Анатолий Шигапов – EXPIRATION DATE (страница 6)

The government declares a state of emergency in eighteen states. The drought has destroyed up to eighty percent of the harvest. The largest agricultural regions of the country have been declared disaster zones. According to expert estimates, the food crisis may last up to five years. The government urges citizens to economize and recommends using synthetic food substitutes.

Martha looked at Thomas. Her eyes were full of despair. She said quietly:

Five years, Thomas. We won't survive five years. We have no money, no supplies, nothing. The children haven't eaten proper food for two months. The youngest, Benjamin - he cries at night. He says he wants bread. Real bread. I can't give it to him. I can't.

Thomas was silent. He looked at the field. Where wheat once grew, there was now only dust. He felt something dark rising in his chest. Not anger. Not despair. Something in between. Powerlessness.

In the 2030s, scientists had warned about this. They shouted at conferences, wrote articles, spoke at the UN. They said: "Global warming will change the climate. Harvests will fall. There will be water shortages. We must change agriculture, build irrigation systems, develop new varieties." No one listened. Politicians promised that technology would solve everything. Corporations said: "We will create synthetic food. There will be enough for everyone." And they did create it. But real food - grown on the land, under the sun, with rain, with love - was dying. And synthetics required energy, factories, raw materials. And cost money. Money the state did not have.

Thomas closed his eyes. He remembered his father. His father was tall, strong, with calloused hands. He would get up at four in the morning and go to the field. He would return only in the evening, covered in mud, but happy. He said: "Thomas, the land is everything to us. As long as we have the land, we will survive." But the land was gone. Like water. Like air. Like freedom.

He sat down on the porch steps. His head hung low. Martha sat beside him, placed her head on his shoulder.

What are we going to do? - she asked.

Thomas looked at the horizon. There, in the distance, loomed the silhouettes of huge structures. Green-Matrix's vertical farms. They stood on leased land that farmers had sold for next to nothing when they realized they could no longer feed themselves. They ran on synthetic lighting and hydroponics. They produced tons of food every day. They did not depend on rain, sun, or drought. They were the future. They fed the cities.

But farmers hated them. Because they were symbols of the end. Symbols that traditional agriculture was dead. That man could no longer feed himself. That he depended on corporations, their technologies, their mercy.

We will survive, - said Thomas, but his voice sounded uncertain. - Like our fathers. Like our grandfathers.

But they are offering help, - said Martha. - Green-Matrix. They say: "Give us the land on a ninety-nine-year concession. We will build vertical farms. We will feed the country. We will create jobs." Thomas, I know you don't want this. But we have no choice. The children are starving. We are starving. If we do not sign, we will die. Not in five years. In months.

Thomas turned to her. There was anger in his eyes. Not at his wife. At what she said. Because she spoke the truth.

Martha, if we give away the land, we will become slaves. They will decide how much we eat. They will set prices. They will strangle us.

Thomas, we are already dying. Her voice trembled. - We have had no harvest for three years. The family is starving. The children go to school in torn clothes. How is that different from slavery? At least slaves get food.

He wanted to object. But he could not. Because she was right. He looked at his hands. Hands that had once held the plow, gathered the harvest, embraced his children. Now they just hung, useless.

Martha, - he said quietly. - If I sign - I betray my father. He bequeathed this land to me. He said land is our freedom.

Thomas, - she took his hand. - Your father would have starved to death if he saw his grandchildren unable to eat. He wanted us to live. He did not want us to die with honor. We can die, or we can live and fight. Choose.

He looked at her for a long, long time. Then he nodded.

Okay. Tomorrow I will go to the city. I will sign.

August 2052. Geneva. World Food Organization Headquarters.

This was the last place where they still tried to maintain the illusion of international cooperation. The building was aging, like everything in this world. In the large assembly hall sat delegates from sixty countries. But most of them were not ministers of agriculture. They were representatives of corporations. Green-Matrix, Solar-City, Cyber-Fund. They sat in the front rows. They had the best seats. They had power.

The chairman - an old Swiss diplomat, gray-haired, with glasses on his nose, with trembling hands - tried to maintain order, but his voice faltered. He remembered the 2020s, when the UN still meant something. Now it was just scenery.

Gentlemen, - he said, banging his gavel. - The situation is critical. Droughts in North America, floods in South Asia, hurricanes in Central America. Harvests have fallen by forty percent globally. According to forecasts, by the end of the year hunger could affect up to two billion people. We must unite our efforts. We must...

He was interrupted by a voice. Loud, confident, with an American accent.

Excuse me, Mr. Chairman.

Henry Clark - CEO of Green-Matrix. He was fifty-five, tall, fit, in an expensive suit. He did not look like a man worried about hunger. He looked like a man who had come to make a deal. His face was a stone mask, showing no emotion. Only cold calculation.

Gentlemen, we all know that states cannot cope. They have no resources, no technologies, no infrastructure. We do. Green-Matrix can feed the world. We are building vertical farms. We produce synthetic food. We can ensure stable food supplies for everyone who comes to us.

He paused and scanned the hall. His gaze lingered on delegates from countries especially hard hit by the climate crisis. In their eyes - despair.

But this costs money. And we cannot work for free. We offer a deal: states give us arable land on a ninety-nine-year concession. We build vertical farms on that land. We feed the population. We create jobs. Everyone benefits.

Silence in the hall. Then - a murmur. Delegates whispered. Some were outraged. Some intrigued. Some already ready to sign. The chairman tried to speak, but was interrupted again.

Mr. Clark, but this is... this is effectively the transfer of national resources into private hands. This violates sovereignty...

Sovereignty, - Henry smirked. - Mr. Chairman, sovereignty is when you can feed your people. If you cannot - you have no sovereignty. You have a choice. Either you sign a contract with us. Or you starve to death. Choose.

Silence in the hall. No one objected. Because he was right. And everyone knew it.

October 2052. Washington, D.C. The Oval Office.

President Woods sat at his desk again. Before him again - Treasury Secretary Martha Clark. She looked older than five years ago. Seven years ago. Ten years. She had aged twenty years in that time. Her hair was almost completely gray. Dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep.

Mr. President, - she said. - This is the last chance. Green-Matrix is offering a land concession. In exchange - food supplies. We can feed the population.

Martha, we've discussed this. If we give away the land - we will die a slow death. We will lose control over food. They will decide who gets food and who does not. That is the end of independence.

If we do not give it away - we will die a quick death. She placed the folder on the table. - Food reserves will run out in three months. The synthetic food we produce ourselves covers only twenty percent of needs. The rest we buy from Green-Matrix. But they can stop supplies at any moment. And then - famine. Riots. Chaos. We cannot risk it, Mr. President.

Woods looked at her. He knew. He knew everything.

Martha... if I sign this... I will betray my country. America, which fed half the world, America - the breadbasket of the planet. I will give it to corporations.

If you do not sign, Mr. President, your country will cease to exist in six months. It will die a quiet, slow death from hunger. Do you want to be remembered as the president who let his people die?

He looked out the window. There was no snow. The winter was mild. But his soul was cold. He thought of his father, a Vietnam veteran. His father said: "Son, America is freedom. Never give up freedom." Now he was giving it up. Not to enemies, not to terrorists - to corporations.

Bring the documents, - he said.

She brought them. He signed.

When she left, he looked at his hands. They trembled. He thought: "I am the last president of America. The one who killed it."

SCENE 2. FOOD DEPENDENCE

January 2055. New Eden. Central Food Center.

This was a huge building of glass and concrete, like a museum. Inside - hundreds of vertical farms. Shelves ten stories high, with rows of hydroponic containers. Beneath them - blue and red lamps that shone twenty-four hours a day, not giving the plants any rest. The plants grew fast, without soil, without sun. Their roots hung in a nutrient solution supplied through a system of tubes. The leaves were bright green, healthy, perfect. No pests, no diseases. Artificial beauty.