The Empire Strikes Back
The Empire Strikes Back. “Lunch is chicken!” The mounting stress made him feel like he needed to tear into a drumstick just to feel human again. At least there was one silver lining: whenever the craving hit, he could actually afford to order chicken now. Yeoju finally had chicken shops—two of them, one at each end of downtown. Both were named Yugyeong Chicken, direct outlets run by Yugyeong Food itself.
Su-gyeong’s father had finalized the business plan in early September. Using every won the family had saved plus the land and farm as collateral, they secured a one-billion-won loan. Chairman Hyun Mi-yu put in another billion, and Yoo Jae-won matched it with his own billion. Thirty billion won in total launched Yugyeong Food Co., Ltd. With equal capital contributions, the three major shareholders each held a 33.333 percent stake. Yoo Jae-won had handed full management authority to Su-gyeong’s father, so there was no confusion at the top.
Right now a chicken-processing plant was rising on the empty lot inside Deokjin-ri Industrial Complex. Hatcheries were being built alongside it, and chick sexers had already been hired. Contracts with contract farms that would raise the birds were being negotiated at full speed. Full-scale broiler distribution would have to wait until the processing plant was finished, so they had launched the franchise business in the meantime to keep momentum.
Yugyeong Chicken had already opened eight stores across Yeoju and neighboring cities, and its popularity was ferocious. Motorcycles and telephones were widespread enough that a single phone call brought hot chicken straight to your door. The patented crispy chicken, yangnyeom chicken, and soy-sauce chicken were in a league of their own. Even at three thousand won per bird—slightly expensive by 1989 standards—dozens of chickens sold every weekday. On Sundays the orders piled up so fast that delivery times stretched.
The moment the thought of chicken crossed his mind, Yoo Jae-won picked up the phone and ordered one yangnyeom and one soy-sauce. The craving helped blunt the fury he still felt over Microsoft’s counterattack. What he did not yet know was that the temporary restraining order favoring Microsoft was exploding across PC-communication boards.
The ID Office Security Challenge board was the first to erupt. Overnight, the usual security and technical posts vanished. In their place came a flood of denunciations aimed at Microsoft and the court. The posts racked up recommendations so quickly that they took over the daily best-of board in minutes.
It was hardly surprising. ID Technology was a profit-driven company, yet its user-friendliness was unmatched. After the astonishing games, it had released multiple programs at rock-bottom prices. ID Office was absurdly cheap compared with its rivals. Android Alpha, distributed through the novel adware model, delivered quality that made MS-DOS feel like ancient history. It could not perform low-level tasks such as FDISK or DISKPART, but for everyday work it was superb. The high-resolution desktop was not only pleasant to look at; it measurably boosted productivity. When software this good was free, there was no reason not to use it.
“Might as well grab it before they ban distribution!” Users who had been waiting for more native applications flocked to stores the moment they saw Android Alpha’s market share climbing.
Online, a new wave was forming.
Criticism of Microsoft among PC-communication users grew sharper by the hour. What began as vague rumors quickly gained flesh, then inside information only insiders could know. Even the fence-sitters joined in, and a massive wave of public opinion began to form.
Those who usually led opinion on the boards did not fully grasp what they were doing, yet they could feel that something important was coalescing.
Surprisingly, the person who suggested taking the movement offline was Richard Stallman, founder of the Free Software Foundation. Already deeply hostile toward both Microsoft and Apple, he had been jolted awake by the restraining order against Android Alpha. While ID Technology did not embrace GNU principles and sold its software, its prices were extremely low. Android Alpha, in particular, could reasonably be viewed as free software; even without open source code, the free-distribution policy dramatically lowered the cost of owning a computer. If Android Alpha failed because of this lawsuit, Stallman feared the blow would land on free software as well.
“Excellent idea.”
“Street petitions would work too. Let’s start in Silicon Valley!”
A petition protesting the sales ban on Android Alpha was quickly drafted and released in two formats: a plain TXT file readable on any computer and an IDW file for ID Word Processor. Anyone could print the document, sign it, and mail it to the post-office box Richard Stallman maintained. Stallman had hoped to receive perhaps five hundred signatures before the first trial began.
Reality, as usual, refused to follow the plan. The response exploded. Within a week his mailbox was overflowing. Daniel and the other regulars who had been grinding away at the Security Challenge had to drop everything to help Stallman sort thousands of letters.
“Good heavens, really?”
“Yes, sir. Your boss seems to have built up quite a lot of goodwill. A surprising number of people are treating this as their own fight.”
Three thousand signed petitions had already arrived from Android Alpha users alone. Street-signature drives were also underway—not only in San Francisco, home of Silicon Valley, but in Los Angeles, New York, Boston, Chicago, and other major American cities. Yoo Jae-won could hardly believe it.
He had released Android Alpha as adware purely as a long-term strategic move. The ID Office Security Challenge had been created to overcome ID Technology’s lack of brand recognition against heavyweights like Microsoft Word. Yet users were now stepping forward as though they had received an enormous personal favor.
Interestingly, the major cities where people were most active all had prestigious universities. The partnerships formed through ID Office were clearly paying dividends. He was moved. Once this was over, he would have to throw a grand thank-you event for the users.
“We need to prepare thoroughly as well.”
“Of course. Electronic Arts, Cirrus Logic, ATI, AMD, and the other partners have all agreed to cooperate.”
Yoo Jae-won decided the upcoming first trial would be an all-out battle. To prove Android Alpha was not dumping, companies that had placed ads on the platform would form a united front against Microsoft. While many firms were still watching from the sidelines, the companies Remington had contacted were ready to participate actively by demonstrating the advertising results they had achieved. ID Technology’s legal team and the firm of Paul & Smith were already using that data to calculate how much ad-slot prices would rise in the future—an argument that would matter both in court and when setting future rates.
And there was more.
“Don’t be surprised. James has also agreed to help.”
The James in question was James Webb, chief software engineer at Electronic Arts—the same man who had spent a week failing to crack Aegis Shield and whose posts on the Security Challenge board had come unsettlingly close to reverse-engineering the AES algorithm. Yoo Jae-won would have loved to poach him, but the risk of damaging relations with Trip Hawkins kept him in check.
Then there was another James who had come knocking of his own accord.
“James Augustine? Who is that?”
“He was the team leader of Microsoft’s Alpha Lab—until two months ago.”
Remington’s account was astonishing, and it was directly connected to Yoo Jae-won. During reverse-engineering, Augustine had stepped on one of the landmines Yoo Jae-won had planted inside ID Office and had been fired overnight.
“A guy who was peddling Alpha Lab technology ends up as team leader? They just let a high-level talent like that walk?”
“Not under normal circumstances. But Bill Gates is no ordinary man. Most people regret the things they blurt out in anger. Gates, apparently, does not. He actually followed through.”
Stripped of his prestigious Microsoft job, Augustine had landed squarely in Remington’s information network. Remington never missed such an opportunity. Most Alpha Lab programmers were quickly snapped up elsewhere, and ID Technology’s relatively low profile at the time meant few accepted the offer. Augustine had initially declined as well and simply rested, determined to choose his next employer with extreme care after the ugly experience.
Then the Security Challenge—the world’s premier gathering of computer experts and hackers—opened. Augustine participated. When he recognized that the structure of the IDW files matched the exact pattern of data corruption he had suffered, he nodded to himself. Whatever change of heart occurred, he contacted ID Technology first.
Remarkably, he brought evidence that MS-DOS 4.0 had deliberately altered its memory-management design to exclude ID Office—an act that could be construed as anti-competitive behavior, which was illegal. While such charges were rarely prosecuted successfully, the evidence was now in hand.
“James Augustine says he is willing to appear as a witness if necessary.”
Yoo Jae-won clenched his fist. Microsoft’s imperial counterattack, extending even to the courts, had caught him off guard. Yet the reversal had arrived on its own. Richard Stallman’s petition drive was a powerful weapon, and public opinion on PC-communication networks and university internet forums was swinging toward ID Technology. It really did seem that living honestly brought heavenly assistance.
All that remained was to enter the formal trial and properly dismantle the evil empire. This time he would show Microsoft exactly what a counterattack looked like.