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