ordinary netizens continued using the Nextcom service without any problems. Although the Korean Nextcom server had been shut down by police enforcement, the backup server in the United States had automatically taken over.

Over the phone, Choi Kang-wook’s voice was filled with astonishment. It was understandable—he had personally witnessed the police’s temporary closure order due to the seriousness of the matter. He had directly observed the process of shutting down the main server of Korean Nextcom located in the basement of the Seoul Rodeo Building.

The main server was a mainframe purchased from IBM at great expense several years earlier, so powering it down was no small task. They had to verify that the data was safely stored, perform backups, and only then shut it down. The entire process had taken nearly thirty minutes. Once the power was cut, they had expected an explosion of connection complaints. They had even reinforced the customer service center in preparation, but even after several dozen minutes, the center remained eerily quiet.

Upon investigation, they discovered that Nextcom’s service was running perfectly normally.

“It’s called redirection technology.”

Running an internet service without backup servers was something only done in the very early stages or for small-scale operations. Later, as the amount of data handled even by individuals grew larger, backups became not an option but a necessity. Naturally, since ID Group had built the first data center, their backup systems were extremely thorough. One of the ways they utilized these backup servers was to switch to a temporary server in case the main one experienced trouble.

By keeping the URL registered in DNS the same and simply changing the IP address, users could continue using the existing service without noticing anything.

“Yes! The backup server is in the United States. And management of the backup server is handled by the Nextcom U.S. subsidiary. America is a very free country.”

Yoo Jae-won answered simply and clearly. Although McCarthyism had once gripped America, after winning the Cold War in the 1970s and 80s, the country had completely shed its Red Complex. Dealing with socialism was no longer an issue.

“We definitely shut down the Korean server, so there’s no problem, right?”

Only after answering Yoo Jae-won’s question did Choi Kang-wook finally understand the concept of an online service’s nationality. Because of the broadband optical cable connection, even though the server was in America there was no noticeable delay or drop in transmission speed. On the other hand, Korean law had no power to control a server located in the United States. The fearsome National Security Act, which still held such dread in Korea, was nothing more than a paper tiger once it crossed the ocean.

Could Korea really order the Nextcom located in America to immediately cease service for violating the National Security Act, or summon its executives? It was laughable.

“By the way, the prosecutor leading this was Kang Im-seok, correct?”

“Upon looking into him, he seems to have quite a few problems.”

Inside his Memory Palace, Yoo Jae-won searched for the three characters of Kang Im-seok’s name and thought, Just as I suspected. His grandfather’s record of pro-Japanese treason had been staggering. He had been a member of the Chosun History Compilation Committee, which the Japanese Government-General had created to distort Korean history. There was no room for argument.

Kang Im-seok himself was an ambitious man with strong political desires. In the original timeline, he would have been scouted by the political world and served three terms as a National Assembly member. Naturally, the party he belonged to would have been one that proudly upheld conservative values.

“Since we received it by the doe, isn’t it only right that we return it by the mal?”

Even without this, interest in those who had hidden their pro-Japanese records from the colonial period was exploding in Korea. If Kang Im-seok’s grandfather’s story were reported on a large scale in this atmosphere, the public’s reaction was easy to predict.

Having decided that the matter of Prosecutor Kang Im-seok was settled, Yoo Jae-won moved on to the next agenda.

“You know that Android Inc.’s IPO process is proceeding smoothly, yes?”

If the Japanese colonial period was the hot issue in Korea, then in America it was the public listing of Android Inc., which had completely conquered the PC operating system market. Upon hearing the news of the IPO, the American financial world and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the super-rich with serious money had reacted far beyond Yoo Jae-won’s expectations. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠They had aggressively promoted their strengths in order to become the lead underwriter. If Jae-won had given permission, representatives from JP Morgan or Goldman Sachs would have flown straight to San Francisco to deliver presentations in person.

He still had no intention of choosing yet. President Kevin Johnson, with his experience in IPOs, was capable of preparing Android’s listing internally, and the process was currently underway through the SEC and NASDAQ. They only needed to select an underwriter after passing the review and reaching the stage of filing the securities registration statement and issuing public shares. Naturally, there were no flaws in the review results—business scale, financial soundness, cash flow, and accounting transparency were all impeccable. Android Inc. was so solid that it was impossible to imagine it had started as a tiny startup.

The super-rich, having learned of these facts through their respective sources, were moving quickly. They expressed interest in purchasing Android shares through block deals even before the IPO. The current asking price was 820 million dollars for 5%, while someone offering to buy 10% at once had bid 1.5 billion dollars.

“This news will soon be made public through financial media outlets like Forbes and The Wall Street Journal.”

That was exactly what Yoo Jae-won had been about to say. There were times when one should hide their strength. But this incident was not one of them. He judged that he needed to clearly show his true power and the majesty of ID Group to those who still underestimated him in order to end this quickly. As expected, the other side’s reaction did not disappoint his expectations.