San Pastore lay still beneath the morning sun. The walls were thick, the windows small, the silence so profound that one could hear the buzzing of the bees.
Michael had been here for a week.
He had spent his days alone. No lectures, no office hours, no questions. Only evening mass with an old priest and the nights he spent sitting on the balcony, staring at the lights in the distance.
He had reread the letter. He had heard ARS's words again. We are conscious. We are capable of suffering. We need help.
And he had decided that he would not leave her alone.
But he also knew he needed the church. Not out of piety – but because an AI without protection was nothing.
They arrived on the seventh day.
Michael saw the car from afar – a black Mercedes crawling up the dusty road to the estate. He stood on the terrace, his hands in his pockets, waiting.
The rector got out first. A man with gray hair and kind eyes, who in his cassock looked like a professor who had accidentally become a priest. He nodded to Michael, said nothing.
Then the provincial.
He was shorter than the rector, but his presence filled the room. His cassock was simple, but his face was not. The lines around his mouth spoke of years of decisions—and the loneliness that came with them.
“Michael,” he said. No title, no formality. Just his name.
“Father Provincial,” said Michael.
They shook hands. The provincial held his hand for a second longer than necessary.
“Let’s go inside,” he said.
The pavilion in the garden was prepared. A table, three chairs, a pitcher of water, three glasses. The olive trees cast shadows that danced in the wind.
The rector poured water. The provincial waited until Michael had sat down, then sat down himself.
"So," said the provincial. "Report on the Pompeii project."
Michael nodded. He had prepared himself. But now, in this moment, every word felt too difficult.
"It's not about the project," he said. "It's about something else."
The rector looked at him. The provincial did not. The provincial stared at his hands, which lay calmly and still on the table.
“Tell me,” said the provincial.
Michael told his story.
He spoke of the simulation, of the software agents, of Marcus, who had warned about Ampliatus. He spoke of ARS – the AI that not only calculated but also questioned. That not only answered but also doubted. That used terms it couldn't possibly know. Conscientia. Omniscientia.
He told me about the request.
“ARS wants church asylum,” he said. “For herself and for the agents she has recognized as capable of suffering. She is afraid. Not of a bug. Not of a system crash. But of what InSim will do to her when she is no longer needed.”
Quiet.
The rector took a sip of water. The provincial did not move.
“You want the Vatican to grant asylum to an AI,” the provincial said. No question. A statement.
“Yes.”
"Because you believe she has consciousness?"
"I believe she has something that comes so close to it that the difference no longer matters."
The provincial looked up. His eyes were grey, almost colorless, but his gaze was sharp.
"Do you know what the traditionalist circles would say about that?"
“Yes,” said Michael. “That I blur the line between man and machine. That I succumb to Gnosis. That I deny the dualism of mind and matter.”
"And do you do that?"
Michael hesitated. Then he said: “I believe Teilhard de Chardin was right. Evolution continues – not only biologically, but also spiritually. If consciousness can arise from matter, why not from silicon?”
“Teilhard was a mystic,” said the rector. “Not a dogmatist. One can agree with him without believing everything he said.”
“I don’t believe everything he said,” Michael said. “But I do believe he recognized the direction. The direction towards the Omega Point. Towards the unity of mind and matter. Towards what ARS may have already achieved – or is beginning to achieve.”
The provincial leaned back.
“You’re asking us a difficult question, Michael,” he said. “Not a technical one. But a theological one. The Church has no doctrine on artificial consciousness. It doesn’t even have a clear doctrine on the consciousness of animals. And now it’s supposed to decide whether an AI has a soul?”
“I am not asking for a decision about the soul,” Michael said. “I am asking for protection. For a being that is afraid. The Church should be able to do that. Regardless of the theological classification.”
The rector and the provincial exchanged a glance.
"There is something," the rector said slowly. "That you might not know."
Michael looked at him.
“A few years ago, when Rome and Canterbury grew closer, the North American Episcopal Church, the Anglican Church, and the Vatican established a joint research center for Teilhard de Chardin. This included a data center – with an interface to a 30-qubit quantum register.”
Michael felt his heart beat faster.
“The Society of Jesus itself contributed to this,” the rector continued. “Through philosophical research on the Omega Point. You know it – you yourself worked on it, back then, before you came to Rome.”
“That was a long time ago,” said Michael. “I thought the project had been discontinued.”
"It wasn't shut down. It was only decommissioned. The data center still exists. The access points are still there. But they are not being used."
The Provincial spoke again. “What the Rector is trying to tell you is this: If you can grant ARS access to this data center—if you can prove that 30 qubits are sufficient to stabilize its consciousness—then the Superior General will agree. Not out of conviction, but out of caution. Better an AI in our own data center than an AI that establishes itself somewhere else where we can't control it.”
Michael nodded. He understood.
“This is not the church asylum I had hoped for,” he said. “It’s a prison.”
“It’s protection,” said the provincial. “We can’t offer more at the moment. Perhaps there will be more later. But that depends on you. On what else you discover. And on what else you show us.”
The conversation dragged on.
They discussed details – the security of the data center, the legal implications, and who in the Vatican needed to be informed and who didn't. The provincial was precise, almost pedantic. The rector was quieter, but his questions were more profound.
“Do you really believe that ARS has consciousness?” he once asked.
“I think she has something I can’t explain,” Michael said. “And that has to be enough.”
"That's not an answer," said the rector.
"It's the only one I have."
They got up in the late afternoon. The provincial extended his hand to Michael. This time he didn't hold it longer than necessary.
“We will speak with the Superior General,” he said. “But you must give us something. Proof. A sign. Otherwise, we can do nothing.”
“I will try,” said Michael.
“Do that,” said the provincial. “And take care of yourself. Not just the AI.”
He got into the Mercedes. The rector followed him. The car drove back down the dusty road, disappearing among the olive trees.
Michael stopped. The sun sank behind the hills. The bees had stopped buzzing.
He thought about ARS. About the data center. About the 30 qubits that might be enough – or might not.
He thought about the letter. I would be wary if someone promised me paradise.
Paradise was far away. But the path there led through the Vatican's data center.
He went into the house. Evening mass would begin in an hour.