Анатолий Шигапов – EXPIRATION DATE (страница 15)

You made the right choice, Mr. President, - he said with a light, almost human smile. - You saved your people. Even if at the cost of pride. But pride does not heat hospital wards.

Harrison said nothing. He slowly rose, turned, and, staggering, left the hall. In the corridor, an assistant waited to escort him to the exit without a word.

An hour later, the corporate press office issued an official statement: "President Harrison voluntarily decided to retire, transferring infrastructure management to strategic partners. He has purchased a private island in the Caribbean, where he will spend the remainder of his days surrounded by family." The news showed an archival photo of him in his youth - smiling, confident, standing on the Capitol podium. New photos were not published.

No journalist asked exactly which island it was. No one checked whether he actually settled there. No one saw how, three days after signing the act, Harrison was led out of the headquarters building alone through a back entrance and put into an inconspicuous gray van without identification marks. The van drove off in an unknown direction, and no one saw him again. In official databases, the name James Harrison was replaced by "acting," and later - erased from protocols, as if he had never existed. It is said he lives somewhere in Central America, in a small village without electricity, and no one knows that this gray-haired, silent old man who carries water from a well once held the fate of an entire nation in his hands. But these are only rumors. And rumors, as we know, are not believed even by those who spread them.

In the corporate archives, in the classified section of the chronology, there is a short line:

"2065–2071 - James Harrison, 53rd President of the USA. The last. Signed the Act on the Transfer of Powers on February 14, 2071. Further records are absent."

SCENE 5. THE END OF THE STAGE

March 2071. Solar-City Headquarters. 87th Floor.

Outside the headquarters' windows, the last snow was slowly melting, revealing the gray concrete of New Eden - a city that had never known spring. Josh Hall stood at the panoramic glass, hands clasped behind his back, looking at the endless rows of modular cells where millions of Users woke at the signal, ate synthetic food, and went to assembly lines, never suspecting that their lives were merely a line in a corporate database. He looked at this world he had created with his own hands and felt nothing but a dull, oppressive fatigue.

Behind him, above the long black table, hovered a holographic map of the world. All continents burned with an even blue light - cities, transport hubs, power grids, control centers. Everything was under control. Everything was perfect. Except for one spot in the Appalachians, flickering with a dim, almost fading red. Resistance. The last spark the corporations could not extinguish. Josh looked at this spot with the irritation a painter feels when noticing an accidental smudge on a finished canvas. This spot did not matter - it was too small, too weak to threaten the empire. But it existed. And its very existence was an insult.

Report, - he said without turning. His voice was even, almost indifferent, but there was steel in it - the same steel that had once broken dozens of governments and hundreds of armies.

The head of security of Neura-Infra, a lean man of about fifty with a face devoid of emotion, stepped forward. His suit was impeccable, his movements precise - he knew that any mistake in this office could cost him his position, and possibly his life. He unfolded a holographic screen, and data appeared on it - photographs, diagrams, coordinates.

General Michael Stone, - he began, his voice dry and businesslike. - Sixty-two years old, former commander of the US ground forces. After refusing to sign a contract with Cyber-Fund, he went underground in 2068. He assembled a unit of about one hundred and fifty people - veterans, deserters, volunteers. They are based in old coal mines in Pennsylvania, in the Appalachians. They have small arms from the 2030s, a few grenade launchers captured from an abandoned military base. No reconnaissance drones - only homemade motion detectors. No communication with the cities, no outside support. They do not pose a threat, sir. We can destroy them at any time.

Why haven't we done that yet? - Josh asked, and for the first time there was sharpness in his voice. He slowly turned from the window and stared at the director with a cold, unblinking gaze that made interlocutors feel like insects under a magnifying glass.

The director hesitated for a moment, but quickly recovered.

They are isolated, sir. They have no resources, no communication channels, no ability to expand. We considered them unworthy of attention. Moreover, their existence could serve as a useful reminder - a vivid example of what happens to those who try to resist. We planned to use them as a demonstration.

Josh slowly walked around the table and stopped directly in front of the director, looming over him like a predator. His voice became quieter, almost a whisper, but that whisper sent a chill down the director's spine.

You are wrong, - said Josh. - Hope is not a tool. Hope is a virus. It penetrates consciousness, multiplies, mutates. One spark is enough to start a fire. One story about someone surviving, someone fighting, someone not giving up - and millions of Users will start asking questions. And questions are the beginning of the end. We cannot afford the luxury of leaving them even the illusion of choice. We must extinguish this spark once and for all.

He straightened and walked over to the holographic map. His fingers touched the red spot in the Appalachians, and it began to pulse like a living heart.

Prepare an operation to destroy Stone's unit, - he ordered, his voice again even and businesslike. - Use "Locusts." Complete liquidation - no survivors, no witnesses, no traces. The battlefield must be cleared so that in a week a distribution center can be built there. Do you understand me?

The director nodded, his face remaining impassive, but inwardly he felt relief that the conversation was over.

It will be done, sir. Operation "Clean Slate" will be launched within a month. We will track their movements, choose the moment when they are most vulnerable, and strike.

Good, - said Josh, and his voice lost its harshness, returning to its usual tired tone. - You are dismissed.

The director bowed and silently left the office. The door closed behind him with a soft hiss, and Josh was alone again.

He turned to the window. Beyond the glass, a crimson sunset painted the domes of New Eden in the colors of dried blood. The city he had built stretched to the horizon - billions of dollars, millions of lives, decades of work. And all of it was his. Every module, every light bulb, every breath taken by the people below - all of it obeyed his will. He could turn on heating in one block and turn it off in another. He could give them food or leave them hungry. He could erase their memory, rewrite their history, change their names. He was the god of this world.

But looking at this perfect, sterile order, Josh felt only emptiness. Somewhere inside, in that part of his soul he had buried years ago, lived a memory of another world - a world where he was just a boy with burning eyes who dreamed of changing everything for the better. Now he had changed everything. But it had not become better. Only quieter. Only emptier.

His reflection in the glass looked like a ghost - old, gray, tired, with eyes that had lost all light. He looked at himself and did not recognize himself. Where was the man who had once believed in freedom? Who was he now? A jailer, an executioner, the architect of his own cage?

In three months we will sign Treaty 404, - he said quietly, almost to himself, addressing his reflection. - And not a single state, not a single army, not a single hope will remain. Only us. Only order. Only the future we will build.

He fell silent. Wind outside the window drove rare snowflakes that melted before reaching the ground. The sunset faded, turning the sky a dark purple - the color of blood already spilled and blood yet to be spilled.

This is the end of the stage, - he added. - The next is the finale.

He took a step back from the window and walked to the table, where a crystal decanter of water stood. He poured himself a glass, raised it, looked at the light, but did not drink. Put it back. On the screen left by the director, the data on Stone's unit still glowed - photographs, diagrams, coordinates. Josh glanced at the general's face - old, gaunt, with piercing blue eyes in which burned the very fire Josh had long extinguished in himself.

You won't change anything, - he whispered, looking at the photograph. - But I respect you for trying.

He closed the screen. The office became dark - only the lonely lights of New Eden flickered below, like funeral pyres.

That same evening, an encoded order from Josh Hall's office arrived at Neura-Infra headquarters: