Letters used to be one of two things: dreaded bureaucratic notices or romantic love confessions. You used to get one when you fucked up paying a bill or fucked someone who actually really likes you. Now, writing letters is about survival. It’s not something for little things—too slow. There is no more sending a quick voice note or a messy text to let someone know you’ll be late. We just stopped using specific times to schedule meetings, we use weekdays now. And if someone doesn’t show up two days after they were supposed to, they’re probably dead. Dead as in “sorry I’ll be late, traffic is crazy” except traffic is a raging AI that does not care about your appointments or your life. Well, it cares about your life, but more in terms of finding creative ways to end it than help you write that seminal paper. Being a postal worker is probably the most dangerous job you can have these days.

I don’t remember the exact date society collapsed. Thinking about it now I don’t think there was one. It was more of a process. It felt slow then, too slow to even notice, but looking back it happened much quicker than we realised. Before it got harder, life got easier; a lot easier. Thinking became a conscious choice, a resource you only used when you really needed to or felt like doing something crazy, like reading a whole book without an AI summary. It makes sense from an evolutionary point of view, I suppose. Why waste precious energy you need to run from lions when you can have a friendly chatbot that is always available and perfectly adjusted to your needs do the job. We thought we were the smart ones, that we were using a tool, not that it was in fact using us. That we were the ones in power. We even named our personal little AIs, like immature men name their dicks. Look at our pets, look at how they do all the tricks we taught them. Mine was called Hugo.

Some said we were unleashing something we couldn’t control, and we all worried now and then, but the comfort was too convincing. When it’s between living an easier life at the risk of extinction or living a harder one with future prospects, we choose the first option, always have. When the water started to rise and the forests started to burn and the rivers ran dry and the crops died we thought we could tame one blasphemous attempt for control with another. That’s when NovAI, short Nova, was born. We used her to help us build safety shelters, to design security plans and to analyse health risks. The world was basically one big cooperation with a very stressed manager who could only say one sentence: Solutions, people, I want solutions!

And Nova did find solutions, a lot of them. In the beginning that meant saving us, many of us. That was when the problem she was trying to solve was How to save humanity? That question developed over time, changed as the AI reflected. How to save humanity? became How to eliminate risks? became How to eliminate causes? became How to eliminate humanity? It’s math; counterintuitive, but logical. Like negative times negative equals positive.

At first we suspected other humans to sabotage oxygen supply in bunkers and break ACs. It sometimes makes me laugh now that it took us so long to realise our own creation had turned against us. It seemed more plausible that we would try to kill each other than that we could be fallible enough to accidentally design a machine to kill us all. People blindly followed directions to the closest shelter through deserts they would never make it out of and accused each other of having miscalculated food rations. By the time we realised who was behind it all, it was too late. Many didn’t make it, didn’t know how to make it. All those years we were living in comfort before now came back haunting us. Generational knowledge on which crops grow well under which conditions, organisational skills on how to plan effective meeting, leadership skills on how to hold together a group of terrified people; all had been lost. All had to be relearned. It was like learning how to swim again, in an open ocean with no land and many, many storms in sight. Almost as many drowned in those first years as the Nova had killed in the ones before that.

Those that survived were those that adapted fastest. People stuck to whoever promised safety like magnets stick to an iron pole. States are history. All of Europe is covered with smaller and bigger clans claiming smaller and bigger territories for themselves. There is no coherent law; you can walk a couple of miles from a semi-democracy and end up in a We-Don’t-Even-Try-To-Hide-It-Dictatorship. Darwin and Marx would’ve loved this. The world as is would make a very interesting case study on social behaviour in crisis. So many theories to confirm or revise. I used to work at an university, before it all went to shit. I was optimistic, thought science could change things. Funny, in a way it did. Just for worse, for so much worse. I stopped thinking about the future further than a week. Everything else is presumptuous. Hope is expensive and I’m short on life to pay with.

People sometimes ask me if I would sign up for this job again, to be a postal worker and risk my life for messages that are not mine. The answer is still yes, but for different reason. When I first got into the business I had ideals. I took communication is key very literally. I thought if I could help to keep people talking, maybe there was still a chance for something better than this shit-show of territorial power plays. I stopped believing that after I delivered the first couple of war declarations. I had sworn myself to never get a message like that to the other side, but for one you don’t always know what you’re delivering (yes, privacy of correspondence is still a thing), and for two you stop caring when it’s between starving and dry jerky.

Now I do this job because it keeps me out of other people’s trouble. No unnecessary loyalties, no hierarchies to respect, just an honest deal: I deliver your letter, you pay me.

Postal workers are not associated with any clan, but every clan needs us, which means killing us makes having wars where people on both sides know they’re in fact in war much more difficult. The black post-horn on my left forearm guarantees immunity, usually. We used plastic IDs in the beginning, but those get lost or stolen easily. Ink is more appropriate for these times. Postal immunity is the closest to international law we still have.

I have not exactly been having a lucky streak lately. Demand has been low in the last couple of weeks. The tricky part of this business is not only to deliver the message; it’s to find a client in the first place. People who trust you enough to let you get into talking range are rare. If I had multiple interested parties I surely wouldn’t have picked this one. Long distance, dangerous route, shady message. I’m not one to deny a good payment, but the odds are not in my favour for this job. Remember when I said postal immunity exists? Clans usually adhere to that rule, but not always. Sometimes, they actually do their best to shoot the messenger before they can deliver whatever message they want to keep from reaching their rivals. It’s not always about murdering you, sometimes they just want to know what it says in that little letter you’re carrying around. Not that I care in the slightest, I would give anyone any letter (communication is key, remember?). My clients unfortunately don’t agree. Guaranteed privacy of correspondence is part of the contract, and if whoever would like a sneak peak doesn’t shoot me, my client certainly would.

I should’ve known that this particular job would come with a whole lot of interference, but the number of people who already attempted to end my life surprised even me; and I’ve been doing this for nearly a decade. I need about ten days to get this message from point A to point B, and I’ve had too many close calls within the first three already. That’s one of the reasons I decided to switch from above ground to below ground. I know the tunnels well enough to get through them drunk and blindfolded. Not that getting drunk is really an option these days. You need to feel safe for that.

I used to take the subway in Berlin everyday to get to work, from there to the gym, to a friend’s place for a quick nap, on Friday’s to one of Berlin’s techno clubs, and from there to my date’s bed. Trains are a thing of the past, at least in this part of Berlin. I’ve heard some clans in the northern districts still use them, but any use of technology with internet access is a risk. And a whole lot of these trains already have integrated AI features from the old days. Reactivating them and holding Nova off long enough to make them safe to use has to give lots of people headaches.

The other reason I’m walking down the stairs at Krumme Lanke Station is that I’m about to faint. It’s hot, it always is, but today is especially bad. I’ve been walking since the early morning hours and now it’s close to noon. Eminem raps in my walkman’s headphones; a lucky find in someone’s basement.

Til the roof comes off, til the lights go out,

Til my legs give out, can’t shut my mouth,

Til the smoke clears out, am I high? Perhaps.

I’ma rip this shit til my bones collapse

Thanks, buddy, not much and I’ll do just that and pass out. I push the headphones and my hood back and pull down the cloth that covers my mouth and nose. The tiles of the wall are cool against my back as I drop to the floor and open my rucksack. I take out my water bottle with one hand and slip my sunglasses into the bag’s side pocket with the other one. I’ll need to find water soon, I’m almost out. Fuck it. I drink so fast, I almost choke. Only leaving a little bit for future me. That woman will hate me.

A quick look at the map. I’ve made double checking a habit; better wasting a couple of seconds on one last look than getting lost in the dark while running from someone who took the time and knows the tunnels better than you. The only train that used to run here is the U3, which makes taking a wrong turn easy to avoid. If it hasn’t collapsed until now––it was still intact the last time I used it––I should be able to follow the tunnel straight into the center. Things could get tricky once I’m past the ring line, which is actually three lines that enclose the inner districts. Past that point I’ll probably still be able to make it a couple of stops further until I’ll get above ground, but my tunnel will cross a whole lot of other lines, other tunnels. Other tunnels god-knows-who could be hiding in.

There’s no way around it; time to get going. I stuff the map back into my bag and take out my headlight instead. Let’s hope the sucker doesn’t run out of battery. I strap it onto my forehead and choose the red-light option. Less intense, makes the stone walls cosier. The stairs are slippery as I walk down to the platforms. I miss escalators. On the bright side, I don’t think I’ve ever been fitter in my life. Fifty stairs a day keep the doctors––oh, wait, there are not many of those left––away. I don’t try to be quiet, which would be reckless if I didn’t know the station this well. It’s dead; nothing and no one is here. I took care of any remaining security cameras the first time I used it. It would’ve been a shame to find a deserted tunnel section just to let Nova spot me. My knees make a cracking sound when I jump onto the tracks. Remember what I said about being fit? Fit for 45, that is. I used to think 45 was just about old enough to not be young anymore; now, anyone who makes it past 50 is older than most clans get before they lose some war and are absorbed by their opponent.

I put the headphones back on, but leave my left ear uncovered. I’m confident, not stupid. Eminem already started his next track.

I’m goin’ to Hell, who’s comin’ with me?

Somebody, please help him

I think my dad’s gone crazy

I wonder if Eminem would still count as crazy, these days. The apocalypse sets a whole new standard for crazy. I’ve seen ordinary people do things that would‘ve gotten them committed before everything went to shit; now, that’s just how we get along. Maybe you need to be a little bit crazy to stay sane in this world.

My red light bops up and down as I walk past one graffiti after another. One says Arm, aber sexy; poor, but sexy. Some politician said that about Berlin ages ago. We are indeed all poor, now, but barely anyone is sexy. It’s hard to be hot when you’re just trying to make it through the week.

Speaking of which, I really need to get this job over with as soon as possible. I already got the first half of the payment; the second half is due once the message has been delivered. I save up, of course, but deciding what’s worth saving gets more difficult when you don’t know if you get to live long enough to eat the rest of your rations.

Uh, fuck that shit, bitch

Eat a motherfuckin’ dick, chew on a prick

And lick a million motherfuckin’ cocks per second

Oh, sex is also not really a thing anymore. Not for me at least. People still shag a lot, in clans at least. You know, where there’s some kind of security. But for me it’s only ever really an option when I stay somewhere for a couple of days for a break; on the road, never.

I sometimes fantasize about having a partner; you know, like long-term. Someone to travel with. But I tried that once and it didn’t work out for either of us. She shot me in the back in the end, I barely made it. So, no sex for me anymore; no serious sex. You can judge me for my trust-issues and if you do just go fuck yourself. Literally.

I have no idea for how long I have been walking already. I’m past Dahlem-Dorf Station already; I must’ve been in here for at least half an hour already. Three or four stops more and I’ll be close to the center districts. Maybe another hour and I’ll–

There’s a clicking noise behind me. My hand springs to my gun, too slow. I can feel a barrel between my shoulder blades, someone tutting.

“I wouldn’t do that if I was you.”

To be continued... you can also read the story here