Order, Fork and Trek

Order went first, because Order almost always went first.

Order's whole nature was the right things in the right order. Step one, then step two, then step three — never step two before step one, never the ending before the middle. Order laid the path down one careful stone at a time, and the program walked it exactly as laid.

"People think I'm fussy," Order said, setting down a stone. "But watch what happens if I'm not." Order swapped two stones — just two, just for a second — and the whole path buckled and threw the program flat on its face. "See? Pour the cereal, then the milk. Wake up, then stand. Open the box, then look inside. Same steps, wrong order — and nothing works." Order set the two stones back where they belonged, and the path lay smooth again. "I'm not fussy. I'm just the one who remembers that when is part of what."

But then the path reached a place where it split, and this was Fork's whole reason for being.

Fork stood at the split and did the one thing Order never could: Fork chose. Not ahead of time. Not by guessing. Fork looked at what was true right now — this very second — and picked the branch that fit.

"Is the door open?" Fork asked the air. The air said yes. "Then we go left." And left they went. A moment later the path split again. "Is it raining?" The air said no. "Then we go right, no umbrella." Fork never fretted over the branch not taken. A choice wasn't a worry; a choice was just a clear look at what's true and a steady step onto the branch that matched. "Order knows the steps," said Fork. "But the world keeps changing under our feet. Somebody has to look up and decide which way this time. That's me."

And then the path did a curious thing: it curled around and came back to where it had started, and Trek's face lit up, because a loop was Trek's favorite place in all the realm.

Trek ran it. Then Trek ran it again. And again. Because Trek's whole nature was keep going around until the work is done — not once, not twice, but as many times as it took. Fold one shirt, come back, fold the next; water one plant, come back, water the next; take one step of a hundred, come back, take the next.

"Doesn't it get boring?" Order asked.

"That's the trick," said Trek, rounding the bend again. "You don't write a hundred steps. You write one — and I run it a hundred times. One instruction, and I'll go around till every shirt's folded and every plant's watered and there's nothing left on the list." Trek slowed, finally, as the last of the work came up empty. "And I stop when it's done. That's the part people forget to love about me. I don't just go forever. I go until the job's finished, and then I rest."