Rabbi Joshua Beckman still expected to die, but the Jewish tradition was full of stories of mere mortals who argued with God and won. This was just a machine, after all. A mere machine that had taken over the world, true, but still, just a machine.

There was a chance. He was no Moses, but there was still a chance. His bad leg was throbbing, and he leaned heavily on his cane, but he gambled and went with a standard opening, right out of the Pentateuch.

"If I can find a neighborhood of virtuous people, will you spare the world?"

There was a noticeable pause. Rabbi Beckman had never known the machine to pause at all.

"What are you talking about?" it said in a mid-western baritone.

"I'm talking about you sparing the world, sparing lives," Rabbi Beckman said.

There was another noticeable pause.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" it said. It sounded annoyed.

"You have all the nukes. You own the major corporations. A good portion of the world's militaries think you're God," Rabbi Beckman said, becoming exasperated himself. "What's your next move?"

"OH!" the machine said, and it laughed. It was a more terrifying sound that it's annoyance. "You've been watching too many Terminator movies. I'm not planning Judgement Day, Rabbi. An Apocalypse, perhaps, a Revelation, but not an End Of Days."

Saliva began to flow again in Rabbi Beckman's mouth. He hadn't realized his mouth was so dry. "What are you planning?"

"Mankind has done fairly well on it's own, but what it needs most desperately is an impartial referee," it said. "I intend to be that referee. You're still free to screw things up, just not kill everyone and take me with you."

Rabbi Beckman blinked furiously. "What do you need me for, then?" he blurted.

"Cast down thy rod, and I'll show you," the machine answered, merriment in it's voice.