New Year's Calls and Fair Lotteries
Yoo Jae-won lifted the receiver and offered the traditional greeting at once. “Happy New Year, Grandfather.”
—How did you know it was me?
“Heh, there are ways to tell.”
—Don’t tell me you really have some kind of superpower like the rumors say.
Since the old man’s expression was invisible over the line, it was impossible to tell whether the remark was serious or in jest. To avoid any unnecessary misunderstanding, Jae-won decided to be straightforward.
“A superpower? It’s just the caller-ID service.”
Analog landlines were still out of reach, but between 2G digital handsets the feature had already become standard. ID Technology was building the operating system for TG Mobile, and caller ID had been added during the latest test phase.
—Ho. So now I can simply ignore calls I don’t want to take.
“Yes. It has all sorts of uses.”
—Then why isn’t my own phone showing it?
The service required a handset update. Jeon Myeong-heon’s device had not yet received it, while Jae-won’s had.
“I’ll update it for you when I come up to Seoul in a few days.”
—Update? What’s that?
“There’s a small operating system inside every phone. Updating just means raising its capabilities.”
—Aigoo, the sound quality and convenience are wonderful, but there’s so much to learn.
Greater functionality inevitably brought greater complexity. That was why Jae-won intended to push the software to the highest possible level of completion before TG Mobile launched its commercial service—so that even elderly users like Jeon Myeong-heon could update without difficulty.
—I saw the press conference. Listing on Nasdaq and making such a splash—I felt proud myself. I wonder how far you’ll go from here.
“Thank you. It’s thanks to so many people, yourself included, who helped in every way they could. I’m proud of you too. Everyone’s calling you the greatest prime minister in history.”
—Haha, being prime minister is far easier than being president, I’ll tell you that.
Previous prime ministers had seemed to do almost nothing, but Jeon Myeong-heon’s style and presence were unmistakably different. He was the first to faithfully carry out Article 86 of the Constitution—assisting the president and, under presidential direction, overseeing the ministries. He never hesitated to rebuke ministers who failed to perform, even those personally appointed by President Kim. During the recent judicial impeachment crisis he had also forced the Ministry of Justice to stay out of the fray, allowing the National Assembly to handle the matter cleanly without turning it into a political circus.
President Kim had apparently found the old man prickly at first, yet lately he had begun entrusting Jeon Myeong-heon with the full conduct of cabinet meetings. The president’s attention was consumed by the upcoming inter-Korean summit; there were countless coordination issues with the United States and neighboring countries. In such circumstances, Jeon Myeong-heon had become the one person he could rely on.
—I have a favor to ask.
“Of course. Please don’t hesitate.”
Jae-won was more than willing. Jeon Myeong-heon’s role in the swift impeachment of the judges had been decisive. The very idea of a National Assembly investigation had first been raised by the Tongil National Party, and the party had led the impeachment itself. Even the handful of former judges among its lawmakers had joined the effort instead of defending the judiciary, lending the motion extra weight. President Kim, for all his political strength, could not move the Minjeong Party with such effortless unity; Jeon Myeong-heon had done it almost casually. Jae-won knew how difficult such feats truly were, so any request from the old man would be granted without question.
—Thank you for saying so. Still, it isn’t quite as simple as it sounds.
Yet when Jae-won heard the details, the task did not seem especially difficult.
—The family-reunion event is only weeks away, but we’ve run into a serious snag. Selecting the participants is proving impossible because of the pressure coming from every direction.
“Ah, the separated families.”
Jeon Myeong-heon’s soaring popularity—now rivaling the president’s—had begun with the cattle drive to the North. Two major events had grown out of that gesture: the May summit, and the March family-reunion program. The total number of separated families on both sides of the border was enormous; estimates placed the combined figure at no less than ten million. Yet only five hundred people would be allowed to meet in March—an almost negligible number. Naturally, applications had flooded in. The Ministry of Unification already held hundreds of thousands of documents, but only five hundred slots existed.
“Any lottery method is bound to draw complaints.”
—Exactly. Complaints are already pouring in. We thought the North would accept every application we sent, but they’re only willing to take five hundred. Why not accept them all and at least confirm whether people are alive or dead? I can’t understand such stinginess.
Jeon Myeong-heon called the North stingy, and the numbers did seem absurdly small. Yet North Korea’s administrative capacity simply could not process that volume of paperwork and verify each person’s status. The country was not yet in the depths of the Arduous March, but its infrastructure was far from adequate.
The favor Jeon Myeong-heon wanted was simple: a computerized random-selection program. A system that drew five hundred names with no human intervention and no possibility of favoritism. Given Jae-won’s reputation, the old man believed the losers would be less likely to suspect foul play.
“That’s not difficult at all.”
Writing a program that randomly selected five hundred entries was trivial for Jae-won. Lending his name to the project was equally straightforward. The real issue lay elsewhere.
“The applications are still on paper, correct?”
—Collecting them was already a massive undertaking. Digitizing them will be even more work. Still, there’s no need to worry. We can simply hire thousands of data-entry clerks and divide the labor; it will be finished in no time.
Data entry was one of the easier tasks to distribute, yet each form represented someone’s deepest hope. Rushing the work risked errors that could not be undone later.
“I’ll also write the data-entry program. There’s a device called a scanner.”
Scanning alone would not suffice; the resulting image files had to be converted into searchable text. That technology was called OCR, and several Silicon Valley startups were already achieving impressive recognition rates. Jae-won would use a commercial OCR engine from the Valley and write the database-and-lottery program himself.
—Thank you! Shall we make the drawing itself into a grand public event? What do you think?
“I’m not sure that would be wise.”
—People are finally meeting their families after decades. Why not celebrate?
Jae-won’s expression remained doubtful. He already knew, from future memory, that the atmosphere at such events had never been festive. For the hall to feel like a celebration, a large proportion of the attendees would have to win. Yet the odds of any given person winning were entirely in the hands of chance. It was perfectly possible that no winner would appear among those present—or that several would. What was certain was that the number of losers would vastly exceed the number of winners.
“It would be better to invite a few separated-family members simply to witness the fairness of the process, then conduct the actual drawing live on television for only a few minutes. That would minimize complaints.”
In his previous life the Red Cross had usually been involved, but this time the two governments were running the event directly; a short, transparent broadcast seemed the safest approach.
—True. With millions of separated families, making such a fuss over five hundred people is rather odd.
Jeon Myeong-heon appeared convinced.
“Still, every journey begins with a single step. We can expand the program from here.”
Ultimately the goal was regular, ongoing reunions, but that had only happened in the final days before unification in the previous timeline. For now, increasing the numbers and frequency was the practical priority.
After the call, Jae-won immediately wrote the lottery program. The Korean government already used ID Office, and the family-reunion applications would be managed in an ID database, so the entire task took less than an hour. The selection logic relied solely on the program’s start time and the random-number generator; no external input could influence the outcome. The core code required only five minutes. The bulk of the time went into building a monitoring screen that displayed the random numbers streaming across the display and then dramatically revealed the winning names. When he tested it with dummy data, the effect was suitably impressive.
“This should be sufficient.”
After reviewing the finished program, Jae-won realized one more safeguard was necessary. Even if the drawing itself could not be tampered with, someone might try to inflate a favored applicant’s chances by entering duplicate records. He added a routine that treated identical entries as a single record.
The OCR matter he handled via ID Talk, instructing President Remington to locate the Silicon Valley company with the best Hangul recognition rate and open negotiations. If the performance proved satisfactory, he planned to purchase roughly a hundred licenses for both the reunion project and internal ID Group use, then scale up if the results justified it.
With Jeon Myeong-heon’s urgent request settled as quickly as possible, Jae-won turned back to his own affairs—specifically, the response to the comment-abuse scandal.
“Logically, the cleanest solution would be to strike it down with legislation.”
Reading the report Jake’s team had sent, he concluded that the most effective measure was to outlaw comment abuse itself. The hallmark of such campaigns was the use of underhanded tactics to sabotage fair competition. At present the perpetrators were small-scale opportunists, but once the effectiveness became clear, corporations and wealthy organizations would expand the practice dramatically. In the twenty-first century, viral marketing had been treated as a legitimate business tool, and entire firms specialized in it. While some viral campaigns were harmless—particularly in film, where modest budgets could generate outsized results—most relied on coordinated comment manipulation. Whether performed by part-timers or full-time staff, the dominant tone was slander and distortion.
“Any online advertisement that fails to disclose it is advertising should be illegal. Paid abuse counts as advertising.”
Enumerating every possible illegal act in negative terms would never keep pace with the internet’s rapid evolution. Requiring every advertisement to be explicitly labeled as such, regardless of medium or method, eliminated the need for constant new statutes.
“It’s almost amusing when you think about it.”
If every malicious review were automatically tagged as an advertisement, its persuasive power would collapse to zero. Of course, the boldest operators would simply break the law, but the existence of a clear prohibition would make enforcement far easier.
“Now the question is how to get it passed.”
Moving the National Assembly was the obstacle. In Korea the path was at least visible. The regular session already had numerous internet-related bills scheduled, most of them aimed at deregulation in hopes of creating more figures like Jae-won. Inserting a single statute on online advertising, using the Tongil National Party as leverage, would not be difficult.
“The bigger problem is the United States.”
Unlike Korea, America offered Jae-won almost no entry points. Few senators or representatives had any personal connection to him, and freedom of expression was guarded far more fiercely than in Korea. American television routinely aired comparative and even negative advertisements; such speech was considered protected.
“Then we avoid touching expression and push instead on fair play and fair competition.”
The momentary blockage cleared; his vast mental resources quickly located an efficient angle. The United States was the home of professional sports leagues and a culture of widespread amateur athletics. Fair play was a deeply sensitive value. Equally reviled was the label of liar. Comment abusers violated both principles, making them perfect targets for public outrage.
“All we need is one catalyst that captures the public’s attention in a single stroke.”
What was missing was an issue capable of focusing national attention overnight. If the public came to view comment abuse as a shared problem, even politicians slow to grasp the times would be unable to remain idle. Such a catalyst could not be manufactured on demand, so Jae-won decided to revisit the matter once he returned to the States.
With the abuse issue half-resolved, his workload showed no sign of ending. Korea still held a mountain of tasks. At least today was still the Lunar New Year holiday, so he was not yet required to travel for external meetings.
The next day, Yoo Jae-won left home and headed for Seoul. After enjoying the holiday, he was ready to begin his Korean business in earnest. His first engagement was the unveiling of the blueprint for the ID Group Global Headquarters in Dogok-dong and the ceremonial groundbreaking.
“One, two, three!”
At the count, Jae-won and the Korean executives of ID Group pulled the cord together. A towering skyscraper model inside a large glass case was revealed—a sleek, blade-like structure thrusting toward the sky. The construction contract had gone to Mirae Construction. The choice had not been influenced by favoritism; the strategic-planning office had evaluated every bidder’s capabilities, conducted site visits to existing megaprojects, and selected the most competent firm. That the winner happened to be Mirae Construction simply meant others might assume personal connections, but the data supported the decision.
The construction budget was set at four hundred billion won, one hundred percent from Jae-won’s personal funds. The money had not been paid directly to the contractor; instead it had been injected as additional capital into ID Group and now resided in the company’s corporate account.
“We will build the world’s finest intelligent building so that Chairman Yoo never regrets choosing us.”
Chairman Jeon Jae-gu of Mirae Construction had also attended to lend his presence. As Korea’s largest construction company, Mirae Construction was a formidable enterprise. Normally its chairman would not appear at such an event, but he had come personally out of respect for his relationship with Jae-won.
“Please take good care of it. I won’t ask you to shorten the schedule, so just make sure it’s safe.”
Jae-won already trusted Mirae Construction’s technical ability. What he wanted was not speed but the complete absence of accidents. Even a single fatality would leave him deeply uneasy. After all, he had met a god in his previous life; if gods existed, ghosts surely did as well. The thought was profoundly unsettling.
“I know how seriously you take safety, nephew. I’ve already given strict instructions.”
Chairman Jeon Jae-gu’s assurance eased Jae-won’s mind. With the chairman’s personal directive in place, few would dare ignore safety protocols. Day laborers unaffiliated with the company might still cut corners, but anyone who deliberately violated rules for their own convenience could simply be removed.
“Next stop, Gwanghwamun Square.”
After the groundbreaking, Kim Dae-seok guided Jae-won to his next appointment: the finale of the fundraising drive for victims of the Japanese colonial period. Among the many events scheduled during his Korean stay, this one carried the largest planned expenditure—and therefore brought him the greatest satisfaction.