Domestic Pride and the Thorium Reactor

“The title alone sounds serious.”

With a soft chime, Yoo Jae-won examined the most recent document delivered to his desk and could not help but admire it. The report had been written by Hong Bum-soo, the fresh-faced intern who had joined the secretariat only days earlier. Interns were typically more capable than part-timers yet still fell short of full-time employees. Hong Bum-soo, however, operated on an entirely different level from the average graduate of Deokjin Polytechnic.

He was significantly older than most new hires, a married man with a child, and, of course, a military veteran. His abilities were exceptional; after graduating from Seoul National University he had even launched an in-house venture at Ilsung SDS. Yet, true to his high-caliber profile, he had made choices others would find difficult. He had returned to Deokjin Polytechnic for another four years of study simply to become an intern. He could have applied during ID Group’s regular or experienced-hire recruitment cycles and stood a strong chance of acceptance. Even if the process was rigorous, it was not beyond Hong Bum-soo’s capabilities.

That was why, upon reviewing the transcripts and résumés of intern candidates, Yoo Jae-won had immediately noticed him and placed him in the secretariat. When Jae-won had summoned him a few days earlier to ask why, the answer had been quintessentially Hong Bum-soo. He admitted he had hesitated to apply through the experienced-hire track because of his Ilsung SDS background and his age. After all, there had been a time when ID Group automatically filtered out Ilsung alumni during career hiring. That policy, however, belonged to the company’s earlier, more haphazard days—before its current systems were ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in place. Jae-won, who had developed an aversion to Ilsung’s corporate culture, had refused even to read applications from its former employees, no matter how impressive their records. Hong Bum-soo’s assumption that he would be rejected was therefore understandable. The failure of his in-house venture had also dealt a severe blow to his pride and confidence, prompting him to return to Deokjin Polytechnic in search of what he lacked. He had been prepared to quit if the curriculum proved worthless, yet everything had felt new, and he had thrown himself into learning with desperate intensity. That attitude had impressed Jae-won deeply, and he had never regretted hiring the man as a secretariat intern.

Moreover, the first assignment given to him had been executed with skill worthy of a full-time employee. Jae-won received near-real-time updates on market-share data for smartphones in Korea. The Android S4, released in 2004, had undergone a major upgrade and was already outselling its predecessor, the S3. In Korea alone, more than twelve million units had been sold. After the United States and the EU, Korea ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was the third-largest market—and given that the first two regions were allied, Korea’s performance was nothing short of extraordinary. It was the behavior of a nation of early adopters who purchased and used new products the moment they appeared, and Android’s popularity here was particularly pronounced. Consequently, Android’s market share exceeded 80 percent, with the remaining 20 percent divided between the iPhone and Android-compatible devices such as the Omnia.

Those were the concluding remarks in the dozens of pages Hong Bum-soo had submitted. Yet several passages remained unclear, and a few questions lingered. After finishing the report, Jae-won summoned Hong Bum-soo. Had the man been farther away, Jae-won would have used ID Talk’s video-meeting function, but the secretariat was less than a ten-minute drive. Besides, genuine curiosity and goodwill toward Hong Bum-soo made the summons effortless.

“So, in short… ever since the IMF crisis through the 2002 Korea-Japan World Cup, the word ‘domestic’ acquired a premium in Korea. Using domestic products was seen as helping the country while also guaranteeing quality. This perception is closely tied to the surge in imports, especially low-quality Chinese goods. If you look at the National Statistical Office data here…”

Summoned to the study, Hong Bum-soo presented his own report without the nervousness he had shown at first.

“And the effect of domestic marketing?”

“We estimate a 20 percent increase in sales for ordinary products. Dae-sung Planning’s data includes a comparison of 815 Cola sales before and after its domestic marketing campaign. We don’t yet have smartphone-specific figures, but the effect should be similar. Omnia outsells Goldstar Electronics’ Android-compatible Optimus, after all. Still, the greatest beneficiary of domestic marketing has been our own Android series. The prevailing Korean perception is that the world-leading domestic smartphone is ours.”

An experienced professional wearing the guise of a newcomer truly was different. Hong Bum-soo had prepared data meticulously, as though he had anticipated every point Jae-won might raise.

“It was an excellent report.”

“Thank you for the praise.”

“There is one small thing that caught my eye, though.”

Yet there were points worth addressing. “You compiled the data yourself?”

“Yes, sir. Though we also purchased some of the larger datasets.”

Hong Bum-soo had written the report using data uploaded to the company network. The assignment had not been to create a market-analysis report from scratch; it had been to synthesize outsourced materials. Rather than merely aggregating them, Hong Bum-soo had proactively made calls whenever the data seemed insufficient. When he needed fresher figures than those already registered, he purchased additional data from Dae-sung Planning and various economic research institutes. Dae-sung Planning, Korea’s largest advertising agency, maintained extensive archives. Upon learning that the request came from ID Group’s secretariat, they had sent the materials immediately—ID Group was their largest client, with marketing expenditures in the trillions. Economic research institute reports cost over a million won each, but because the expense was covered internally, Hong Bum-soo had felt no burden.

“When citing external sources like this, you must attach proper tags.”

Tags were keywords designed to facilitate metadata searches. “Use specific words or short phrases, and simply place a hash (#) in front of them. The system will automatically convert them into tags, which will then be registered in the company’s search database for other departments to use. Conversely, if you need data, searching the group’s workflow system will yield results in most cases.”

ID Group’s internal network was more advanced than that of any other corporation in the world, allowing useful data to be shared rapidly across the group.

“Also, when Gold displays a message box, it’s best to add specific comments. You’ll need to learn a particular syntax for the AI to understand, but the basic level is simple enough that you’ll pick it up quickly.”

“Ah, yes.”

The internal network was also linked to Gold, the machine-learning AI. At present, most of Gold’s time was spent in silent observation during its learning phase. Within a few years, however, Gold would assist ordinary employees with their tasks; its intelligence was growing rapidly, fueled by the efforts of ID Group’s capable staff. Gold’s message boxes appeared whenever new data or patterns were detected. The more precisely employees defined tasks and labeled data, the faster Gold’s intelligence advanced. Hong Bum-soo’s haste to finish the report, combined with the unfamiliar environment of monitoring an AI, had left the data sent to Gold somewhat lacking.

“Yes! I’ll follow those instructions from now on.”

These instructions did not strictly require Jae-won’s personal attention. Yet the intern possessed an unusually compelling résumé, and Jae-won was still mindful of someone so newly integrated into operations. Outwardly, of course, it looked odd for a man in his mid-twenties to be looking after someone in his late thirties, but no one present found it strange.

“Hmm, the next document…”

After attending to Hong Bum-soo in his own way, Jae-won sent him out and returned to his original work. Having confirmed that ID Group stood only to gain from the domestic marketing campaigns conducted by Korea’s chaebols, led by Ilsung, no further measures were necessary. Even if the design had been done in America and the product assembled primarily by Americans, the astronomical taxes ID Group paid in Korea made its recognition as a domestic brand entirely justified.

Closing Hong Bum-soo’s report, Jae-won opened a new file.

“ID High Tech, is it?”

ID High Tech had been relatively quiet lately. It had made an impact years earlier with the launch of commercial drones, but no blockbuster items had followed. Nevertheless, Jae-won had never stopped investing in the company. More than 30 percent of ID Group’s R&D budget continued to flow steadily into ID High Tech. Because the division consumed budgets without producing visible results, the finance and strategic-planning departments had privately nicknamed it the black hole.

“Oh! So this one’s finally coming out?”

Today, something long awaited had reportedly emerged from that black hole: the completion of a next-generation reactor demonstration model.

When Russia collapsed, the scientists Jae-won had prioritized recruiting were those specializing in aviation, rockets, and nuclear development. By bringing over everyone who might otherwise have gone to North Korea, he had simultaneously slowed North Korea’s nuclear program and secured one of ID Group’s future growth engines. Under Chief Andreev, these scientists had begun developing the next-generation reactor. After more than ten years of investment, the result was the thorium reactor.

Thorium was not nuclear fusion—that remained a massive project far beyond a decade’s investment. What had been completed was a reactor fundamentally different from conventional fission designs: an extremely stable thorium reactor. Gamers might associate thorium with an expensive crafting material in World of Warcraft, yet thorium was a real element—symbol Th, atomic number 90, a silvery-white actinide metal. A thorium reactor used thorium as its fission fuel.

Modern reactors relied on the fission of uranium or plutonium. Highly concentrated material undergoing rapid fission produced a nuclear bomb; material set to fission slowly at low concentration generated heat for power generation. Nuclear power plants were widely regarded as clean, inexpensive, and suitable for large-scale electricity production, yet the intractable nuclear waste they generated and the catastrophic risks of accidents were beyond imagination. The thorium reactor addressed many of these problems. Controlling the fission chain reaction was essential to reactor stability, and the neutrons that triggered the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠reaction were the critical factor. In a uranium reactor, once fission began, neutrons multiplied exponentially; without precise control, the reaction became uncontrollable. Thorium, by contrast, possessed the property of stably absorbing neutrons. Conventional plants risked reactor explosions if cooling failed during an accident; thorium plants automatically absorbed neutrons once the reactor shut down, halting the chain reaction. In other words, meltdown—the greatest danger in nuclear power—was rendered impossible at the source.

Conversely, a steady external supply of neutrons was required to keep a thorium reactor stable, and that requirement had been the greatest obstacle to commercialization.

“Ultra-uranium seeds?”

The ID High Tech researchers had solved the problem by fabricating tiny seed-shaped pellets of ultra-high-concentration uranium that continuously emitted neutrons, thereby inducing fission in the thorium. Nuclear physics was not Jae-won’s specialty, so the complex details in the report were not entirely clear to him, yet the statement that the institute’s experimental thorium reactor had operated stably for over three months stood out clearly. Simulations accounting for earthquakes and terrorist attacks had also shown that emergency shutdowns functioned properly. All that remained was the construction of a full-scale commercial reactor for sale.

“Perfect timing.”

There was an ideal customer: North Korea. Since taking a new path after Jae-won’s regression, North Korea had maintained a stable economic growth rate of around 4 percent since entering the 2000s. Under the original timeline, the country should still have been suffering the severe aftereffects of the Arduous March, posting negative growth. Much had changed. Coal, iron ore, limestone—the simple extraction and export of mineral resources was proceeding smoothly. Agriculture, modernized with tractors and fertilizer supplies, no longer faced food shortages. Most importantly, two light-water reactors had been completed, providing stable electricity and enabling broad industrial growth. Even private markets akin to jangmadang and McDonald’s outlets now existed in North Korea. Naturally, electricity demand had risen sharply. Having tasted the benefits of light-water reactors, North Korea wanted to build new nuclear power plants but lacked the funds. The light-water reactors had been granted in exchange for nuclear abandonment; now the country had to pay with its own money.

Building a thorium reactor in North Korea and showcasing it to the world would be mutually beneficial. Moreover, the thorium-reactor project would create contacts with North Korea’s leadership, and those connections could serve as ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a foundation for developing North Korean oil fields—thereby perfecting Tiffany’s succession plan as well.

Jae-won was tempted to send a business proposal to North Korea immediately. Yet he knew that obtaining verification from a recognized external institution had to come first.

“I suppose it’s time to visit Seattle again.”

At the same time, he wanted to go to ID High Tech in Seattle and see the reactor with his own eyes.