Анатолий Шигапов – EXPIRATION DATE (страница 11)

The US representative stood up. His voice trembled:

You are dismantling the security structure! You are creating private armies that answer to no one! This is a path to anarchy!

This is a path to stability, - replied the delegate. - Private armies are more efficient. They have no political ambitions. They fulfill contracts. They protect their clients' interests. This is business. And business is peace.

The US representative sat down. He looked at the empty seats. He understood that his voice was the last voice of resistance. And it no longer mattered.

SCENE 2. THE STATE AGAINST THE CORPORATIONS

March 2070. Washington, D.C. The Capitol.

The Capitol building still stood on its hill, a monument to a long-gone era. Its dome, once dazzlingly white, was now covered in a network of fine cracks and dark streaks from acid rain; the columns of the facade were chipped, and between the marble slabs tufts of dry, stiff grass sprouted. Inside - the smell of old wood, dust, and neglect. The corridors were empty, the echo of footsteps lost in endless galleries where portraits of presidents from past centuries were covered in a murky film, their eyes seeming extinguished.

The Congressional chamber still functioned - formally. Once a month, according to schedule, a few dozen people out of five hundred thirty-five gathered here. The rest did not come - they had more important matters. These absentees had long ceased to be servants of the people; they were shareholders, members of boards of directors, holders of large blocks of shares in the three giants: Solar-City, Cyber-Fund, and Green-Matrix. Their personal wealth grew in sync with stock indices, and every Congressional session was for them merely an annoying interruption in their calendars that could be ignored without consequences. Their offices in Los Angeles, New York, and Dallas were better equipped than this old hall, their yachts cruised the Caribbean, their children studied in private academies where the history of democracy was not taught. They no longer belonged to America. America belonged to them.

Today's session was a rare event: on the agenda was a bill on the compulsory nationalization of strategic corporate assets. The initiator - Senator from Ohio, William Collins. He was seventy-two, wore old-fashioned three-piece suits that had long gone out of style, and spoke with a slight Midwestern accent that sounded almost archaic amid the urban slang of his colleagues. He was one of those politicians whose career had begun back in the nineties, when the word "loyalty" was not an empty sound. He remembered America where the president apologized to the nation, where corruption investigations led to prisons, where Congress debated for days rather than voting via SMS. Now he saw the country dying a slow death - its institutions gutted, its constitution turned into a decorative document, its army, the last bastion, still formally not sworn to the corporations, but already receiving its salaries through subcontractors. He wanted to stop this. He knew the chances were almost nil, but he had to try.

He rose to the podium - tall, stooped, with bushy gray eyebrows and trembling but still strong hands. His voice, amplified by the old sound system, echoed through the empty rows:

Ladies and gentlemen, colleagues, I address you as the last bastion of our sovereignty! - His words bounced off the backs of empty seats like peas against a wall. - Corporations have seized our country not with tanks, not with artillery - they did it quietly, through bank accounts, algorithms, and contracts. They control what we eat, what we pay with, who we are in databases. Today they own our food; tomorrow they will decide who lives and who dies. And the only thing that does not yet fully belong to them is our army, our ability to use physical force. We must nationalize their infrastructure! We must regain control over power grids, water mains, grain stores, satellite constellations - immediately, without delay, without compensation if necessary! This is not robbery - this is self-defense!

He paused, catching his breath, and scanned the hall. Of the few dozen present, only a handful looked at him - the rest were buried in pocket projectors and holographic tablets. They were checking stock quotes, reading confidential exchange reports, messaging brokers. One of them, a young senator from Texas, did not even hide a smile when a green notification on his wrist lit up about the rise in the value of the "Cyber-Token." No one applauded, no one asked questions. Everyone already knew the outcome: the bill would not pass. Ten or fifteen might vote for it, but there would be no quorum, even if all supporters came. The rest had already negotiated with the corporations a week ago - at private dinners, in exclusive clubs, in the saunas of elite hotels. They had been promised bonuses, shares, positions on boards after their terms ended. They would not risk their future for the past.

Collins finished his speech - it had lasted forty minutes, but it sounded like a pathetic, lonely cry in the wilderness. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief and looked at the seats that should have been filled but yawned with black emptiness. He whispered into the microphone, no longer for the record, but for himself:

If we do not do this today… tomorrow it will be too late. Forever too late.

Silence. Not a single voice, not a single question. The Speaker, a man with a face as smooth as plastic and an impeccable tie, mechanically announced a technical break. The bill was automatically sent to the archive. Collins slowly descended from the podium, his legs shaking, his heart pounding somewhere in his throat. He knew this day would go down in history - if anyone would write history tomorrow.

April 2070. Solar-City Headquarters. 87th Floor. The same office, the same panoramic walls, the same black oak table.

Josh Hall, now no longer just CEO but de facto one of the three rulers of the world, sat in his chair, legs crossed. Before him - a transparent holographic list of all members of the US Congress. Each line was color-coded: green - reliable, already signed; yellow - wavering but pliable; red - oppositionists who needed to be isolated. Seventy percent of the list was green. Senator Collins - bright red, the only one of his kind.

Josh slowly scrolled through the data, studying personal dossiers, family connections, debts, hobbies, secret accounts. He knew more about each of these people than their own spouses: who was cheating, who took bribes, who was afraid of losing authority, who dreamed of a governor's seat. All the information had been collected and systematized by neural networks that did not miss a single email, a single call, a single second of video surveillance.

Prepare the invitations, - he said to his assistant - a young but already absolutely ruthless manager with a notepad in hand. - For all deputies in the yellow and red zones whose votes could be decisive. Arrange cruises for them on yachts in the Mediterranean, excursions to our plants with velvet conditions, consultations with our financial advisors. Let them be busy on voting day. Feel important. Immersed in comfort. Cut off from communication, if necessary.

Yes, sir, - the assistant wrote without looking up.

And a separate assignment: on the day of the session, perform a global update of the protocols of all government communicators on the East Coast. The failure should affect precisely those who decide to come. So they do not have confirmation of a quorum, so they cannot transmit their vote through proxies. A technical delay of four hours. That is enough.

Understood, sir.

Josh leaned back and took a cup of black coffee from the table. He did not smile, but in his gaze was the calm confidence of a mechanic who had just finished tuning the most complex engine. The bill would not pass. He knew it as surely as he knew that tomorrow the sun would rise in the east. This was not magic, not luck - it was pure probability mathematics, backed by billions of dollars and years of planning.

May 2070. Washington, D.C. The Capitol. Voting Day.

The chamber looked even emptier than last time. Only twenty percent attendance - deputies who came out of habit or stubbornness. But even among them, many whispered, glanced at their watches, nervously checked their communicators, which stubbornly showed "no connection." The technical failure, officially announced, had paralyzed notification systems and electronic voting. Paper ballots, provided for by the old regulations, lay untouched on the tables - no one remembered how to fill them out.

Collins stood at the podium, his fists clenched, his face gray with fury and despair.

Where is everyone?! - he shouted, his voice cracking. - Where are my colleagues, where are the senators, where are the people's representatives?! This is a conspiracy! This is a coup!

The Speaker, maintaining a perfectly impassive expression, rose from his seat and said with saccharine politeness: