Анатолий Шигапов – EXPIRATION DATE (страница 14)

He put down the pen, rose from his chair, walked to the window, and looked for a long time at the lights returning to his city - not as a gift, but as a reminder that he had just sold his soul for a few watts of electricity.

SCENE 4. THE PRESIDENT ON HIS KNEES

February 2071. Solar-City Headquarters. Satellite City "New Eden."

The presidential air shuttle landed silently on the rooftop platform of Solar-City's main headquarters at exactly 9:47 AM local time. James Harrison, the fifty-third president of the United States, stepped out of the cabin alone - without security, without secretaries, without advisors. His face was pale, deep shadows under his eyes, and his once immaculate suit hung loosely on his gaunt body. He had taken office six years ago, in 2065, with a promise to restore America's former might, but instead he had become a witness to its slow, agonizing death. Now he had come here not as the leader of a superpower, but as a supplicant - the last in a long line of presidents who had one by one ceded power to corporations, starting as far back as 2025, when the 47th president, Donald Trump, signed the first contracts privatizing infrastructure.

The corridors of the headquarters greeted him with shining cleanliness, sterile gleam of chrome panels, and soft, even light from ceiling panels simulating natural sunlight. Humidifiers, air conditioners, and ionizers worked here; the air smelled of lemon and freshness - a smell Harrison had not felt for many months, because in the White House climate control had long been shut off, and the president lived in dampness and mold, wrapped in an army blanket. He walked through these corridors, and each step echoed with dull pain in his chest, because he understood: here, in this perfectly calibrated world, there was no place for his people. Here, fates were decided. And he had come to beg.

He was led into the negotiation hall - a spacious room with panoramic glass overlooking the snow-covered domes of New Eden, stretching below like a giant anthill of identical modular cells. Behind a long table of polished black stone sat three people. In the center - Josh Hall, chairman of Solar-City, with completely gray hair and steel, unblinking eyes. To his right - a representative of Cyber-Fund, a young woman in an ivory-colored suit with a cold, detached smile. To his left - a representative of Neura-Infra, the corporation managing global communications and biometrics, a gray-haired man with a face devoid of any emotion. They did not rise when the president entered. They did not even extend their hands for a handshake. They simply sat, fingers clasped, and looked at him as one would look at a laboratory animal that had finally stopped resisting.

Harrison stopped at the table. He did not sit in the offered chair - it was too soft and comfortable for such a moment. He stood, leaning with both hands on the back of the chair, his shoulders slumped, his voice trembling as he began to speak:

Gentlemen… I have not come as president. I have come as a human being. As a representative of millions of people who are dying in their homes. - He paused, swallowing the lump in his throat. - Last night in New York, four thousand two hundred children died from the cold. In Chicago - two thousand eight hundred. In Dallas - one thousand nine hundred. Children, gentlemen. Children who cannot keep warm because we turned off their heating. Elderly people freezing to death in their beds because we closed fuel depots. The sick who cannot get medicines because our drones are blocking humanitarian convoys. - His voice cracked, and he grabbed the back of the chair to keep from falling. - I am asking you. I am begging you. Turn on the power. For the nursing homes. For the children's hospitals. For the people who have done nothing wrong to you. You have the power, you have the resources. Please.

He fell silent, breathing heavily. A ringing silence hung in the room, broken only by the soft hum of ventilation. Josh Hall tilted his head slightly, studying the president like a doctor examining an X-ray of a hopeless patient. His voice, when he spoke, was even, calm, almost friendly - and that friendliness made Harrison even more horrified.

Mr. President, - said Josh, - we have listened to you carefully. And we understand your pain. Truly, we do. But allow me to ask you one simple question. - He leaned forward, his steel eyes boring into Harrison's face. - Fifty years ago, when the 47th president, Donald Trump, signed the first contracts transferring power grids to private hands, was he thinking about children? Four decades ago, when his successors expanded those contracts, were they thinking about the elderly? Twenty years ago, when the last president who tried to resist was forced out, were they thinking about the sick? No, Mr. President. They were thinking about budgets, about ratings, about lobbyists. They were thinking about how to stay in power for one more term. And every subsequent president - including you, Mr. Harrison - merely reinforced this system, hoping the crisis would not happen on their watch. But the crisis came. And now you come to us with pleas. But your plea has no weight, Mr. President. It has no leverage.

He paused, letting the words settle. Harrison felt his legs give way, and he slowly sank into the chair, though he had not meant to.

Josh Hall picked up a thick folder from the table and slid it over to the president. On the cover, embossed in gold letters: "Act on the Voluntary Transfer of Sovereign Powers."

Here is the contract, - said Josh. - It has three points. First: you transfer to the corporations full control over all city grids - power, water, sewage, transport, and communications throughout the former United States. Second: you recognize that corporate regulations take precedence over state law in all matters concerning economy, identification, and security. Third: you dissolve the federal government in its current form and transfer its functions to our administrative structures. You, as president, sign this document, and after that you are provided with an honorary pension and an island in the Caribbean. You will live in comfort. Your family will be safe. Your grandchildren will be able to study in our academies.

Harrison looked at the folder, then at Josh, then at the empty space before him. His hands, resting on his knees, began to tremble with a fine tremor.

I… I cannot sign this, - he forced out, almost in a whisper. - This is the end of America. This is the end of everything we fought for for almost three hundred years. This is betrayal. Fifty-three presidents before me - and I will be the one to put the final period?

Josh Hall slowly rose from the table. He walked around it, stopping right in front of Harrison, looming over him like a monument of flesh and steel. His voice became harder, with steely notes that no longer tried to hide contempt.

Mr. President, - he said, enunciating each word, - allow me to be absolutely frank with you. America has been dead for five decades. It did not die today or yesterday. It began dying in 2025, when the forty-seventh president put his signature under the first corporate contract. It died all those years - slowly, imperceptibly, to the accompaniment of patriotic speeches and fake elections. Every one of your predecessors, including you, merely postponed the inevitable, hoping the finale would come after their term. But the finale came on your watch. And now you stand here, in this room, and beg us for mercy, because you have no more power, no will, no even the right to call yourself a leader. - He leaned down, bringing his face close to the president's, and continued in a whisper that sounded louder than any shout: - You either sign this contract, and your people get heat, food, and a chance to survive, or you go back to Washington, and in two weeks only ashes and statistics will remain of your people. Choose. But choose now.

Harrison raised his head. Tears ran down his cheeks - quiet, soundless, which he could not stop. He looked at Josh Hall, at his impeccably shaved face, at his snow-white shirt, at his hands that held the lives of millions like dice. He wanted to say "no," he wanted to stand up and tear up the contract, he wanted to show them he was still president, that he was still a free man.

But he could not. Because he had no strength. Because he knew that if he left, he would return to a dead city where another three thousand children would die tomorrow. And each of them would die with his name on their lips.

He took the pen. His fingers gripped it so hard that his knuckles turned white. He pulled the folder toward himself, opened it to the last page, where an empty line waited for his signature.

He signed. Letter by letter, without looking at the text, without reading the terms, just moving the pen across the paper like a robot that had no choice left. James Harrison, the fifty-third president of the United States, signed the act of capitulation.

When he finished, Josh Hall gently took the folder, checked the signature, nodded approvingly, and handed Harrison a damp towel to wipe his tears.