EXPIRATION DATE

The emissary stopped right in front of the rostrum, tilted his head back, and looked up at the old politician with almost paternal compassion. The smile disappeared from his face, leaving only a mask of calm calculation.

Then I recommend that in three hours you open the trading terminal and personally monitor the dynamics of your "national token." With your permission, we have already begun preparing for the new conjuncture. You will see what freedom looks like in practice.

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.

Josh looked out the window. Below, at the foot of the headquarters, lay "New Eden" - the first of the corporate box-cities, built on a single modular principle. A million windows, a million cells, a million beings who considered themselves residents, citizens, people. They rose at the signal, ate synthetic food, wore cheap uniforms, worked on assembly lines, slept under identical blankets, and did not suspect that they had long ceased to be subjects. They were Users. Assets in a global accounting system. Consumables for maintaining infrastructure. Biomass that produced energy, data, and profit.

And he, Josh Hall, was the only one who held in his hands the keys to this huge, complexly arranged machine. His decision determined whether the air in their cells would warm up tonight, whether the lamps above their heads would light up, whether the doors of their modules would open tomorrow morning. He felt neither pity, nor guilt, nor hesitation. Only a slight heaviness in his fingertips - as if he were already squeezing the throat of the whole world.

He took a slow sip, feeling the cognac burn his throat, and allowed himself a rare, almost imperceptible smile. The map before him flickered, cities pulsed with faint red dots, and each of them was a million hearts beating in time with his will.

STAGE 3. "WAR FOR AIR" (2063–2071)

SCENE 1. BRIBING THE GENERALS

January 2063. Washington, D.C. The Pentagon.

This building had once been a symbol of American military might. Five walls, five floors, endless corridors where decisions that determined the fate of the world were made. Here they planned invasions, developed strategies, decided where and when to use force. Now the Pentagon looked different. The corridors were half-empty. There were fewer employees than ever. The defense budget had been cut to a minimum - all the money had gone to paying off debts to corporations. Military bases were closing one after another. Soldiers were resigning. Those who remained received their salaries late - sometimes by a month, sometimes by three. They no longer believed in America. They believed only in money.

General Robert Hayes sat in his office. He was fifty-nine years old, forty of which he had given to the army. He had started as a simple lieutenant in Iraq, in the 2020s, when America was still fighting for "democracy." Then came Afghanistan, Syria, Ukraine - everywhere fire burned, Robert Hayes burned too. He had seen death, seen victory, seen defeat. He thought his career would end with an honorable retirement, with medals on his chest and the president's gratitude. He was wrong.

On the table before him lay a contract. A thin folder, just a few pages. But he knew: these pages would change his life. He reread them for the tenth time.

"Employment contract. Private military service 'Phoenix Guard.' Proposed position - chief strategic advisor. Salary - 2.4 million credits per year. Medical insurance - full. Personal security - 24/7. Bonuses - depending on task performance. Contract is concluded for five years with possible extension."

Hayes looked at the numbers. 2.4 million. That was twenty times more than he currently earned. Twenty times. Now his salary was one hundred twenty thousand a year. Delays, cuts, endless promises that were not kept. He had not seen a full paycheck for two months. His wife was ill, and treatment was expensive. His son was in university, and there was nothing to pay for tuition. He was a general, but he was poor.

He looked at the contract and thought about his oath. He had sworn to defend the Constitution. He had given his word to serve the people. He believed in America. But America no longer believed in him.

He picked up the telephone receiver - an old, wired one that still worked because the digital system often failed. He dialed the number he had been given.

A voice on the other end - polite, calm, with a slight accent:

General Hayes? We've been expecting your call.

I read the contract, - Hayes said. His voice sounded hollow. - I agree. But I have conditions.

What conditions, sir?

My wife. She needs surgery. And my men. Those serving under me. I want them guaranteed jobs. So they are not abandoned.

Of course, General. We have accounted for that. Your men can transfer to Phoenix Guard on the same terms. Pension, insurance, housing. Better conditions than the state offers.

Hayes was silent. He looked at the wall where the flag hung. Stars and stripes. He remembered kissing that flag at parades. Now he was betraying it.

When do I start? - he asked.

Tomorrow, General. Come to the Cyber-Fund office in Georgetown. Sign all the papers. Receive your first advance. Welcome to your new life.

Dial tone.

Hayes put down the receiver. He looked at his hands. They did not tremble. He thought they would. But no. He was calm. Because he had already made the decision. Not today. A year ago. Two years ago. When he saw the state dying and the corporations living.

He stood up. Took off his uniform. Folded it carefully, placed it on the chair. Tomorrow he would be in civilian clothes. Tomorrow he would become a mercenary.

He left the office. Walked down the corridor. Past the doors of other generals. He knew many of them had already signed similar contracts. Those who had not signed had resigned. Or disappeared. It was said some were found dead - officially, "suicide." No one asked why. Questions were dangerous.

He walked out of the Pentagon. Outside - cold, windy. The sky was gray. He looked at the building where he had spent twenty years of his life. He would never return here. He was a traitor. But he was alive. And his family would be alive. And his men would be alive.

"America is dead," he thought. "And we must survive."

February 2063. Phoenix Guard Headquarters. Nevada.

This was not just an office. It was a military base built by corporations. A huge complex in the desert, with concrete walls, bunkers, helipads. Here mercenaries trained. Here they were armed. Here they were prepared for the war that was about to begin.

General Hayes sat in his office. He was no longer a general - he was the chief strategic advisor. Under his command - ten thousand soldiers. All had transferred from the American army. All had received their pay on the first day.

Before him - a holographic screen. On it - a list of generals who had already signed contracts. Fifty-three names. Fifty-three generals from different countries. Britain, France, Germany, Canada, Australia, Turkey, Brazil. They were all now working for corporations.

Hayes looked at the screen and felt emptiness. He knew these people. He had fought with them. He had drunk with them. He had shared danger with them. Now they were enemies. No, not enemies. They were competitors. Each corporation had its own PMC. "Phoenix Guard" was Cyber-Fund. "Solar-City" had created "Solar Legion." "Neura-Infra" - "Neuro-Strike." They all now served different masters.

His deputy, Colonel Martins, entered. Young, ambitious, with the same glassy look as everyone who had served in the PMC for more than five years.

General, - he said. - A new order has arrived from Cyber-Fund. We must prepare for an economic blockade. They want to disconnect cities from the grids. We need to secure the facilities. And suppress possible protests.

Hayes nodded. He knew this was coming. He knew why he was hired. Not for protection. For suppression.

How many cities?

First five. New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, Houston, Philadelphia. Then the rest. The corporations want to show they control everything. If a city does not obey - it dies. We will guard the power grids so no one can restore them.

Hayes was silent. He remembered New York. He had grown up there. His mother lived in Brooklyn. She still considered herself an American. She did not know her son was a traitor.

Good, - he said. - Prepare the plans.

Martins left. Hayes remained alone. He looked at the map. At the green zones of the corporations. At the gray patches of states, getting smaller and smaller.

"I helped them kill America," he thought. "I signed its death warrant."

He turned away from the map.

May 2063. Geneva. UN Headquarters.

This building had once been the center of diplomacy. Now it was empty. Most countries had left the UN - they no longer saw the point. Sessions were held once a month, and only corporate representatives came. They needed formal approval for their actions.

In the large hall - emptiness. Only a few delegates. Among them - the last US representative, an old diplomat who did not want to give up. He looked at the empty seats and remembered when life thrived here. When they argued, negotiated, fought. Now - only silence.

The chairman - a Swiss who now worked for the corporations - opened the session:

Gentlemen, we have gathered to discuss the situation with private military forces. As you know, many countries are transferring their military functions to corporations. This raises concerns...

No concerns, - interrupted the Cyber-Fund delegate. - The generals signed contracts voluntarily. They received better terms. Their soldiers received salaries. States can no longer maintain armies. We can. This is a matter of efficiency.

The US representative stood up. His voice trembled:

You are dismantling the security structure! You are creating private armies that answer to no one! This is a path to anarchy!

This is a path to stability, - replied the delegate. - Private armies are more efficient. They have no political ambitions. They fulfill contracts. They protect their clients' interests. This is business. And business is peace.

The US representative sat down. He looked at the empty seats. He understood that his voice was the last voice of resistance. And it no longer mattered.

SCENE 2. THE STATE AGAINST THE CORPORATIONS

March 2070. Washington, D.C. The Capitol.

The Capitol building still stood on its hill, a monument to a long-gone era. Its dome, once dazzlingly white, was now covered in a network of fine cracks and dark streaks from acid rain; the columns of the facade were chipped, and between the marble slabs tufts of dry, stiff grass sprouted. Inside - the smell of old wood, dust, and neglect. The corridors were empty, the echo of footsteps lost in endless galleries where portraits of presidents from past centuries were covered in a murky film, their eyes seeming extinguished.

The Congressional chamber still functioned - formally. Once a month, according to schedule, a few dozen people out of five hundred thirty-five gathered here. The rest did not come - they had more important matters. These absentees had long ceased to be servants of the people; they were shareholders, members of boards of directors, holders of large blocks of shares in the three giants: Solar-City, Cyber-Fund, and Green-Matrix. Their personal wealth grew in sync with stock indices, and every Congressional session was for them merely an annoying interruption in their calendars that could be ignored without consequences. Their offices in Los Angeles, New York, and Dallas were better equipped than this old hall, their yachts cruised the Caribbean, their children studied in private academies where the history of democracy was not taught. They no longer belonged to America. America belonged to them.

Today's session was a rare event: on the agenda was a bill on the compulsory nationalization of strategic corporate assets. The initiator - Senator from Ohio, William Collins. He was seventy-two, wore old-fashioned three-piece suits that had long gone out of style, and spoke with a slight Midwestern accent that sounded almost archaic amid the urban slang of his colleagues. He was one of those politicians whose career had begun back in the nineties, when the word "loyalty" was not an empty sound. He remembered America where the president apologized to the nation, where corruption investigations led to prisons, where Congress debated for days rather than voting via SMS. Now he saw the country dying a slow death - its institutions gutted, its constitution turned into a decorative document, its army, the last bastion, still formally not sworn to the corporations, but already receiving its salaries through subcontractors. He wanted to stop this. He knew the chances were almost nil, but he had to try.

He rose to the podium - tall, stooped, with bushy gray eyebrows and trembling but still strong hands. His voice, amplified by the old sound system, echoed through the empty rows:

Ladies and gentlemen, colleagues, I address you as the last bastion of our sovereignty! - His words bounced off the backs of empty seats like peas against a wall. - Corporations have seized our country not with tanks, not with artillery - they did it quietly, through bank accounts, algorithms, and contracts. They control what we eat, what we pay with, who we are in databases. Today they own our food; tomorrow they will decide who lives and who dies. And the only thing that does not yet fully belong to them is our army, our ability to use physical force. We must nationalize their infrastructure! We must regain control over power grids, water mains, grain stores, satellite constellations - immediately, without delay, without compensation if necessary! This is not robbery - this is self-defense!

He paused, catching his breath, and scanned the hall. Of the few dozen present, only a handful looked at him - the rest were buried in pocket projectors and holographic tablets. They were checking stock quotes, reading confidential exchange reports, messaging brokers. One of them, a young senator from Texas, did not even hide a smile when a green notification on his wrist lit up about the rise in the value of the "Cyber-Token." No one applauded, no one asked questions. Everyone already knew the outcome: the bill would not pass. Ten or fifteen might vote for it, but there would be no quorum, even if all supporters came. The rest had already negotiated with the corporations a week ago - at private dinners, in exclusive clubs, in the saunas of elite hotels. They had been promised bonuses, shares, positions on boards after their terms ended. They would not risk their future for the past.

Collins finished his speech - it had lasted forty minutes, but it sounded like a pathetic, lonely cry in the wilderness. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief and looked at the seats that should have been filled but yawned with black emptiness. He whispered into the microphone, no longer for the record, but for himself:

If we do not do this today… tomorrow it will be too late. Forever too late.

Silence. Not a single voice, not a single question. The Speaker, a man with a face as smooth as plastic and an impeccable tie, mechanically announced a technical break. The bill was automatically sent to the archive. Collins slowly descended from the podium, his legs shaking, his heart pounding somewhere in his throat. He knew this day would go down in history - if anyone would write history tomorrow.