"2040": Chapter 7. Davos and the Genius of Soft Authoritarianism

Welcome to the world of my prognostic novel "2040" – a future that could come to pass… but absolutely should not.

You can read the previous chapter of “2040” by following the link.

Do you know what Davos and cocaine have in common?

Both make you feel like you are standing on top of the world. Both hook the rich fast. Both work even better at altitude.

The difference is simple. Cocaine is at least honest about what it does.

The shuttle crawled uphill on a road so perfect it looked staged. Inside it smelled like leather, wool, and someone’s bright citrus cologne that tried too hard to seem casual. Across from me sat a man in a coat worth a year of rent in Berlin. He scrolled through a private feed like a person who had never waited in line.

The screen reflected in his glasses like a second pair of eyes. I watched the reflection, not his face.

Journalists learn that early. Eye contact is a challenge. Reflections are information.

Outside, the valley looked like a postcard made for people who like the idea of reality. Postcards lie for a living. They show what you want to remember and cut out anything that breaks the story.

My badge swung against my chest like a pass into another species.

The World Economic Forum. Davos. You do not get invited here. You get selected. I was not selected because I mattered. I was selected because I was useful.

A journalist with the right name. The right backstory. The right trauma. My prosthetic leg was the kind of proof they love. It says truth has a cost and they are, of course, on the side of truth. Their favorite trick is turning your pain into part of their moral brand.

I pulled my coat tighter to cover the prosthesis. Not because I was ashamed. Because I wanted control. The world learns fast how to use someone else’s wound as proof of its own virtue.

At the checkpoint, metal barriers cut the snow with clean precision. Beyond them stood protesters in winter gear. Faces wrapped in scarves. Signs held high. Their voices barely reached us. Glass softens inconvenient sound. Mountains erase it.

One sign read FINANCIAL FREEDOM IS NOT FREEDOM. Another said PSD5 IS A LEASH. Someone drew a euro symbol in chains.

Inside the barrier, the road was spotless. Outside it, people were real.

My badge got scanned. Green light. A smile from a guard trained to smile at the right kind of person. I belonged for one week.

That was the trick.

The congress center smelled like warm stone, fresh money, and lies wrapped in good packaging. Champagne flutes floated through the crowd like silver fish in a glass tank built for billionaires. A woman in a white fur coat laughed too loudly at something that was not funny. Her laugh stayed in the air, weightless, like it had never sat on a kitchen table next to unpaid bills.

Above our heads, banners showed clean fonts and safe words that survive every focus group.

SUSTAINABILITY. INCLUSION. TRUST.

Words that mean nothing. So they can mean anything. Perfect corporate calm.

I crossed the hall with my notebook, my recorder, and a face that looked politely grateful. There is a rule here. Look impressed and you look harmless. Look bored and you look powerful. The only real mistake is trying too hard.

At the coffee station I caught my reflection in glass. Hair tucked behind one ear. Press badge visible. Neutral face. Prosthesis hidden. I had learned to hide it with clothes, posture, and pace.

Espresso in hand, I headed for the media zone. Journalists sat with laptops, acting like this was still about ideas and not about being close to power. I recognized a few faces. I trusted even fewer.

Thomas Weber waved at me from a high table.

German. Sharp. Restless. A rare kind of reporter who still believed questions could hurt, not just decorate a panel. He carried the look from an older newsroom era. Half skeptical. Half amused. Like the world was absurd but still negotiable if you asked the right thing and survived the price.

In 2040 that look made him an exhibit.

— Mia, he said, leaning in. Panel on PSD5?
— Wouldn’t miss the entertainment.
He smirked and tapped his screen.
— I wrote three questions that would make them sweat. Deciding which one I can afford.

The word afford hung there like money no one accepts anymore. Under PSD5, afford is not cash. It is friction. It is risk score. It is whether your door still opens tomorrow.

— Liberton goes first, Thomas said. Then Verden.
— Verden, I repeated.

Thomas lowered his voice.

— Eighty three billion euros for space investment. Have you seen one real update since 2035?
— No.
— Exactly. If they can invent rockets out of slides, what else can they invent?

His hands were steady. No hesitation. He still expected reality to behave.

That made him dangerous. Mostly to himself.

I wanted to warn him. But warnings can sound like surrender. Like admitting the system already won.

— Be careful, I said.
He lifted his espresso in a dry toast.
— To careful questions and safe journalism.

---

The Panel

The room was full. The title glowed in soothing letters.

PSD5: Protecting Citizens in an Era of Financial Freedom.

Protection. Citizens. Freedom. Three words people will trade almost anything for.

The lighting made everyone look healthier than they were. The audience wore muted colors, expensive watches, and faces that said they were listening while doing math.

I sat in the press row. The chair was too comfortable. Softness here was not kindness. It was insulation.

Soft chairs are built for soft questions.

The moderator stepped onstage with the Forum voice and trained empathy. Precise. Harmless. No personal cost.

Then he arrived.

Liberton.

Even his name sounded like a slogan tested over cocktails. His suit fit like a second skin. He smiled in a way that made you feel noticed while he looked straight through you, toward some inner dashboard.

It was the rare charisma that does not convince you you are right. It convinces you that disagreeing would be awkward.

Cameras flashed when he shook the moderator’s hand. He turned at the angle that gives perfect profile shots. Confidence. Control. Kindness. He sat like a man who never asked permission.

Then Verden.

He moved differently. Softer around the eyes. Not a predator. More like a preacher with great PR. Systems love placing men like him beside politicians. A dream in human form, wrapped in a neat beard and a clean narrative.

They called him an innovator. A philanthropist. A visionary.

People liked the shake in his voice when he spoke about the future. Sincerity lets you stop looking too closely at the present.

Applause rose on cue. Phones lifted on cue.

Liberton leaned into the microphone.

— Friends. PSD5 is not a restriction. It is a shield.

A shield. Not a wall. Not a cage. Not a leash.

You hate cages. You want shields. Shields protect you from bad people. No one asks who holds the shield. Or where it points.

He spoke about protection from fraud. From instability. From harmful financial behavior, said like it was a medical fact. He spoke about inclusion. About nobody being left behind.

Behind what?

Behind a system that decides if your life is compliant.

He did it gently. With care. With warmth that makes cruelty easier to swallow.

I was not collecting quotes. I was tracking a pattern.

Liberton’s pattern was as clean as good product design.

Name the fear. Offer control as the cure. Rename control as morality. Make disagreement sound selfish.

This was not politics. It was behavioral design.

Then Verden spoke and the performance took over.

He did not start with numbers. He started with a story.

— I grew up under apartheid, he said, voice low enough to pull the room closer. In a world where your freedom was decided by documents, checkpoints, the mood of a man in uniform.

The room exhaled. Suffering is a universal pass.

— I promised myself, he continued, that if I ever had power, I would build systems that free people from arbitrary control.

He paused. Looked out like he could see each person.

— And today we are investing eighty three billion euros in the next era of human possibility.

He said the number like a spell. Orbital stations. Clean propulsion. Research labs. A new civic frontier. Words that make people feel good just by clapping.

I watched faces soften with relief.

It is amazing how quickly people forgive their present chains when you promise a beautiful future.

In my head one thought kept circling.

No launches since 2035. No stations. No confirmed missions. No footage that was not a render. Only slides. Only images. Only applause.

I felt Thomas tense beside me.

The moderator smiled.

— We’ll take questions from the audience.

Hands rose carefully. Questions shaped like pillows.

How do we ensure fair access? What safeguards prevent discrimination? How can citizens build trust?

Liberton answered smoothly. Verden painted the future again.

Then Thomas stood.

He did not lift his hand. He rose.

— Thomas Weber, Der Spiegel, he said.

Recognition flickered. The air tightened. People sensed something that could not be packaged.

— You mentioned eighty three billion euros invested in space since 2035. Can you provide a verifiable timeline of launches, stations, or operational systems funded by this amount?

A short pause. Long enough.

Verden’s smile stayed but thinned. A tiny crack is enough.

Liberton leaned forward.

Thomas stayed calm.

— Where are the rockets? Where are the stations?

Not an attack. A pin.

Liberton laughed lightly.

— My friend, progress does not always arrive as fireworks.

Polite laughter rippled like it had been scheduled.

— The most important infrastructure is invisible, Liberton said. Regulatory. Financial. Social.

Invisible. Convenient. Hard to check.

Thomas did not sit.

— But this was a public statement. Public money. Public accountability. You named a figure. Where is the public evidence?

Liberton’s smile tightened. He did what systems do when facts arrive. He turned the conversation into morality.

— Accountability matters, he said, tone shifting. But so does responsibility. In an era of disinformation, we must be careful not to amplify doubts that undermine public trust.

There it was.

The question is not wrong. The question is harmful.

The moderator jumped in at once.

— Thank you, Thomas. Next question, please.

Another microphone lit up. A banker asked something safe.

Thomas sat down. Calm face. Eyes catching the moment you realize the rules have changed while you are still playing the old game.

The panel ended early. Applause arrived on schedule. People stood. Cameras flashed. Smiles returned.

The room exhaled.

A false exhale.

---

The Next Morning

The next morning, Thomas was taken.

It happened in the hotel lobby among marble columns, pastries, and coffee. Two men in gray. Plain. Professional. A tablet instead of a warrant.

I was on my second espresso when they approached him. Thomas was heading toward the elevator, laptop over his shoulder, scarf half tied. He slowed.

— Thomas Weber? one asked, polite.
— Yes.
— You need to come with us. Retrospective tax adjustments. Noncompliance with revised reporting obligations.

Thomas laughed once.

— That’s absurd.
— It’s verified, the man replied, as calmly as if he were describing the weather.

Verified. A word that used to mean checked. Now it meant comply.

Thomas looked around.

The lobby did what lobbies do. It pretended nothing was happening.

A woman in pearls lifted her phone and turned away. A man stared at a tray of croissants like they were hard math. The receptionist froze with a service smile that said please do not make this my problem.

Thomas looked at me for one second. His eyes said this is it.

I stood. The prosthesis clicked against the marble. Louder than I wanted. Heads turned.

— Excuse me, I said evenly. I’m press. Can you state the authority and charge for the record?

The man glanced at my badge, then at my face. The look of someone scanning a variable.

Journalist. Accredited. Possibly inconvenient.

His eyes dipped, almost invisible, toward my prosthesis. A quick calculation.

She has a story. She is visible. She could cause trouble.

— We have the necessary authority, he said. Charges have been formally issued.
— By whom?

A pause. The answer existed. Permission to say it did not.

Thomas gripped his bag strap. He did not resist.

Under PSD5, resistance becomes behavioral guilt.

They led him to the elevator.

— Thomas, I said.
He turned slightly.

— I’ll publish, I promised.

Not heroism. Reflex.

He nodded once. The doors closed.

The lobby returned to life instantly. A tray got adjusted. Someone laughed. The world smoothed itself out.

That is the genius of soft authoritarianism. It does not need tanks. It needs social forgetting.

Outside, the protesters were still there. Voices echoing through snow like the world was trying to remember how to breathe. Inside, my hands shook.

Not from fear.

From an old anger. The kind that shows up when you recognize the same machine that once took something from you.

---

Kyiv, 2025

I do not remember the sound first. I remember the air. Pressure that reshapes the world.

Then white. Not snow.

After that, time broke into frames. Dust. Someone screaming. Metal taste. My hands reaching for a leg that was no longer there.

I will not describe it. I carry it every day.

Doctors called it survival. People called it courage. Institutions called it inspiration.

The truth was simpler.

I lost part of my body because I refused to look away.

For a while, that became my boundary. I learned to walk again. To move through airports with trained smiles. To answer questions about my journey without hurting anyone.

Then came PSD3. PSD4. PSD5.

The world started to feel like a checkpoint.

Not one man with a gun. A thousand tiny permissions and denials, dressed as automation and safety.

If you have lived through an explosion, you stop tolerating lies that sound like care.

Thomas disappeared for asking about rockets.

Not because rockets matter.

Because if you cannot ask for evidence, you cannot ask anything.

And if a journalist can be removed through retroactive compliance, every journalist in that building just got the message.

Your past can be edited. Your loyalty can be scored. Your right to speak is conditional.

I went back to my room and locked the door.

Then I did what I always do when the world tries to teach me helplessness.

I built a plan.

---

Sophie

Sophie Clark was not on any panel. Not in the program. Not in the photos near leaders.

She lived in the blank space. A name that traveled through encrypted channels. A fixer. The person you contact when something needs to exist without being official.

We crossed paths in 2038. Not face to face. Through a chain of people. A shadow network built by those who still believed information could protect.

I did not have her number. No one did.

I had three steps. A burner device. A code phrase. A time window.

I waited until midnight.

No greeting. No emotion. Only facts.

WEF DAVOS. THOMAS WEBER ARRESTED. RETROSPECTIVE TAX ADJUSTMENTS.
PANEL CLAIMED €83BN SPACE INVESTMENT SINCE 2035. NO VERIFIED LAUNCHES.
NEED EVIDENCE. NEED A TRAIL.

Silence.

Then the device buzzed once.

— What kind of evidence?

I exhaled.

— Evidence the money exists. Where it went. Who benefited. What failed. What was fabricated. Evidence that survives denial.

Pause.

— Data is easy. Evidence is heavy.

That sounded like her.

— They are using rockets as a moral story. I need a breach in that story.

Her reply came slower.

— €83bn is a narrative number. Made to be repeated, not audited.

My grip tightened.

— Can you find a trail?
— I can find traces. But you need more than traces. You need something they cannot sell back as harmful doubt.
— Thomas vanished for one question. If we do not answer it, this becomes normal.
— I agree. But to puncture PSD5 you need an anchor. Something physical. Something not dependent on their databases.
— What kind of anchor?

A longer pause.

— You have heard of Anna Kravchenko.

My throat went dry.

— Yes.
— Then you have heard of the disk.
— I’ve heard rumors. I do not have it.
— No one has it openly. But there are fragments. Copies. Shadows.

The room felt too quiet.

— Why does it matter now?
— If €83bn is a lie, it is part of a larger architecture. Anna mapped architectures.
— Help me find it.

Silence.

Then:

— I will look. You will too. Do not say disk. Do not say Anna. You know the rules.

Another line followed.

— And Mia. If you want this to matter, we need to meet where the system cannot isolate the narrative.
— Where?
— Munich. Soon.

Munich was not just a city. It was a zone. DFT 21. Max Vries. A place where people dissolved into scores.

I felt direction.

---