[b]Busan[/b]

	The southern port city was never nearly as cold as the windswept, barren mountains of the north, but it still was enough to bother Ryu Kyung-jae on his walk to the workshop. He tightened the strap of his beige [i]durumagi[/i] against the wind that now cut through the tiny cobblestone-paved alley and leaned forward as he marched through the elements.

	Much had changed in his hometown in the last decade. The royals had let the Americans in, luring their investments with the offer of prime real estate at the strategic port. The government, in traditional Joseon fashion, had set up a bureaucratic office in the city in a marvelous new building to work the specifics of such complicated diplomacy.

	Kyung-jae’s father worked there. A veteran administrator of internal trade and economics, he was tapped to spearhead the dynasty’s policy of reopening to the world. Even then, his father quickly became overwhelmed by the influx of American professionals who saw Korea as a vast new market. From the United States came teachers, architects, engineers, advisors, merchants, doctors, and even lawyers to try and translate their very alien Western ideals to the [i]yangban[/i] and [i]jungin[/i] who worked feverishly to understand.

	The trade in Busan grew, and through Kyung-jae’s father’s connections, he met with many of these Americans. Over the years as a class of foreign expatriates grew in the city, Kyung-jae found himself swapping ideas with very talented inventors and engineers. Many of them now spoke Korean well, having found an appreciation for the culture.

	More importantly, they found a way to make wild amounts of money selling things to Korean city and village rulers that were commonplace back home. Technologies for mass production, replaceable parts, and steam engines now filled brick factories churning out goods near the port of Busan. While the marvels of these intricate designs intrigued Kyung-jae, he never could shake the feeling of guilt that these new factories were displacing the traditional craftsmen of his hometown.

	Kyung-jae arrived at his workshop, fumbling for the keys on a metal ring as his freezing fingers lost their fine motor skills. With great effort, he unlocked and pressed his way through the door into the stone structure. It was cold, but he undid his overcoat and hung it by the door.

	In the corner on the wall was his coal furnace that provided heat for warmth and his inventing. A jury-rigged forge lay dormant next to it, nearby a table littered with parts and contraptions of brass and gears. Kyung-jae rubbed his hands together and started up the furnace quickly, seeking to warm his workshop and finally get some heat in the cold dark morning.

	With his hands on his hips, Kyung-jae surveyed the workshop. Inside it were dozens of other aimless inventions, each a solution looking for a problem. As he waited for the furnace to warm the space, he searched for an inspiration. Maybe today would be something different, something useful.

[b]Hanyang[/b]

	Within the great complex of royal ministries in the capital Hanyang, two ministers sat cross legged on a cushioned floor with cups of steaming tea in their hands. The window offered a view into a snow-dusted garden occupying the center of one of the buildings. The Six Ministries, [i]Yukjo[/i], were the beating heart of Korea’s bureaucracy. Thousands of civil servants and administrators scurried throughout the compound to run an increasingly complicated system of government.

	The two men, aged and stern, were the ministers of defense and commerce: [i]Byeongjo[/i] and [i]Gongjo[/i]. Yi Dong-il, [i]Byeongjo[/i] minister, stroked his grey beard as he reread through a translated letter from Europe. It had arrived from the Austrians, of all people.

	“Why does this matter?” sternly asked the old military man. He frowned. “We have railroads, why do they want to change the size now? What’s the point?”

	The [i]Gongjo[/i] minister, Chung Tae-suk, chuckled at the old general. He explained gently to Minister Yi, who often seemed frustrated with things he didn’t immediately understand: “It makes the tracks the same, it’s supposed to make things easier to get steam engines to different places. You build one the same every time and you never need to worry about the wheels fitting to the tracks.”

	“The American trains seem to fit just fine,” protested Minister Yi. “It’s not like we’ll be building a railroad to Europe.”

	With a wink, Minister Chung parried. “It’s about more than just us. What if the Americans change their measurements? Then we will, too. The expense of that will be less than the value of trade lost if we stay stubborn. Remember, this stubbornness is what let the Japanese outpace us.”

	Minister Yi shook his head. He knew Minister Chung was right. The Joseon dynasty had been so preoccupied with isolation and maintaining their own affairs that they had shut out the outside world for almost forty years. Much had changed, especially with technology. He could barely comprehend it anymore. Minister Chung had always been an internationalist and had been spreading his wings ever since Queen Sinjeong had proclaimed that the Joseon isolation be lifted.

	“We’ve always prided ourselves on education and precision,” Chung said to Yi. “With these new tools, we’ve been able to get more precise and learn more than ever before. You’ve heard [i]Ijo[/i] before, we have been getting wiser to the world this entire time.”

	Yi nodded. [i]Ijo[/i], the ministry of personnel, headed the entire direction of government through its placement, training, and selection of bureaucrats. Informally, the [i]Ijo[/i] acted as the rudder for the government under Queen Sinjeong’s decisions. The traditional council that headed the [i]Yukjo[/i], the [i]Ujeongbu[/i], was often sidestepped by [i]Ijo[/i] in their execution of the Queen’s intent.

	Yi harrumphed, reluctantly conceding to Chung. “I suppose this requires me to say yes to attending, owing to the military usage of these railroads.”

	“Of course,” Chung replied. The [i]Yukjo[/i] followed a hierarchy like anything else in the Joseon government. [i]Byeongjo[/i] held seniority over [i]Gongjo[/i]. Both were subordinate to [i]Yejo[/i], the ministry of rites that contained foreign diplomacy within its list of responsibilities. Before arguing their case to Minister Rhee Nam-hee and, ultimately, Queen Sinjeong herself, both of them would need to solidify their agreement on attending the conference.

	“Alright,” said Yi. With a hint of disdain for the banality of the issue, he agreed. “I suppose we should fall in line. If the world moves on without us, that just leaves us vulnerable. That’s not what I desire. Let’s prepare for this… conference about railroad measurements.”