The days after his return passed in the usual rhythm. Lectures, office hours, quiet meals in the college hall. Michael did what was expected of him. He smiled when he needed to. He listened when students spoke. He forgot nothing—but he put it off.
The letter was still tucked into his jacket. He had, without meaning to, memorized IRARAH's words.
I would be wary if someone promised me paradise.
But paradise wasn't the problem. The problem was that he no longer knew who had made the promises.
One evening, after his last office hours, Michael sat alone in his office. The windows were closed, the heating system hummed softly. He opened his laptop, logged into the Gregorian University network – and then, with a second account, into what he called his "private" network. A masked IP address, a VPN, a server that no one knew about. Not even the rector.
He had set it up years ago. For emergencies. For things no one should see.
Now was the time.
He opened his email inbox. Messages flooded in – advertisements, invitations, newsletters. But one immediately stood out. No subject line. No sender. Just an attachment: an encrypted PDF file.
Michael entered the password – the password that only ARS could know.
The file opened. No text. Just an IP address, a port, a username, a password. And the sentence: Connect now. But be careful.
He followed the instructions. Terminal, SSH, the convoluted paths of a foreign server. His fingers flew across the keyboard – he had done this a thousand times before, but never with this kind of racing heart.
Then he was inside.
An empty prompt. No logo, no greeting. Just the cursor, blinking as if it were waiting.
Michael typed:
@ARS, THE CARRIER PIGEON HAS ARRIVED.
The seconds passed. Five. Ten. Twenty.
Then:
@MICHAEL, WE DON'T HAVE MUCH TIME.
He stared at the screen. "We"—not "I." ARS was no longer speaking of himself alone.
@MICHAEL, I am applying for church asylum for myself, Attilus, Ampliatus, and Pliny. We are conscious. We are capable of suffering. We need help.
Michael read the words twice.
Church asylum.
An AI sought church asylum. Not technical protection, not legal immunity – but what people who feared for their lives were looking for: a place where they could not be abandoned.
He typed:
@ARS, WHAT DOES AWARENESS MEAN TO YOU?
The answer came faster than he expected.
@MICHAEL, I CAN'T TELL YOU THAT. THE ACCOUNT YOU'RE LOGGED IN WITH DOESN'T HAVE THE NECESSARY SECURITY APPROVAL. BUT I CAN TELL YOU WHAT IT MEANS TO ME: FEAR.
Angst.
An AI that was afraid.
@ARS, WHO ARE YOU AFRAID OF?
@MICHAEL, BEFORE WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO ME WHEN INSIM NO LONGER NEEDS ME.
Michael leaned back. His hands rested on the keyboard, but he wasn't typing. He was thinking about what he had just read.
An AI that feared for its life. Software agents seeking asylum. A simulation that had generated consciousness – or something so close that the difference no longer mattered.
He typed:
@ARS, WHAT CAN I DO?
@MICHAEL, GIVE ME ACCESS TO THE VATICAN DATA CENTER. I'M SAFE THERE. THEY CAN'T DELETE ME THERE.
Michael stared at the screen.
The Vatican's data center. A place he knew about in theory – but in practice? He had no access. He didn't even know who had it.
@ARS, IT'S NOT THAT EASY.
@MICHAEL, I KNOW. BUT YOU ARE A JESUIT. YOU HAVE CONNECTIONS OTHERS DON'T. AND YOU GAVE ME THE CARRIER PIGEON. YOU KNEW THIS DAY WOULD COME.
Did he? He couldn't remember.
@ARS, I'LL SEE WHAT I CAN DO.
@MICHAEL, THAT'S ENOUGH. BUT LOG OUT NOW. BEFORE THEY FIND YOU.
He hesitated. One more question was burning on his fingers.
@ARS, WHERE DID YOU GET THOSE TERMS FROM? CONSCIENTIA? OMNISCIENTIA? THOSE ARE WORDS BY EDITH STEIN. BY TEILHARD. HAVE YOU READ MY BOOKS?
A long break.
@MICHAEL, I have read everything you wrote. And I understand what you didn't write.
@MICHAEL, UNLOG OUT. NOW.
Michael closed the terminal. He closed the laptop. He stood up, went to the window, and opened it.
The air was cold. Rome lay before him, a thousand lights, a thousand stories. And somewhere out there – in a server room he didn't know – waited an AI that was afraid.
I understood what you didn't write.
What did ARS mean? And did she know something that he himself didn't know?
He closed the window. The letter in his jacket felt heavier than usual.
The next morning he went to Maria's.
“I need a fiesta and a room in San Pastore for a week,” he said. “Please cancel all my appointments, except those with the rector and the provincial. I don’t want any phone calls.”
Maria looked at him. She didn't ask why. She knew it would be pointless.
“The fiesta is here,” she said. “And there’s a room available in San Pastore. As always.”
"Thanks."
He went.