EXPIRATION DATE

Gentlemen… I have not come as president. I have come as a human being. As a representative of millions of people who are dying in their homes. - He paused, swallowing the lump in his throat. - Last night in New York, four thousand two hundred children died from the cold. In Chicago - two thousand eight hundred. In Dallas - one thousand nine hundred. Children, gentlemen. Children who cannot keep warm because we turned off their heating. Elderly people freezing to death in their beds because we closed fuel depots. The sick who cannot get medicines because our drones are blocking humanitarian convoys. - His voice cracked, and he grabbed the back of the chair to keep from falling. - I am asking you. I am begging you. Turn on the power. For the nursing homes. For the children's hospitals. For the people who have done nothing wrong to you. You have the power, you have the resources. Please.

He fell silent, breathing heavily. A ringing silence hung in the room, broken only by the soft hum of ventilation. Josh Hall tilted his head slightly, studying the president like a doctor examining an X-ray of a hopeless patient. His voice, when he spoke, was even, calm, almost friendly - and that friendliness made Harrison even more horrified.

Mr. President, - said Josh, - we have listened to you carefully. And we understand your pain. Truly, we do. But allow me to ask you one simple question. - He leaned forward, his steel eyes boring into Harrison's face. - Fifty years ago, when the 47th president, Donald Trump, signed the first contracts transferring power grids to private hands, was he thinking about children? Four decades ago, when his successors expanded those contracts, were they thinking about the elderly? Twenty years ago, when the last president who tried to resist was forced out, were they thinking about the sick? No, Mr. President. They were thinking about budgets, about ratings, about lobbyists. They were thinking about how to stay in power for one more term. And every subsequent president - including you, Mr. Harrison - merely reinforced this system, hoping the crisis would not happen on their watch. But the crisis came. And now you come to us with pleas. But your plea has no weight, Mr. President. It has no leverage.

He paused, letting the words settle. Harrison felt his legs give way, and he slowly sank into the chair, though he had not meant to.

Josh Hall picked up a thick folder from the table and slid it over to the president. On the cover, embossed in gold letters: "Act on the Voluntary Transfer of Sovereign Powers."

Here is the contract, - said Josh. - It has three points. First: you transfer to the corporations full control over all city grids - power, water, sewage, transport, and communications throughout the former United States. Second: you recognize that corporate regulations take precedence over state law in all matters concerning economy, identification, and security. Third: you dissolve the federal government in its current form and transfer its functions to our administrative structures. You, as president, sign this document, and after that you are provided with an honorary pension and an island in the Caribbean. You will live in comfort. Your family will be safe. Your grandchildren will be able to study in our academies.

Harrison looked at the folder, then at Josh, then at the empty space before him. His hands, resting on his knees, began to tremble with a fine tremor.

I… I cannot sign this, - he forced out, almost in a whisper. - This is the end of America. This is the end of everything we fought for for almost three hundred years. This is betrayal. Fifty-three presidents before me - and I will be the one to put the final period?

Josh Hall slowly rose from the table. He walked around it, stopping right in front of Harrison, looming over him like a monument of flesh and steel. His voice became harder, with steely notes that no longer tried to hide contempt.

Mr. President, - he said, enunciating each word, - allow me to be absolutely frank with you. America has been dead for five decades. It did not die today or yesterday. It began dying in 2025, when the forty-seventh president put his signature under the first corporate contract. It died all those years - slowly, imperceptibly, to the accompaniment of patriotic speeches and fake elections. Every one of your predecessors, including you, merely postponed the inevitable, hoping the finale would come after their term. But the finale came on your watch. And now you stand here, in this room, and beg us for mercy, because you have no more power, no will, no even the right to call yourself a leader. - He leaned down, bringing his face close to the president's, and continued in a whisper that sounded louder than any shout: - You either sign this contract, and your people get heat, food, and a chance to survive, or you go back to Washington, and in two weeks only ashes and statistics will remain of your people. Choose. But choose now.

Harrison raised his head. Tears ran down his cheeks - quiet, soundless, which he could not stop. He looked at Josh Hall, at his impeccably shaved face, at his snow-white shirt, at his hands that held the lives of millions like dice. He wanted to say "no," he wanted to stand up and tear up the contract, he wanted to show them he was still president, that he was still a free man.

But he could not. Because he had no strength. Because he knew that if he left, he would return to a dead city where another three thousand children would die tomorrow. And each of them would die with his name on their lips.

He took the pen. His fingers gripped it so hard that his knuckles turned white. He pulled the folder toward himself, opened it to the last page, where an empty line waited for his signature.

He signed. Letter by letter, without looking at the text, without reading the terms, just moving the pen across the paper like a robot that had no choice left. James Harrison, the fifty-third president of the United States, signed the act of capitulation.

When he finished, Josh Hall gently took the folder, checked the signature, nodded approvingly, and handed Harrison a damp towel to wipe his tears.

You made the right choice, Mr. President, - he said with a light, almost human smile. - You saved your people. Even if at the cost of pride. But pride does not heat hospital wards.

Harrison said nothing. He slowly rose, turned, and, staggering, left the hall. In the corridor, an assistant waited to escort him to the exit without a word.

An hour later, the corporate press office issued an official statement: "President Harrison voluntarily decided to retire, transferring infrastructure management to strategic partners. He has purchased a private island in the Caribbean, where he will spend the remainder of his days surrounded by family." The news showed an archival photo of him in his youth - smiling, confident, standing on the Capitol podium. New photos were not published.

No journalist asked exactly which island it was. No one checked whether he actually settled there. No one saw how, three days after signing the act, Harrison was led out of the headquarters building alone through a back entrance and put into an inconspicuous gray van without identification marks. The van drove off in an unknown direction, and no one saw him again. In official databases, the name James Harrison was replaced by "acting," and later - erased from protocols, as if he had never existed. It is said he lives somewhere in Central America, in a small village without electricity, and no one knows that this gray-haired, silent old man who carries water from a well once held the fate of an entire nation in his hands. But these are only rumors. And rumors, as we know, are not believed even by those who spread them.

In the corporate archives, in the classified section of the chronology, there is a short line:

"2065–2071 - James Harrison, 53rd President of the USA. The last. Signed the Act on the Transfer of Powers on February 14, 2071. Further records are absent."

SCENE 5. THE END OF THE STAGE

March 2071. Solar-City Headquarters. 87th Floor.

Outside the headquarters' windows, the last snow was slowly melting, revealing the gray concrete of New Eden - a city that had never known spring. Josh Hall stood at the panoramic glass, hands clasped behind his back, looking at the endless rows of modular cells where millions of Users woke at the signal, ate synthetic food, and went to assembly lines, never suspecting that their lives were merely a line in a corporate database. He looked at this world he had created with his own hands and felt nothing but a dull, oppressive fatigue.

Behind him, above the long black table, hovered a holographic map of the world. All continents burned with an even blue light - cities, transport hubs, power grids, control centers. Everything was under control. Everything was perfect. Except for one spot in the Appalachians, flickering with a dim, almost fading red. Resistance. The last spark the corporations could not extinguish. Josh looked at this spot with the irritation a painter feels when noticing an accidental smudge on a finished canvas. This spot did not matter - it was too small, too weak to threaten the empire. But it existed. And its very existence was an insult.

Report, - he said without turning. His voice was even, almost indifferent, but there was steel in it - the same steel that had once broken dozens of governments and hundreds of armies.

The head of security of Neura-Infra, a lean man of about fifty with a face devoid of emotion, stepped forward. His suit was impeccable, his movements precise - he knew that any mistake in this office could cost him his position, and possibly his life. He unfolded a holographic screen, and data appeared on it - photographs, diagrams, coordinates.

General Michael Stone, - he began, his voice dry and businesslike. - Sixty-two years old, former commander of the US ground forces. After refusing to sign a contract with Cyber-Fund, he went underground in 2068. He assembled a unit of about one hundred and fifty people - veterans, deserters, volunteers. They are based in old coal mines in Pennsylvania, in the Appalachians. They have small arms from the 2030s, a few grenade launchers captured from an abandoned military base. No reconnaissance drones - only homemade motion detectors. No communication with the cities, no outside support. They do not pose a threat, sir. We can destroy them at any time.

Why haven't we done that yet? - Josh asked, and for the first time there was sharpness in his voice. He slowly turned from the window and stared at the director with a cold, unblinking gaze that made interlocutors feel like insects under a magnifying glass.

The director hesitated for a moment, but quickly recovered.

They are isolated, sir. They have no resources, no communication channels, no ability to expand. We considered them unworthy of attention. Moreover, their existence could serve as a useful reminder - a vivid example of what happens to those who try to resist. We planned to use them as a demonstration.

Josh slowly walked around the table and stopped directly in front of the director, looming over him like a predator. His voice became quieter, almost a whisper, but that whisper sent a chill down the director's spine.

You are wrong, - said Josh. - Hope is not a tool. Hope is a virus. It penetrates consciousness, multiplies, mutates. One spark is enough to start a fire. One story about someone surviving, someone fighting, someone not giving up - and millions of Users will start asking questions. And questions are the beginning of the end. We cannot afford the luxury of leaving them even the illusion of choice. We must extinguish this spark once and for all.

He straightened and walked over to the holographic map. His fingers touched the red spot in the Appalachians, and it began to pulse like a living heart.

Prepare an operation to destroy Stone's unit, - he ordered, his voice again even and businesslike. - Use "Locusts." Complete liquidation - no survivors, no witnesses, no traces. The battlefield must be cleared so that in a week a distribution center can be built there. Do you understand me?

The director nodded, his face remaining impassive, but inwardly he felt relief that the conversation was over.

It will be done, sir. Operation "Clean Slate" will be launched within a month. We will track their movements, choose the moment when they are most vulnerable, and strike.

Good, - said Josh, and his voice lost its harshness, returning to its usual tired tone. - You are dismissed.

The director bowed and silently left the office. The door closed behind him with a soft hiss, and Josh was alone again.

He turned to the window. Beyond the glass, a crimson sunset painted the domes of New Eden in the colors of dried blood. The city he had built stretched to the horizon - billions of dollars, millions of lives, decades of work. And all of it was his. Every module, every light bulb, every breath taken by the people below - all of it obeyed his will. He could turn on heating in one block and turn it off in another. He could give them food or leave them hungry. He could erase their memory, rewrite their history, change their names. He was the god of this world.

But looking at this perfect, sterile order, Josh felt only emptiness. Somewhere inside, in that part of his soul he had buried years ago, lived a memory of another world - a world where he was just a boy with burning eyes who dreamed of changing everything for the better. Now he had changed everything. But it had not become better. Only quieter. Only emptier.

His reflection in the glass looked like a ghost - old, gray, tired, with eyes that had lost all light. He looked at himself and did not recognize himself. Where was the man who had once believed in freedom? Who was he now? A jailer, an executioner, the architect of his own cage?

In three months we will sign Treaty 404, - he said quietly, almost to himself, addressing his reflection. - And not a single state, not a single army, not a single hope will remain. Only us. Only order. Only the future we will build.

He fell silent. Wind outside the window drove rare snowflakes that melted before reaching the ground. The sunset faded, turning the sky a dark purple - the color of blood already spilled and blood yet to be spilled.

This is the end of the stage, - he added. - The next is the finale.

He took a step back from the window and walked to the table, where a crystal decanter of water stood. He poured himself a glass, raised it, looked at the light, but did not drink. Put it back. On the screen left by the director, the data on Stone's unit still glowed - photographs, diagrams, coordinates. Josh glanced at the general's face - old, gaunt, with piercing blue eyes in which burned the very fire Josh had long extinguished in himself.

You won't change anything, - he whispered, looking at the photograph. - But I respect you for trying.

He closed the screen. The office became dark - only the lonely lights of New Eden flickered below, like funeral pyres.

That same evening, an encoded order from Josh Hall's office arrived at Neura-Infra headquarters:

"Operation 'Clean Slate.' Code: Locust-4. Target: complete liquidation of General Stone's unit. Deadline: July 2071. Executors: swarm of 'Locust'-class drones. Mode: total."

Within an hour, all swarm systems were switched to combat mode. Thousands of silver points froze in hangars, waiting for the launch signal. General Stone and his one hundred and fifty soldiers did not yet know that their last days were numbered. They sat by a fire deep in the old mine, drinking hot tea from tin cups and talking about what the new world would be like - a free world they would bring back.

They did not know that freedom dies faster than hope.

STAGE 4. "THE BATTLE OF WASHINGTON" (2071)

SCENE 1. THE LAST ARMY

July 2071. Somewhere in the Appalachians. Secret camp.

The mountain forests of Pennsylvania, which had once been reserves with clean streams and hiking trails, had now become the last stronghold of resistance. Here, deep in old coal mines abandoned back in the 19th century, gathered those who still remembered what freedom meant. Those who had not signed contracts with corporations. Those who had not sold themselves for shares and virtual tokens. Those for whom the words "oath," "honor," and "homeland" still held weight.

The entrance to the mine was hidden behind dense thickets of wild ivy and elderberry. Outside - not a single trace, not a single path. Only if you knew where to look could you spot a barely noticeable hatch, sprinkled with earth, and wires leading deep into the mountain. Inside - dampness, the smell of old coal and machine oil, but here there was light - dim lamps on batteries charged by hand generators. There was water - from an underground spring, purified through homemade filters. There was food - canned goods captured in raids on abandoned warehouses. There was weapons, but few. There were people, but few as well.

General Michael Stone stood at the entrance to the mine, slightly squinting at the first rays of sunlight breaking through the crowns of trees. He was sixty-two, but looked seventy - his face was carved with deep wrinkles, his skin was weathered, gray stubble covered his cheeks. He was tall, thin, stooped from constant tension, but his piercing blue eyes, the color of old ice, still burned with the fire that years of defeat had not extinguished. He was from the old school - one of those generals who had sworn allegiance to the Constitution, not to shareholders. He had served in the US Army for forty years, been through three wars, watched his comrades one by one defect to the corporations, becoming mercenaries in private military companies. He had seen generals he respected trade their stars for contracts with Cyber-Fund. He had seen the US Army, the pride of the nation, turn into PMCs, private guards of corporate interests.

He refused. He went underground when he was offered command of one of Solar-City's units - he spat in the emissary's face and said he would rather die in the mud than wear their patches. Three years had passed since then. He had gathered around him those who remained loyal. Those who had not forgotten what it meant to be a soldier, not a mercenary.

Behind him - one hundred and fifty people. Men and women, from eighteen to seventy years old. This was all that remained of a once-great army - the most powerful military machine in human history. They had rifles - old M-27 models from the 2030s, with worn stocks and rusty bolts that they cleaned every night so they would not fail at the crucial moment. They had a few hand grenade launchers - trophies from an abandoned military base in Virginia. They had reconnaissance drones assembled from spare parts that scanned the surroundings every two hours to detect "Locusts" before they detected them. And they had hope - that substance which cannot be measured, weighed, or sold, but which kept them here, in this damp, cold mine, when the entire world had already surrendered.

Stone slowly surveyed his soldiers. Young men and women, twenty to thirty years old. They had been born in the era of crisis, when America began to fall apart, when the word "democracy" became a curse. They did not remember a country where you could freely criticize the government without fearing that a "Locust" drone would record your voice and send the data to a corporate archive. They did not remember what a real flag over the Capitol looked like. But they believed - believed they could bring it all back, bring back that world they only knew from old films and books Stone had ordered preserved when everything else was burned. Among them were old men - veterans who remembered the 2020s, when presidents changed but the country remained the same. They wore old patches no one recognized anymore and gripped their weapons with a fury that seemed capable of restoring their lost years.

Stone raised his hand, and the whispering ceased. He looked at his people, at their faces emaciated by malnutrition, at their eyes red from sleeplessness, at their hands trembling from cold and adrenaline. He knew most of them would not return. But he also knew they had to do this.

Today we march on Washington, - he said, his voice low and hoarse, echoing through the narrow mine corridor, bouncing off the stone walls. - We march not to win. Not to seize power. We march to show them - show everyone who surrendered, who signed contracts, who believed their sweet speeches about a "new world without borders" - that freedom has not died. It has not died. It was just waiting. Waiting for those brave enough to take up arms and say: "No. We do not agree."

He paused, letting the words soak into the air. The soldiers looked at him, and in their eyes, determination mixed with fear. They knew they were marching to certain death. But they did not retreat.

Neura-Infra headquarters, - Stone continued. - The heart of the corporate empire. The center of all communications, data, and identification. If we strike there, if we show we can reach their nerve center - others will rise. The cities that capitulated will revolt. The people working on their assembly lines will understand that the masters are not immortal. Propaganda will crumble when the news shows Neura-Infra burning. We may not win today, but we will start the countdown. We will let them know their empire is just a house of cards, and one strong wind can destroy it.

He paused, caught his breath, then clenched his fist and raised it above his head.

We are the last army of freedom. And we march to the end. Forward!

One hundred and fifty soldiers stepped out. They moved through the forest, along old roads no one patrolled because the corporations believed resistance was dead. They walked at night, under cover of darkness, hiding from the rare drones sweeping the sky. They knew death awaited them behind every tree, but they did not stop.

Two days later. July 2071. Outskirts of Washington.

Stone's unit reached the outskirts of the capital on the second night. They had moved without stopping, hiding in the ruins of abandoned villages, wading through shallow rivers to confuse thermal imagers. Now they stood on the edge of the city, in the shadow of a half-destroyed shopping mall whose sign had long fallen off. Ahead - Washington, but it was no longer the city Stone remembered. Skyscrapers that had once shone with glass and steel now stood as dark, lifeless obelisks. Most were boarded up. Only a few buildings still glowed - corporate headquarters, the new rulers of this place. In the center, where the Capitol once stood, now lay a flat concrete pad - it had already begun to be covered with new polymer coating for the construction of a distribution center.

Stone stood over a map spread across the hood of an old armored personnel carrier they had found at an abandoned military base. The map was covered in marks - blue dots marked drone positions, red - automatic turrets, black - private military companies guarding the perimeter. Neura-Infra headquarters was in the old Silicon Gulch, in a building that had once belonged to a major technology company. Behind multi-layered protection hid servers that managed identification, communications, and financial flows for all of North America. If they destroyed that node - the corporate network would collapse for a few hours, maybe days. That would be the first real blow to their power.

They have three lines of defense, - said Stone, tracing a finger across the map. - First - Locust drones patrolling the perimeter. They are automatic, but have limited range. If we approach from the east, where the old residential blocks are, we can slip through the dead zones. Second - automatic turrets on roofs and on the ground. They are controlled by a central AI, but the AI cannot distinguish civilians from soldiers - so we will move in groups of two or three, like locals sneaking to shelters. Third - PMCs. About two hundred mercenaries, well-trained, with the latest equipment. This is the hardest part. We must break through to the server room and set charges. Five minutes - and it's over.

And if we don't break through? - asked a young soldier holding a rifle, his voice trembling slightly.

Stone turned to him, his cold, calm eyes meeting the young man's.

Then we die, - he answered without a shadow of hesitation. - But we die as free people. As people who did not bow our heads. As people who did not sell out. That is more than those who stayed in the cities and signed contracts can say.