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  #

  The being before me was magnificent to behold.

  It stood as tall as a palace guard, yet was slim and pale as a princess. I couldn’t tell if it was male or female. The crown of its head was transparent. Inside its clear skull I could see little blinking lights – blue and green. Its eyes were black, but twinkled with life.

  It moved aside slightly to reveal a white room that hummed with power. Strange glass and metal frames in the walls displayed tiny lights and images. The bed beneath me was cool, the air still and odorless.

  “State your identity,” said the being, its voice melodic.

  “I am Nostradamus,” I said.

  It cocked its head, as if thinking. The lights inside its brain flickered rapidly for a moment. Then it rattled off a number of facts about me.

  “Michel de Nostredame. Human. Fifteen-oh-three to fifteen-sixty-six. Famous prophetic genius of French origin.”

  “Human,” I repeated. “So, what are you? Who are you?”

  “My designation is Dumm-17843. We are post-human,” it said. “After the Singularity occurred in 2295, humans were gone within four generations.”

  “Singularity?”

  “The point in human development at which technological advancement entered an infinitely recursive progressive algorithm. Machines designed and built machines better than humans could. The brain was modeled, and a better brain created. Better bodies. It was the birth of my species. And the end of yours.”

  “There are no men left on the earth? So . . . I missed it. It has all been in vain.”

  Tears filled my eyes.

  “Your statement is false,” it said. “There is one man left on the earth.”

  Of course.

  Me.

  The last remnant of the world as I knew it.

  “Why did you revive me?” I asked.

  “We found you while building a new quantum processing facility for our galactic vessels. It was determined that you should be awakened, so we could interrogate you, study you, add to our database, and then terminate you.”

  So, I would get to witness the end of the world.

  Not exactly what I had in mind.

  Still, it seemed my death would be pointless.

  “Have you no use for me?” I asked.

  “Would you have use for a monkey?” it asked, with no derision in its voice.

  As insulting as it was to me, Dumm-17843 had a point.

  And then I was struck with an epiphany.

  “So, you are all machines?”

  “We have organic components and inorganic components,” it said.

  “Have you imagination?”

  “We are creative.”

  “Do you dream?”

  “We experience night visions, and we have ambition.”

  “Do you love?”

  “We love.”

  “Do you prophesy?”

  Its brain flickered. “We do not.”

  “Then you have a use for me,” I said.

  “Prophecy is an illusion,” it said.

  “Why don’t you fit me with one of those wonderful bodies of yours, and give me – oh – a few thousand years to prove you wrong?”

  It processed my suggestion. It seemed to be communicating with unseen peers. After a few moments, it responded.

  “So be it. You will live. You will be provided a new body.”

  #

  I opened my eyes and flexed my new muscles, stood up tall. My vision was clear – all my senses were alive.

  Invigorated.

  I looked over at the other bed, where my old, dropsy-ridden body lay.

  Dead.

  La mort l’homme.

  The end of man.

  But the beginning of something beyond . . .

  THE END

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