EXPIRATION DATE

Ladies and gentlemen, - he says. - Congratulations. We have created a new world. Today is the beginning of a new era. An era where there are no states. No borders. Only economics. Only us. Only order.

Applause rings out in the hall - restrained, polite, without excessive enthusiasm. The directors know this is not victory - it is the beginning. Now the hardest work begins: implementing the treaty in reality. Retraining the population. Reformatting the economy. Rewriting history.

Josh sits back in his seat and looks at the treaty before him. He knows this document will go down in history. But not as "Treaty 404." As the "Great Signing." As the moment humanity ceased to be free. And no one noticed.

He puts the treaty in his briefcase, rises from the table, and walks toward the exit. At the threshold he pauses, throws one last glance at the hall where the fates of the world were once decided. Now this world belongs to him. And to all the other corporations behind him. But if he is honest to the end - the world belongs only to him. Because he is first. He is the author. He is the architect.

He leaves the hall. Behind him remains emptiness. Ahead - the future he created. And in that future there is no place for those who did not sign the treaty. Those who still believe in freedom. Those who did not understand the main thing: freedom died. It was replaced by efficiency.

A month later, the text of "Treaty 404" was published in all corporate digital networks. The news called it the "Great Agreement." In textbooks, which began to be rewritten, it was called the "Charter of Global Stability." And none of the Users read it in full. Because it was too long. And too boring. And too far from their lives.

Only one person - former Senator William Collins, who was living out his days in an abandoned village in Ohio - read the entire text. He read it three times, then burned the paper in the stove and said aloud:

They did it. They actually did it.

The next morning he was found dead. In the official corporate conclusion, it was stated: "Death from natural causes."

But no one asked what causes could be natural for a man who had lost everything he fought for.

SCENE 2. THE DISSOLUTION OF STATES

October 2071. Washington, D.C. The White House.

There was no longer a president in the Oval Office. The chair behind the desk, where those who once decided the fates of the greatest power in the world had sat, was empty. Its upholstery had faded, the armrests showed wear, and the desk itself, covered in a layer of gray dust, no one wiped anymore. On the walls remained only rectangles of lighter wallpaper - the portraits of former presidents had been removed and packed into boxes. Their fate awaited them as antiques: private collections, corporate archives, or recycling. No one knew for sure. No one cared anymore.

Outside the windows, on the lawn where presidential helicopters once took off and landed, tourists crowded. But they no longer clicked cameras and waved flags. They simply stood, staring at the building that had once been a symbol of freedom. Now it was just a museum. Or soon would be. The corporations were already discussing plans to convert it into a "corporate history exhibition center," where the achievements of Solar-City and Cyber-Fund would be displayed. Old America was to become an exhibit. A visual aid for future generations of Users who would study the "era of chaos and inefficiency."

Inside the building, work was in full swing - inventory. Corporate employees, dressed in identical blue uniforms, walked through the corridors, opened cabinets, pulled out drawers, cataloged property. Furniture, paintings, documents, dishes - all of it now had inventory numbers and passed into the ownership of Solar-City. Everything, from the president's desk to kitchen utensils. Even the carpets walked upon by Kennedy, Reagan, and Obama were rolled up and marked as "items of historical significance." Each item received its price in corporate tokens. Freedom would also have received its price, if it could have been sold. But freedom could not be sold. It could only be forgotten.

Charles Davis stood on the lawn in front of the White House, holding a worn courier bag. He was seventy-two, his back ached, his knees trembled, but he still worked - delivering packages in this new world where couriers had been replaced by drones, but sometimes a human was needed to bypass algorithm restrictions. He had come to Washington by chance - an order was in the neighboring block, and he decided to stop by. Look one last time. He did not know it would be the last time, but he felt it with his whole being.

He raised his eyes to the building's facade. Once, in the 2020s, he had watched it on TV when the president addressed the nation. He remembered those moments - the family gathered around the screen, everyone frozen, listening to words about freedom, about democracy, about America being the greatest country in the world. He believed it. Believed his children would live better, that the country would prosper, that the future would be bright. Now his children were dead - one died of hunger in 2053, the other disappeared without a trace in 2060 when his block was "disconnected" for non-payment of corporate fees. He had no grandchildren - they were never born. And the America he knew was also dead.

Above the White House, where the US flag once flew, now hung another symbol - a blue sphere with white rings, the Solar-City logo. It was large, bright, backlit from within so it could be seen for kilometers. Charles looked at it and felt no anger. Only emptiness. The same emptiness as in his chest, as in his apartment, as in this city that was once the heart of the world.

Farewell, America, - he said quietly, almost in a whisper. - You were a good country. While you lasted.

He stood for another minute, then turned and walked away. He had another package to deliver - a plastic container of synthetic proteins for a Cyber-Fund office in the suburbs. The order was urgent. He had no time for sentiment.

November 2071. London. Westminster Palace.

The Parliamentary chamber was empty. The long benches of dark oak, where deputies once sat and argued until hoarse about the fate of the nation, now looked like lifeless rows. The air smelled of dust and old paper. Someone from the cleaning staff had forgotten to turn off the lights, and they burned with a dim yellow glow, casting long shadows on the empty seats. On the Speaker's desk lay a wooden gavel - the very one with which he once called for order. Now it just lay there, like a museum exhibit, forgotten and unnecessary.

The Speaker himself - a tall, gray-haired man with a tired, gaunt face - stood at his podium, collecting his last belongings. A folder of documents, a few photographs, a worn pen. He had worked here for thirty years, risen from a simple deputy to the highest office in British politics. He remembered the Brexit debates, the climate debates, the wars and peace. He remembered when the hall was full, when deputies' voices merged into a hum, when the country lived and breathed. Now all that was in the past. And the past did not matter.

He surveyed the empty rows. Most of his colleagues had already left - moved to corporate jobs, received contracts, become managers of Cyber-Fund or Green-Matrix. Some simply disappeared - their names erased from registries as if they had never existed. A few old men, like him, had not lived to see this day, dying of illness and old age waiting for the end. He was the last to leave this building. The last elected by the people.

He took the folder, left the hall, and walked down the corridor. Portraits of kings and queens flashed by - from Henry VIII to Elizabeth II - hanging here for centuries. Their faces looked down on him from above, witnesses to a passing era. Soon they too would be removed, packed into boxes and sent to storage - or sold at auction to corporate collectors. They would be replaced by logos. Portraits of managers. Profit charts.

He stepped outside. The sun, typically English, gray, hid behind clouds. The air smelled of rain and electric vehicle exhaust. He turned and looked at the building where he had spent thirty years of his life. It seemed to look back at him, like an old friend bidding farewell forever.

The end, - he said quietly. - It's all over.

He got into his car - old, still gasoline-powered, which he had kept despite all the rules - and started the engine. He would never return to this building. And no one else would. Westminster Palace would become a corporate office. Or a shopping mall. Or simply ruins. In the new world, there was no place for old symbols.

March 2072. Tokyo. Imperial Palace.

The Emperor sat in his throne room - the only person who had retained dignity in this world where everything was bought and sold. He was eighty, his face was carved with deep wrinkles, and his eyes, once bright and attentive, had dimmed with weariness. He remembered when Japan was one of the greatest powers in the world - its technology, culture, and economy inspiring generations. Now it was merely a zone of influence of Green-Matrix, one of many territories the corporations had divided among themselves like a pie. The Emperor knew his role, his title, his history - all of it had become mere formality.

Before him stood a corporate representative - a young man of about thirty, in an impeccable black suit, with a polite, rehearsed smile that did not reach his eyes. He held a tablet, probably containing a prepared statement - formal notice that the palace was passing into corporate ownership, and the Emperor must vacate it within a month.

Your Majesty, - the representative began, his voice soft and deferential, but with steel in it - the same steel that had broken more than one dynasty. - We have come to inform you of the decision of the Green-Matrix board of directors. In accordance with Article 1.2 of Treaty 404, all state assets are transferred to corporations in settlement of debt obligations. The Imperial Palace, as state property, is subject to transfer. You will be provided with housing in one of the corporate districts of Tokyo. The conditions correspond to the status of an honorary User.

The Emperor was silent. He looked at the representative and thought that this man did not even realize what he had just done. He was not speaking of the end of a dynasty, the end of history, the end of everything that had been built for centuries. He was speaking of the "status of an honorary User." As if that were compensation.

I understand, - the Emperor finally said. His voice was quiet but steady - the voice of a man who had accepted the inevitable. - When must I leave the palace?

Within a month, Your Majesty. Corporate staff will accompany you to ensure comfort and security.

The Emperor nodded. He slowly rose from the throne, leaning on a carved cane, and walked to the window overlooking the garden. There, among the ancient trees, grew pines and cherry trees planted by his ancestors centuries ago. Their branches stretched under the gray sky, and life still remained in them - the only life not sold to corporations. The Emperor knew these trees too would be cut down. In their place would appear vertical farms, conveyors, modules. Everything not profitable would be destroyed.

I will leave, - he said quietly, without turning. - But I ask one thing. Do not destroy the garden. Please. These trees remember more than we do. They are the memory of my country.

The representative hesitated. He knew the board of directors would not preserve a garden for sentiment - it was economically unprofitable. But he also knew it was better not to argue with the Emperor. At least not now.

We will try to preserve it, Your Majesty, - he replied with the same fake smile.

The Emperor did not believe him. But he said nothing. He just stood at the window and looked at the garden that was already dead, though the trees still stood.

By 2076, most states had ceased to exist. Flags were lowered in all capitals of the world. Parliaments and congresses were dissolved. Presidents, kings, emperors - all who had once embodied power - either resigned or disappeared without a trace. Their places were taken by corporate managers who governed "zones of influence" - territories divided not by national or cultural characteristics, but by economic expediency.

People watched this and did not understand. Most had been born after the crisis began, were accustomed to corporate passports, synthetic food, to the fact that elections were something from the past, not part of their present. They no longer remembered what freedom was. They did not even know the word once had meaning.

Those who tried to protest quickly disappeared. Locust drones now patrolled the streets of all cities - not just as weapons, but as police. They monitored order, recorded every careless word, every suspicious movement. They destroyed anyone who violated the Terms of Use - without trial, without investigation, without warning.

The world became quiet. Too quiet. There were no sounds of protest, no cries for help, not even a whisper of hope. Only the hum of air conditioners, the noise of conveyors, and the quiet, monotonous voice of the news announcer reporting new corporate achievements.

And no one asked questions. Because there were no more questions.

SCENE 3. PMCs AND THE NEW ORDER

May 2075. Phoenix Guard PMC Base. Nevada Desert.

In the very heart of the Nevada desert, where nuclear bombs had once been tested and the latest aircraft tested, now stood the base of the private military company "Phoenix Guard." This was not just a base - it was a city carved from stone and metal, hidden from spy satellites and curious eyes. Its buildings, made of reinforced concrete and steel, looked like hives - faceless, gray, functional. Inside lived and trained thousands of mercenaries, men and women who sold their lives to corporations for contracts that provided their families with synthetic food, housing, and protection from Locust drones. They did not ask questions. They had no right to ask questions. They just followed orders.

General Robert Hayes stood on the observation deck at the top of the main administrative building, looking down at the training ground stretching for several square kilometers. He was seventy-one, his face was carved with deep wrinkles like a map of old wars, and his eyes, once clear and sharp, had dulled from years of fatigue. He still wore his old army uniform - not the corporate PAF uniform, but the real US Army uniform he had worn back in the 2020s. It was faded, worn at the elbows, but he refused to take it off. It was his last reminder of who he once was - and who he would never be again.

Below, on the training ground, hundreds of soldiers in black uniforms practiced riot suppression tactics. They moved in unison, like machines, without a single wasted motion. They destroyed mannequins painted to look like civilians - men, women, children. They were trained not to ask who was right and who was wrong. They were trained to destroy anyone who threatened corporate order. Hayes watched them and saw himself as a young man - just as mindless, just as obedient. He had believed he served good. Now he knew he served evil. But it was too late to change anything.

General, - came a voice behind him. Hayes slowly turned and saw his deputy, Lieutenant Colonel James Harper - young, ambitious, with the same glassy look as everyone who had served in the PMC for more than five years. - A new order has just come from Cyber-Fund. We need to suppress a revolt in Detroit. A group of former citizens - about two hundred people - is trying to restore the power grid. They connected to an old substation and threaten to disrupt stability in the region.

Hayes looked at his deputy for a long second. He knew the answer should be short, like all his orders in recent years. But something inside him tightened. Detroit. The city he remembered from childhood. The city where he was born, where he grew up, where his father worked at a factory and his mother was a nurse. The city that had now become a symbol of resistance. And its destruction was entrusted to him.

Send the swarm, - he finally said. His voice was even, like a news announcer's. - Follow standard protocol. Complete liquidation. No witnesses.

Understood, sir, - the deputy replied, jotting something on his tablet. - The drones will be in place in an hour. The revolt will be suppressed by morning.

Report the results, - Hayes said, turning back to the window.

Will be done, sir.

The deputy left, and Hayes was alone. He looked down at the training ground, where soldiers continued to practice hand-to-hand combat techniques, punching mannequins as if they were real enemies. In the distance, on the horizon, he spotted several Locust drones taking off from launch pads, heading east, toward Detroit. They flew silently, like a flock of silver birds, and soon disappeared behind the clouds.

Hayes closed his eyes. His face tensed, but he did not cry. He had long forgotten how to cry. He thought about how he could have stopped this. Could have resigned in the 2050s when corporations began seizing power. Could have said no when offered a Cyber-Fund contract. Could have run, like Stone, like other officers who preferred death to betrayal. But he had not. He sold himself. First for money to feed his family. Then for power to feel useful. Then simply to survive. And now he was part of the system. He could not leave, even if he wanted to - because the system did not release its servants.

Forgive me, - he whispered, addressing invisible America, his father, his mother, the city he was about to destroy. - I should have been stronger. I should have died like Stone. Instead, I became one of those who kill people like him.

He opened his eyes. The drones were no longer visible on the horizon - they had gone on their mission. Hayes looked at the empty sky and felt only emptiness inside.

August 2078. Detroit. Ruins.

The city that was once a symbol of American industrial might now lay in ruins. The high-rise buildings that once blazed with lights stood with dark, empty eye sockets of windows. The streets, once jammed with cars and people, were now empty - only the wind drove scraps of trash and dust across the asphalt. The bridges over the Detroit River were partially destroyed, and no one planned to rebuild them. The city was dying, and no one tried to save it.

Corporations had not conducted a military operation here. They simply cut off power for three months as punishment for the attempt to resist. Without light, without heat, without water, without food, the city began to suffocate. Those who could fled - left for other zones, surrendered to corporations, agreed to become Users. Those who stayed tried to resist. They gathered in basements, old workshops, abandoned schools. They repaired generators, collected water, distributed supplies. They believed they could hold out until the corporations retreated. But corporations do not retreat. They only advance.

When the Locust drones arrived in Detroit, they met no resistance. People could not shoot at them - they had no weapons. They could only hide, try to take cover in basements, behind concrete walls, in the sewers. But the drones found them all - thermal traces were too bright for machines that saw in the dark better than people did in daylight. One by one they flew into shelters, leaving dead bodies behind. Within forty minutes, in the area where the power grid was being restored, not a single living person remained.

Now Detroit was a restricted zone. No one lived here - only drones patrolled the streets, searching for those who violated the Terms of Use, those who tried to return, those who did not understand that resistance was futile. Bodies lay where drones had caught them - in basements, in manholes, on broken streets. They remained there because the cleanup drones did not come. The corporations did not bother with cleanup. They left Detroit to die a slow death.

The winds blew through the empty streets, raising dust and debris. Somewhere in the distance, in a destroyed building, water quietly dripped from a burst pipe, creating puddles that reflected the gray sky. No one came here to look at what remained of the city. No one remembered that people had lived here, that there were schools, hospitals, parks, homes where children played. All of it disappeared, as if it had never existed.

A few years later, the ruins of Detroit would be bulldozed by corporate machines, and a new plastic recycling plant would be built on the site. Users from neighboring zones would work there. They would labor on assembly lines, unaware that beneath their feet lay the bodies of those who once tried to fight for freedom. They would not ask questions. They would not remember. They would just work, because work was all that remained.

But on the ruins of the old shopping mall, where American car advertisements once hung, someone had scratched a short inscription on the wall with a knife:

"We remember. We wait."

A month later, drones would find the inscription and erase it with a laser. But someone would write a new one somewhere else. And so it would continue, as long as there were those who remembered what freedom was. Even if only a few dozen of them remained, scattered across the world, hidden in basements and forgotten mines. They would wait. They would wait for their hour.

SCENE 4. THE LAST PRESIDENT

March 2088. New York. Mount Sinai Hospital.

In a room on the seventh floor, in that part of the hospital that the corporations had long since repurposed as a "hospice for elderly Users with low status," lay a man almost no one remembered anymore. His name was James Harrison. He was seventy-seven, but he looked ninety - an emaciated face, sunken cheeks, yellowed skin thin as parchment, and hands covered in age spots and bruises from IVs. Lung cancer, diagnosed two years ago, had been eating his body from within, leaving only a shadow of his former greatness. The doctors said he had a few weeks left. But Harrison knew the truth: he had a few days left. Maybe hours.

He lay on a narrow hospital bed, staring at the whitewashed ceiling, yellowed with stains from a leaking roof. Outside the window, through the dusty glass, the silhouette of Manhattan was visible - not as he remembered it in his youth, when skyscrapers blazed with lights and streets hummed with thousands of cars. Now half the buildings stood dark, their windows boarded up or broken. The few that still had light belonged to corporations, and their logos - blue, green, silver - lit up the night sky like billboards over a graveyard.

Harrison closed his eyes and let the memories flood in. He remembered his first day in the White House, when he was fifty-five, when he stood on the lawn before the Capitol and took his oath. Remembered holding his hand on the Bible that had belonged to his family for three generations, promising to defend the Constitution against all enemies - foreign and domestic. He had truly believed he could make a difference. Remembered how three years after his inauguration, America began to fall apart - first the economy, then the cities, then the army. Remembered kneeling before Josh Hall, begging for help for his people, and Hall looking down at him like a dying dog. Remembered signing Treaty 404, knowing he was signing his country's death warrant. He was not proud of it. He hated himself for it. But he could not change it. He was weak. Too weak.

The door opened, and a nurse entered - a young woman in a white uniform with a Neura-Infra patch. She did not even glance at Harrison. She looked at the monitors, checked blood pressure, pulse, oxygen levels, recorded the data on her tablet. For her, he was just a patient - another old man living out his days in this hospice. She did not know who he was. And if she did, she would not care.

Nurse, - Harrison whispered, his voice dry and hoarse, like rustling leaves. - Can I speak with Dr. Wilson?

The nurse looked up from her tablet and regarded him with mild irritation. She had a shift and wanted to go home as soon as possible.

Dr. Wilson is busy, - she replied dryly. - He has surgery. He will be back in a few hours.

Please, - Harrison pleaded. - It's important. Very important.

The nurse sighed. She knew arguing with dying patients was useless - they would not settle down until they got what they wanted. She nodded and left the room, promising to pass on the request.