The hologram bled. Its interlocking laser visualization hung in the air above the single slab of obsidian that served as a table, creating a perfect three-dimensional ghost of the North American continent. Joao gestured, and a filigree of crimson data points intensified over the Mississippi basin. River shipping capacity: down seventy-three percent. Potable water toxicity: up ninety-one. He zoomed in further, and the image resolved into a single, pixelated bridge, its steel trusses sagging like tired bones.
“The I-10 over the Calcasieu River,” Joao said, his voice a quiet counterpoint to the thrum of the maglev trains gliding past the penthouse window, fifty stories above the luminous canyons of Shanghai. “It was slated for replacement in 2035. Today, traffic is diverted a hundred and fifty kilometers north. A hundred and fifty kilometers of lost productivity, every single day.”
Old Chen, the only man in the room who had known a world before Pan-Asian Strategic Holdings owned a controlling interest in the global shipping lanes, squinted. “A bridge is not a business, Joao.”
“Everything is a business,” Joao countered. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. He flicked his wrist and the hologram shifted, displaying a sprawling, decaying cityscape. “Detroit. We run the numbers, and the land value is actually negative. The cost of demolition and environmental remediation exceeds the real estate’s worth. They have abandoned entire sections, ceded them to nature and gangs.” He paused, then continued. “They are managing the greatest portfolio of assets in human history, and they are driving it into the ground. It’s not a country anymore. It’s a non-performing asset.”
The other partners watched, their faces impassive masks, but Joao saw the glint in their eyes. It was the look of sharks that have scented blood from an ocean away.
“So we buy it,” he said. Not a question. A conclusion.
Chen leaned forward, the fabric of his Mao suit, a retro affectation that cost more than a family car, rustling. “You cannot buy a flag. You cannot stage a hostile takeover of a nuclear-armed government.”
“We don't need to,” Joao said. He swiped the hologram away and replaced it with a face. A man’s face, etched with the kind of earnest disappointment that had gone out of fashion decades ago. Sun-weathered skin, honest eyes, a jawline that belonged on old currency. “Marcus Thorne. He was governor of a state called Montana. He believes, truly believes, in something they used to call the American dream. He is a patriot. And patriots are the easiest men to hijack, because their hearts are so full of things to lose.”
The liquor was cheap. That was the first thing Joao noticed. It sat on a sideboard in a squat, heavy bottle, the color of weak tea. Governor Thorne poured a glass, his hand steady but his knuckles white. The hunting lodge smelled of woodsmoke and damp wool. Outside, the Montana snow fell in thick, silent sheets, burying a world that had already forgotten him.
“You’re not here to talk about grain exports,” Thorne said. His voice was a low rumble, a remnant of the charisma that had once filled town halls.
“No,” Joao agreed, leaving the glass offered to him untouched on the arm of a threadbare leather chair. He looked at the taxidermied head of an elk above the fireplace. Its glass eyes were clouded with a fine layer of dust. “I’m here because you gave a speech last year at something called the Aspen Institute. You said, ‘We are a nation in need of a miracle.’ You were right.”
Thorne grunted, taking a swallow of the whiskey. “Miracles are in short supply.”
“Not miracles,” Joao corrected. “Capital. Your country is starving for it. Your two parties are hyenas fighting over a carcass. They offer nothing but blame and nostalgia. We can offer something different. A path back to solvency.”
He placed a data-slate on the table between them. It was a wafer of dark glass, its quiet elegance a stark contrast to the rustic, worn-out room. “We would like to fund your campaign for the presidency.”
Thorne laughed, a short, bitter bark. “Who, me? I couldn’t get elected dog-catcher nowadays. My own party disavowed me.”
“Your party is irrelevant,” Joao said. “We will build a new one, around you. We will finance it. We will manage it. We will identify every disillusioned voter, every forgotten citizen, every man and woman who knows that the system is broken, and we will deliver your message directly to them.” He paused, letting the scale of the offer simmer in the quiet room. “We’re willing to put in up to ten trillion dollars, Governor.”
Thorne stopped laughing. He stared at Joao, his folksy demeanor peeling away to reveal a sharp, desperate intelligence. “What for? What do you get out of it?”
“A contract,” Joao said, tapping the slate. “For services rendered. We are the most effective turnaround specialists on Earth. When you are President, you will empower us to do for your country what we have done for a thousand failing companies. We will handle the logistics. The budget. The optimization. You will be the visionary. You will restore the soul of America. We will simply make the trains run on time.”
Thorne stared at the slate, then at Joao, then back at the slate. He saw it all: the impossible dream, the path back from irrelevance, the chance to be the hero he had always believed himself to be.
He didn’t see the thousands of pages of sub-clauses, the impenetrable legalese that rendered the office of the President a ceremonial title.
He saw a lifeline. He saw a chance to save the dusty elk head on the wall, the falling snow, the whole broken, beautiful mess.
“You’re talking about a coup,” Thorne whispered.
“We are talking,” Joao said softly, “about a leveraged buyout.”
The Nerve Center was silent, but for the soft hiss of the cryogenic cooling systems that kept the quantum processors from melting. Joao stood on a glass dais, observing the wall-sized data display. It was not a map of a country. It was a map of 448 million individual nervous systems.
He watched one data point, a 54-year-old unemployed welder in Youngstown, Ohio. The AI, which his team had nicknamed ‘Plato,’ had identified the man’s core drivers: a gnawing sense of betrayal, a deep-seated fear of cultural irrelevance, and a latent affection for classic country music.
Over the past three weeks, the man had not seen a single political ad. Instead, his social media feeds had been populated with stories about the resurgence of traditional manufacturing in Asia. He’d been shown a deep-fake video of his favorite deceased singer seeming to endorse a return to “old-school American values.” Then came the articles about a new third-party candidate, a man who spoke not of politics, but of dignity.
Now, Plato’s predictive model showed a 98.7% probability that the man would vote for Marcus Thorne. An alert flashed on the display. A car, part of a PASH-owned ride-sharing fleet, had just been dispatched to the man’s address. Its arrival would coincide precisely with the shortest queue-time at his local polling station.
Joao zoomed out. The map glowed with millions of such instances, a vast, silent, and terrifyingly efficient machine for harvesting votes. It was the end of democracy, not with a coup, but with a perfectly optimized algorithm.
Election night. From the window of the penthouse, New York City glittered weakly, a patient in a long-term care facility. On the main screen, news anchors in expensive suits gestured at the electoral map, their voices a blend of confusion and panic. The map was a mess of shattered predictions, a testament to an order that no longer understood itself.
Joao ignored them. He watched his own feed, the raw data flowing from the voting districts. It was exactly as Plato had forecast. There was no chaos here. Only certainty.
At 11:32 PM, a secure channel blinked open. Governor Thorne’s face appeared, broadcast from a sterile hotel room in Montana. He was President-elect, and he looked like a man who had just been handed a bill for a feast he couldn't remember eating. The joy of his surrounding family was a shrill, tinny sound against the weight of his realization. His eyes found Joao’s, and they were wide with a new, dawning kind of terror.
Joao gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. “Mr. President-elect. It is time.”
On the screen before Thorne, a document materialized. The Sovereign Management Codicil. A single, illuminated box waited for his thumbprint.
This was the final transaction.
The surrender.
Thorne’s hand shook as he raised it. He looked at his wife, at the flag hanging limply in the corner of the room. He was a patriot. He was doing this for them. He pressed his thumb to the glass.
The box flashed green.
On Joao’s private terminal, a new entry bloomed into existence in the Pan-Asian Strategic Holdings portfolio, settling between a Chilean lithium mine and a sub-Saharan water utility.
Asset: United States of America. Ticker: USA. Status: Acquired.
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