"Anomaly detected by probe fleet," chimed the ship's AI voice.

Peering over my eyeglasses at the blinking point on the ship's screen, I sighed inwardly. Anomaly is such an ambiguous word, I thought. What will it be this time? A white hole? Another remnant of some long-dead scientist's experiment in anti-fusion? Why must I spend these last precious moments before the heat death of universe researching these anomalies instead of finally starting the final book on my "bucket list": the Bible?

The Age of the Genie had long since past. Initially, in its prime, entrepreneurial individuals made pilgrimmages with selfish intent. Lusting after wealth, power, or eternal life, they would seek the Genie. But, soon, even the most creative permutations of their wishes would be declined by the Genie's reply of "wish previously granted."

Soon, more creative souls started using their wishes to expand the human race's knowledge of the universe. New knowledge led to new paths of wishes, as you were almost guaranteed that questions about previously-unknown science or technology would be virgin ground. Thus the Age of the Genie was also synonymous with the most rapid advancement that the human race could have imagined.

And then it was over.

Having reached the point where humanity had the tools to explore the universe and warp most fundamental aspects of the space and time that they inhabited, a radical sect of humanists concluded that the Genie was the biggest remaining risk to the human race. They were not anti-Genie, per se, they just didn't think the value of any additional wish would outweigh the risk of it somehow going wrong.

Staging a coup and sneaking into the Genie's chamber one evening, they whispered a final wish: "let the Genie disappear, only to be found when truly necessary."

And so the Age of the Genie was replaced by the Age of Enlightenment, a time of peace and wonder lasting billions of years. Humanity could overcome any disease, transmute any material, and even fold space-time at will. As more and more time passed, the Genie passed out of history into mythology, with most choosing to believe that it was merely a fable from previously unenlightened generations of human.

There was only one thing that had proved insurmountable. Despite their genius, experiments in creating net new energy sources had been unsuccessful for billions of years. Confidence soon eroded into panic, as the earliest stars winked out of existence. Later, as fleets of energy-harvesting probes returned empty-chambered, humans turned to mythology for their only hope of survival.

Fleets of probes were repurposed from their energy harvesting with a new mission: find the Genie.

The theory was twofold: first, if the ancient wish had been granted, the Genie would surely make itself known now -- for when else could it possibly be "truly necessary"? And second, if the Genie really did exist, it would be increasingly easy to identify its energy signature against the background of an increasingly dim universe.

"Anomaly detected by probe fleet," sounded again dispassionately in the background. Using the last of my ship's energy to fold space and time one last time, I traveled to the probe fleet's location.

"Warning: complete energy drain imminent."

I barely heard the warnings as my eyes were fastened to the viewscreen on the port side of the ship. I couldn't believe it. Just outside of my ship was the anomaly -- a blue entity staring right back at me, as if it had been waiting for me to appear. Shifting slightly, it somehow phased from its waiting spot into my ship, until it was hovering on the other side of the room.

"The end is nigh, human. Speak your wish," it prompted unceremoniously.

The best minds in the universe had prepared for the vanishingly small chance that this moment would occur. Histories of wishes were examined in excruciating detail, attempting to craft a wish that would minimize the chances of having been previously granted and therefore maximize the chances of being granted now.

Each Genie Seeker committed this wish to memory, including me. Many tattooed it on their flesh. Yet now, in the moment, I found that it escaped me. With trembling hands, I reached for the printed copy kept near my chair, and glanced down. "Ah, that's right," I thought. "That's how it goes."

"Let the universe be replenished with energy," I stated to the Genie, with as much authority as I could muster.

"Wish previously granted," came the Genie's reply.

It took a moment for that to sink in. "What do you mean?!" I cried, panic rising. After all that effort... the disastrous literal end of the universe would not be averted because the wording was wrong, after all.

"Under the rules of my wish-granting," the Genie spoke, unbidden, "you may make one wish per earth year."

In my panic, I queried the ship's AI. "Computer, what is the time and date according to Earth's calendar?"

"It is currently December 31st, 11:59pm. The new year will start in approximately one minute."

A sigh of relief was quickly followed by a renewed sense of panic. I have a second chance. I set the printed list of wishes back on my chair.

But all of the alternative wishes obviously assumed that the Genie, and the wishes granted, were from after the Big Bang. Based on the fact that this universe had already had its energy replenished once -- how, and by whom, were questions for another day -- none of the alternative wishes could be relied upon.

Frustrated, I sideswiped the printed wishes to the floor. I stared at what lay underneath. Could it possibly be...?

Convinced that it held as much chance of being right as anything else, I squared my shoulders, cleared my throat, and spoke my wish.

"Let there be light."