EXPIRATION DATE

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.

I don't feel sorry for them, - he answered. - They are doing well. In New Eden it will be clean, safe, stable. They will eat synthetic food - but at least they won't starve to death like in the state zones. They will breathe purified air - unlike those who stayed in cities where smog kills ten thousand people a year. They will be happy because they will be told they are happy. Isn't that better than living in fear, dirt, and poverty?

But they are not free.

Freedom, Li, is an abstraction. People don't want freedom. They want security. They want their children to have a future. They want not to be killed on the streets. They want stability. We give them that. And in return they give us... well, they give us everything.

He turned to her:

Do you think I'm a villain? No, Li. I'm a realist. We don't take away their freedom. They give it away themselves. We just offer a deal.

Li was silent. She looked at the construction site. Drones carried steel beams, excavators dug trenches, migrant workers in orange vests scurried like ants. Thousands of people were building a city for others. They themselves would never live in New Eden.

And what about them? - she pointed downward.

Josh shrugged indifferently:

They will get their due. Food, water, medical care. We honor contracts. They signed agreements to work for three years. After the term - deportation. Legally. We do not break laws, Li. We just... use them.

"Everything is legal." Those two words would haunt Li Chen for the rest of her life. She did not know it yet. She just nodded and returned to her tablet.

Josh looked at the horizon. The desert stretched to infinity, yellow, dead. But in a few months an oasis would grow here. Artificial, controlled, tamed.

Li, - he said without turning. - In five years you won't be able to find a single independent state on the map. Only corporate zones of influence. New Eden is just the beginning. We are building a new world. And we are building it right.

He paused:

Do you know what our strength is?

Money?

Patience. We do not seize power. We just wait until the states get tired. Until they go bankrupt. Until their citizens come to us themselves. We do not take away - we offer. And they take.

He looked at the construction site:

And when they take - they can no longer give it back.

SCENE 3. THE MORTGAGE TRAP

March 2042. New Eden. "Golden Gates" district.

Here even the air was different. Clean, transparent, with a faint scent of pine - real pines had been planted in the park, each tree costing two hundred thousand dollars a year to maintain. But who counted money when it came to the perfect world?

Daniel Miller stood at the window. From his living room there was a view of the central park. Green, neat, divided into geometric zones. In the center - a fountain that never stopped. The water in it was crystal clear, with a soft backlight. Gardener drones darted between the trees, adjusting branches, collecting leaves. A perfect picture. A picture for which he was paying.

Daniel's house cost half a million. He had taken out a thirty-year mortgage at two percent annual interest. It had seemed profitable - fifteen hundred credits a month. He earned six thousand. He had a wife, Sarah, a daughter, Emily. They were happy. They moved to New Eden in 2037, when the city first opened. Daniel believed. Believed it was the beginning of a new life. Believed he would work here, raise his daughter, grow old. Believed everything would be fine.

Now he looked at the contract. The very same. Yellowed, tattered. He had kept it in his desk drawer as a reminder of his own stupidity.

Three months ago he had been put on half-time. "Staff optimization," the HR manager explained. A young guy with perfectly styled hair. He spoke politely, with a smile. "The corporation is forced to cut costs. Your department is no longer needed. But we are not firing you - we are transferring you to half-time. You will remain in the system, keep your corporate passport. For now. We are a family, Daniel."

"Family." Daniel had heard that word so often that it had lost its meaning.

Now his salary was three thousand a month. Mortgage - fifteen hundred. Utilities - four hundred. Food - six hundred. Insurance - two hundred. Three hundred credits remained. That was enough for one trip a month to the corporate cinema. For a birthday gift for his daughter. For coffee. For everything else - no. He could not buy new clothes. Could not pay for the drone repair that took his daughter to school. Could not afford medicines not covered by insurance. He lived paycheck to paycheck. And he had already missed two mortgage payments.

Yesterday the notification came.

His communicator screen blinked blue, and Daniel opened it without thinking of anything bad. He was expecting a letter from his daughter. She had written to him from school - they were studying corporate history, and the teacher had assigned them an essay. Emily asked for help. He wanted to reply that he would help in the evening. But instead of a letter from his daughter, a notification appeared on the screen.

"Dear Daniel Miller. Your mortgage arrears amount to 4,500 credits. According to clause 14.3 of the contract, in the event of a delay exceeding 90 days, the corporation has the right to unilaterally revise the terms of the loan. Your rate is increased to 12% per annum. The new monthly payment is 5,500 credits. If you are unable to pay within 30 days, your home will be repossessed. Sincerely, the Solar-City Asset Management Department."

Daniel looked at the screen. Five thousand five hundred. That was almost twice his salary. That was more than he and Sarah earned together.

His hands trembled. He reread the message. Reread it again. Hoping it was a mistake. But the numbers did not change.

He opened the contract. The same one he had signed five years ago. He flipped through the pages, looking for clause 14.3. Page 47. Fine print. Almost invisible. It said:

"In the event of a payment delay exceeding 90 days, the corporation has the right to unilaterally revise the terms of the loan, including but not limited to increasing the interest rate, changing the payment schedule, and demanding full early repayment. The corporation also has the right to seize the pledged property without additional judicial proceedings, under the terms specified in section 18.2 of this agreement."

Daniel had not read that. He had not read anything beyond the first page. He had seen the number - two percent. Seen pictures of happy families. Heard the manager's voice: "Sign, Daniel. We are one family." And he signed.

He signed his own death warrant.

He sat down on the sofa. His hands hung limp. He looked at the white walls, the panoramic windows, the park beyond them. This house was a prison. He could not sell it, because the house belonged to the corporation. He could not leave, because the debt would remain. The corporate court would collect everything. He had no money for a lawyer. He did not even have money for a ticket to the border.

He thought about Sarah. She was a teacher at school. Earned two thousand. She did not know. She thought everything was fine. She believed they would manage.

He thought about Emily. She was twelve. She dreamed of becoming an architect. She drew houses, parks, bridges. She did not know her father was bankrupt. That her family was on the verge of disaster.

Daniel looked at his phone. He had Charles's number. An old friend from university in Kansas. Charles had always said: "Don't sign, Dan. Don't sign without reading. The fine print - that's where the truth is." Daniel had laughed then. Thought Charles was too cautious. Charles was always right.

He dialed. Ring. Ring. Ring. Voice: "Subscriber unavailable."

Daniel put the phone down. Closed his eyes.

He was thirty-five. He had twenty-five more years to pay for a house that was no longer his. If he was lucky. If the corporation did not evict him sooner. If he did not break.

He stood up. Walked to the window. Looked at the perfect city. The clean streets. The happy people walking in the park. They had also signed. They had also not read.

He said quietly, into the void:

Welcome to New Eden. The city-in-a-box. The best prison on Earth.

SCENE 4. STATES TAKE OUT LOANS

February 2045. Washington, D.C. The Oval Office.

Outside the window - snow. White, fluffy, like in old movies. It fell on the lawn in front of the White House, on the trees, on the tourist’s taking photos in front of the main entrance. The tourists did not know that in a few weeks this snow would be red with blood. Not literally. Metaphorically. The economy was bleeding out.

President Jonathan Woods sat at his desk. Heavy, oak, with the seal of the United States. He looked at that seal and thought: "How much longer will it last?" He had been president for eight years. He remembered how in 2037 he was elected - back then there were still elections, real ones, with debates, voting, hope. People believed in him. He promised to "restore America's greatness."

He had not restored it. He could not. Because America was no longer his. It was corporate.

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:

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.