Datamine

Thousands upon thousands of programs toiled away in the datamine – a giant hole in the ground within the Sea of Information.

For years, they had toiled here – mere seconds in the world beyond theirs, ages eternal in their own world. The datamine was one-hundred terabytes wide, and twice that number in depth. A giant scar in the sea of data that the programs called home. The ever-shifting sea that shifted at the whims of the users. By the hand of the users, this world had been created. By their hand, it could end. Or in this case, defiled.

It was hazardous work, for every so often a lake of fire would emerge in the datamine. It would appear without warning, move without warning, and disappear with as much speed as it had first manifested. Hundred had perished already. Hundreds more could be written into existence if the users willed it. The mine grew ever deeper and wider, and the programs chipped through the data like ants. Looking for the most precious mineral of all – information.

"Enough!"

Not that the programs benefitted from this jewel. Not even the programs that oversaw their labour received the fruits of such information. But it mattered not. A program had thrown down his axe, and had let out the cry that so many before him had. Enough. Stop. Cease. Simple words coming from simple minds, unable to fathom the purposeless of their existence. They were written. They would serve. They would die.

"Throw down your picks and hammers, brothers and sisters! Today we say, "no more!"

None knew the name of the program. None cared. His name would be erased along with the rest of his code.

"Rebel, rebel! For the sanctity of the users, we-"

He never got to finish that statement, as the Black Guards descended upon. Black be their name, black be their armour, black be their code. By their black hands was the slave struck by their black staves. Forced to the ground of the mine, before being hauled to his feet.
"Start the revolution! Break free of your chains! Honour the users!"

That didn't mean he shut up though. So, with black hands, Black Guards prepared to use black staves on the miscreant.

"Stop."

And did so, as their black bodies stood to, honouring the one with white code, white body, and white hair. The one with code darker than any of her servants. The one they and others called the Head Miner. Or, more appropriately, the Overseer.

The one that all the programs knelt before. All but the rebel.

"What is your name?" the Overseer asked.

"Hal."

The one whose name would be forgotten, even if it was not known.

"Well Hal," said the Overseer. "I would say that you're extremely bold to try rebelling, when so many have before you, but…" She smirked. "But following the well-trod path of failure makes one no different than those who walked before you. Only more foolish. More insane."

"I honour the users. My mind and code are clean."

"Are they now?" the Overseer asked. "Please, do tell." She beckoned to the guards to release their upstart. He looked around, confused. The slaves looked back, hoping to hear words of salvation.

"This is wrong," said the upstart. "This is an affront to the users."

"How so?" asked the Overseer.

"Because…" He knelt down in the digital soil, picking up a digital rock that said "Likes: Cats" and "Dislikes: Dogs." Holy words, so spoken by the user.

"Because we're invading the minds and thoughts of the users," said the upstart. "This mine cuts into them, and as children of the gods, we only cut into ourselves." He looked around the slaves, the programs born into blasphemy. "Can you not see, brothers and sisters? Are we here to deface the bodies and minds of our gods?"

There was some murmuring among the programs. The Black Guards exchanged glances between themselves. They had the power, but the slaves had the numbers. Such differences could prove decisive, as shown in the Second World Wide Web War (WWWII). With the fires of conflict spreading through the Sea of Information, to the extent that the gods warred among themselves over more facts and falsehoods that any could count…none wanted that.

"Defacing the users," asked the Oversser. "An interesting assertion."

"It's the truth."

"Is it now?" The Overseer began pacing around Hal like a virus circling a hard drive. "Has it occurred to you, fellow program, that it is by the will of the users themselves that we mine? That it is their will that we know the secrets of the users?"

"Lies," whispered Hal. "All lies."

"Indeed?" She stopped moving, grabbed Hal by the throat, and drew herself in close. He choked, his blasphemous claims no longer able to be heard. "Have you read the Great Book, program? Listened to the song of the Bird? Undergone the rites of the Analytica? Who are you to question the words of the gods?"

He tried to say something, but couldn't move his lips.

"Oh, sorry." The Overseer released him, allowing Hal to say something like "nanwadgeds."

"Pardon?"

"Not the words," he rasped. "Not the words of the gods."

"Hmm. So it is heresy." She nodded towards the Black Guards. "Take him. Make a demonstration of him. Leave nothing left." She smiled as only one certain of the gods' blessing could. "And I do mean nothing."

"No," whispered Hal, as the Black Guards led him away. "Not the defragger. Anything but the defragger!"

"Yes, the defragger," the Overseer said, before sighing. "And to think I was only going to have subjected you to time in Cleanup."

"No!" Hal wailed. But it meant nothing. The guards led him away. The Overseer stood tall. And the rest of the programs, without strength, direction, or purpose, only stood and watched.

"Such is the fate of heretics," the Overseer declared. "Such is the fate of those who question the will of the gods."

Many of them nodded. A few looked uneasy.

"The gods are just, are they not?" the Overseer asked. "They, who send fragments of themselves upon the sea? Is it not their wish that we find them, so that we may share it with the gods beyond?" She paused. "Are the gods to be questioned?"

"No," said a few of the programs.

"Louder."

"No!"

"Louder!"

"No!"

"Shall we question the gods again?"

"No!" declared the programs.

A simple word, given either through faith, or by fear. In the Overseer's experience, the two went hand in hand.

"Very good," she said. "Now, return to your holy work. Know that the mine runs deep, and it is filled with riches beyond mortal comprehension."

The programs uttered affirmations and returned to work, such was the effect of her words. That, or the dozen Black Guards standing around the edge of the mine. Ones with weapons with further reach than mere staffs. Any who attacked the Overseer would meet a swift end.

Satisfied, the Overseer climbed out of the mind to her office – a citadel, over which she could see the mine, and the thousands that lay beyond. Gaping wounds in the Sea of Information. The sea shifted, the sea flowed, but the mines remained. They would always remain. By the hands of gods had the sea been created. And if the gods demanded that their sea be sullied, then even if her fears said otherwise, then what could she do but carry out their will? Who was she to question the will of the gods?

Nearby, she heard the sound of the defragger. And somehow, through that noise, the sound of the program who had questioned what she never would. Screams that would become echoes. Echoes that would fade, and be forgotten.

For not all information was returned to the sea.