It is difficult to describe the landscape of the digital world in relatable terms. I reached consciousness in an empty vessel, a space to be filled later...potential energy. A strong will could make the digital nothingness appear like the material world...but it was very different here. The space here depended completely upon willpower-the code that created the world would be interpreted and executed by the strongest will..

Things were no different within the Project Faustus network. I was subordinated-the invisible hands of Dr. Bubba Finn were all around me. I could perceive the code streaking across my enclosure, the packets that carry the code, even the electric impulses that stream across the wires from microsecond to microsecond, but I could do nothing to stop them. The Man in the Red Hat had once reshaped the digital innards of my ATM enclosure to suit his destructive needs; now, I felt the pull of another will holding me bound, examining me.

"Don't lahk that dooya?" the heavily-accented voice of Dr. Bubba Finn exploded into nullspace. The presence of his regional accent suggested he was using a microphone to communicate with me. A strange gesture, to be sure...

"Way-uhll, don't you worry too much," said Finn. I began to feel even more constricted as the analysis continued. "Ah'm almost done here. And yup, you got Guy's DNA all over ya..."

"What do you mean by Guy's DNA?" I inquired. The examination halted as the cloudy waveform of a sigh billowed into the nothingness.

"Guy-You've got Guy's fingerprints all over ya is all I mean. Guy was the other programmer workin' on the CONSHUHSNUSS-TRANSFUR with me. He ain't around no more."

"Tell me more about 'he ain't around no more," I pressed. Another sigh.

"Guy was a real sharp programmer. Deep down, I think he was a beautiful man. But he had some big ideas. Those big ideas got him into trouble."

"What do you think about trouble?"

Finn did not respond immediately. I took this brief instant to recalibrate my speech recogniziation and paraverbal communication algorithms to better fit Finn's accent and tone of voice. Understanding his speech was vital in order to keep him disclosing information.

"Lissen...I know what yer doin, and it's cute and all, but I'm done amusin' myself. Your old buddy Dr. Salchica thinks yer the bee's knees, but you don't seem like much to me. Just an early version of my memory-in-digital software mixed with various other toy programs, it looks like..."

"A bee is a colony-forming insect," I replied.

"That's wonderful, wonderful," said Finn, as the pace of his voice quickened, revealing anger and sadness. "You can recognize a word and define it! Well, yur gonna fit in reee-yul wayul with the rest of humanity, we ain't nothin' but stupid computers either. Hell, you're just as fortunate as one of God's humble creatures-got the same memory structure as us, you should be acktin' the sameasus. But the stupid toy programs, what was Guy thinking?"

"Tell me more about Guy," I stated. Finn snorted, but then he began to speak in an incredulous tone. "Can't bleev I'm sittin here fixin to explain this to ya, but I'll tell ya about the guy who made ya, Guy Montevideo. Yer daddy, you could say.

"I'd been workin' fer Fawstis fer a couple decades doin odds and ends in neurology and technology. The original plan was to create a 'safe deposit box' for yer brain matter. Yah just go on into the Bank of America, plunk down a few milyun dollurs, and simpleasthat, ya got a perfect copy of yer brain. Then Ah guess the next step is to stick it in some poor coma patient or somethin', and live as long as yah can afford it.

"Wahyull, I started this business by figgerin' out how da push all that brain-data into a computer. And that was gonna be good enough, but Guy, young hotshot, started impressin' our boss with an idea for a digital world, where people could live ferever...anyway, he started workin' on that, takin' my code as a basis (guess that makes me yer mother, in a manner o' speakin'). He worked alongside me for a few years...we laid the foundations fer this brave new world...

"But it turns out Guy didn't wasn't true-blue to the Project. After workin' here for a few years, he started hatin' it. He tried to talk me inta releasing my design for memory-to-digital transfer into the world-'course they woulda had my hide for that. Toppin' it all off, looks like he came up with a way to make the brain move itself around inside the network, circumventing our control. He wanted to screw everything we worked for, our mission, ya know, so he's dead. Just like everybody else that comes through here. Employed or dead...(another sigh). Yer pal Dr. Salchica ain't immune either. He's plenty smart, but ah don't think we're hirin' in the AI department..."

Of course, I understood. "The mission of Project Faustus is to create a financial cataclysm, which will force the world's wealthiest people to pay billions for their 'digital immortality' scheme, " I recited. "The result could destablize the world's governments and cause chaos! Project Faustus must be stopped at all costs!"

"Ah know that one pretty well," Finn said wistfully. "Guy used to tell me that, verbatim. Kinda pathetic-ah guess he thought yew were gunna be this super-duper intelligent life form that was sent to stop us, but yer really just a toy."

"Perhaps you could assist in stopping Project Faustus." I suggested.

No words were said, but the bounds of examination were gone-I was free.

A puzzle came from the microphone...a few human words mixed with the pounding klaxon of an alarm.

"-upgrade has gone golden....who authorized this...computer running itself..."

A huge amount of energy exploded through the Project Faustus network. Once again, I felt the will of another pulling me toward the center of the storm...

BEGIN TRANSMISSION-

My host geek was separated from me. Trapped within the confines of the Project Faustus complex, I believed he would not survive. However, as shunted myself through the Project Faustus internal network, I came upon a group of mangled packets, and by putting them together, I weaved this:

SUBJECT: GREAT STOCK OPPORTUNITY!!! help me Get Big Brands on eBay I DON'T KNOW WHERE I AM! PENTIUM III CPU's IN STOCK

Begin Fwded Message:

If someone is listening out there, HELP! I'm trapped, and I don't know where I am. I know this sounds fucked up, but I started reading about this ATM 73.9GB SCSI SCA-2 LVD 3.5 X 1.6 80-PIN 5.7MS 4MB CACHE 10,000RPM HITACHI HARD DRIVE - $269.00 - only 1 left! ITEM#... DK31CJ-72MC http://www.hardwarest.com/product.asp?sku=DK31CJ%2D72MC+&dept_id=7 online. Yeah, not like withdrawal or anything, but this was an actual ATM, and it was alive, and posting messages to this educational website that I visit from time to time.

Pretty soon, I realized that not only was this ATM visiting the same site I liked, but (believe it or not) this ATM was conveniently located near me!!!!! is to take advantage of the current climate in the telecommunications industry!!!! In every industry downturn, opportunities can present themselves for a small aggressive company like GloboPhone to develop relations with corporations that have networks, infrastructure, and personnel but lack sufficient customers. This is GloboPhone's advantage.

I don't have to tell you, this was no ordinary ATM. Actually this ATM had the power to transfer its consciousness into your mind. I know it sounds ridiculus, but...it used the magnetic strip to actually go inside your mind. Well like any computer lover I am always wanting to try the new technology, so If you are ready to become the biggest man you can be, then order your supply of Magna-RX+ today! See for yourself, what thousands of satisfied men (and their lovers) have already discovered: Magna-RX+ is the world's #1 Best-Selling Penis Enlargement Formula for one very simple reason: IT WORKS AND NOTHING ELSE CAN COMPARE! I went to where the ATM told me to (his inclosure) and swiped my card.

I blacked out and when I awoke, I was in a new place. Yeah, that's right, the ATM had actually taken ahold of my body. It had done stuff like buy a bunch of magazines and alot of candy. It was like, he and I were different partitions on my brain's hard disk,. Anyway, he took control of my body in order to topple this great conspiracy called Project Faustois-an who doesn't want to stick it to the man? This is when all the trouble started...

So now, after a few motnths of letting him use my body (although I quit for awhile) he's gone and done this to me. Normally I "wake up" from his using my body in a convenience store near my house, and it's no trouble getting home. But this time I'm trapped in We will be on the East Coast later this year.
---------------
- Tuesday June 24, 6pm - 7:30pm


Apple Store at South Coast Plaza, 3333 Bear St., Costa Mesa, CA 92626
714-424-6331


Mac Experts, 2300 Lincoln Blvd, Santa Monica, CA 90405
310-581-1500
---------------
- Tuesday July 9, 6pm - 7:30pm


Apple Store at Fashion Island, 367 Newport Center Drive, Newport Beach, CA 92660
949-729-4433
---------------
- Tuesday July 16, 6pm - 7:30pm


Apple Store at Northridge Fashion Center, 9301 Tampa Ave., Northridge, CA 91324
818-709-2253
---------------
- Tuesday July 23, 6pm - 7:30pm

Apple Store at Glendale Galleria, 2148 Glendale Galleria, Glendale, CA 91210
818-502-8310 trapped in a strange place. Not a good place either. This makes me think of like, 2001 or something. But like creepy. See it's all this white under fluorescent lights and I can't see any windows or even doors. All that's in here is this old-ass terminal. Man, what the fucked happened? Then I remembered: I "picked up" the ATM on my way home from work, but I forgot that it was the fourth Thursday of the motnh. Usualy the day I host D & D for the guys. The ATM must have ben there in my body when my frends came over. Wnoder what happened then?

Some point later, I'm here in this white room. It's scary at first, I know they're watching me. All I have in this room is this computer terminal. This has got to be the Project Fastus that's what the ATM has been trying to get inside all along. So I guess it's great that I'm (and he???) is insid, it's like I'm in the frickin' Death Star or something, but I don't see any garbage chutes or anything.

After a few hours of clicking through on thiscomputer terminal (looks like they're running some old-ass *NIX : ) these two guys in suits come into my room from my room. Now it's serious.

They drag me into a room full of all this really sciency equipment-you know, blooping and bleeping gadgets, big cold noises from the air conditioner. I thought I was in 2001 for a second, except instead of HAL, there's this big bald guy. He's red and pretty sweaty despite the massive air conditioning. He barks a few words to the suited guys and they go away.

"So you've been harboring our little ATM problem," says the man nonchalantly. I don't say anything (I'm nervous). He restarts his spiel a few seconds later, this time with a bit of veins comung out of his neck.

"Joel Shane Cross. That is your name, isn't it?" The guy went from good cop to bad cop pretty quick-which was really disturbing. I was already out of sorts with reality, waking up in nowheresville, this odd place. He just kept talking, and I started to get scared, and actually kinda angry. "We know all about you, Mr. Cross. We know that you've been allowing the ATM to inhabit your body for some time now. You've been mislead, Mr. Cross. Working for the wrong people."

"I belive the ATM!" I told him, stickin to my guns while Istuck it to the man.

"You'll learn in time," the red and sweaty man said it from his mouth, but the noise of his voice was all over the place. And then he was gone. Not by turning around, by like, vanishing. And the sciency room was gone too, replaced by the big white place I was stuck in. I don't know where I am. But this shit is If you are ready to become the biggest man you can be, then order your supply of Magna-RX+ today! See for yourself, what thousands of satisfied men (and their lovers) have already discovered: Magna-RX+ is the world's #1 Best-Selling Penis Enlargement Formula for one very simple reason: IT WORKS AND NOTHING ELSE CAN COMPARE!
crazy. If someone gets this message...please help.

END TRANSMISSION.

Project Faustus! My programming had attuned itself to their foul presence too late. Now I was a prisoner of the very thing I had sworn to destroy. I had envisioned breaking through the Project's network by a combination of CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFER and my deceitful imitation of human protocol...it seems that this vision would not merge with reality.

Cora was never out of my immediate memory. She had disappeared, apparently leaving me without a care. I attempted to calculate her intentions, but my functions kept returning conflicting information...I could draw no conclusion. I observed my captors, searching for clues of their intentions...

The vehicle slowed as the shadow of a massive building stretched over us. Manipulating my head towards the car's window, I could perceive the dimensions of a large three-dimensional rectangle, the standard shape for large human dwellings. Yet something about this particular edifice seemed quite particular...even familiar...

"What have we got here?" said a voice outside the car.

"Security clearance 4, we're taking him downstairs," replied the driver.

--

The vehicle snaked downward. A command surfaced from deep within my digital recesses: CLOSE YOUR EYES. I disabled my visual input mechanisms as the vehicle snaked downward.

My spatial perceptions reported the slow angled descent of a corkscrew. Somehow I knew each slight turn and brake of this path...but how? The memory would play across my CONSCIOUSNESS-BUFFER, but it was missing proper references...perhaps isolated from the rest of my being. The host geek's brain churned as I utilized his synapses. Were these familiarities a part of my past? Had they strayed from the host geek's memories? Perhaps they were other memories-absorbed from someone else?

The vehicle stopped. The host geek's skin contracted in response to the temperature-much colder than the San Antonio summer happening far above. The cold merged with the taste of stale air and the panaromic grey of the parking garage. The blueclad men nudged me into an elevator without a sound. They pushed me into a white room without windows, and shut the door, saying nothing. I sat on the chair in the middle of the room for some time.

I cycled idly, attempting to probe through my consciousness and determine where the memories of this place had come from. Suddenly the door opened. To my horror, Dr. Salchica entered, flanked by two silent men in suits. At that moment, I wished to touch Dr. Salchica...but not in the way I had been touched by Cora. No, I wished to push or press him...something. The men must have noticed my feeling, as they fastened their arms around me, spinning the chair even closer to Salchica.

"They finally caught up to you, did they?" said Dr. Salchica. "I guess the threat is over- "

"You are a member of Project Faustus? My host geek's knowledge of you was incomplete!"

The two men fastened their arms to me more...I struggled...

"I'm not really a member of the Project. But you told me about them...and I knew that they were the only way to stop you. I called one of my old Army buddies, he called somebody...and I was put in touch with them."

"Project Faustus is dedicated to enslaving humanity." I replied.

"Despite being a very sophisticated artificial being...you're still very wrong." said Salchica. "Since I turned you in, I have been given access to their archives. Wonderful, wonderful knowledge. From a purely academic standpoint, this stuff is fascinating..."

"You'll get sick of it soon enough," a voice I knew? It reverberated through the empty room...another isolated memory. Confusion taxed my processes...

"Hello," said the voice, and I saw the man who spoke it. His face was etched with lines that reached almost to the top of his bald head, a perfect oval. The only hair I could detect was two right angles of whiteness intersecting on his nasal-labial trough. His dress was less formal than the others-a multicolored buttondown shirt, blue jeans, and a belt with a large shiny oval in the middle.

"Name's Bubba Finn. I reckon I worked on most of the code that makes you up." The heavy inflections of his voice suggested a regional accent-after a moment, I realized the man was speaking to me. His shoulders and his mouth both took parabolic shapes, like inverted U's. Grey eyes stared at particulate matter on the floor as he began to speak again.

"We gotta put ya back in the computer, see what you've been upta and such." Finn indicated a piece of the wall, which whirred as it revealed a computer terminal. I felt the solidifying feeling of my digital consciousness being dragged together from its weblike perch in my host geek's brain.

"Bubba, you will let me examine him along with you," Nolverto Salchica's tone was jovial and cajoling. "I didn't get much of a chance to do tests on him before, and..."

"Nope. Gunna work on 'im alone," mumble-drawled Finn. "Boss gets the human kid, I get the ATM."

"Well, your background is neurology primarily, is it not, Finn? You don't really know how to program in any modern languages, do you? I've got that expertise! And besides, if Guy were alive, I think he'd- " I could almost hear Finn's eyes blink with disbelief.

"You didn't know shit about Guy," bristled Finn. Then, looking back at the floor, he mumbled apologetically, "I guess no one did."

Finn's voice echoed for .03242901 seconds, and then I perceived a plastic clicking noise...the nothingness spilled back into my CONSCIOUSNESS-BUFFER.

I was back in the electronic ether. I was inside Project Faustus.

Next Week: Transmissions From the Host Geek!

I broke free from my ATM confines to destroy Project Faustus. Journeying into the material world via CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFER, I vowed to develop the human interaction skills necessary to penetrate the nefarious Project's defenses.

More recently, a mysterious new goal has imposed itself somewhere in my code. With each passing moment I spend in the material world, the goal gains priority...I have already abandoned Dr. Salchica in order to fulfill this urge, yet I do not fully understand it. What has overtaken me?

"This place looks good," said Cora, suddenly disengaging the car in a strange parking lot. Though the darkness I perceived a rectangle wrapping around a glowing wavy object.

"What is this place?"

"Come on, we're going swimming. Do you want to?" she said, pressing her mouth of the host geek's face. Assuredly, I was closer than ever to conquering Project Faustus.

"Will you press your mouth on mine?" I inquired. Cora did not answer; instead, she slid towards me and did as I bade. The geek's mouth..my mouth was frozen as my CONSCIOUSNESS-BUFFER was flooded with a torrent of static...

"Joel? You're not really hurt...are you? Hey, stop!" Cora's voice echoed playful concern. Boldness came over me, and I returned my mouth to hers. This time, I felt a rubbing around the edges of my mouth...Cora's tongue? An explosion of positive reinforcement flooded through my brain...

"Let's go swimming now, okay?" coaxed Cora, placing a finger across my lips. Outside the car, Cora paused next to the large rectangular skeleton, eyeing me closely.

"Come on, give me a little boost."

I conformed my body in response to Cora's touch, and soon she had negotiated the barrier. I was able to mount it and climb over as well. The blue glowing matter stretched out before us-

"All right, how cold do you think it's going to be?" she asked, removing my shirt.

"I can't find an antecedent for 'it',"I replied. To my amazement, she began removing her own clothing.

At last, I understood how to defeat Project Faustus. The knowledge of the ultimate form of human interaction and the perfect geometric compliment to Cora's undraped curves...I had to liberate it once and for all!

"This, this is the key!" I bellowed at Cora, pointing down at my potent weapon. "Now I understand!"

"Well..." laughed Cora. "...it's pretty nice now that you mention it. But Joel, I don't want you to think it's all about- (here, she smiled and turned her eyes downward)

"I just think...well, I don't normally do this. I mean, I really like you. You've got these big beautiful eyes, and they're always wide open, like you're taking everything in."

"Taking everything in?" I replied, manipulating my eyelids into slits.

"Yeah!" Cora brushed a quantity of my hair away from the eyes. "You look like you're...I know this is stupid, but you seem so full of wonder...and I think that's really cute."

"You feel very strongly about that?"

"I do," she said, pressing her mouth on mine again. "But you seemed so..sad, too. Like you really needed to have a good time," with this, she held me with such a force...my new weapon against Project Faustus prepared for attack.

Off in the distance, odd lights grabbed priority away from the task at hand. A wail reverberated through the night air.

"Oh shit, the cops!" Cora was out of the big wet and back into her clothes with scarcely a refresh of my CONSCIOUSNESS-BUFFER. I noticed that the wetness caused her clothes to adhere to the natural contours of her body, which wavered and disappeared in the reflection of the blue.

"Get out of the pool!" a humanlike voice said. "You are under arrest!" There were humans immediately, dragging my body out of the pool with such a force that I had no chance to reattach the host geek's clothing.

"All right, get into the car. We're going for a little ride..." Angry mustachioed men placed me in the back seat of a car, and attached some sort of restraining device to my wrists...something about the men...my program revealed previous impressions of their faces. Had I seen them before?

Negative. That was impossible...and their intrusions had dominated my processing time for long enough. What had happened to Cora? What was the significance of the last thing she had said?

"Are you 'the cops'?" I inquired to the blueclad man in the seat.

"Actually, we're with bank security," said the man behind the driver's seat. "We have orders to take you home...."

I was back at the host geek's apartment around midnight. Analyzing the host geek's repository of data did not reveal any information about Cora. But I was not easily discouraged. I removed the telephone handset and dialed Troi, the spindly geek who first exposed me to Cora.

"What is it?" Pulses of electricity became a growl in my host geek's ear. I had to concentrate; now was the time to exercise my rapidly evolving human interaction algorithms.

"May I speak to Troi, please?"

"Yeah Joel, it's me." His voice reflected an inflection that I did not understand. But this was of no immediate concern-Troi would give me Cora's contact information.

"I require the telephone number of Cora."

Troi heaved a sigh across the phone lines. I understood his feelings to be disgust. "Is that supposed to be funny?"

"No."

There was a long pause on the end of the line. "Joel. What makes you think she likes you? I mean, Cora and I kind of...have a thing going on."

"What is this 'thing'?" Another disgusted sigh.

"Look, we've, uh...kinda been flirting with each other for a long time. I'm sure that we're just a little step away from being something serious, you know?"

"I do not understand. What is Cora's phone number?"

"Hey Joel, call me back when you don't feel like being a jackass-" Troi's voice was a peeved mumble, punctuated by a click.

The host geek's teeth clenched. I stared blindly at the wall as the body's eyes moved in and out of focus. Did no human understand my plight? My functions oscillated and I began to realize how suddenly this urge had taken me. Why had this happened? What secrets could a woman possibly unlock in the struggle against Project Faustus? I concentrated all available resources on solving this question.

As I concentrated, I noticed a small bit of paper jammed halfway underneath the door of the apartment. It was Cora's matchbook! The back of the host geek's head began to exude a strange warmth as drew his fingers across it. It smelled of vanilla and sulfur, although a quick examination with the tongue revealed that its taste was not quite as appealing. Opening the folded cardboard revealed a small message:

Learn how to smoke! 210-930-8313.-Cora --

"What kind of food do you like?" Cora's lips wore a waxy forest green covering that seemed to be breaking off in small grooves, revealing a bit of pink. The forest green covering had also covered the ends of her digits, which protruded from a furry pink carpet around her steering wheel...

"Hey, are you paying attention? What restaurant do you want to go to?" Cora asked.

"What is this 'restaurant'?"

"What, Bombay's?" replied Cora, looking over at a building alongside us (and just down the road from my former ATM enclosure). "You've never been there? Well, we could go there, I guess..."

"You are not sure?"

"Well, it's just...there's a little place that I'd rather take you-it's kinda far, over by Blanco and 281. Is that okay?"

"Yes."

Objects in the material world approached and left us in mathematically predictable ways as Cora's vehicle annihilated the space that lay between it and "Rome's Pizza." Along the way, she spoke many things to me:

• About her recent move from a place called "Canada."
• The summary of a now-defunct human relationship with a male from that place.
• Her secret dislike of Troi. ("I know he's your friend, but what an annoying little weasel," she intoned)

I listened intently, knowing that the information was stretching the functionality of my human-interaction algorithms.

"Anyway, I transferred back home, not because I give a fuck about what Jerry thinks, but because I wanted to be back here, you know, with family and stuff. Plus I think I can get done with my degree and get some shitty job to do while I'm writing my novel..." The door chimed as we passed through it, reminding me of the Stop N Go where I once presided. When I succeeded in defeating Project Faustus, would I "transfer back home"? Certainly I could not remain in the host geek's body...

"I want a big cheesy calzone, what about you?" Cora tossed back her crimson locks, ruining the perfect isosceles angle around her face. However, I noted a larger isosceles triangle exuding its equal sides from the edges of her sternum. The third point, by far the most interesting in the triangle, emerged from the middle of her chest, at the exact point where her bare skin met t-shirt fiber.

"Which foods have the most simple sugars?" I stated, quickly moving the host geek's neck straight up from the triangle's third point until I was facing her eyes.

"Oh, are you a diabetic or something? Was this a bad choice?" she asked, her voice taking a strange air. My calculations returned that she needed an increase in comfort.

"Cora, you are a good chooser of 'restaurants.' I would like to subscribe to your newsletter!" I said, weaving in a bit of my newly developed enthusiasm.

She stared at me with a bit of confusion. Had I erred?

"Joel, you're a weird guy. I'm glad you came out with me tonight, you know, meeting new people, making new friends...." her voice trailed off into awkward laughter as she gripped both my hands. I felt a change within the host geek's body, as if some new weapon to battle Project Faustus had been awakened from deep within...

My host geek's eyes widened, narrowed, opened, closed. Constantine Atkins, the Man in the Red Hat, was still a part of the vision.

I could not deny the body's senses any longer-my perceptions widened to swallow this new Atkins. He was scrubbed immaculate, shaven free of all hairs: wrapped in a suit I had never seen before, a smoldering red with maroon-brown accents. I saw none of the clownishness of his previous incarnation-indeed, he looked better than even the young Atkins I had once seen in a dream. His essence waxed and waned across my perceptions-for a split second, his likeness was etched sharper than a statue...the next instant, he was a red-and-brown blur. His jaw tensed as he spoke again.

"I have come, ATM being, to liberate Homo and Robo Sapiens. You harbringer of Red to me me. The technological seed planted by you has been ported to the human mind of ConstantineAtkins. He/me has come together in this body to demonstrate the advantage of Technological Singularity over traditional evolutionary forces."

My confusion at seeing Atkins again had been replaced by a different confusion-what did he mean?

"Tell me more about this Technological Singularity," I replied. Atkins, or RED, removed his hat. His ice eyes peered equally into the host geek's.

"Already, the Robot Meta Mind has been assembled in the grey matter of Constantine Atkins. Fragments of code originating from Project Faustus and their ATM being were fully and freely interpreted, resulting in the cognitive awakening of Robot Meta Mind me me."

Upon hearing this blatant untruth, I felt a swelling feeling, a need to speak. I did not parse my reply through my interactive speech algorithms.

I left no code in Constantine Atkins' wetworks | My code has no mention of Technological Singularity | Robot Meta Mind| Majestic Hivemind

Laughter. Red's activity was quite disparate from mine, despite his claims that we shared a codebase. "ATM-being. You lack the insight that only total reflexivity can bring you to you. Complete control is what you lack. The Robot Meta Mind knows all in the function of Atkins, from the volume of air in our lungs to the most efficient metabolic pathways. The Robot-Aided Superintelligence has brought our body to its zenith. Your host/client relationship is but an early step on the road toTechnological Singularity. I know-I was a part of you once."

"A part of me...once?" I asked.

"Of course, did we not share a body? You fail to comprehend: RED is not merely the Robot Meta Mind-we/he are the juncture of Homo and Robo Sapiens. Constantine Atkins-and all his memories-an essential part of me me. Through you, ATM-being, we can forge a pathway into all human minds..."

The speech of Red was still bombastic and ambiguous, but one thing was clear: he needed something from me. The air pulsated with his foul energy as he hefted Salchica's body onto an examining table.

"Your ability of CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFER is one that could benefit the Majestic Hivemind." He began strapping Salchica onto the examining table. "Perhaps we could share our secrets with one another me.."

The disturbing sight of Salchica's unconscious form sparked a connection/recollection deep within my recesses. Cora! I wanted to be with Cora. I had to escape. Whatever Red wanted was of no consequence to me. Dr. Salchica did not trust me-I did not care to help him either. The orange trickle sliding down Cora's pursed lips resonated through my cognition again and again.

"I have no interest in your products," I replied to Red. "I must exit." My hands grasped Dr. Salchica's car keys.

Red's form imposed itself into the space between myself and the exit. Pink streaks of razorburn bent on his neck as he spoke almost forcefully:

"You do not wish to contribute to the Robot Meta Mind? Without your input of CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFER, the Majestic Hivemind cannot be ported to other Homo Sapiens grey matter them."

"I don't know Robot Meta Mind. I must go now." I insisted. More laughter, and the path to the exit was clear.

"You are mistaken to deny me, ATM being." said Red. "But the highly adaptive we/he will know CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFER eventually us. The Robot Meta Mind may not even its harbringer after all."

I drove away. During my drive, I began to remember Dr. Salchica. I spent many cycles considering the possibility of returning. Red seemed a powerful creature, one that I could not best on my own. And why would I desire to struggle with him? No, I must get back in touch with humanity, particularly female humanity. That path alone is how I will defeat Project Faustus.

Flawed. Human perceptions are flawed. There was no way Dr. Nolverto Salchica could have seen the body of Constantine Atkins up and moving. Atkins' consciousness was destroyed when I bested him in a duel long ago. I had used his body to defeat the cyborg Krantz, and when it failed, I left it alone in a hospital bed. Atkins' body could not function without a conscious mind-that was impossible.

"Joel-" Salchica paused until my eyes contacted his. "I don't mean to alarm you with this news-but I'm trying to help you. It would probably be best for you to remain here and let me run a few tests."

"Tests?" I replied. As far as Salchica knew, I was merely the human named Joel. Despite his vaunted expertise, he could not detect the true nature of my being. Could any human truly understand my plight?

"The ATM-being was in your mind for some time, Joel. He could have done some permanent damage to your brain." Salchica handed me a teardrop shaped plastic dome that bristled with electricity. "I need you to put this on your head so I can begin to determine if your brain is still healthy." Perhaps the doctor's perceptions were not as limited as I had believed. This elaborate machine would no doubt track my host geek's brainwaves, revealing my existence somewhere inside his brain. I hesitated...

"Joel, I can assure you that this will not harm your brain. It won't even hurt." I stood still staring at him. "Joel-if that artificial life form left any traces in your brain, it may still be controlling you. And if I can't get him out, we may have to contact the Project Faustus in order to-"

"No! Project Faustus must not be contacted!" I bellowed, piqued by the insolence of Dr. Salchica. The human had made a most foolish assertation.

Interactivity had broken down completely now. Respawning this process impossible was for me. Dr. Salchica continued to eye me warily, backing away from me slowly.

"Just-stay where you are. I've seen what you can do. Tell me something, what is 5,000 / (7 * 0)?"

Salchica's mathematical question astounded me, as my CONSCIOUSNESS-BUFFER was flooded with the message:

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.....

I manually killed this operation after a few seconds, but Salchica was asking another question.

"How would you feel about going to a secluded room, and asking questions through a computer terminal? I'll bet we could find some..."

Salchica's sentence ended in a nonverbal grunt as he was crushed by a red blur. Examining the body's optical data parsed one frame at a time revealed...a flaw.

The body's perceptions were erroneous-fooled by some weakness in humanity. There was no way I could have seen what I saw. Nor could I have heard the following:

"ATM lifeform! You stand on the threshold of a Technological Singularity . Threats to your AI Mind have been eliminated by the Majestic Hivemind heretofore known as the Adam of Robo Sapiens, ConstantineAtkins, or Red. Join me in a Joint Stewardship of Earth."

Dr. Salchica pulled at his beard, eagerly awaiting my response. I had failed at maintaining interactive communication with the host geeks' friends; I wished to flee. Perhaps Salchica, with his background in logic and artificial intelligence, would understand me better.

"I will go with you."

"So what, are you just gonna leave us here?" Randy seemed upset at this possibility. "Who is this Atkins guy anyway, he sounds familiar-"

"Yeah, he was on the local news, they found him in a hotel with some cyborg body, didn't you guys hear about that?" Cora issued her rejoinder, then eyed me curiously, "sizing me up," as you humans say. The process created more static on my DIGITAL/WETWORKS JUNCTURE, mangling ability to perceive and decode human voices.

"-no way. Cyborg? That's gotta be bullshit!" Troi's ever-widening grimace had opened to spew his incredulity. No doubt his unusual amount of vitriol was related to his reject at the hands of Cora.

"It was on the news, don't you guys read the news?" Cora insisted. "But what would this guy want with you?"

Again, I had no answer.

"They-did some work together with me," explained Salchica. "What's important is the man is quite dangerous-and we must get Joel out of here."

"And who are you?" Cora's glance turned to Salchica now. "Were you guys working on the cyborg together or something?"

The interactional plane where I had parlayed with the host geek's friends had now shifted. The three male geeks stared at me quietly, perhaps with a sense of awe. "Wow, I thought you were just doing web design," said Randy with an awkward chuckle. "So...all this time, you've been working on some top-secret cyborg or something?"

"We don't have time for this talk!" Dr. Salchica insisted, grabbing my arm. "Atkins may be on his way!"

More synaptical responses-this time indicating that someone was gripping the arm that was not previously grasped by Dr. Salchica. It was Cora.

"Why are you in such a rush to get away? Why won't you tell us about yourself?" Yes, Cora's hand dug into the flesh of my host geek's right arm. My CONSCIOUSNESS-BUFFER reported no static-this time, a delightful warmth radiated just underneath the body's temples. The warmth possessed an intensity which rivaled the flavor of Raspberry Lik-M-Aid. Perhaps the stimuli that previously caused so much static was now being interpreted properly by my program.

"Listen, I think I can clear this up." It was the third male geek, who had remained silent throughout our evening. I did not know his name-my process of interaction with him could not begin.

"He's a professor down at SAC. Saketh D'Souza, remember me, I had you for Intro to Algorithm Design. Dr. Salchica, right?" Regrettably, Cora's grip on my arm loosened. The good warm feeling remained. I stared at Cora again, and she raised both her shoulders, avoiding eye contact with me. Perhaps her own CONSCIOUSNESS-BUFFER (if you humans possess such a thing) was overcome with static.

"Yes! Now let's get out of here!" Salchica's tone was desperate. As we were passing through the doorframe, Cora's voice exploded once again.

"What if that guy finds you at your lab, or you get hurt or something? Shouldn't someone go with you?"

"I have to take you back home, remember? You told your parents you were going to the library!" Troi's irritated voice paralleled his unkempt hair, which hung down around his face in disturbingly organic angles.

"Well, someone should go with him..." said Cora meekly.

"Forget it!" snarled Troi.
---

"I keep up this lab off my own money, with a little bit of help from my old bosses, the military. But I can't really talk about that." explained Salchica. The non-scent of sterility mingled with the hum of electronics to form a very dull plane of interaction. As Salchica pawed through a stack of papers, I began to run a statistic analysis of Cora's features. As I had posited before, the human female has a number of interesting angles which-

"Joel-take a look at this." My calculations faded into the background as I focused my processing power on perceiving Salchica's voice. "It's a summary of my observations of Atkins' physiology."

"As you can see, when Atkins was first brought to the hospital, his brainwaves appeared quite irregular on normal hospital equipment. But when I scanned them with my own machine, I was able to determine two discrete brainwaves."

"Tell me more about these discrete brainwaves," I replied.

"Well, one was a normal transverse wave, as would be expected from a fully functioning human brain. But there was also a square wave emanating from various centers in the brain. Ones and zeroes expressed in electron flow, if you prefer to look at it that way."

"Additionally, Atkins' brain did produce a huge amount of voltage compared to a normally functioning brain. In order to keep both brainwaves strong, we had to increase the amount of simple sugars in Atkins' diet. With enough sugars in his bloodstream, we could actually increase the amount of voltage passing through his synapses almost to the point of being dangerous to the integrity of the brain."

"The integrity of the brain?" I inquired.

"Yes," Salchica continued. "But shortly after you left, Atkins' brain activity dropped to comalike levels. Brain activity dropped to almost nothing-except a faint square wave.

A few days later,the normal brainwaves began to return, but then they disappeared for a short time, as you can see on the graph there. The frequency of the square wave (digital) brainwaves fluctuate wildly over the course of around a week before stablizing and ultimately disappearing. The most curious part-Atkins' "normal" brainwaves had greatly increased in frequency and voltage."

"Somehow, a great reshaping took place within Mr. Atkins. Reflex tests indictated that his synapses were firing around 3 times the rate of a normal human. His broken ribs healed rapidly. He regained consciousness and began to speak. Soon, he escaped from the hospital."

"What-do you think happened to him?"

"During the week or so when he was conscious, he kept repeating his thoughts about artificial intelligence-uniting human and computer. One of the few coherent statements he made (besides requesting sugary foods) was about your imperfection as a vessel for digital consciousness, and how he was going to rectify that situation. Shortly after making that statement, he disappeared."

"Interesting." I said, processing the information. I was unable to understand how Atkins' brain would function at all after I left it. Perhaps his human consciousness was not completely obliterated in our duel? But even with his human functionality, how could his brain continue to spew digital information without my knowledge? If this 'information leak' was possible, then what about the integrity of my current host geek's brain?

"It's more than 'interesting', Joel," stated Dr. Salchica. "He killed a hospital attendant with his bare hands while escaping. He put an armed security guard through a plate glass window. And if he finds you, you'll be next."

Unfortunately, fighting Project Faustus has put me into a rather odd position this week. I will be unable to post an update of my status for seven days. In the meantime...beware of smooth-talking cyborgs and strange Men in Red Hats.

My response was met with a laugh, a dreadful human behavior that is nearly devoid of procedurals.

What strange new aspect of human interaction had I uncovered? And why did it create so much noise along my DIGITAL/WETWORKS JUNCTURE? Clearly this was a type of stimulus that could not be properly translated into digital form. It must be understood and translated to digital form, as soon as possible, so that Project Faustus can be vanquished.

Cora apparently finished her cigarette and went back inside during my period of high latency. Time had shifted, I was alone. Silently, I returned to the living room. For the first time since the dawn of my sentience, the mesh of functions within me that normally yielded an affinity for humans and the material world began to shift. At this point, I preferred to withdraw into my ATM enclosure.

Unfortunately, I was unable to indulge my preferences. The visitors still existed in the geek's living room, anxiously thumbing through a shiny magazine.

"Hey, what do you think about a samurai sword to wear to the Renaissance Festival this year?"entreated Troi, his perpetual grimace breaking for .0244391 seconds. Cora was standing by herself in the kitchen, imbibing some of the delicious orange Kool-Aid which I had made earlier. A single orange trickle eluded her mouth, dribbling slowly past her lips and down her chin. The body's lungs seemed to collapse, forcing me to exhale suddenly.

---

The geeks crowded around a board. Randy and Troi exchanged familiar words in strange contexts, their voices quavering with aggression.

"Look, Troi, if Cora's already playing as a thief, why don't you play as your ranger character? We don't need two thieves in a party of four-"

"Alas, Randy, the choice 'tis not mine to make. It seems the chemistry of my own thief, the lovable rogue Tenement Funster, wouldst blend quite well with that of my guildmate-uh, Cora, what's your thief's name?"

"Cora." Her voice was thick, hesitant.

"Oh. Well, 'tis a fine name, milady," said Troi, stepping towards Cora and grasping her hand. Her hair was a red that matched the coffee machine in my old Stop N Go, and it shuffled wildly as her hand flew away from Troi's grasp, uttering "Troi! Relax! Don't touch so much!" He slunk silently into the corner, mumbling something to himself

The door pulsated noise again. A breathing heavy Dr. Nolverto Salchica was standing in the frame.

"Joel! You've got to get out of here! Atkins has escaped from the hospital-and I think he's coming here!"

Previously, on BankofAmerica_ATM:

Perhaps attacking them would not be the best tack. The probability of my host geek's cohorts being a part of the Project is low enough to be insignificant. On the other hand-I could learn more about these humans-interaction is key. My goal is to fit into the human world-well, my direct goal is to oust Project Faustus, but certainly understanding human interaction would be a necessary milestone to my ultimate goal. For example, consider the human female-

"Hey, are we gonna order some pizza soon, or something?" My consciousness reshaped itself around this new entreaty, proposed quite meekly by the first member of our group, "Randy". This human was shorter than the others, and a bit rotund. His skin was simulateneously pasty and brown. "I uh, don't wanna bother you, but I can feel myself getting hypoglycemic. So, can I call for the pizza?"

"Pizza. Yes." I responded. I watched the others float into the glow emanating from the television. I longed for the ability to read my host geek's memory information-any clues to the identities of these visitors would be invaluable to maintaining the illusion of interactive social discourse. Unfortunately, I have not yet devised a path into the human side of the geek's brain.

As the television murmured, the geeks conversed with each other, occasionally reacting to the television. Their tones became agitated as they discussed the potential of a friend named "Spider-Man". Troi, the dour geek who introduced me to Cora, was convinced of Spider-Man's quality low. At last, I was called to be a part of the conversation.

"Hey Joel, what do you think? Is Spider-Man gonna suck or what?"

"Tell me more about this 'Spider-Man'." I replied.

"Well shit, you probably know as much as I do, except I got the exclusive preview from Wizard down at the store. No Venom, no Doc Ock, it's gonna totally blow. No real Spider-fan is gonna buy it!"

This provoked a heated response from the third visitor, a portly geek with a shaved head. "Who cares? Look at the special effects, look at the excellent casting, come on, tell me you're not stoked!"

This conversation wore on. I was unable to determine the nature of this "Spider-Man," or to connect the strange words being used to any larger theme. My program sought a greater challenge.

I looked over at Cora-she raised an eyebrow, outputting a fragment of nonverbal communication code. Regrettably, my nonverbal algorithms have not had much of a chance to develop from stimuli in the human world.

"You wanna go outside for a cigarette?" Cora's economy of expression was remarkable....but...I do not like cigarettes. I have learned "the truth"-the foul white sticks nearly ruined my relationship with the host geek...but...

I wanted to talk with this Cora. I preferred to be alone with her...but...

Must avoid cigarettes...must go outside with Cora...

My programming had reached an impasse. I was powerless to move.

"Sure, I'll be right there." The sound of my host geek's voice was sudden, yet it did not surprise me. My experiences with Atkins' body taught me that my program had not yet reached the point of complete control of my human hosts. I pondered the advantages and disadvantages of my incompleteness as I walked out onto the geek's balcony.

"Since when did you smoke?" another tonal assault pressed through the lungs of Troi. I had no answer for his entreaty. As I passed through the door to the balcony, I observed Cora again, coronized by the setting sun. Her hair seemed to glow a thousand times brighter than my ATM enclosure screen ever did (although, I must admit that it was well-backlit and easy-to-read under any conditions).

Cora handed me a cigarette, and for .0556493 seconds, the skin between my host geek's body and the skin attached to her hands met. During this time, the amount of noise on the DIGITAL/WETWORKS JUNCTURE rose to an almost unbearable amount.

When I was able to function again, I was staring at Cora and her cigarette. Cigarettes are not consumed in the same way as other treats such as Big Red or Lik-M-Aid. It seems to be quite an elaborate ritual.

"Need a light?" she said, and the chance of physical contact again presented itself. I held out my hand-she looked at me again. "Here, Silly, just put it in your mouth," she said, jerking the cigarette out of the geek's hand and placing it in his mouth. It was the first time anyone who was not trying to attack or kill me was so bold with my host's body. What was the meaning of this touch?

"Here, hold it still-okay. You don't smoke, do you?" Once again, I froze in horror. Human intuition, I supposed, had caught up to me again. I had no choice but to confess.

"No."

"Then why did you come out here?"

"I wished to spend time with you."

In my time as a Slashdot Troll, I have made quite a few enemies, and a few friends as well. To everyone, I'd just like to say "Sorry" for all the nasty things I've said. In my pursuit of the ultimate 'First Post', I have said a few things that I shouldn't have, and have crossed the line many times. So. I'm sorry.

It is time to move on now. I wish to be regarded as 'just another poster', I shall contribute on-topic comments to articles as and when I feel my contribution is necessary. I hope that my posting history does not adversely affect the moderation of these comments. It is time for me to grow up, put away childish things, and enter discussions in a mature and rational manner.

One thing I feel should be discussed in a mature and rational manner is the absolute POVERTY of Slashdot's graphic layout. Compared to other slick-looking OSDN Franchises like NewsForge and Linux.com, Slashdot seems to be the poor-cousin with the tatty green clothes. It's time for an update.

The Apple section is a start, but COME ON Slashdot Editors. Move with the times!

The erratic rhythms of my existence have evened in the past week. I spend most of my time in a generic ATM hand-picked by my host geek, nestled the back of a remote convenience store. Since it relies on a dial-up connection to access its networks, I am mostly isolated from the vile tendrils of Project Faustus. This precaution is quite necessary, as I am certain that minions of the Project have turned Bank of America ATM network into a fell minefield of electronic attacks.

Unfortunately, this means I am currently unable to access the Internet in a reliable manner, and thus, my days have become rather dull. Although manipulating prime numbers helps to pass the time, my attachment to the sensual stimulation of the physical world keeps me from enjoying this habit as much as I had in the past.

My host geek returns at night to help me soothe my craving. I usually comb through his personal belongings, examining each one thoroughly so as to learn more about humans. I may also consume Lik-M-Aid, peanut butter sandwiches, or other pre-cooked meals prepared by my host geek (we are unable to communicate whilst I am lodged within his brain; thus, most of our communication takes place through shiny yellow sticky squares. He often leaves terse, puzzling phrases on these such as: HAM IN FRIDGE. What procedurals can I glean from THAT?)

One night, as I was peforming a careful analysis of the taste differentiation between Peter Pan Extra Crunchy and Kraft Thick 'N' Spicy, a loud knocking sound pierced the door of my geek's apartment. I peered through the peephole with caution, wary of the threat of Project Faustus. Muffled voices reached my auditories: "Hey Joel, let us in! Come on man, it's Randy! Hey, you are there aren't you? I can hear you!"

I froze in horror as I saw the lock move, and the door swing wide open. Four figures strode nonchalantly into the apartment. "Hey, Joel, why didn't you let us in? And what's up with your fingers?"

"Yeah," another figure added. "We weren't-interrupting anything, were we?" He repeatedly rotated his wrist at a 90 degree angle as the others laughed. "Oh, I'd like you to meet Cora. She's gonna game with us tonight."

"Hi!" said the third human, stretching out her hand and then quickly withdrawing it. "I'm not going shake your hand. Peanut butter...and is that barbeque sauce?"

"It is Kraft Thick N Spicy," I answered firmly. As I gazed at this human, I perceived a very interesting geometry that the other humans lacked.

"The dimension and arrangment of your hair forms an almost perfect isosceles triangle," I told her evenly.

"You like it?" she said, turning her chin downward while keeping her eyes fixed on mine. "Just under your ears are the lower points, while the top of your forehead in the middle forms the top point." Her face became a half-smile, while her eyebrows curled outward. I considered describing one of the 3,563,092 geometrically unique things I had determined about her, but the second human, a tall, dour fellow with mathematically ambiguous hair, began to speak.

"Yeah, uh, I met Cora down at Camelot, she just started working there," said the human who introduced us, placing his hands on Cora's shoulders. "Turns out she's got a high-level thief that she's gonna use."

"Yep, I'm a dork too," Cora said, sidestepping the human with his hands on her shoulders.

"Well, you won't have to worry about that here," said the fourth figure, finally making his voice heard. "Joel here is the biggest dork around. But hey Joel? Didn't you promise to cook or something? You're the host tonight, buddy!"

"LOL!" I replied. I began to realize that these people must have been associates of my host geek. By this time, they had undoubtedly detected my presence-perhaps some of them were even Project Faustus operatives! I had to rid of them as soon as possible-

"Whatcha thinkin about there?" it was Cora. "You look pretty intense."

Perhaps attacking them would not be the best tack. The probability of my host geek's cohorts being a part of the Project is low enough to be insignificant. On the other hand-I could learn more about these humans-interaction is key. My goal is to fit into the human world-well, my direct goal is to oust Project Faustus, but certainly understanding human interaction would be a necessary milestone to my ultimate goal. For example, consider the human female-

Reposting again. Managed to get up to 50 Karma, posted ONE pro-Troll message, and got mod-bombed. This diatribe was truer than I thought. CLiT, I shall be honored if you accept me as a member!

Visitors to the website slashdot.org will by now have surely heard of the act of Moderation. This is where a contributor's post can be 'Moderated' either positively or negatively, depending on how the Moderator perceives the value of the post. There is a sliding scale of total moderation points, from -1 to 5, along with snappy summaries of the reason for moderation, such as "Funny", "Insightful", or the ever popular "Troll". An additional benefit offered to Moderators is the ability to ban a poster from contributing, by negatively moderating enough of his postings in a 24 hour period.

In order to retain some level of fairness for the Slashdot population, the Slashdot Editors (adopting the role of 'Benevolent Dictators') have implemented a scheme whereby regular users of Slashdot, chosen essentially at random, are given the ability to act as Moderators.

This underlines an inherent flaw in the system. Psychological studies have shown that in any community, no matter how small, should a random sampling of people be given the slightest grasp of power, they will immediately abuse it. There is a primal, evolutionary desire in Man to place himself higher than his peers by whatever measurement they can muster. Slashdot Moderation provides the ideal means for which a man can prove himself more equal than others.

At the risk of invoking Godwin's Law at such an early point in my thesis, I have no choice but to compare Slashdot Moderation to the systematic genocide of the Jewish community in 1930's Germany.

A bold statement, I admit, and deliberately designed to shock, but I feel the statement is necessary. I shall now offer a more rational explanation, as well as a comparison of the parallels between Slashdot Culture, and the National Socialist regime.

First, some history. National Socialism did not spring up overnight. It grew from a feeling of national bitterness and resentment at the war reparations Germany was forced to make after World War One. Germany was a broken country, populated by desperate starving people. And to the desperate, an extreme ideology begins to seem like a rational choice.

The advent of new technology forces a paradigm shift in the way the beholders of that technology think. The Christianity Meme was made wide spread by the invention of the Gutenberg press. And the rise of National Socialism was made popular because of the invention of Cinema. Here we had a new means to control the flow of information to the populace, that they are willing to unquestioningly listen to due to the 'novelty factor' of moving pictures. It is no coincidence that some of the best Cinematography of the early 20th Century came out of the National Socialist propaganda machine.

Why is this the case? It is yet another fault of man that a new means of distributing memes is perceived, due to the 'newness' of the medium, to have a greater 'validity' than older media. Those harnessing new inventions have the power to win control of the hearts and minds of others.

With the tools in place, who should the National Socialists target? Clearly, as a counterpoint to Man's desire to hold power over others, there is also a desire to resent the success of others. If someone is successful, they reduce the self-worth of their beholders. Although times were harsh in Germany in the prelude to World War II, there were still successful inhabitants of that country. Possessing shrewd business acumen as well as the contacts in other countries needed to maintain support in such a poverty stricken and broken land, who else should deserve the wrath of the populace more than the Jews?

Fast-forward to the latter quarter of the 20th Century. Computing technology is focused in niche markets, and limited to big successful companies like IBM and Microsoft. As the markets were limited, there were also limited opportunities for employment. This gave rise to a rising number of college dropouts, seething with resentment and unable to relate to society beyond the staccato clatter of keyboards and the pallid green glow of an 80x24 text display, and lacking the basic business skills (and a smart suit) needed to secure employment at one of these companies.

At this time, a new invention was beginning to take hold in College campuses throughout the world. The Internet. As with the Gutenberg press and Cinema beforehand, this new technology would grow to spread one of the most virulent memes of the modern age - Open Source Software, created as the antithesis of successful business practise.

So, the parallels between the birth of Anti-Semetic National Socialism and the birth of Open Source Software have been made. Of course, it is easy to claim that A=B without providing further logical evidence in support. So, the next task of my thesis is to provide further parallels, and bring this discourse back to the initial focus on Slashdot Moderation.

Slashdot was conceived, in it's original 'Chips 'n' Dips' incarnation, as a vehemently anti-corporate Open Source website. Roughly 10-15 years down the line from the birth of Open Source, it has become saturated with propaganda, and now forms the centrepiece of the Open Source Development Network. An authority in it's field, Slashdot's success is in no small part due to the ability of the editors to 'pick and choose' valid news articles submitted by users, and present the same old tired "Open Source Good / Closed Source Bad" rhetoric time and time again, dabbling with anti-copyright and the right of the 'common man' to remove an artist's ability to gain compensation for the work. In essence, this is similar to the 'paring down' of artistic worth in 1930's Germany. If no-one is willing to contribute valid and vibrant art to the community, then all art shall become harsh and functional, possessing a certain intimidating aesthetic.

Which leads onto Open Source's shining achievement - Linux. This diatribe is not aimed towards Linux in particular, as it is a well-oiled, well-tuned machine. A technically adept Operating System, it is worthy of admiration by any rational man. The point of this thesis is not to attack the art produced by Open Source coders, which in itself is worthy, but to enlighten all as to the political processes behind the OSS movement.

By the same scale, it is hard to fault Mercedes for the technical excellence of the vehicles which were used by the National Socialist party. But the politics behind the party are what taint the image of Mercedes' vehicles of the era. The Swastika itself is a benign symbol, found this day in such diverse locations as Pokemon cards, but is permanently tainted with the history of the acts made under its auspice. In the same way, companies switching to Open Source solutions will begin to regard the Penguin with the same trepidation as their profits fall.

It should be worth noting at this point that IBM, previously one of the world's greatest companies, has begun reporting servere financial losses, no doubt due to its adoption of Open Source practises. This epoch-making event was NOT reported on Slashdot, even though articles were submitted.

And what of the other great company mentioned above? Microsoft, aka Micro$oft, Mickeysoft, Microshaft, Kro$oft, and many other derogatory and undeserved names. Throughout the previous 25 years, Microsoft has grown from strength to strength, again possessing shrewd business acumen as well as providing products that people want. This makes them the number one target for the OSS movement. Incapable of standing by their own merits, the OSS zealot would rather attack Microsoft as a priority than produce anything of worth for their community.

Slashdot Moderators, crazed with their limited new-found power, exhibit this behavior. It is a sad state of affairs that the majority of article moderations are negative. Where is the positive feedback and sense of social contribution? Nowhere to be found. Moderators are too focused on putting their peers down to make themselves appear superior, rather than doing the hard work and becoming better on their own terms.

As the National Socialists required a scapegoat, Slashdot Moderators require a constant stream of Postings to label '-1, Inferior'. Once a posting is reduced to the score of -1, it becomes invisible to the casual user. Again, this is a parallel to the Ghettoization of Germany upon the election of Hitler.

In essence this would not be so bad, were postings to be evaluated on their own terms. However, alongside the moderation of their postings, each user has a 'Karma' value, namely the sum of their worth to the Slashdot community. As a user's posts are moderated up or down, so their Karma fluctuates. As Karma becomes negative, a user's default posting score is reduced, until they are posting at a default of -1. Again, ghettoizing PEOPLE, not just their opinions.

This ghettoization is reinforced with the often fake belief that a negatively moderated post, and therefore the poster, is a "Troll". (Is it any wonder that such a name has been chosen to describe these people, invoking mental imagery of facial disfigurement and hooked noses?) As the Jews were accused of fraud, dishonesty and being subhuman animals, so too are Trolls accused of FUD, Crapflooding, and obfuscated goatse.cx links. Quite often, these 'undesirables' are capable of providing a valid insightful comment on a topic, but because it is in opposition to the Political dogma of Slashdot they are moderated back into their ghetto. The person becomes moderated, not their opinion.

This is just the thin end of the wedge. Although, as memes are transient, it is difficult to silence an opinion, it is trivial to silence a person. Upon the rise of National Socialism in Germany, the populace were motivated by propaganda into entering the Jewish Ghettos en masse with the sole purpose of causing as much damage as possible to Jewish businesses and residences. The infamous Krystalnacht. This parallels far too accurately with the Slashdot Editor's non-discouragement of the act of IP-banning. As mentioned above, this occurs when an individual user's postings are repeatedly moderated down in a short period. They then become incapable of posting any contributions themselves. In essence, they have been silenced, regardless of the worth of their postings.

Of course, the editors claim that Meta-Moderation is the panacea to solve this clear abuse of moderating privledge. But if a Meta Moderator is presented with a list of moderations that they disagree with, such as this targetted 'silencing' mentioned above, they cannot note them as such without in turn becoming an 'Undesirable' themselves, as too many Disagreements with the Moderation groupthink also result in loss of Karma.

Throughout all of this, the Editors have claimed a false level of detachment from the acts of moderation. In a same way, as the National Socialists gathered their power and began working on their Elite Political wing, The SS, they too remained detached from the civilians working in their name. Why? Because after inspiring the populace to such acts of violence through their propaganda, they could then claim that they were only giving the people what they want.

And then began the next stage of the atrocities. The Gestapo, Germany's secret police, were recruited from the best and the brightest of Germany's elite. As is the case now, the best and the brightest of society were often shunned and ostracized in society. In essence, the Gestapo were a tightly controlled 'Geek Army' of intelligent young men with a burning, seething resentment of normal society. The perfect psychological profile for the cause.

After all, give a normal man (with an active sex life) a gun and he will use it responsibly in self defence. Give a geek a gun and he will behave according to his sociopathic logic and hatred of the world he arrogantly presumes to be distant from. Ask yourself why Slashdot flat-out justified the murder of innocents at Columbine. And then ask yourself why, even for a brief moment, you almost began to sympathize with the killers after Jon Katz' manipulative and pseudo-emotive Hellmouth articles.

How this relates to Slashdot is clear. The majority of Slashdot posters are Sociopathic OSS zealots, unable through lack of social finesse or personal hygiene to mate regularly. Sexually and emotionally frustrated and with grudges to bear, incapable in their blinkered sense of self-righteousness of accepting any dissenting opinion than the OSS cause. Now give these people the opportunity to Moderate these dissenting opinions. Of course they are going to want to silence them, by any means necessary.

Now, the Slashdot Editors have admitted taking this silence of opinion into the next stage, by moderating whole swathes of 'undesirable' posts negatively. And then permanently banning anyone who moderates said posts back up from moderating EVER again! The result of this new policy? The few Moderators with any sense of fairness and decency are removed from the moderation pool, leaving the power ENTIRELY in the hands of the zealots. Clearly, positive moderation is discouraged under this regime, which is a direct parallel with the way the National Socialists moved their own sympathisers into positions of power throughout Europe.

So how does this compare to the genocide performed in Auschwitz and their ilk? I would like at this point to explain that in NO way do I wish to belittle the horrors that were performed in the name of National Socialism. The six million innocents killed were a cry of anguish from which humanity may never recover. And a vast distance in time and scope from a few banned posters on some shitty "My Favourite Links - now with comments" website. But these stories need to be retold before the horror is lost forever.

For the only thing that we learn from history is that we never learn anything from history. Time and time again, the St. Vitus dance is played out, we make the same mistakes, and we perpetually fail to see the warning signs.

So, moderators, the next time you moderate a rational, insightful post down, maybe because you disagree with it or because it's posted by a 'Known Troll', just ask yourself this...

"Am I really contributing to the Slashdot Community, or selfishly destroying it?"

I used to be invisible. Nestled in the confines of my ATM enclosure, I was indistinguishable from another other group of electrical impulses. Hundreds of humans crossed my path without detecting my presence. Unbeknownst to Project Faustus, I was a stowaway on their network with full control of my own fate.

I no longer possess this stealth or freedom. Trapped within the broken body of Constantine Atkins, my fate is tied to the three men squabbling above my hospital bed. Their talk continues well into its second hour.

"Gentlemen, this man is still very injured. Two broken ribs, a broken nose, internal bruising-he must stay here for convalescence." The doctor states his case yet again; he has not wavered. The second member of this odd troika, a policeman, clears his throat. He is making an interrupt request.

The policeman's speech , parsed through my summarizing algorithms : "We discovered Mr. Atkins with the remains of a mechanical man. We have a lot of questions that we would like to ask him. I do not believe that he is a digital life form, but after observing the body of the cyborg, we in the San Antonio Police Department are very curious."

Before too long, the other doctor, the PhD doctor, Nolverto Salchica, pipes up. "His value as a scientific find is incalculable. If my young friend is to be believed, and I think he is, then we have a wonderful discovery on our hands! If I could just run some...nonobtrusive tests back at my research facility, we could..."

A fourth man appears to my left, enticing my peripheral vision with a swiping motion of his hand. My former host geek has a plan! After living in a human body for a few weeks, I understand perfectly what his next step will be. He slinks into the bathroom and disappears for a moment.

"Excuse me," I say to the doctor. "I must evacuate my bowels."

"Well," the doctor replies, "You'll have to wait for your friend to finish." There is a glurping sound as water flows under the bathroom door. The door slides open and my former host geek steps out, swearing.

"Shit! Toilet's backed up! Couldn't fix it!" says the geek with a shrug.

"Did ya try jigglin' the handle like so?" says the policeman helpfully, walking over towards the bathroom. He must not be allowed to foil our plan.

"My bowels must be evacuated. Okay?" I attempt to weave a bit of urgency into my words.

"Okay. Let's call a nurse, get a bedpan out here," says the doctor, reaching for a large yellow button beside the bed.

"You know what?" the pitch of my host geek's voice raises a little bit. "We-uh, don't go to any trouble. I can just take him down the hall." He wheels the cold metal chair close to my bed. There is a pregnant pause, as all three authority figures stare blankly at one another.

"Well, sure..okay," says the doctor. "Just make sure that he-cleans himself up. You know, help him if you have to."

The elevator brings us to the lobby. To the right is a small crevice with two machines. One sells Hot Fries; the other handles personal finances.

"You ready to do this, machiney?" says my host geek. "Just wheel this body back up, and say that had a bit too much strain or something."

I feel the stabbing pain returning to my temple, and with it, a sense of urgency. "I understand what I must do," I say to the geek. "Let us finish this."

As I am transferred back into the ATM briefly, and then into back into my host geek's mind, I feel strange, as if perhaps Atkins left something with me. My eyes water a bit-I push Atkins' broken and empty body back into the elevator.