EXPIRATION DATE

In New Eden, the box-city where millions of Users lived, people gathered in groups at public terminals. They stood in dense rows, shoulder to shoulder, watching the screen. All faces were the same - pale, frozen, emotionless. Some clenched their fists, some covered their mouths with their hands, some just stared without blinking. But no one shouted, cried, or protested. Everyone was afraid. Afraid that if they uttered a single word, if even a shadow of disapproval flickered across their faces, drones would come for them too. Afraid that their identification numbers would be marked as "unreliable." Afraid that they would be evicted from their modules, their heat cut off, their synthetic food taken away. Fear was stronger than pain, stronger than anger, stronger than the very will to live.

Charles Davis sat in his tiny room on the sixth floor of an old building in the Bronx. He was seventy-two, his back hunched, his hands trembling from cold and age. He had not gone outside for days - he had no strength. He looked at the small screen of his communicator, bought on the black market for three tokens. On the screen - the battlefield, which he recognized: Silicon Gulch, the very warehouses where he had once worked as a courier delivering packages in the 2040s. Now bodies lay there. He saw soldiers falling one by one. He saw a drone crash into the chest of a man trying to run. He saw another soldier, already wounded, crawling across the ground, leaving a bloody trail behind. Charles did not look away. He watched because he could not help it. This was his world. This was his end.

He turned off the screen. Put his head in his hands. He did not cry - there were no tears, only a dry, prickly emptiness in his chest. He thought about Jacob, about his daughter, who died in 2068 from illness because there were no medicines. He thought about his wife, who left him in 2055 because he could not protect her from the corporations. He thought about how everything he had fought for, all his hopes, all his attempts to preserve human dignity - all of it had turned to ash on that field.

We lost, - he whispered into the void. - Forever.

He sat there until the light outside the window began to fade. He did not turn the screen on again. He just stared at the wall, once white, now covered in cracks and mold. He knew that tomorrow morning, when he went out for water, his neighbors would not look him in the eye. They would look down, at the ground, because they were afraid. And he would look down too, because he was also afraid.

Berlin. Alexanderplatz. 3:00 PM local time.

On the main square, where the television tower once stood, now rose a giant holographic screen installed by the corporations in 2065. On it - repeating footage: drones, falling soldiers, blood. People came to the square by dozens, hundreds, thousands. They did not run, shout, or hold signs. They just stood and watched. Elderly women in coats who remembered when Berlin was divided by a wall and reunited again now saw their world united into a single corporate empire. Young men with slumped shoulders, born in the era of crisis, did not know what could be done - they had never seen resistance that won. Children, held by their parents' hands, looked at the screen and did not understand why people fell and did not get up.

Some began to cry. Quietly, soundlessly, wiping tears with their sleeves. But no one joined them. Everyone was silent. Because even quiet crying could be picked up by surveillance cameras. Even lip movement could be flagged as a potential threat.

An hour later, the square was empty. People dispersed to their homes, went into the metro, boarded trains. They did not talk to each other. They did not discuss what they had seen. They just pretended nothing had happened, because it was easier to survive that way.

Paris. Seine embankment. 4:00 PM local time.

There were no more tourists, only locals surviving in this new world. They stood by the railings, looking at the screen built into the wall of the old museum. On it - slow-motion footage: a drone crashing into a soldier's shoulder, him falling to the ground, his body lying still. An old man in a beret, who had once been an artist, pulled a small folding easel from his pocket and began to sketch with a pencil. He did not look at the screen - he looked at his paper. On it appeared the outlines of the battlefield, silhouettes of falling bodies, swarms of drones. When he finished, he tore the sheet into small pieces and threw them into the Seine. The scraps floated away on the dark water, dissolved, disappeared. The only protest he dared to make was so quiet that no one noticed.

London. Piccadilly Circus. 5:00 PM local time.

The screens went dark. The broadcast had ended. But people still stood, staring at the dark panels. Someone began to clap quietly - not for victory, but for the fallen. The sound, barely audible at first, grew. Dozens of palms clapped in the silence, as if bidding the heroes farewell. But after a few minutes, a recorded warning came from the speakers on the poles: "Unauthorized gathering is prohibited. Disperse immediately. Otherwise, force will be used." People dispersed as if on command. The applause faded. The square fell empty again.

Tokyo. Shibuya. 8:00 PM local time.

Young people who once gathered at the crossing just to hang out now stood with their heads bowed. On the giant screens on the buildings - the same footage. Hundreds of thousands saw the death of the last army. But they did not talk to each other. They just watched, then dispersed to their modules, to their families, to their workplaces. No one took a step that could be seen as defiance. No one risked it. Only one young man, about twenty, closed his eyes and whispered: "We will not forget." But his voice was drowned in the city noise, and no one heard him.

Solar-City Headquarters. Two hours after the broadcast.

Josh Hall sat in his office on the 87th floor and watched the monitors showing summaries from various cities: Berlin, Paris, London, Tokyo, Moscow, New York. Nowhere - not a single protest, not a single speech, not a single call to revolt. Only silence and fear. He looked at it and felt slight disappointment mixed with satisfaction. He had wanted to see at least some sign of life, at least a spark that would need to be extinguished. But there was none. The world had accepted defeat.

He leaned back in his chair and raised a glass of water.

Perfect, - he whispered. - Just perfect.

He put the glass down and closed his eyes. In his head - already plans for tomorrow. Tomorrow he would begin rewriting history.

SCENE 5. THE END OF THE STAGE

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

The sun was setting, painting the sky above New Eden in crimson-gold tones that reflected off the headquarters' windows, turning it into a giant lighthouse burning over the dead city. In the office on the 87th floor, twilight reigned - the blinds were drawn, only the holographic map of the world in the center of the table emitted an even blue glow, illuminating the faces of those assembled with cold, lifeless light. Josh Hall sat at the head of the table, his figure standing out sharply against the shimmering projection. He wore an impeccable dark suit, no tie, his top shirt button undone - the only concession to fatigue he allowed himself in the presence of colleagues. His hair, completely gray, was neatly combed back; his face, carved with deep wrinkles, expressed neither triumph nor relief - only the calm, measured confidence of a man accustomed to winning and seeing nothing special in it.

Before him, on either side of the long black table, sat the key figures of the corporate empire: directors of Solar-City regional offices, heads of Cyber-Fund departments, operating directors of Neura-Infra, representatives of the Green-Matrix board. Twenty-three people in all - those who had built this new world, who signed contracts, who closed their eyes to the deaths of millions, who had turned the planet into a single corporate network. Their faces glowed with satisfaction - they knew they were witnessing a historic moment that would be recorded in the annals, not as a victory of democracy, but as the beginning of the era of absolute control. They exchanged glances, brief smiles, raised glasses, but none spoke an unnecessary word - they waited for Josh to speak.

He rose from the table, palms resting on the polished surface, and scanned the map floating before him. The blue lights of the cities pulsed in time with his breathing, like the heart of a single organism. He ran his finger along the contour of the former North America, then Europe, Asia, Africa, South America - everywhere only blue. Not a single red dot, not a single pocket of resistance, not a single "gray zone" where uncertainty still lingered. The last sparks of freedom had been extinguished this morning on the field in Silicon Gulch.

Ladies and gentlemen, - Josh said, his low, even voice echoing through the hall, making those present sit up straighter. - Allow me to sum up. Eight years ago we began this journey. Eight years we systematically, step by step, shut down cities, strangled economies, destroyed states. We were surgeons removing the cancerous tumor of collective madness called democracy. Today, July 23, 2071, at 2:00 PM GMT, we delivered the final blow to the resistance. The Battle of Washington - is complete. States are dead. Not weakened, not suspended - dead. Resistance is no more. No one will rise, no one will revolt, no one will dare to challenge us.

He paused, letting the words settle, and slowly walked around the table, stopping next to the map. His reflection multiplied in the polished walls, creating the illusion that he was everywhere - in every corner, in every gaze.

We stand on the threshold of a new stage, - he continued, his voice dropping slightly, almost intimate. - In two weeks, on August 18, the "Great Signing" will take place. Treaty 404 - a document that will forever cement our control over humanity. Three hundred and twenty-seven former state entities, all regional administrations, all courts, all banks, all military formations will transfer their powers to us - the corporations. There will be no more flags, anthems, constitutions. No more elections, parliaments, political parties. There will be only one structure - a corporate council that we will create based on our interests. We will rewrite history, ladies and gentlemen. We will create a new world. Our world. A world where there is no room for accidents, errors, rebellions. A world where everyone knows their place and is content with it. A world that does not know hunger, war, or freedom, because freedom is an illusion we have rid them of once and for all.

He walked to the table, took his glass - crystal, perfectly polished, with two ice cubes already beginning to melt. In the glass splashed cognac, bottled back in the 2030s, before the vineyards became property of Green-Matrix. Josh raised it above his head, and the light, refracting through the amber liquid, painted his face in warm, almost human tones.

To freedom, - he said, a hint of mockery in his voice, noticed only by the most attentive. - To economics. To us. To the world 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 choral. No one made long toasts, no one clapped. Restrained nods, brief smiles, quick sips - all of it was ritual, formality, behind which hid a deep, almost animal certainty in their own greatness. Around the table sat those who asked no questions, who never doubted, who were accustomed to getting what they wanted without looking back.

Josh set his glass down and turned to the panoramic window. Below, as far as the eye could see, stretched New Eden - his city, his creation, his pride. A million windows, a million cells, a million beings who woke at the signal, ate synthetic food, worked on assembly lines, performed tasks assigned by algorithms, and went to sleep, never suspecting that their lives were not their own. They called themselves citizens, residents, people. But in corporate registries they were listed as "Users" - assets in a global accounting system, consumables for maintaining infrastructure. Their hopes, their fears, their memories - all of it was digitized, analyzed, packed into data centers where it was stored until it became irrelevant.

Josh looked at this world he had created with his own hands and felt a strange emptiness inside. He had achieved everything he wanted. He had built a system where there was no room for accidents, errors, human weakness. He had erased from the face of the earth everything that could oppose him. But inside, somewhere deep in that part of his being he had buried years ago, something was silent. He remembered his first day at the corporation - back in 2045, when he was just an intern, a boy with burning eyes who believed technology would liberate humanity. He remembered sitting in the New Eden dormitory on the first night and staring at the ceiling, dreaming that one day he would change the world for the better. Now that world lay at his feet, perfectly structured, absolutely predictable - and absolutely dead inside, like himself.

He stood by the window, and his reflection in the glass looked like a ghost. The smile on his face gradually faded, replaced by a thoughtful, almost melancholic expression. Behind him, voices sounded - directors discussing the details of Treaty 404, the distribution of zones of influence, signing schedules. Josh heard them but did not listen. He looked down at the city that had become his prison.

Josh, - came a voice from the side. Margaret, one of the directors, approached him and stood beside him, her voice quiet and cautious. - Are you alright? You look tired.

Josh blinked, returning to reality. He turned to her and forced a polite, almost convincing smile.

Everything is perfect, Margaret, - he replied. - I'm just thinking about how much work we still have ahead. Treaty 404 is only the beginning. We need to retrain the population, reformat education, rewrite textbooks, restart cultural codes. We will be creating a new type of human - a human who does not ask questions. Who is grateful for a roof over their head and synthetic protein for dinner. This will take decades.

But you are ready, - Margaret said, not a question, but a statement.

Always ready, - Josh replied, turning his back to the window and returning to the table.

He walked to the map, touched the blue dots again, and they all began to flicker, pulse, like the heart of a single organism. He looked at this glow and felt the same emptiness inside him that he had once called freedom. Now he was not sure he knew the meaning of that word.

A month later, on August 18, 2071, in the conference hall of Solar-City headquarters, "Agreement 404" was signed. It was signed by 327 representatives of former state entities - those few officials who had agreed to keep their positions in the new hierarchy. The document was signed without a single camera, without reporters, without witnesses. Immediately after the ceremony, its text was encrypted and sent through all corporate channels as the "new legal basis of human civilization."

The next day, all corporate news portals ran a single headline:

"The era of states is over. Welcome to a world without borders, without conflicts, without a past. Welcome to the future."

And none of the Users asked questions. Because there were no more questions. Only emptiness. And silence.

STAGE 5. "THE GREAT SIGNING" (2071–2088)

SCENE 1. TREATY 404

September 2071. Neutral Sector. Former Switzerland.

High in the Alps, where the air becomes thin and snow never melts even in summer, stands a building that was once the headquarters of the International Bank. Its gray granite facades remember times when gold bars, bonds, and secret accounts of dictators, politicians, and oligarchs were stored here. Now there is no gold here - it was taken out by corporations back in the 2050s, melted down into microchips and contacts for servers. Instead, documents are stored here - contracts, agreements, acts that forever change the course of history. The most important of them - "Treaty 404" - lies on a blackwood table in the main hall, awaiting signatures.

Josh Hall arrives first. His personal shuttle lands silently on the rooftop helipad, and he steps out, draping a warm coat over his shoulders - even in September it is cold here, especially if you are used to climate control at Solar-City headquarters. He walks through the marble corridors, his footsteps echoing hollowly in the emptiness. The walls are decorated with paintings by old masters - Rembrandt, Rubens, Vermeer - all bought by corporations at auctions when states were selling off their cultural heritage to somehow pay off debts. Josh glances indifferently at the canvases. For him, they are merely assets, investment items that will appreciate in value over time.

He enters the main hall. It is a huge room with high vaulted ceilings, once filled with bankers who decided the fates of entire economies. Now it is quiet, solemn, and empty. In the center - a long table of polished blackwood. Behind it, three chairs - for the three main corporations: Solar-City, Cyber-Fund, and Neura-Infra. Nearby, on lower steps, smaller tables are arranged for Green-Matrix, Genesis, Aurora-Tech, and about a dozen other corporations that have grown to the level of global players over the decades. All of them are masters of the world. All have gathered here today to seal their power on paper.

Josh sits in his place - at the head of the table, central. Before him lies a document bound in white leather with gold embossing: "Treaty 404." The name is chosen ironically. In old internet protocols, code 404 means "not found." And so here: old laws are no longer found. They are gone. They have vanished, just as states have vanished, just as democracy has vanished, just as the very idea that people can control their own destiny has vanished.

He rereads the treaty, though he knows it by heart. He wrote it himself, every article, every comma, every word. He reviewed it with lawyers, economists, political scientists - the best minds money could buy. And he bought them all. Now the document is perfect - legally flawless, economically sound, politically ruthless.

Josh begins to flip through the pages:

"Treaty 404. On the Creation of a New World Order"

Preamble:

"We, the undersigned corporations, recognizing the ineffectiveness of state governance, the impossibility of the continued existence of national sovereignties in conditions of global economic crisis and environmental catastrophe, guided by the principles of economic efficiency, technological progress, and social stability, decree as follows..."

He smiles. "The ineffectiveness of state governance" - how beautifully phrased. In reality, states were destroyed systematically, step by step: first they were stripped of the right to print money, then to control identification, then to manage energy and food. By the time they tried to resist, they had no resources left. Only empty parliament buildings, forgotten constitutions, and presidents begging for alms from corporate directors.

He turns the page:

Article 1. On the Dissolution of States

"1.1. All states existing at the time of signing this Treaty are subject to dissolution within five years.

1.2. State assets (buildings, infrastructure, military installations, natural resources, intellectual property) are transferred to corporations in settlement of debt obligations.

1.3. State institutions (parliaments, courts, governments) are abolished. Their functions are transferred to corporate structures.

1.4. All international treaties, agreements, and conventions concluded by states are annulled as invalid."

Josh looks at these lines and feels satisfaction mixed with slight contempt. He remembers how in the 2040s, states signed loan agreements with corporations without reading the fine print. They thought they were borrowing money for development. They did not understand they were signing their own death warrants. Now they will sign this treaty. Or they won't - their opinion does not matter.

He flips through a few more pages:

Article 2. On the Status of the Population

"2.1. Citizens of former states are renamed Users.

2.2. Users have no rights established by state laws. Their status is determined by the Terms of Use, which are accepted upon registration in the Digital Identification System.

2.3. Corporations have the right to unilaterally change the Terms of Use, notifying Users through digital systems.

2.4. Violation of the Terms of Use is grounds for restricting the User's access to corporate services, including but not limited to: disconnection from power supply, cessation of food supply, deprivation of digital identification."

Josh smirks. "Disconnection." What a simple word. It means death. But the treaty does not say that. Only "restriction of access." Legally flawless. No mention that a person who is "disconnected" dies of cold or hunger within days. No liability. Only procedure.

He flips further:

Article 3. On the Armed Forces

"3.1. National armies are subject to dissolution.

3.2. Corporations create Private Armed Forces (PAF) to ensure security and public order.

3.3. PAFs are not subordinate to any state and operate on the basis of contracts with corporations.

3.4. Any resistance directed against the corporate order is considered a violation of the Terms of Use and is subject to suppression using all available means."

Josh looks at these lines. "All available means." Locust drones. Automatic turrets. Mercenaries. Everything needed to suppress resistance. And no tribunals, no courts, no lawyers. Only instant reaction - and the cleaning drones remove the body.

He closes the treaty. It is perfect. It is the law of the new world. It has no flaws, no contradictions, no loopholes. All that remains - signatures.

One by one, the other directors begin to enter the hall. They take their places around the long table. All in impeccable suits, all with the same expressions - calm, businesslike, emotionless. They do not greet each other, do not exchange pleasantries. This is not a social event. This is a deal. The largest deal in human history.

When everyone is seated, Josh rises from his chair. He scans those gathered and begins to speak - without prepared speech, without pathos, simply stating facts:

Ladies and gentlemen, - he says. - We have gathered here to sign a document that will put an end to the era of chaos and instability. For the last fifty years, we have watched states destroy economies, start wars, and deplete resources. We offer an alternative. Efficient. Rational. Stable. Treaty 404 is not just an agreement. It is the constitution of a new world. A world where there is no room for accidents, errors, human weakness. Only order, only predictability, only growth.

He pauses, letting the words settle. Absolute silence in the hall. Only the hum of the air conditioning system can be heard.

I will not read the treaty aloud, - he continues. - You all know its contents. We have discussed it for months, made amendments, reached a consensus. Now all that remains is to sign. But before we do, I want to tell you one thing. What we are creating today is not just power. It is responsibility. Responsibility for seven billion Users who will live by our rules. We cannot afford mistakes. We cannot afford weakness. We cannot afford compassion. The world we are building does not forgive the weak.

He pauses, then takes the gold pen lying before him. His name is engraved on it - "Josh Hall. Solar-City."

Who is ready to sign? - he asks.

One by one, the directors raise their hands. Josh signs at the bottom of the last page - clearly, without corrections, as he had signed energy supply contracts years ago. Then he passes the pen along. The Cyber-Fund director signs, then Neura-Infra, then Green-Matrix, then all the rest. The process takes about an hour. Each signature is another step toward the new world. Each signature is the death of the old.

When the last signature is placed, Josh rises again. He takes the treaty in his hands, raises it above his head so all can see.