Анатолий Шигапов – EXPIRATION DATE (страница 3)

Jacob left in 2033. The first message came a month later. It was ecstatic: "Charlie, this is paradise! I've never seen such streets! It's light here even at night! I went out on the balcony - and saw the stars! We didn't have them in our city for twenty years! The food is synthetic, but tasty. The neighbors are good. I work twelve hours, but it's worth it. I'm happy."

The second - six months later. Already shorter: "Hard. A lot of work. Debts are growing. But I'll manage. The main thing is not to get fired."

The third - a year later: "Charlie, I've been laid off. Downsizing. The company transferred half of the functions to AI. My home - they revised the terms. Now I owe twice as much. I'm trying to find a job, but without a corporate passport no one hires me. I can't sell the apartment - it belongs to the corporation. I can't leave. I'm trapped. Charlie, I don't know what to do."

Charles called back. The subscriber was unavailable.

He never heard from Jacob again.

Now, standing in the rain, he looked at the advertisement and felt cold. Not from the weather. From understanding.

In this world there were two types of people. Those in power. And those who signed documents without reading them.

Charles looked at his hands. He was no longer an architect. He was a courier. He had no home, no family, no future. He only had today. A package. A road. Survival.

He walked on.

An underground passage. It smelled of urine, mold, and dampness. On the walls - graffiti. Someone had drawn a flag crossed out with the red logo of Cyber-Fund. The caption: "THE STATE IS A CORPORATE LOGO." Below - another: "YOU HAVE ALREADY SOLD YOURSELF. YOU JUST DIDN'T NOTICE." The next - darker: "ROBOTS WILL DIE. BUT WE WON'T. BECAUSE WE ARE ALREADY DEAD."

Charles walked past. These inscriptions had been here for years. They were painted over, but they reappeared. It was the voice of those who still remembered what it meant to be free. But there were fewer and fewer of them. The rest just wanted to survive.

At the exit of the passage, a drone stopped him. A silver sphere the size of a basketball. It hovered at chest height, silent, like a ghost. In the center - a camera scanning his face. From the speaker - a mechanical voice, without intonation, without emotion:

Identification. Present your passport.

Charles took out a plastic card. A state ID. On it was a photo taken five years ago. Back then he still shaved. Now he had a week's stubble on his face. The drone scanned.

Charles Davis. Tax status - "non-payer since 2031." Credit rating - 412. Trust level - "low."

Charles did not look at the drone. He waited.

Your presence in this area has been noted. It is recommended that you leave the sector within 24 hours. In case of repeated detection - a fine of 200 credits.

The drone paused. The camera rotated.

Have a nice day.

It flew away. Fast, silent. Dissolved into the gray sky.

Charles watched it go. "Tax status - non-payer." That was because he had no official job. He was a courier on private orders. He paid taxes when he could - once every six months, in small amounts. But the system considered him a debtor. That meant: he could not get a loan, rent housing in a good area, buy medicines under the state program. He was treated only in free clinics, where queues were three months long. He could not vote - he was simply not on the lists. He could only use public transport, and even that with restrictions. He was an outcast.

But the scarier thing was not that. The scarier thing was that soon there would be no state passports.

Corporations had already launched "Digital Passport 1.0." Beta version, only for employees. Charles had seen how the system worked. His neighbor in the shelter - a former Cyber-Fund engineer - had shown him. Everything was linked: taxes, mortgage, insurance, medical history. One chip in the wrist replaced twenty documents. And if a state passport could be lost, forged, destroyed - a digital one could not be lost. It was always with you. And it always controlled you.

Corporations were working to expand it to everyone. And then Charles would cease to be Charles Davis. He would become "User CR-44921." He would have no rights. Only "Terms of Use." And if he violated them - the corporation would "shut him down." Simply, quietly, without trial or investigation.

Charles wiped his face with his sleeve. The rain was letting up. Above his head - the airships. Impassive. Indifferent. Gods.

He walked out onto 45th Street. The buildings here were old, pre-war. Brick that had once been red was now gray from dirt. The windows were boarded up. In the entrances - homeless tents. Children ran barefoot through the puddles. Here, in sector 14-B, corporations did not rule. Neither did the government. Here - anarchy. People survived as they could.

Charles found the right address. The door was iron, with peeling paint. He knocked. A woman with a face cut by wrinkles opened it. She was probably forty. She looked sixty.

Delivery, - said Charles. - Order 4492.

She nodded. Silently. Took the container. Charles did not ask what was inside. None of his business.

She closed the door.

Charles turned and walked back. Past the underground passage. Past the graffiti. Past the drones. Past the airships.

He had delivered the package. He would get his credits. He would buy food. He would survive today.

And tomorrow - another day.

SCENE 2. THE FIRST PRIVATE CITY

January 2038. Arizona Desert.

Here, where there had once been an abandoned military base, a miracle was now being built. A miracle visible from space - a perfect rectangle on the map of the desert, where the land was marked with lines of future streets, where foundations rose from the sand like the teeth of a giant animal.

Joshua Hall stood on the observation deck. It was a temporary structure - steel beams, a deck of metal sheets, wire fencing. The wind blew from the desert, scorching his face, carrying sand. Josh adjusted his protective glasses. Below him lay the future "New Eden."

He looked down, and a feeling spread through his chest that he could not describe. Not pride. Not joy. Something deeper - satisfaction from power. From the fact that he was creating a world. An entire world. For half a million people.

"New Eden" cost seventy billion dollars. Seventy billion. In 2025, that would have been the annual budget of an entire country - for example, Norway. Now it was just a construction project. Solar-City had money. Lots of money. More than most states. Josh knew the exact figure - the corporation's assets were five trillion. That was more than the GDP of all of South America.

Next to him stood Li Chen. The chief engineer. She was thirty-three, but she had already built a career that others could only dream of. She was responsible for the project - for making everything work: energy, water supply, sewage, climate control, transport. She held a tablet with a three-dimensional model. Lines of utilities pulsed blue, like veins on the body of the city.

Josh, we are on schedule, - said Li. Her voice was calm, businesslike. - The foundation is eighty percent complete. The energy dome will be launched in a month - solar panels on roofs, geothermal sources underground, backup batteries. Vertical farms will yield the first harvests in six months. We will be able to feed five hundred thousand people without external supplies.

Josh nodded. He massaged his nose bridge. A sleepless night - negotiations with investors, disputes with lawyers, budget approvals. But he did not complain. This was his project. His brainchild.

Li, how many applications for entry? - he asked.

One hundred and thirty thousand in the first week. We expect half a million by launch time. We haven't even advertised - only a notice on the website. They come on their own.

Do they know the terms?

Li raised an eyebrow. A slight smile on her lips:

Of course, Josh. Everything is signed. Contracts are standard: thirty-year mortgage, work for the corporation, compliance with corporate rules. The fine print... well, you know.

Josh chuckled. Yes, he knew. He had written that fine print himself. He had sat with lawyers for three weeks, verifying every wording. "In case of dismissal - the mortgage is transferred to the corporate fund. The corporation has the right to unilaterally revise the loan terms. Failure to comply with the terms leads to seizure of housing." Legally flawless. No violation of rights. They signed voluntarily.

They don't read, - said Josh. - They never read. They see the number - two percent annual interest. They see pictures of happy people. They see clean streets and schools for their children. And they sign.

Li looked at him. There was a question in her gaze. She did not ask it aloud, but Josh knew. He always knew what his subordinates were thinking.

Don't you feel sorry for them? - she finally asked.

Josh looked at her. She was young. She still believed. Believed that they were building a "better world." Believed in the words written in advertising brochures. Josh was fifty-two. He had stopped believing twenty years ago, when he saw how real power worked.