Takuya Nakayama tapped a finger lightly against the log report, not a trace of the tension Nohara had imagined showing on his face.
He lifted his head, letting his gaze sweep across the room—from the worried Section Chief Nohara, to the equally grim-faced Harry, and finally resting on Tom Kalinske.
"Nohara-san, this isn't a problem," Nakayama said calmly. "This is the first round of feedback the market is giving us."
"Five thousand downloads is just the tip of the iceberg. These people are the first wave—the curious, the eager."
He stood, walked to the whiteboard, and picked up a marker.
"When the BBS officially goes live, when they start discussing, arguing, and when the first entrepreneur posts in the Startups & VC section looking for funding—do you think user numbers will go down?"
He didn't turn around, but the question dropped into every technician's heart like a stone.
Of course not.
It would only snowball—faster and bigger.
"What we're seeing now isn't a peak," Nakayama said as he turned back and tapped the report in Nohara's hands. "It's the start of the Internet tidal wave. Based on this download volume—double it."
"D-double?!" Nohara gasped. This wasn't bold—this was insane.
"Executive Director, the servers… our supplier may not have ready stock. Bandwidth expansion can't be done instantly. And the cost—"
"I'll handle the money."
Tom Kalinske, who had been silent until now, suddenly stood up. He clapped Nakayama on the shoulder, grabbed his phone, and dialed a number without hesitation.
Everyone watched as he shouted into the receiver in his signature booming voice:
"Larry? It's me, Tom!—Yeah, Tom from SEGA! Listen, I don't care what you're doing right now. I need a batch of the servers we ordered last time—same specs, same quantity. I need them now. Deliver them to our Silicon Valley address—what? Out of stock?
I don't care how you get them—pull from another customer's order, tear them out of your office racks—I want them here before sunrise! Rush fee? No problem."
Bang—he slammed the phone down.
Tom turned, facing a room full of stunned Japanese and American engineers.
He grinned broadly.
"Done! The CEO of Sun is my golf buddy. He said no problem."
Then he dialed a second number.
"John! It's Tom. We're doubling the bandwidth we requested from PSINet—yes, doubling—"
Nohara stared, his worldview shattering in front of him.
Nakayama only smiled at his frozen expression.
"Now hardware and bandwidth are no longer issues. Nohara-san, Harry—your mission is to have all these new machines running before dawn. Can you do it?"
"Yes! We'll guarantee it!"
Their earlier worries vanished, replaced by fierce adrenaline.
For the next ten-plus hours, the entire Silicon Valley Online office turned into a high-speed war fortress.
Trucks roared in through the night, unloading crates stamped with the Sun logo into the machine room like a flowing river.
At 5 a.m., as the first ray of dawn entered through the glass wall, Nohara hit the final Enter key.
On the monitoring screen, rows of green "OK" indicators lit up.
The new server cluster had fully integrated into the network. PSINet's expanded bandwidth had been tested. The upgrade was complete.
Exhausted, Nohara leaned against a cold rack, drained but filled with a deep, overwhelming satisfaction.
Before dawn, Silicon Valley Online's BBS had completed its final armament.
---
The first Monday of May.
10:00 a.m. sharp.
Takuya Nakayama's finger hovered over the Enter key for a moment—then pressed down.
"Launch."
Harry immediately signaled his local engineers.
"Alright boys—time to light the fuse."
A few young men grinned, logged into their long-prepared accounts, and in the Computer Science board, posted the bait they had prepared:
"Vi or Emacs? END THE WAR."
"OS WAR: UNIX vs. VMS vs. WINDOWS. Who is the best?"
The posts were pure provocation—technical arrogance dripping from every line. After posting, they switched to sock-puppet accounts and added replies:
"I came here for this. Emacs is God. No debate."
"Executive Director! Users are flooding in!"
Roy, who was monitoring the backend, shouted with a trembling voice.
On the big screen, the number representing online users shot upward like a wild horse:
100… 500… 1,000!
In mere minutes, they passed a thousand!
Replies under the two flame-bait posts exploded.
The fuse was lit—and the effect was immediate.
"Which idiot posted this? Vi is the best editor in the world—simple and efficient! What do you Emacs people know about philosophy?"
"Primitive cave-dweller above—still coding in a terminal? My Emacs can brew coffee! Oh wait—Vi users probably don't even know what coffee is."
"UNIX forever! VMS is trash! And Windows? You call that an OS? Don't insult my eyes!"
Nohara and the Japanese engineers stared at the chaotic, jargon-filled, insult-laced English comments, doubting their sanity.
They worked so hard… just for this bunch of Americans to scream at each other?
But they soon realized—
There was no time to think.
Because users weren't just arguing.
This era's BBS couldn't refresh in real time—bandwidth was scarce.
Users had to manually click "Update," downloading incremental packets to see new posts.
But that didn't stop them at all.
The tiny "new reply" icon in the corner seemed to hypnotize them—triggering endless refreshes and a torrent of responses.
An hour later, Roy nearly sprinted to Nakayama holding a fresh report.
"Executive Director! One hour—six thousand registered users! Over 100 posts! Our servers—our servers are under real pressure!"
Tom Kalinske slapped the table with a bang and burst out laughing.
"Ha! Larry's servers were worth stealing! John's bandwidth was worth expanding! Thank God—your instincts were right, Takuya!"
He slapped Nakayama's shoulder again, grinning wildly.
Nakayama only smiled slightly, eyes never leaving the screen.
"Tom, relax. The real show is still ahead. For now—let's have lunch."
Lunch was pizza and cola.
Tom insisted it was Silicon Valley's "war rations," giving the Japanese engineers their first taste of "authentic" American efficiency.
When they returned, the BBS metrics were still climbing steadily.
The Computer Science board was a battlefield—acronyms, jargon, insults flying at blinding speed.
"Forget the fighting," Nakayama said, sipping coffee. He pointed to another section. "Look at Industry. That's where things get interesting."
They looked.
Unlike the chaos elsewhere, this board was calm—fewer posts, but each one polished, professional, full of substance.
One post was titled:
[Seeking optimization advice for SPARC architecture performance]
The poster claimed to be an engineer from Sun, detailing a technical bottleneck.
Replies appeared quickly:
"You can try adjusting register window overflow handling. I did a similar project at Berkeley."
"I'm on MIPS architecture, but the idea is similar. Your issue may be pipeline scheduling. DM me?"
Nohara clicked a responder's profile.
The signature read: PhD student, Stanford Computer Science Department.
This wasn't a forum.
This was an online symposium of elite minds.
"My god—" Harry muttered, flipping through another post. "Someone's discussing next-gen routing protocols—he even posted his lab affiliation and is recruiting researchers."
Tom glanced once, then burst out laughing and clapped Nakayama again.
"Takuya! This is a Silicon Valley elite club! We gathered America's smartest brains in one place!"
"Arguing was just the appetizer," Nakayama said. "When you gather high-IQ, high-net-worth people together, business opportunities follow. We only built the plaza—they'll build the stage."
He had barely finished when Harry suddenly jolted like he was hit by electricity.
"Look! Startups & VC! Someone posted!"
Everyone froze.
There, in the section that had been empty since morning—a section many thought was naive—appeared the very first post.
Its title shone like a beacon:
[Seeking seed funding: "TaWiz"—a revolutionary personal tax calculator to transform how American families file taxes!]
The room went silent, save for the hum of servers.
The post was a clean, professional investment memo:
market pain points (America's dreaded tax season),
solution (a GUI-based simple tax software),
architecture,
team (two Stanford prodigies).
Nohara instinctively checked the timestamp.
4:09 p.m.
And in minutes, replies appeared:
"Interesting concept. Can you explain your algorithm model?"
"I'm an associate at Sequoia Capital. Sent you an email."
"Are you in the Bay Area? Free tomorrow? I'm from KPCB."
"Sequoia Capital… KPCB…" Harry whispered, as if afraid to break a spell.
Then—
"Oh my GOD!!"
He shot to his feet, chair skidding into the wall with a crash.
Chaos erupted.
"What?! Sequoia? The Sequoia?!"
"And KPCB! They replied! They actually replied!"
"Minutes! It's only been minutes!"
The American engineers surged toward the screen like a tidal wave, faces flushed with frenzy.
This was a hundred times more exciting than the Vi vs. Emacs war—because now the screen wasn't showing nerd rage.
It was showing money.
Real venture capital.
The Japanese engineers stared, overwhelmed by the intensity of the American reaction. They knew Sequoia and KPCB were important—
but not this important.
Nohara looked at Nakayama with trembling lips.
"Executive Director… this Sequoia—"
Nakayama didn't even turn his head. His eyes stayed on the screen.
"Nohara-san, yes. It's that Sequoia."
The words were a depth charge—blasting through every Japanese engineer's chest.
Tom burst into roaring laughter, slamming Nakayama on the back so hard he staggered.
"Takuya! You bastard—you actually did it! You invited sharks into the pond! I thought the Startups & VC board was just a dream! I thought we'd need months before anything happened! But this? Day one! THE FIRST DAY!"
He turned to the room and bellowed:
"You see this?! This is Silicon Valley speed!
This is Silicon Valley Online!'"
Cheers exploded—
even the Japanese engineers were swept away, clapping with all their strength.
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