Анатолий Шигапов – EXPIRATION DATE (страница 16)

"Operation 'Clean Slate.' Code: Locust-4. Target: complete liquidation of General Stone's unit. Deadline: July 2071. Executors: swarm of 'Locust'-class drones. Mode: total."

Within an hour, all swarm systems were switched to combat mode. Thousands of silver points froze in hangars, waiting for the launch signal. General Stone and his one hundred and fifty soldiers did not yet know that their last days were numbered. They sat by a fire deep in the old mine, drinking hot tea from tin cups and talking about what the new world would be like - a free world they would bring back.

They did not know that freedom dies faster than hope.

STAGE 4. "THE BATTLE OF WASHINGTON" (2071)

SCENE 1. THE LAST ARMY

July 2071. Somewhere in the Appalachians. Secret camp.

The mountain forests of Pennsylvania, which had once been reserves with clean streams and hiking trails, had now become the last stronghold of resistance. Here, deep in old coal mines abandoned back in the 19th century, gathered those who still remembered what freedom meant. Those who had not signed contracts with corporations. Those who had not sold themselves for shares and virtual tokens. Those for whom the words "oath," "honor," and "homeland" still held weight.

The entrance to the mine was hidden behind dense thickets of wild ivy and elderberry. Outside - not a single trace, not a single path. Only if you knew where to look could you spot a barely noticeable hatch, sprinkled with earth, and wires leading deep into the mountain. Inside - dampness, the smell of old coal and machine oil, but here there was light - dim lamps on batteries charged by hand generators. There was water - from an underground spring, purified through homemade filters. There was food - canned goods captured in raids on abandoned warehouses. There was weapons, but few. There were people, but few as well.

General Michael Stone stood at the entrance to the mine, slightly squinting at the first rays of sunlight breaking through the crowns of trees. He was sixty-two, but looked seventy - his face was carved with deep wrinkles, his skin was weathered, gray stubble covered his cheeks. He was tall, thin, stooped from constant tension, but his piercing blue eyes, the color of old ice, still burned with the fire that years of defeat had not extinguished. He was from the old school - one of those generals who had sworn allegiance to the Constitution, not to shareholders. He had served in the US Army for forty years, been through three wars, watched his comrades one by one defect to the corporations, becoming mercenaries in private military companies. He had seen generals he respected trade their stars for contracts with Cyber-Fund. He had seen the US Army, the pride of the nation, turn into PMCs, private guards of corporate interests.

He refused. He went underground when he was offered command of one of Solar-City's units - he spat in the emissary's face and said he would rather die in the mud than wear their patches. Three years had passed since then. He had gathered around him those who remained loyal. Those who had not forgotten what it meant to be a soldier, not a mercenary.

Behind him - one hundred and fifty people. Men and women, from eighteen to seventy years old. This was all that remained of a once-great army - the most powerful military machine in human history. They had rifles - old M-27 models from the 2030s, with worn stocks and rusty bolts that they cleaned every night so they would not fail at the crucial moment. They had a few hand grenade launchers - trophies from an abandoned military base in Virginia. They had reconnaissance drones assembled from spare parts that scanned the surroundings every two hours to detect "Locusts" before they detected them. And they had hope - that substance which cannot be measured, weighed, or sold, but which kept them here, in this damp, cold mine, when the entire world had already surrendered.

Stone slowly surveyed his soldiers. Young men and women, twenty to thirty years old. They had been born in the era of crisis, when America began to fall apart, when the word "democracy" became a curse. They did not remember a country where you could freely criticize the government without fearing that a "Locust" drone would record your voice and send the data to a corporate archive. They did not remember what a real flag over the Capitol looked like. But they believed - believed they could bring it all back, bring back that world they only knew from old films and books Stone had ordered preserved when everything else was burned. Among them were old men - veterans who remembered the 2020s, when presidents changed but the country remained the same. They wore old patches no one recognized anymore and gripped their weapons with a fury that seemed capable of restoring their lost years.

Stone raised his hand, and the whispering ceased. He looked at his people, at their faces emaciated by malnutrition, at their eyes red from sleeplessness, at their hands trembling from cold and adrenaline. He knew most of them would not return. But he also knew they had to do this.

Today we march on Washington, - he said, his voice low and hoarse, echoing through the narrow mine corridor, bouncing off the stone walls. - We march not to win. Not to seize power. We march to show them - show everyone who surrendered, who signed contracts, who believed their sweet speeches about a "new world without borders" - that freedom has not died. It has not died. It was just waiting. Waiting for those brave enough to take up arms and say: "No. We do not agree."

He paused, letting the words soak into the air. The soldiers looked at him, and in their eyes, determination mixed with fear. They knew they were marching to certain death. But they did not retreat.

Neura-Infra headquarters, - Stone continued. - The heart of the corporate empire. The center of all communications, data, and identification. If we strike there, if we show we can reach their nerve center - others will rise. The cities that capitulated will revolt. The people working on their assembly lines will understand that the masters are not immortal. Propaganda will crumble when the news shows Neura-Infra burning. We may not win today, but we will start the countdown. We will let them know their empire is just a house of cards, and one strong wind can destroy it.

He paused, caught his breath, then clenched his fist and raised it above his head.

We are the last army of freedom. And we march to the end. Forward!

One hundred and fifty soldiers stepped out. They moved through the forest, along old roads no one patrolled because the corporations believed resistance was dead. They walked at night, under cover of darkness, hiding from the rare drones sweeping the sky. They knew death awaited them behind every tree, but they did not stop.

Two days later. July 2071. Outskirts of Washington.

Stone's unit reached the outskirts of the capital on the second night. They had moved without stopping, hiding in the ruins of abandoned villages, wading through shallow rivers to confuse thermal imagers. Now they stood on the edge of the city, in the shadow of a half-destroyed shopping mall whose sign had long fallen off. Ahead - Washington, but it was no longer the city Stone remembered. Skyscrapers that had once shone with glass and steel now stood as dark, lifeless obelisks. Most were boarded up. Only a few buildings still glowed - corporate headquarters, the new rulers of this place. In the center, where the Capitol once stood, now lay a flat concrete pad - it had already begun to be covered with new polymer coating for the construction of a distribution center.

Stone stood over a map spread across the hood of an old armored personnel carrier they had found at an abandoned military base. The map was covered in marks - blue dots marked drone positions, red - automatic turrets, black - private military companies guarding the perimeter. Neura-Infra headquarters was in the old Silicon Gulch, in a building that had once belonged to a major technology company. Behind multi-layered protection hid servers that managed identification, communications, and financial flows for all of North America. If they destroyed that node - the corporate network would collapse for a few hours, maybe days. That would be the first real blow to their power.

They have three lines of defense, - said Stone, tracing a finger across the map. - First - Locust drones patrolling the perimeter. They are automatic, but have limited range. If we approach from the east, where the old residential blocks are, we can slip through the dead zones. Second - automatic turrets on roofs and on the ground. They are controlled by a central AI, but the AI cannot distinguish civilians from soldiers - so we will move in groups of two or three, like locals sneaking to shelters. Third - PMCs. About two hundred mercenaries, well-trained, with the latest equipment. This is the hardest part. We must break through to the server room and set charges. Five minutes - and it's over.