Анатолий Шигапов – EXPIRATION DATE (страница 5)

Before him sat Martha Clark. The Secretary of the Treasury. A woman with tired eyes, gray strands in her auburn hair. She held a folder with calculations. Her hands trembled - either from cold or from stress.

Mr. President, - she began. Her voice was quiet but firm. - We have a problem.

Woods raised his head. He was tired. Over the last week he had signed five executive orders. Each one gave corporations control over another port, another airport, another power grid. He did it because the country had no money. None at all. The budget was empty. Gold and foreign exchange reserves were depleted. The credit rating was "junk." America was bankrupt.

What now, Martha?

She opened the folder:

We owe Cyber-Fund 2.3 trillion dollars. Solar-City is demanding payment on loans totaling 800 billion. Neura-Infra - another 1.1 trillion. Interest is growing. We cannot service the debt. We cannot even pay the interest.

And what do you propose?

Martha sighed heavily:

We could take out new loans. Against infrastructure.

We have no more infrastructure, Martha. We've already pawned everything. Ports - to Cyber-Fund. Airports - to Solar-City. Power grids - to Neura-Infra. Satellites - we sold them in 2042, remember? Only the military remains. But they are no longer ours either. The generals get their salaries from corporations.

Martha was silent. She knew. She knew everything. But she had to say what she had to say.

There is one more thing, - she said. - National parks. Military bases that have not yet been transferred. And - arable land.

Woods looked at her. He understood what that meant. Arable land meant food independence. Grain, wheat, corn. America feeding itself. If he gave away the land, Green-Matrix would control all agriculture. They would decide how much food Americans got. They would set prices. They would feed or starve. And whoever feeds - rules.

No, - he said firmly. - Arable land is our security.

Mr. President, if we do not take out the loans, in three months we will not be able to pay public sector employees. Doctors, teachers, police officers - they will not get paid. In six months, the social security system will collapse. Pensioners will starve to death. In a year - collapse. Total. The state will cease to exist.

Woods looked at her. He remembered studying history in his youth. Remembered the Great Depression, Roosevelt, the "New Deal." Back then the government saved people. Now the government could not even save itself.

Martha, if we give away the land - we will become vassals. We will lose sovereignty.

We have already lost it, Mr. President.

She said it quietly, almost in a whisper. But the words sounded like a death sentence.

Woods turned to the window. Snow fell on the lawn. Tourists were still taking photos. They did not know. They were smiling. They believed America was a great country.

He was the president of lies. He had to sign documents that destroyed his country. Because otherwise - everyone would die. And he too.

Prepare the documents, - he said quietly. - We will take out loans against the land.

Martha nodded. She had already prepared them. She knew he would agree.

She stood up, gathered the folder. At the door she turned:

Mr. President... I'm sorry.

For what?

That I have to do this. That I am making you do this.

Woods looked at her. He wanted to say it was okay. That they had no choice. That it was not her fault. But he said nothing.

She left. The door closed.

He remained alone. In silence. He looked at the portraits of Washington, Lincoln, Roosevelt. They looked at him. They judged.

I know, - he said. - I know.

He signed the documents.

November 2052. Solar-City Headquarters. New Eden. 87th Floor.

Here, at an altitude of three hundred meters, another world began. Polished marble floors, black glass walls, dynamic lighting ceilings. The air - with a faint scent of citrus, without dust, without impurities. The noise of the city could not be heard here - soundproofing absorbed everything. It was quiet here. Almost like in a temple.

Josh Hall sat at the head of a long table. He was now the Executive Vice President of Solar-City. Seven years ago he had merely been a department director. Now he was one of those who decided the fates of millions. He looked at the holographic map of the world hanging in the center of the hall.

The map was highlighted. Green marked corporate control zones. Thirty percent of all urban infrastructure. Forty percent of power grids. Fifty percent of ports. Eighty percent of the satellite constellation. The numbers grew every day.

Around the table sat the board of directors. Nine men and women in perfect suits. They looked as if they did not know the word "fatigue." Their skin glowed, their eyes sparkled. They had the best stimulants, the best doctors, the best synthetic vitamins. They were immortal. Or almost.

Ladies and gentlemen, - Josh began. His voice echoed through the hall. - Congratulations. We have successfully completed the first stage. States owe us trillions. Their armies are coming under our control. Their citizens use our passports. We are no longer subordinates. We are the government of the world.

Silence in the hall. The directors looked at him. Some nodded. Some smiled.

The next stage is food, - Josh continued. - We will strangle them through food. Green-Matrix is already ready. They will receive concessions on arable land. We will replace agriculture with vertical farms. We will make them dependent on us.

He placed his coffee mug on the glass table. Real coffee, from South America. The last plantations not yet bought up by corporations. Josh loved real coffee. Synthetic was not the same.

By 2060, states will be dead. We will do it. Legally. Economically. And no one will be able to stop us, because, - he paused, - no one reads the fine print.

Laughter. Short, but genuine. The directors exchanged glances.

Josh, - said one of them, - what about resistance? Won't anyone try to protest?

Josh shook his head:

Protest? Against what? Against clean water? Against safe streets? Against food that doesn't kill? We give them everything they want. We have jobs. Stability. Digital passports that simplify life. They won't protest. They will applaud. Do you know why? Because we gave them the illusion of choice. And they chose us.

The director nodded.

Josh looked at the map. The green zones spread like a living organism. Soon the entire map would be green.

In twenty years, - he said, - people will not remember what a state was. They will remember only logos. We are their government. We are their law. We are their future.

He raised his glass:

To the new world. Without borders. Without flags. Only economics.

Everyone raised their glasses.

The clink of glass.

STAGE 2. "THE DEBT NOOSE" (2052–2063)

SCENE 1. THE CLIMATE CRISIS

May 2052. Kansas. The Great Plains.

Here, where there had once been endless wheat fields, there was now a desert. Not the kind in Arizona - with sand and dunes, red rocks and cacti. Another kind. Gray, clayey, cracked. The land that had once fed half the planet was now dead. It had cracked into hexagonal plates, like mud at the bottom of a dried-up lake. Between the plates - emptiness. Only dust, rising with every breath of wind. No life. No grass, no bushes, no insects. Only the wind driving clouds of dust, and the sun's rays falling from the merciless sky, burning everything they could reach.

Farmer Thomas Henderson stood on the porch of his house. The house was old, wooden, with peeling paint. It had been built by his grandfather in the 1960s, when this was the promised land - black soil, rains, harvests. Thomas remembered running through these fields as a child. They were golden with ears of grain. The air smelled of bread and fresh grass. His father used to say: "The land will not let us down. The land feeds." The land had failed.

The third year of drought. The third year the rains did not come. Thomas had tried everything - drilled wells, but the water had gone too deep. Bought fertilizers, but they did not help without moisture. Tried planting drought-resistant varieties advertised as "miracle genes" - they also died. The land killed everything planted in it. It was dead, and no prayers, no technologies, no hopes could resurrect it.

He looked at the field. Where combines once stood, now lay rusty carcasses. Where barns had been, there was now emptiness, only the wind howling through the cracks. Thomas's family - his wife Martha, three children - had been living on state aid for two years. It was meager - synthetic rations delivered by drones once a week. Nutritious, but tasteless. Thomas remembered the smell of freshly baked bread. Now it only smelled of plastic.

Martha came out onto the porch. She was thin, pale, with dark circles under her eyes. She had once been beautiful, with rosy cheeks, with a smile that lit up the whole house. Now the smile was gone. Her face was a mask of exhaustion. She held a communicator.

Thomas, - she said quietly, - news. On TV. You should watch.

Thomas turned. Martha handed him the communicator. The screen showed the "Global-News" channel - it belonged to Cyber-Fund, but the news was the same everywhere. The announcer - a woman with a perfect smile, teeth gleaming white, skin without a single flaw - said: