Анатолий Шигапов – EXPIRATION DATE (страница 10)

Josh looked out the window. Below, at the foot of the headquarters, lay "New Eden" - the first of the corporate box-cities, built on a single modular principle. A million windows, a million cells, a million beings who considered themselves residents, citizens, people. They rose at the signal, ate synthetic food, wore cheap uniforms, worked on assembly lines, slept under identical blankets, and did not suspect that they had long ceased to be subjects. They were Users. Assets in a global accounting system. Consumables for maintaining infrastructure. Biomass that produced energy, data, and profit.

And he, Josh Hall, was the only one who held in his hands the keys to this huge, complexly arranged machine. His decision determined whether the air in their cells would warm up tonight, whether the lamps above their heads would light up, whether the doors of their modules would open tomorrow morning. He felt neither pity, nor guilt, nor hesitation. Only a slight heaviness in his fingertips - as if he were already squeezing the throat of the whole world.

He took a slow sip, feeling the cognac burn his throat, and allowed himself a rare, almost imperceptible smile. The map before him flickered, cities pulsed with faint red dots, and each of them was a million hearts beating in time with his will.

STAGE 3. "WAR FOR AIR" (2063–2071)

SCENE 1. BRIBING THE GENERALS

January 2063. Washington, D.C. The Pentagon.

This building had once been a symbol of American military might. Five walls, five floors, endless corridors where decisions that determined the fate of the world were made. Here they planned invasions, developed strategies, decided where and when to use force. Now the Pentagon looked different. The corridors were half-empty. There were fewer employees than ever. The defense budget had been cut to a minimum - all the money had gone to paying off debts to corporations. Military bases were closing one after another. Soldiers were resigning. Those who remained received their salaries late - sometimes by a month, sometimes by three. They no longer believed in America. They believed only in money.

General Robert Hayes sat in his office. He was fifty-nine years old, forty of which he had given to the army. He had started as a simple lieutenant in Iraq, in the 2020s, when America was still fighting for "democracy." Then came Afghanistan, Syria, Ukraine - everywhere fire burned, Robert Hayes burned too. He had seen death, seen victory, seen defeat. He thought his career would end with an honorable retirement, with medals on his chest and the president's gratitude. He was wrong.

On the table before him lay a contract. A thin folder, just a few pages. But he knew: these pages would change his life. He reread them for the tenth time.

"Employment contract. Private military service 'Phoenix Guard.' Proposed position - chief strategic advisor. Salary - 2.4 million credits per year. Medical insurance - full. Personal security - 24/7. Bonuses - depending on task performance. Contract is concluded for five years with possible extension."

Hayes looked at the numbers. 2.4 million. That was twenty times more than he currently earned. Twenty times. Now his salary was one hundred twenty thousand a year. Delays, cuts, endless promises that were not kept. He had not seen a full paycheck for two months. His wife was ill, and treatment was expensive. His son was in university, and there was nothing to pay for tuition. He was a general, but he was poor.

He looked at the contract and thought about his oath. He had sworn to defend the Constitution. He had given his word to serve the people. He believed in America. But America no longer believed in him.

He picked up the telephone receiver - an old, wired one that still worked because the digital system often failed. He dialed the number he had been given.

A voice on the other end - polite, calm, with a slight accent:

General Hayes? We've been expecting your call.

I read the contract, - Hayes said. His voice sounded hollow. - I agree. But I have conditions.

What conditions, sir?

My wife. She needs surgery. And my men. Those serving under me. I want them guaranteed jobs. So they are not abandoned.

Of course, General. We have accounted for that. Your men can transfer to Phoenix Guard on the same terms. Pension, insurance, housing. Better conditions than the state offers.

Hayes was silent. He looked at the wall where the flag hung. Stars and stripes. He remembered kissing that flag at parades. Now he was betraying it.

When do I start? - he asked.

Tomorrow, General. Come to the Cyber-Fund office in Georgetown. Sign all the papers. Receive your first advance. Welcome to your new life.

Dial tone.

Hayes put down the receiver. He looked at his hands. They did not tremble. He thought they would. But no. He was calm. Because he had already made the decision. Not today. A year ago. Two years ago. When he saw the state dying and the corporations living.

He stood up. Took off his uniform. Folded it carefully, placed it on the chair. Tomorrow he would be in civilian clothes. Tomorrow he would become a mercenary.

He left the office. Walked down the corridor. Past the doors of other generals. He knew many of them had already signed similar contracts. Those who had not signed had resigned. Or disappeared. It was said some were found dead - officially, "suicide." No one asked why. Questions were dangerous.

He walked out of the Pentagon. Outside - cold, windy. The sky was gray. He looked at the building where he had spent twenty years of his life. He would never return here. He was a traitor. But he was alive. And his family would be alive. And his men would be alive.

"America is dead," he thought. "And we must survive."

February 2063. Phoenix Guard Headquarters. Nevada.

This was not just an office. It was a military base built by corporations. A huge complex in the desert, with concrete walls, bunkers, helipads. Here mercenaries trained. Here they were armed. Here they were prepared for the war that was about to begin.

General Hayes sat in his office. He was no longer a general - he was the chief strategic advisor. Under his command - ten thousand soldiers. All had transferred from the American army. All had received their pay on the first day.

Before him - a holographic screen. On it - a list of generals who had already signed contracts. Fifty-three names. Fifty-three generals from different countries. Britain, France, Germany, Canada, Australia, Turkey, Brazil. They were all now working for corporations.

Hayes looked at the screen and felt emptiness. He knew these people. He had fought with them. He had drunk with them. He had shared danger with them. Now they were enemies. No, not enemies. They were competitors. Each corporation had its own PMC. "Phoenix Guard" was Cyber-Fund. "Solar-City" had created "Solar Legion." "Neura-Infra" - "Neuro-Strike." They all now served different masters.

His deputy, Colonel Martins, entered. Young, ambitious, with the same glassy look as everyone who had served in the PMC for more than five years.

General, - he said. - A new order has arrived from Cyber-Fund. We must prepare for an economic blockade. They want to disconnect cities from the grids. We need to secure the facilities. And suppress possible protests.

Hayes nodded. He knew this was coming. He knew why he was hired. Not for protection. For suppression.

How many cities?

First five. New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, Houston, Philadelphia. Then the rest. The corporations want to show they control everything. If a city does not obey - it dies. We will guard the power grids so no one can restore them.

Hayes was silent. He remembered New York. He had grown up there. His mother lived in Brooklyn. She still considered herself an American. She did not know her son was a traitor.

Good, - he said. - Prepare the plans.

Martins left. Hayes remained alone. He looked at the map. At the green zones of the corporations. At the gray patches of states, getting smaller and smaller.

"I helped them kill America," he thought. "I signed its death warrant."

He turned away from the map.

May 2063. Geneva. UN Headquarters.

This building had once been the center of diplomacy. Now it was empty. Most countries had left the UN - they no longer saw the point. Sessions were held once a month, and only corporate representatives came. They needed formal approval for their actions.

In the large hall - emptiness. Only a few delegates. Among them - the last US representative, an old diplomat who did not want to give up. He looked at the empty seats and remembered when life thrived here. When they argued, negotiated, fought. Now - only silence.

The chairman - a Swiss who now worked for the corporations - opened the session:

Gentlemen, we have gathered to discuss the situation with private military forces. As you know, many countries are transferring their military functions to corporations. This raises concerns...

No concerns, - interrupted the Cyber-Fund delegate. - The generals signed contracts voluntarily. They received better terms. Their soldiers received salaries. States can no longer maintain armies. We can. This is a matter of efficiency.