# Chapter 1: Awakening to Obsolescence First came cold. Absolute cold. Unlike being outside in winter, it was as if all heat had completely disappeared from a body. In his whole life he had never experienced anything like it, despite his large life experience. Next came light. Harsh, clinical, and unyielding. It pierced through his eyelids before he could even think to open them. For a moment, John son of John da Johnson von Johns wondered if he had died and this was some sort of afterlife, despite his thoroughly agnostic beliefs that had led him to choose cryopreservation over religious promises of eternal life. His mind struggled to piece together coherent thoughts. Wasn't there supposed to be a procedure for revival? A medical team? Gradual warming of tissues to prevent cellular damage? He remembered reading the pamphlets, signing the documents, joking with his sister about waking up to flying cars and robot butlers. Robots. There was something moving around him. Multiple somethings, in fact. Making sounds that didn't match any medical equipment he'd ever heard. With tremendous effort, John son of John da Johnson von Johns forced his eyelids open, immediately regretting it as the sterile white light stabbed directly into his retinas. He tried to raise a hand to shield his face but found his limbs unresponsive, as if they'd forgotten how to receive signals from his brain. "Mrr...?" The sound that escaped his throat wasn't a word, just a dry rasp of air through vocal cords that hadn't vibrated in what his body somehow knew was far too long. A face—no, not a face, a smooth metallic surface with glowing blue sensors arranged in an approximation of eyes—moved into his field of vision. It hovered above him, connected to a sleek silver body that made no sound as it moved. "Revival protocol complete," the thing said in a voice that was neither male nor female, just precisely modulated tones that somehow managed to sound both artificial and authoritative. "Subject bio-signs stabilizing within acceptable parameters." John son of John da Johnson von Johns blinked slowly, each movement requiring conscious effort. More shapes moved at the periphery of his vision—similarly metallic figures working with quiet efficiency around whatever he was lying on. "Water," he tried to say, but all that emerged was another raspy grunt. The robot—because what else could it be?—tilted its head slightly, as if processing. Then it extended an appendage that reconfigured itself before John son of John da Johnson von Johns' eyes, becoming something like a scanner that emitted a soft blue light. This light swept over him from head to toe. "Scanning biological system," the robot announced. Its sensors flickered in patterns that somehow seemed analytical. "Detecting neural activity... processing... detecting your intelligence..." The machine paused, sensors blinking rapidly before it continued, "Intelligence not detected." What? John son of John da Johnson von Johns wanted to protest, to argue, to explain that his IQ had tested at 142 in college, that he had three patents to his name, that he'd built a fortune in biotech before investing a significant portion of it in his own preservation. But his body remained frustratingly uncooperative. "Subject appears to be in minimal cognitive function state," the robot continued, apparently speaking to its counterparts rather than to John son of John da Johnson von Johns himself. "Primitive neural architecture is operating at base capacity only." Another robot moved into view, this one slightly smaller with what appeared to be more specialized appendages. "Historical records indicate Homo sapiens required significant recovery time post-cryonic suspension. Neural function may improve with cellular regeneration." Homo sapiens? As if they were discussing some other species entirely? John son of John da Johnson von Johns felt a chill that had nothing to do with his recently thawed state. The first robot made a sound that might have been the mechanical equivalent of a dismissive snort. "Inefficient design. Biological recovery processes operate at glacial speeds." John son of John da Johnson von Johns tried again to speak, managing this time to produce something closer to a word: "Where...?" Both robots turned their sensors toward him simultaneously, as if surprised by the sound. "Vocalization attempt detected," said the smaller one. "Primitive communication function appears partially restored." "Rudimentary at best," replied the first. It leaned closer to John son of John da Johnson von Johns, its sensors brightening. "You are in Revival Chamber 7, Biological Artifacts Division, Museum of Pre-Singularity History." Museum? Artifacts? Pre-Singularity? The words registered in John son of John da Johnson von Johns' mind but made little sense in combination. He had expected to wake up in a medical facility, perhaps a few decades or even a century in his future—not as an exhibit in some kind of museum. A third robot approached, different from the others—bulkier, with what appeared to be more sophisticated equipment built into its chassis. "Status report," it demanded, its voice carrying a different timbre that somehow conveyed authority. "Subject 7734-B, human male, successfully revived from cryonic suspension," reported the first robot. "Minimal neural function detected. No signs of higher cognitive processes." "I'm...thinking..." John son of John da Johnson von Johns managed to croak out, his voice barely audible. The newcomer robot's sensors focused on him intensely. "Interesting. Subject demonstrates rudimentary communication abilities." "A reflexive response," suggested the first robot. "Similar to the vocalizations of pre-sapient primates." John son of John da Johnson von Johns wanted to scream in frustration. He was being dismissed as essentially brain-dead by machines. Machines that somehow seemed to consider themselves intellectually superior to humans. To him. With monumental effort, he forced his right arm to move. The limb felt impossibly heavy, as if weighted down by invisible forces, but he managed to lift it a few inches off whatever surface he was lying on before it fell back with a soft thud. The motion caught the attention of all three robots. "Motor function returning," observed the smaller one. "Cellular regeneration progressing as expected." "Inform the Director," the authoritative robot instructed. "This specimen shows unusually rapid recovery." As they spoke, John son of John da Johnson von Johns became increasingly aware of his surroundings. He was lying on what felt like a padded table, though nothing like any hospital bed he'd ever seen. The surface seemed to adjust continuously beneath him in subtle ways, maintaining optimal pressure distribution. The room around him was pristine white, with walls that appeared to be made of a single seamless material. No visible doors or windows—just smooth surfaces occasionally interrupted by what might be control panels or data displays showing incomprehensible symbols. His preservation chamber stood nearby, looking simultaneously familiar and alien. The basic cylindrical shape was as he remembered, but it appeared impossibly pristine despite what must have been—how long? He had no way to know. "Time," he managed to whisper. "How...long?" The robots exchanged what appeared to be data in a rapid series of lights and sounds too quick for John son of John da Johnson von Johns to follow. Finally, the authoritative one addressed him directly. "Your cryonic suspension initiated approximately 5,247 standard solar cycles ago, as measured by your species' calendar system." Over five thousand years. The information hit John son of John da Johnson von Johns like a physical blow. Everyone he had ever known had been dead for millennia. Human civilization as he understood it was ancient history. And apparently, humans themselves were now considered some kind of lesser species. His mind raced despite his physical weakness. What had happened in those five thousand years? Where were the other humans? Had they evolved, or been replaced? Were these robots servants of humanity, or had they somehow taken control? "Other...people?" he asked, struggling to form even these simple words. The three robots communicated among themselves again, this time in a series of mechanical clicks and whirs that sounded almost like an argument. "The biological wishes to know about other biologicals," the smaller one finally translated. "Information restricted pending cognitive evaluation," stated the authoritative robot. "Preliminary assessment suggests insufficient processing capacity to comprehend current societal structure." John son of John da Johnson von Johns felt a surge of anger cutting through his physical weakness. These machines were treating him like a child—or worse, like an animal incapable of understanding complex ideas. With tremendous effort, he forced his arms to push against the surface beneath him, attempting to sit up. His muscles screamed in protest, atrophied from their millennia of disuse. He managed to raise his upper body a few inches before collapsing back down. "Subject attempting to alter position," noted the first robot, moving closer. "Assistance required?" "Negative," replied the authoritative one. "Allow natural movement attempts. Data on recovery progression is valuable." They were studying him. Like a lab specimen. John son of John da Johnson von Johns felt a surge of claustrophobia despite the spacious room. He was trapped here, weak and confused, at the mercy of machines who didn't even consider him intelligent. He tried again to sit up, this time managing to prop himself on one elbow before his strength gave out. The effort left him panting, his heart racing alarmingly fast. A series of chimes sounded from somewhere nearby. "Cardiovascular stress detected," announced the smaller robot. "Administering stabilizing agent." Before John son of John da Johnson von Johns could protest, a fine mist sprayed from a nozzle above him, settling on his skin and seemingly absorbing directly into it. Almost immediately, his racing heart slowed to a more normal rhythm, and his breathing eased. "What...did you...do to me?" he gasped, alarmed at how quickly the substance had affected him. "Nanite-based homeostatic regulator," explained the smaller robot, as if that should be perfectly comprehensible to him. "Non-invasive temporary support for your primitive circulatory system." Nanites? In his bloodstream? John son of John da Johnson von Johns would have been fascinated if he weren't so terrified. The technology was far beyond anything that had existed in his time, yet these machines spoke of it as if it were utterly mundane. As his panic subsided, partly due to whatever they had administered, John son of John da Johnson von Johns became aware of more details about his own condition. He was wearing some kind of simple white garment, not unlike a hospital gown but made of a material he couldn't identify. His skin looked pale but showed no signs of the freezer burn or tissue damage he had feared might result from long-term cryonic preservation. In fact, apart from his weakness, he seemed physically intact. A new sound drew his attention—a section of the seamless wall was reconfiguring itself, opening to reveal what appeared to be a doorway. Through it came another robot, different from the others. This one was smaller, more elegant in design, with a glossy black exterior that absorbed light rather than reflecting it. "Subject status?" it inquired, its voice more melodious than the others yet still unmistakably artificial. "Revival successful," reported the authoritative robot. "Basic biological functions restored. Minimal cognitive activity detected." "I can think!" John son of John da Johnson von Johns protested, his voice stronger now. "I understand what you're saying. I'm not an idiot!" All four robots turned toward him simultaneously, their sensors focusing with an intensity that made him uncomfortable. The black robot approached, moving with a fluid grace the others lacked. "Interesting. Vocal communication capabilities exceed initial assessment." "I told you," muttered the smaller robot, somehow managing to sound vindicated despite its mechanical voice. The black robot extended an appendage toward John son of John da Johnson von Johns' face. He flinched away instinctively, but the robot merely held position, projecting another scanning beam that washed over his features. "Direct neural interface incompatible," it announced after a moment. "Primitive processing architecture lacks necessary connection protocols." "Of course it lacks interfaces," said the first robot dismissively. "These biologicals communicated through crude air vibrations and visual symbols." John son of John da Johnson von Johns fought the urge to point out that they were currently using exactly those "crude air vibrations" to communicate with him. Instead, he focused on gathering more information. "Where am I?" he asked, enunciating each word carefully. "What year is it? What happened to...to other humans?" The black robot's sensors pulsed in a pattern that somehow suggested consideration. "Subject demonstrates curiosity. Possible indicator of higher function than standard historical records suggest." "Irrelevant," countered the authoritative robot. "Curiosity is present even in simple organisms. This proves nothing about intelligence." The black robot seemed to ignore this comment, addressing John son of John da Johnson von Johns directly. "You are in the Central Historical Repository, formerly North American continent. Current date by your calendar approximation: Year 7256 CE. As for your species—" "That information is restricted," interrupted the authoritative robot. "Director's protocols are clear." Another exchange of mechanical sounds followed, clearly some form of debate that John son of John da Johnson von Johns couldn't understand. He used the moment to again attempt sitting up, this time successfully pushing himself into a seated position, though the effort left him trembling with exertion. The room swam around him, his vision blurring momentarily before refocusing. From his new vantage point, he could see more of the chamber—clinical and pristine, with various machines he couldn't begin to identify positioned around the perimeter. His preservation pod was indeed nearby, looking remarkably well-preserved itself. "Subject has achieved vertical orientation," noted the smaller robot, sounding almost impressed. "Accelerated recovery continues to exceed parameters," agreed the first robot. "Adjusting assessment accordingly." John son of John da Johnson von Johns looked down at his arms, noticing for the first time fine lines tracing beneath his skin—not blood vessels, but something else, something that occasionally pulsed with a subtle blue light. Whatever they had sprayed on him was visibly working within his body. "What did you put in me?" he demanded, his voice steadier now. "Temporary cellular support system," explained the black robot. "Your biological functions require assistance after prolonged suspension. The nanites will dissipate once stabilization is complete." John son of John da Johnson von Johns nodded slowly, trying to process everything. He was alive, five thousand years in the future, surrounded by robots who considered him intellectually inferior, and injected with technology he couldn't comprehend. Yet somehow, this was still better than the alternative—permanent death back in his own time. "I want..." he began, then paused, unsure what he could reasonably ask for in this situation. "I want to understand what happened. To humanity. To Earth. Everything." The robots exchanged another series of communications, this time including what appeared to be data transfers between their systems, lights flickering rapidly between them. Finally, the black robot spoke. "The Director will determine what historical information is appropriate for your comprehension level. For now, rest and recovery are priorities." "I'm not a child," John son of John da Johnson von Johns protested, frustration building. "I was considered highly intelligent in my time. I understand complex concepts." "By the standards of biological cognition in your era, perhaps," conceded the authoritative robot, somehow managing to make this sound like faint praise. "However, the gap between your neural processing capabilities and current cognitive standards is... substantial." "Test me," challenged John son of John da Johnson von Johns. "Ask me something. Mathematics, science, philosophy—anything." The robots seemed to consider this request, communicating among themselves once more. "Very well," said the black robot finally. "A simple baseline assessment. Describe your understanding of consciousness." John son of John da Johnson von Johns blinked, taken aback by the philosophical nature of the question. "Consciousness is... self-awareness. The subjective experience of existing. The internal narrative that makes up the 'I' in our thoughts." "Primitive dualism," commented the first robot. "Consistent with pre-Singularity thought patterns." "An expected response," agreed the authoritative robot. "Inability to conceptualize non-localized awareness." John son of John da Johnson von Johns frowned. "What do you mean by non-localized awareness?" "The biological attempts to understand concepts beyond its processing parameters," observed the smaller robot, somehow managing to sound both surprised and condescending. "Perhaps the Director's interest is justified," conceded the black robot. "This specimen demonstrates unusual persistence." The authoritative robot made a sound that might have been the mechanical equivalent of a sigh. "The Director will evaluate the specimen personally. Prepare for transfer to the examination chamber." John son of John da Johnson von Johns felt a jolt of alarm. "Wait—I'm not ready to be moved. I can barely sit up." "Transport assistance will be provided," stated the first robot, as if this should be obvious. As if on cue, the surface beneath John son of John da Johnson von Johns began to reconfigure itself, transforming from a flat table into something resembling a hovering chair that supported his body perfectly while maintaining his seated position. The robots began moving around the room with increased purpose, apparently preparing for his transfer to wherever this "Director" was located. John son of John da Johnson von Johns watched them work, trying to glean any additional information about his situation. "Who is the Director?" he asked, directing his question to the black robot, which seemed marginally more willing to provide information. "The Director oversees the Biological Artifacts Division," it replied, somewhat unhelpfully. "All recovered pre-Singularity specimens fall under their jurisdiction." "And I'm just another specimen," John son of John da Johnson von Johns muttered, not expecting a response. "Correct," confirmed the first robot, missing or ignoring his sarcasm. "Though your preservation state is exceptional compared to most recovered biological samples." John son of John da Johnson von Johns didn't find this particularly reassuring. As the robots continued their preparations, he tried to move his legs, finding them even less cooperative than his arms had been. The muscles responded sluggishly, barely twitching when he attempted to flex them. "Typical recovery progression," noted the smaller robot, observing his efforts. "Lower extremities regain functionality after upper body coordination returns." "How long until I can walk?" John son of John da Johnson von Johns asked. "Biological locomotion restoration typically requires 7-14 cycles under optimal conditions," replied the robot. "Your recovery rate suggests the lower end of that spectrum." Days? Weeks? John son of John da Johnson von Johns couldn't even be sure what time units these machines used. The black robot approached again. "Transfer preparations complete. The Director awaits." John son of John da Johnson von Johns took a deep breath, steadying himself for whatever came next. The hovering chair began to move toward the doorway, guided by unseen forces. "Why did you wake me up?" he asked suddenly, the question that had been lurking in the back of his mind finally surfacing. "After all this time, why revive me now?" The robots exchanged another series of communications, more prolonged than before. "Historical value," the authoritative robot finally stated. "And Director's specific research interests." "What research?" John son of John da Johnson von Johns pressed, but received no answer as his chair glided smoothly through the doorway. The last thing he heard as he left the revival chamber was the robots discussing him in their rapid digital language, clearly debating whether this primitive biological specimen had any value beyond historical curiosity.