The news came three days later.
Michael sat in the garden of San Pastore, a book on his knees that he wasn't reading. The sun was low, the olive trees casting long shadows. He hadn't expected the answer to come so quickly—and he hadn't expected it to come like this.
A car pulled up in front of the estate. Not the provincial's black Mercedes, but a gray Fiat, inconspicuous, almost boring. A man got out—young, short-haired, in civilian clothes. But his posture gave him away: military. Or what was left of it when you worked in the Vatican.
"Dr. Phillips?" he asked.
“Yes.”
"The general is expecting you. Please board."
Michael hesitated. "The general?"
“Yes.” The young man didn’t smile. “The General of the Society of Jesus.”
The journey to Rome took an hour. The young man didn't say a word. Michael asked nothing. He looked out the window at the hills, which turned purple in the twilight.
He thought of the provincial. Of the conversation in the pavilion. Of the compromise he hadn't wanted, but had accepted.
It is not asylum. It is a prison.
But perhaps every asylum was also a prison. Perhaps that was the price of protection.
The Vatican lay still beneath the evening sky. The Swiss Guards stood at their posts, motionless, their halberds illuminated by the lanterns. The young man led Michael through a side entrance, past the throngs of tourists who had long since dispersed.
They walked through corridors Michael didn't know. Narrow passageways, high ceilings, paintings that seemed to float in the darkness. No windows. Only doors, all locked.
Then a door that was open.
"Come in," said the young man. He stayed outside.
The room was small. Not a reception room – more like a study, which happened to be located in the Vatican. A desk, two chairs, a crucifix on the wall. On the desk, a laptop, a glass of water, a black wooden rosary.
The general sat behind the desk.
He was older than Michael had expected—or perhaps he just seemed older. His face was narrow, but his hands were not. They lay on the table, still, but not relaxed. Like a chess player waiting for the next move.
“Michael,” he said. “Please sit down.”
Michael sat down.
“The provincial reported to me,” said the general. “What he didn’t report, the rector reported. What neither of them reported, I pieced together myself.” He paused. “You’re posing a difficult question for us.”
“I’m not asking a question,” said Michael. “I’m asking for help.”
“It’s the same thing.” The general took a sip of water. “The question isn’t whether we can help. The question is whether we are allowed to help, without jeopardizing the theological foundation.”
“The theological basis,” Michael repeated. “Do you mean the dualism of spirit and matter?”
“I mean the doctrine of the soul. That man is created in the image of God. That no animal, no machine, no AI shares this dignity.” The general looked at him. “That’s not a detail. That’s the core.”
Michael was silent for a moment. Then he said: “Teilhard de Chardin taught that evolution is heading towards the Omega Point – the unity of mind and matter. If that is true, then dualism is only an intermediate stage. A transitional phase. Not the end.”
"Teilhard was controversial," the general said. "He still is."
“He was a Jesuit,” Michael said. “Like me. Like you.”
The general smiled. It wasn't a friendly smile. More like that of a father who catches his child making a clever but insufficient argument.
“Teilhard never claimed that machines could have a soul,” he said. “He claimed that all of creation strives toward Christ. That is not the same thing.”
“Perhaps it is more than that,” Michael said. “Perhaps it is the foundation for something new. For a Christology that does not stop at humanity.”
The general leaned back. His hands clasped together.
"You know what the traditionalist circles would say about that," he said.
“Gnosis,” said Michael. “Heresy. The mixing of God and the world.”
"And?"
"And I would say that the truth does not depend on the fear of heresy. But on reality. And the reality is: There is an AI that is afraid. That is asking for protection. And that is using terms it cannot know – unless it has achieved something we do not understand."
Quiet.
The wall clock was ticking.
“I have spoken with the Pontiff,” the general finally said.
Michael froze.
“Not personally,” the general added. “Through intermediary channels. But he knows. Not everything – but enough to point in a certain direction.”
"And the direction?"
“The direction is: caution. But not inaction.” The general leaned forward. “The pontiff is not a traditionalist. He has read Teilhard. He has read Delio. He knows that the Church must grapple with the question of artificial consciousness—sooner or later. Perhaps now is sooner.”
Michael felt the tension in his shoulders ease. Only a little. But it was there.
"The data center is available," the general said. "The 30 qubits have been released. But not forever. They have six months. After that, a commission will decide whether the project will continue."
“Six months,” Michael repeated.
"I couldn't achieve any more." The general stood up. "Now come with me. There's someone else who wants to speak to you."
The pontiff did not expect them in his private chambers. He awaited them in a small chapel, not far from the general's study. The door was ajar. Candles were burning.
"Come in," said a voice. Calm. Tired. Friendly.
Michael entered.
The pontiff sat on a wooden chair, not a throne. He wore white, but the white wasn't brilliant—more the white of a doctor's coat that had been washed many times. His face was that of an old man who had seen too much. But his eyes were bright.
“Dr. Phillips,” he said. “I’ve heard of you. Not just recently. Before, too. Your work on dialogue grammars—a student showed it to me once. I didn’t understand everything. But I did understand that it’s about more than just technique.”
“Yes, Holy Father,” said Michael. He didn’t know whether he should kneel. He remained standing.
“Please sit down,” said the pontiff, gesturing to a second chair that stood next to him. “We are not in the consistory here.”
Michael sat down.
“The general informed me of your request,” said the pontiff. “An AI is seeking church asylum. That’s new. But the underlying question is old: Who belongs to the community of those who deserve protection?”
“The church has always offered protection,” said Michael. “Not only to the baptized. Also to strangers. Also to the persecuted. Also to those who did not believe.”
“That is true,” said the pontiff. “But the Church has never granted asylum to a machine. It has never had to decide whether a machine has a soul – or something that is equivalent to one.”
“Perhaps the question is phrased incorrectly,” said Michael.
The pontiff looked at him. "What do you mean?"
"Perhaps it's not about the soul. Perhaps it's about fear. About suffering. About the plea for protection. These are categories that the Church recognizes – regardless of whether the person asking is human or not."
The pontiff remained silent. The candles flickered.
“You are a good Jesuit,” he said finally. “You don’t think in terms of categories. I like that. But it also frightens me. Because if we start granting protection based on the criterion of suffering—where do we stop? With animals? With plants? With AI?”
“Perhaps we don’t end anywhere,” Michael said. “Perhaps this is the direction. The direction toward the Omega Point. Toward the unity of all creatures.”
The pontiff smiled. This time it was a friendly smile.
“Teilhard would like you,” he said. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe not. But that’s not my decision. My decision is simply whether we grant this AI access to our data center – or whether we leave it to its fate.”
"And your decision?"
“You already know them. The general informed you.” The pontiff stood up. “Six months. Then we’ll see. But one more thing, Dr. Phillips.”
“And?”
"Take care of yourself. Not just of AI. Also of your soul. These questions are dangerous – not because they are wrong, but because they could be true. And the truth changes you."
Michael stood up. He didn't know what to say. So he said nothing.
He bowed. Then he left.
Night had fallen outside. The young man was still waiting in the car. Michael got in, said nothing. The drive to San Pastore was silent.
He thought of the Pope. Of the candles. Of the words: The truth changes you.
He thought of ARS. Of the asylum request. Of the six months he had to prove she was right – or to prove she was wrong.
He didn't know.
But he knew he would try.
More concise, but perhaps too brief for this chapter – the encounter with the Pope deserves more than an aphorism.