EXPIRATION DATE

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.

Daniel Miller stood in line. He had lost weight, his face was gaunt, his eyes sunken. He wore an old jacket that no longer kept him warm. Thirteen years had passed since he signed the mortgage. Thirteen years in which he had aged thirty. He had come for synthetic rations. Usually he received them at home, via drone, but this month the drone did not come. "Technical difficulties." Daniel did not believe in difficulties. He believed the corporation was simply testing how dependent they were.

There were hundreds of people in line. They stood silently. No one talked. Only the sound of footsteps on the concrete floor and the hum of ventilation. Their faces were all the same - gray, lifeless, with empty eyes. They looked like zombies. They were zombies - only walking, breathing, but dead inside.

Daniel remembered when he used to buy food at the supermarket. Real food - vegetables, meat, bread. He remembered the taste of fresh bread, still warm, with a crispy crust. He remembered the smell of watermelon when cut open. He remembered the smell of fried meat. Now he ate synthetics. Nutritious, but tasteless. It was like plastic with vitamins. You chewed - and felt only texture. Rubbery, monotonous, chemical. You could eat it, but there was no pleasure. And hunger did not go away. Inside - emptiness.

The line moved slowly. Ahead - a woman with a child. The child, about six, with big sad eyes. He was crying. He wanted normal food. He did not understand why his mother gave him these gray briquettes. The mother tried to calm him, but could not. She herself was on the verge of tears. Daniel heard her whisper: "Hush, honey. This is all we have. It's good. It's healthy." The child did not believe her.

Daniel looked at them. He thought of his daughter, Emily. She was fifteen. She was used to synthetics. She did not remember the smell of fresh bread. She had grown up on this. For her, synthetics were normal. Daniel had tried to explain that food used to be different, that people ate meat, vegetables, fruit. She did not understand. For her, his memories were like fairy tales. Unbelievable. She said: "Dad, you're making it up. Food can't smell like that. That's chemistry." He tried to argue, then fell silent. Why? She would never taste a real apple. She would die without ever having tried one.

Finally he reached the counter. Behind it stood a drone - a silver arm dispensing rations. Daniel pressed his wrist to the scanner. A mechanical voice:

Daniel Miller. User DM-77342. Credit rating - 389. Access level - "basic." Your ration - 3.2 kilograms.

The drone dispensed a briquette. Gray, faceless, wrapped in transparent film. Daniel took it. It was heavy. 3.2 kilograms - his ration for the week. Enough not to die, but not enough to be full. He was always hungry. Always.

He left the center. Outside - cold. The synthetic food in his hand barely warmed him. He walked home, through the perfectly clean streets. Past perfect trees. Past perfect fountains. Cleaning drones darted back and forth, collecting trash, of which there was almost none. He looked at all this and felt nothing. Only fatigue. Deep as an ocean.

At home - his wife Sarah. She sat on the sofa, staring at the wall. With empty eyes. She no longer worked - laid off, "staff reduction" two years ago. Now they existed only on rations and Daniel's tiny pension - he still worked as a consultant on corporate ethics, but earned less than three thousand. The irony of fate: he taught others ethics, while working for those who had destroyed ethics. He hated his job. But without it they would die.

Dan, - she said without turning her head. - Our supplies are gone. Emily needs a new school uniform. We have no money. In the account - 47 credits. We won't be able to buy even synthetic bread if the drone doesn't come.

I know, - he said. He sat down beside her. Put the ration on the table. - We'll manage somehow.

How? - Sarah's voice trembled. - We have no money. No food. No future. The corporation decides everything. We cannot leave. We cannot sell the house. We cannot even die, because funerals are also expensive, and without money we will simply be sent to the crematorium and the ashes sold. We are assets, Daniel. Not people. Assets.

Daniel looked at her. He wanted to say something encouraging. But he could not. Because she was right. He took her hand. It was cold, like a dead person's.

We will survive, - he said. - We always survive.

She did not answer. She stared at the wall.

February 2058. Green-Matrix Headquarters. Tokyo.

Henry Clark sat in his office on the 120th floor. Black marble floor, glass walls, a view of a city that no longer belonged to Japan. Tokyo was a zone of influence of Green-Matrix. Only half the population was Japanese. The rest were corporate employees, their families, service personnel. Japan as a state still existed, but it did not even control its own capital. The emperor lived in his palace, but no one listened to him. He was a symbol. Like all kings, presidents, prime ministers.

Before Henry - a holographic map of the world. Green marked territories controlled by Green-Matrix. Eighty percent of the world's food. He smiled. Not broadly, not joyfully - coldly, like a winner who was already tired of winning.

Report, - he said.

Across from him - the analytics department. The chief analyst - a woman with Asian features, in a strict suit, holding a tablet.

Sir, we control eighty percent of the world's food market. Vertical farms operate in forty-seven countries. Synthetic food accounts for ninety-five percent of the diet of the population in developed countries. Dependence is complete. We can stop supplies to any country at any moment - and within a month famine will begin there.

Henry nodded:

And what about states? Are they trying to resist?

Isolated attempts. Some countries tried to introduce subsidies for local agriculture to bring farmers back to the land. We reduced supplies to those regions by ten percent. Within two months they returned to negotiations. They have no choice, sir. They can either eat our food or die. They choose our food.

Henry smirked. "They have no choice" - he heard these words every day. And every day they sounded like music.

And what about real food? - he asked. - Do we control that too?

Yes, sir. Real food - meat, vegetables, fruit - is now produced only in corporate zones. For top managers and their families. We have established strict quotas. Real food is a status symbol. It is expensive. Ordinary people cannot afford it. The price per kilogram of real meat is 500 credits. That is a month's salary for an average employee. They eat synthetics.

Henry looked out the window. Down there, millions of people. They ate synthetics. They did not know the taste of real meat. They did not know what fresh bread was. They were born and raised on plastic. For them it was normal. His grandchildren - they also ate synthetics. He tried to give them real food - they refused. They did not understand the taste. For them, real food was strange, unfamiliar, even disgusting. "Grandpa, it's not tasty," they said. He looked at them and felt both pride and fear. He had created a generation that did not know what food was. He had created the perfect consumers.

We have won, - he said quietly. - We have won because they chose us.

SCENE 3. DIGITAL PASSPORT 2.0

April 2055. New Eden. Identification Center.

The building looked like a temple. White marble, tall columns, glass doors that opened silently. Inside - hundreds of people who had come for a new passport. Not a state one. A digital one. State IDs were now almost powerless. Without a digital passport, you could not work, buy food, use transport, receive medical care. You were an outcast. You were invisible.

Daniel Miller stood in line. He looked at the screen showing an advertisement. A beautiful woman with a smile, perfect like everything in this world, said:

Digital Passport 2.0 from Cyber-Fund - your life in one chip. Taxes, insurance, medical history, mortgage - everything linked to your profile. No paperwork, no queues, no problems. Just hold your wrist to the scanner - and the system will recognize you. Safe. Convenient. Reliable. Join the future. Join us.

Daniel looked at the screen. He did not need this passport. He had a state ID. But without a digital passport he could not get a job, get a loan, even buy synthetic food - the system scanned his wrist with every purchase. Without it - you were nobody. Just biomass.

The line moved. Daniel looked at the people around him. They all looked the same. Same faces. Same eyes. Same clothes - practical, cheap. They were no longer people. They were users. Just waiting their turn to become part of the system.

Finally he reached the counter. Behind it - a drone with a needle for implanting the chip. The drone looked like a silver arm glowing blue.

Your name? - mechanical voice.

Daniel Miller.

Place your wrist.

He extended his hand. The drone implanted the chip. A brief pain - the needle went under his skin, and he felt a small piece of metal settle on his bone. A second later - done. A small dot remained on his wrist, like a birthmark.

The screen showed: "User DM-77342. Access level - 'standard.' Credit rating - 389. Mortgage - in process. Taxes - partially paid. Medical insurance - basic."

Daniel looked at his wrist. A small scar. He was no longer Daniel Miller, no longer a citizen of the United States, no longer a human being. He was DM-77342. He was a user. He had no rights. Only "Terms of Use," written in fine print, which he had never read. Now he was part of the system. And he could never leave it.

He left the center. Outside - sun. Artificial sun, shining over New Eden twenty-four hours a day. Perfect sun, like in the advertisement. He looked at the sky but did not see real stars. They were blocked by the dome. He pressed his wrist to the scanner at the metro entrance - the system let him through with a green light. "User DM-77342. Access granted."

He sat down in the carriage. The doors closed silently. Perfect stations flashed by. Perfect faces. Perfect smiles. No one looked at each other. Everyone looked at their communicators, checking accounts, checking rations, checking their lives. They were no longer living. They were existing.

He closed his eyes and thought: "When did I stop being human?"

August 2058. Cyber-Fund Headquarters. San Francisco.

Here, in a building that had once belonged to an internet-era giant, new gods now sat. The board of directors of Cyber-Fund gathered in a large hall. On the wall - a huge screen showing numbers. Numbers that indicated the world had changed. The world had become their property.

The head of Cyber-Fund - Markus Wolf. A German, fifty-eight, with cold eyes that expressed no emotion. He wore a strict black suit, and his face had not a single wrinkle - the result of work by the best geneticists. He looked at the numbers and allowed himself a slight smile.

Report, - he said.

The analyst - a woman with Asian features, in an expensive suit, with a communicator in her hand.

Sir, the Digital Passport 2.0 system covers ninety percent of the population of developed countries. In the US alone - two hundred forty million active users. In Europe - three hundred million. In Asia - four hundred million. Data on each person: biometrics, finances, medical records, behavioral patterns, purchase history, movement history. We know everything. We know what they eat, who they sleep with, what they watch, what they buy, what they think.

And what about states? Are they trying to interfere?

Attempts were made. In Germany, parliament tried to pass a data protection law. We simply turned off the digital passports of the deputies for two days. Without passports they could not enter the parliament building, could not vote, could not even buy food. The law did not pass. Deputies no longer raise this issue.

And in the US?

President Woods tried to introduce a national token to free the economy from our control. We sold a trillion tokens in three hours. The exchange rate fell by ninety percent. The country's economy collapsed. Woods withdrew the initiative within a week. Now he signs everything we give him. He is our puppet.

Markus nodded. He looked at the numbers. 90% of the population. 3.2 billion users. A database containing information about every person. What they eat. Who they sleep with. What they watch. What they think. What secrets they have. What fears. What hopes.

We know more about them than they know about themselves, - he said. - And that is our strength. They cannot hide from us. They cannot escape. They cannot even think of something we cannot predict. We know their future. Because we create it.

He paused:

In ten years, states will disappear. They will be dead. And we will remain. We are the only power. We are the future.

SCENE 4. ECONOMIC WAR

May 2061. Berlin. Bundestag Building.

This was no longer the Bundestag remembered from old holographic recordings from the early twenties. The building looked tired, like the city itself: the facade was covered in a web of deep cracks, through which wild ivy grew; the windows were covered in a murky film of dust, through which the sun broke in dull, sickly patches. The huge black-red-gold flag still hung above the main entrance, but no one had raised it in the mornings for a long time - it hung at half-mast, faded, frayed at the edges. No one cared about it. And it seemed no one remembered that these colors once meant hope, unity, and freedom. Now they were just fabric, slowly rotting under the Berlin sky.

Inside, in the spacious assembly hall, there was a hollow, almost cemetery-like silence. Rows of seats, designed for hundreds of deputies, stood empty. Only a few places in the front rows were occupied - about ten people, no more. Those absent were not sick and not on business trips. They had more important matters: private flights on personal yachts to the Maldives, closed meetings with Cyber-Fund lobbyists in the offices of Frankfurt skyscrapers, phone negotiations about mergers of assets, intimate dinners with representatives of exchange platforms. These people were no longer deputies in the classical sense. They were managers of their own fortunes, using their government mandates as passes into the world of tax-free deals and insider information. Their seats in the Bundestag were merely convenient showpieces.

At the rostrum, towering over the emptiness, stood the Chairman - an old politician with silver, unkempt hair, in heavy horn-rimmed glasses that constantly slid down the bridge of his nose. His hands, covered in age spots, trembled noticeably as he shuffled through papers. He was one of the few who still remembered the times when this hall shook with passionate debates, when the opposition and the coalition argued themselves hoarse, and television cameras broadcast every word live. He remembered how people followed the votes, believed in promises, and waited for change. Now his voice was the only living sound in this stone sack, and it sounded like a weak, lonely echo.

Gentlemen... ladies, your attention, please, - he began, coughing and adjusting the microphone, which slightly hummed. - We are obliged today to discuss the draft law on the introduction of a national settlement token. This is a matter of our survival. We must free the domestic market from the dictates of private digital currencies, regain control over the money supply, restore the sovereignty of fiscal policy. We must show the world corporations that Germany is not a colony, but an independent parliamentary republic. We can no longer afford...

He did not have time to finish. With a dull, solemn creak, the massive oak door of the main entrance swung wide open. In the doorway, contrasting with the semi-darkness of the hall, appeared a young figure: an impeccable dark blue suit, bow tie, shiny patent leather shoes, slicked-back blond hair, and a dazzling Hollywood smile that did not reflect in his icy, unblinking eyes. This man was not a member of parliament - he had no badge from the rostrum, but he behaved as if he owned the place. He was accompanied by a low hum of invisible camera drones, recording every movement. He was an emissary of Cyber-Fund - the main shareholder of the European digital economy.

Mr. Chairman, forgive the intrusion without invitation, - his voice was velvety, with a barely perceptible transatlantic accent, but there was steel in it. - I am forced to interrupt this session. Our analytical department strongly recommends against adopting this bill.

This is none of your business! - The Chairman banged his wooden gavel on the rostrum, but the blow was weak, almost pathetic. - This is a sovereign decision of the German state! We have every right to regulate our own monetary system! We are an independent democratic entity!

Sovereign? - The representative let out a short, quiet laugh that echoed through the rows. He walked slowly down the central aisle, his steps echoing loudly under the high vaults. - Mr. Chairman, allow me to remind you of some recent statistics. Seventy percent of your GDP is tied to contracts with our subsidiaries. Ninety percent of your population uses our biometric passports for payments, travel, and credit history. Your leading banks no longer issue loans - they manage our portfolios. You are not sovereign. You are our reliable, trusted partner. Twenty years of mutually beneficial cooperation. Do you really want to break this connection overnight over some outdated idea of "independence"?

I will not allow you... - The Chairman's voice cracked into a wheeze, his face flushed crimson, the gavel hit again, but now chaotically, - I will not allow you to dictate terms to us! We have a Constitution, we have the will of the people! We will vote, we will pass the law, we will... bring back our freedom!