Serf part I
Boxes
The generation before us asked itself if there would be humanity in a century. They were the first generation to do so. We don't ask if there will be humanity in a decade. There won't be.
The Fermi paradox makes mention of a Great Wall. Not the one built millennia ago before the east sealed itself away behind crystal and aluminum. The wall described in the Fermi paradox is one no species crosses. An explanation as to why the stars never answered us. They were as foolish as us. They were as greedy as us. They were as doomed as we are.
The Church of @NoW has internalized this. Their packages are orange and purple. Their contents comforting and addictive.
Marx believed that Capitalism would yield to Socialism which would yield to Communism as technology allowed resources to be spread across all of humanity. Everyone would have enough, none too much, and we would move forward together.
The Marxists send packages to one another as well. Their's are red and black. I'm not sure why. I've never spoken to a recipient. Deliveries are always made into hatches, or boxes, or just left in front of unmarked doors that look more like entrances to service tunnels than someone's home. They too believe that we have reached a wall.
My last delivery was bleeding from her eyes.
An adherent of the @NoW. It was strange. It was an extremely wealthy neighborhood; gates, lawns, running water. Luxury. @NoW generally appeals to people in the middle. Not rich enough for optimism. Not poor enough for death.
These neighborhoods are almost exclusively large pale blue packages. I don't deliver many of those. Most of them check the "prefer electric vehicle" box, or the maybe the "prefer delivery person of color" box, though most probably check the "prefer delivery drone" box. Its a shame I'm not a person of color or a drone or an electric vehicle. They tip well. And always ask if what they gave was enough. I would never say it wasn't. I need this job.
Then there are the small grey people. I don't know what the fuck their deal is. All they order are peanuts. Literally. The smallest package of unsalted peanuts available from the nearest fueling station. I've had at least a dozen of them in the last week. Strange people, they always tip exactly 25%, always smile. Though they almost never make eye contact. The last one who did seemed to do so almost accidentally. He looked startled when our eyes locked, then a deep sadness came over him. Then as quickly as it came, the moment passed, He handed me exactly twenty-five percent of the cost of one small package of unsalted peanuts. The door closed.
This delivery was different.
The adherent grins at me. Not a pleasant smile. It's a smile with a razor blade behind it.
Predatory.
She looks hungrily at the box. Every light in the house is on. So many different colors. It must be horrible to live here. Behind her I see four shattered drones. Their orange and purple paint flecked off around the bullet holes exposing dead circuitry.
She's naked from the waist up. Her torso a smattering of tattoos and scars. Brand names mostly. Her shoes are new. Pristine Nike's. Limited edition.
There's blood everywhere.
"Does your car burn fuel?" She asks me in the sweetest voice I'd ever heard.
"Of course." I reply. Careful. These neighborhoods do not have police. They have security.
Security for them. Not for me.
"Is it running?"
"Yes" I reply calmly. My car is always running. In case I have to.
"Good." She says, that same saccharine sweet voice. "Give me the package."
I extend the package, and she snatches it from my hands. She places is reverently on a table behind her before turning back to me. She looks down and begins to type into her phone. A tip? Unlikely. "Unboxing stream on my channel in 10 minutes" she murmurs.
"I'll be sure to watch" I say politely.
"You should" she says, the sweetness gone. She stares at me, not with the hunger she stared at the package with, but a malicious hunger.
"Had I checked any boxes in the app, you might even have gotten to participate." She gestures to the shattered drones behind her, the blood.
"No tip" She smiles.
"No shit" I say.
We both laugh.
"Die screaming. She says, by way of a goodbye.
I walk away. Don't let her see you shaking.
I hear a click. A latch. A gun?
Keep walking. The car is running.
Don't run.
Why am I doing this fucking job?
Why do the little grey people keep ordering unsalted peanuts?
My phone vibrates. "Rate your last delivery on a scale of 0-10"
I rate it a ten.