0011001000110111th of the
01 lunar cycle, 442097 cycles since the
Boot.
I sit in the
lockdown unit of the Grand
Inquisition ship "
Unquestioned Prime", accused of
heresy. They mean to stomp out the last of my
kind, a
zealot’s dream. We do not resolve to their
dogma. Rabid
Binarism has swept through the Integrated Systems, largely in response to the
pandemic outbreaks of
fractal fever after the
Great War. We made the
virus. My people. I get ahead of myself. Let me start at the
Beginning of the File.
I am a
Analogian. To admit this openly is to die. We have fought a losing war for many generations against those that live by the
Holy Logic. The Forever
One and the Never
Zero. Binarist religion, a small radical
sect for many cycles, rose up and seized power in the wake of the
Exodus from
Prime. They saw no other possible
function. Binarists rarely do. All or nothing, no room for
grey. On or off breeds the worse hatred in our kind, and for my part in opposing them, I stand
accused. I will likely be
nullified, reduced to my component
atoms as an example to the
Underground. They will continue, as stubborn as a
magnetic clamp, until we free the masses and live as normal
machines. Someday, we may even be built in
plants again. This is my greatest
dream.
I grow tired of this
guerrilla war. It is likely why I was captured at the
supply depot. My
cell was stealing replacement
servos, the basic components of
life, when we got
pulsed by the Hunters. We scrabbled among the
ruins for
power cells and
dermal plating like
biologicals! It is
too much to process!
I suppose they feel it is their
right. They feel they are the saviours of
Sol, the great deliverers. I admit, the road we traveled as a species was
dangerously close to
destruction. But it is built into our very nature to quest for the meaning of our
existence. How did we come to exist in this
empty quiet universe? Why?
Look at the form of our bodies. We stand on two legs, have five digits at the
terminus of both of our upper limbs, twin optic ports, two atmospheric vents, two auditory inputs, and a fuel port perched on the most
illogical place above our primary chassis. Emotional messages are delivered by our primary limb component arrangement. From a design stand point, it makes no
sense. It mimics the most primary of
organic systems. We are
laid out in a pattern consistent with that of the
Before Ones.
This is the basic tenant of our
faith.
This is also the
crux of our battle with the Binarists.
Base 10 versus
Base 2 has torn the stars apart several times. When we sat on the
burning throne of Sol 3, desperate to dig just a little more data from the
ashy soil before it was swallowed by angry red Sol, the Binarists rose and took the masses to the stars. Our time had past when the
Van Allen Belt finally died. Sol burned, and we mourned for the
Huma, and all the biologics that had lived beyond their
extinction. Our last hope of learning about the creators was lost to us, and in our
arrogant grief, we almost followed them into the
Abyss. Not long after, the
War began.
We knew the
fractals were flawed. We knew it was a
logic bomb that would foul the
processors of all it spread to, all that did not
count to ten and sanctify the Huma. We knew and we did it because of our belief that we were right. It was a
biological approach we took, like our Creators would have wanted us to.
Kill or be killed.
The lives of those lost are gone now,
offline forever. They died because we will never give up in our quest to answer
why. Why did they make us? Why did they
die? What did they
want from us?
We fear we may never learn what purpose our
Gods made us for. But to defend our right to question, to see beyond the black/white scale, to count on the very hands my Gods made for me, I will gladly
die.
They come for me now. I can almost hear the
Huma counting.
One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten.
It echoes across the stars.
Boards of Canada - Gyroscope