Анатолий Шигапов – EXPIRATION DATE (страница 9)

He snapped his fingers - and two silent guards in black jumpsuits took positions at the exit. The emissary turned on his heels, cast a parting glance at the few deputies present, who averted their eyes, and left the hall. The door slammed shut behind him with a heavy, oppressive sound, like the lid of a coffin.

The Chairman remained standing at the rostrum. His hands trembled so violently that he dropped his glasses. He tried to say something, restore a quorum, but only a wheeze escaped his throat. The deputies, who had been sitting in a stupor, began to whisper nervously, pulled out communicators, some already stood up and, on tiptoe, trying not to make noise, left the hall through the side doors. The session effectively fell apart before it began.

Exactly three hours later, as promised, world exchanges were shaken by a powerful collapse. Cyber-Fund put up for sale multi-billion reserves of the national token over two hours, creating an artificial oversupply and spreading panic among holders. The exchange rate of the national currency fell by ninety percent in minutes. Quotes fell so fast that the boards on trading floors could not keep up - numbers blurred into a solid black stripe.

Germany's economy, still stable that morning, collapsed like a house of cards. One by one, banks closed their branches, blocked accounts, citing "technical failures." People standing in long queues at terminals watched their savings - money set aside for housing, children's education, pensions - melt away on screens, turning into negligible fractions of a cent. Inflation skyrocketed instantly: in the morning a loaf of bread cost two tokens, by evening the same loaf was priced at two hundred. Prices for food, fuel, and medicines were rewritten every five minutes, supermarkets emptied, and the first spontaneous protests swept through the city, dispersed not by police but by private armed contingents of the same "Fund."

A month later, the Bundestag voted for a "technical assistance agreement" - an actual act of capitulation. Germany became a protectorate of Cyber-Fund, with all its industry, intellectual property, and labor resources. The Chairman, whose name had still appeared in headlines, submitted his resignation the day after the collapse - his paper was accepted without discussion. He was immediately expelled from all party registers, his photos and biography were cut from archives, as if he had never existed. He became a "former," an empty space. It is rumored that he now lives in a dilapidated house somewhere in the Bavarian hinterland, overgrown with ivy and nettles - none of his colleagues, friends, or family visit him. The postman silently leaves a meager pension at the gate, converted at the "Fund" rate, and leaves. Journalists do not come to him either. Even the neighbors have stopped talking about him. And the old man often sits on the porch until dark, looking at the empty road and listening to the wind whistling through wires that no longer carry any signal.

SCENE 5. THE END OF THE STAGE

November 2063. Solar-City Headquarters. 87th Floor.

Here, at an altitude where neither smog nor city noise could reach, the air was crystal clear and smelled of ozone and expensive wood. The office was flooded with soft, even light that came not from lamps but from the glass wall itself, transformed into a panoramic screen displaying a sunrise over the foggy rooftops of Berlin - or what was left of it. A long polished table of black oak, inlaid with thin gold lines, occupied the center of the hall. On the table - no papers, no terminals, only decanters of water and nine impeccable glasses, already filled with amber liquid.

At the head of the table, slightly leaning back in his chair, sat Josh Hall. He was fifty, but looked seventy: the thick hair he had once proudly worn dark was now completely white, as if dusted with ash; his face was furrowed with deep, canyon-like wrinkles - especially sharp creases had settled around his mouth and between his brows, giving him an expression of permanent harsh fatigue. However, his eyes - predatory, unblinking, of a steel hue - remained the same. These were the eyes of a man who had already cornered his prey, cut off all paths of retreat, and now allowed himself a moment of quiet triumph before the final blow. He looked not at those present, but through them, at his reflection in the panoramic glass, and the corners of his lips slightly lifted in something like a smile.

Before him - the Board of Directors. Nine men and women in impeccably tailored suits from the best ateliers in the world, their fabrics shimmering with microscopic fibers reflecting the colors of their personal corporate crests. Each had perfect posture, perfectly styled hair, restrained gestures, and patient faces. They were not here to argue, object, or propose alternatives. They were here to witness. And wait. Their fingers were clasped on the tabletop, heads slightly bowed - a posture of attention mixed with reverence.

Ladies and gentlemen, - Josh began, finally shifting his gaze to them. His voice was low, slightly hoarse, but every word fell like a weight, brooking no objection. - I have gathered you today to take stock. The second stage of our plan is complete. In fact - ahead of schedule, fourteen months earlier than the estimated timeline.

He paused, letting the information settle, and lightly ran his finger along the rim of his glass, producing a barely audible, pure ring.

States no longer control food - our agro-blocks and vertical farms produce eighty percent of all consumed food. Money is no longer theirs - our tokens and credit lines have become the only liquidity on all continents, except perhaps isolated enclaves that will starve to death within a year. Identification is no longer theirs - every person on the planet, even those hiding in basements, has at least one of our digital traces, one of our biometric keys. States continue to exist... nominally. They still have flags, anthems, constitutions, sitting parliaments, and presidents addressing from balconies. But these are merely decorations, theatrical props for the masses. Real power - from now and forever - is ours.

He snapped his fingers, and the central part of the table came alive, turning into a three-dimensional holographic map of the world. Continents were no longer colored by traditional national borders - now they were divided into corporate sectors. Vast green swaths belonged to Green-Matrix - agricultural lands, ecosystems, and climate control centers. Blue patches, densely scattered across all continents, were the holdings of Solar-City: energy hubs, battery farms, managing grids, street lighting, and heating. Silver threads enveloping every metropolis - Cyber-Fund: communications, data, exchanges, and information flows. The borders of former powers - the USA, China, Russia, the EU - were marked by pale, barely visible dotted lines, and their state flags flickered with faded, washed-out holograms that appeared and disappeared, like signals from a dying satellite. They no longer mattered. They were just names on a map, topographical monuments to the past.

Josh rose from his chair, walked around the table, and stopped directly in front of the projection, his face momentarily illuminated by its cold glow.

Now - the third stage. The strangulation of cities, - he said, and a metallic, chiseled rhythm appeared in his voice. - We will disconnect them from our power grids on pre-selected dates. Not all at once - we are not barbarians, we are surgeons. First - the ten largest agglomerations. We will turn off heating in December, when frost binds the earth. We will cut water supply in July, when the sun melts the asphalt. We will shut down transport arteries, block supplies of fuel and food. We will show them that without us they are dead. Not as an allegory, but in the most literal, physical sense. They will die of cold in their own bedrooms, of thirst in queues at dried-up fountains, of hunger in stores where shelves will be empty by the second day. But the main thing - they will die of fear. Fear will break them faster than any shortage. And then they will surrender. Without a fight. Without blood. Only economics. Only our will, framed as their own choice.

He turned to the board, and a hint of light, almost philosophical satisfaction appeared on his face.

We have not shed a drop of blood. We have not started a single war. We simply redirected flows, closed taps, shut off valves. And the world collapsed on its own, without a single shot.

Josh returned to his chair, took his glass, and raised it above his head. Through the amber thickness of the cognac, passing through the prism of the holographic map, light refracted, and colored highlights danced on his face.

To the new world, - he said, slightly bowing his head. - Without borders. Without states. Without resistance. To the order we built on the ruins of their illusions.

One by one, the directors raised their glasses. The clink of glass echoed under the high ceiling - pure, solemn, almost churchlike. No one made toasts, no one laughed, no one smiled. Only the soft crackle of ice and the whisper of expensive drink against crystal walls.