# Return trip to Rome and Pompeii

The train pulled out of Milan on time. Michael and Martina sat in the dining car, a few empty tables between them and the other passengers. Outside, Lombardy rolled by – flat fields, scattered farmhouses, a grey sky.

"You need to go to the doctor," said Martina.

Michael took a sip of coffee. "I know."

"You've been saying that for weeks."

"I know that too."

She looked at him. He looked back. It wasn't a competition, but an old habit – a mutual testing of whether the other was serious.

"I'm leaving," said Michael. "I promise."

Martina nodded. She didn't quite believe him, but she decided to let it go for now.

"The simulation is impressive," Michael said after a while. He wanted to change the subject. But he also wanted to talk about it—about what they had seen.

“Yes,” said Martina. “The architecture, the people on the streets, the hustle and bustle. This will be a boon for school and university students. And for archaeology, too.”

"But?"

"But you're thinking about something else."

Michael hesitated. Then he said, "Marcus warned me about Ampliatus."

Martina put down her cup. "What do you think?"

“I asked him for directions. He replied: ‘Numerius Popidius Ampliatus malus est. De eo te moneo.’ – Ampliatus is evil. I warn you about him.”

"That's not in your dialogue grammar."

“No. That’s something different. Something that Marcus learned himself – or that ARS gave him.”

Martina remained silent. The train entered a tunnel. The lights flickered.

“ARS didn’t answer my question about the agents’ level of consciousness,” Michael continued. “Instead, she said she would send a carrier pigeon. That’s a backdoor—an order I gave her to receive encrypted messages. But ARS interpreted it as an independent routine procedure. That wasn’t the plan.”

"You built a backdoor into an AI?" Martina asked. She didn't sound accusatory. More curious.

“In case something goes wrong,” Michael said. “I didn’t know she would use them until something went wrong.”

The train left the tunnel. There was light outside again.

“You all think like humanists,” Martina said suddenly.

Michael looked at her. "What do you mean?"

“You. Your Teilhard de Chardin. Your Nell-Breuning. Your entire Catholic social teaching. You are moral, you are ethical, but ultimately you are always only concerned with the individual. The distant individual. Not the individual close to you—the one you live with.” She paused. “Mama always knew that.”

"Leave Julia out of it," Michael said. But his voice wasn't sharp. More like tired.

“Why? She’s right. It’s easy to stand up for those you’re not competing with. And it’s hard to stand up for those who are your equals. Those you’re competing with for the same things.” Martina turned the coffee mug in her hands. “What’s the point of advocating for sentient software agents if you have a secure life—like we do—and accept the suffering and injustice of others as long as you’re doing well yourself?”

Michael said nothing.

He thought of the homeless man in Milan. Of the confession. Of the shining eyes. Of the words: You look very much like someone.

“You’re right,” he finally said. “It’s a matter of consistency. You can’t advocate for artificial intelligence and at the same time ignore the homeless people on the street.”

“That’s not the same,” said Martina.

"Yes. It's exactly the same."

They remained silent. The train continued on its way. A conductor came by, checked the tickets, and disappeared again.

As the train pulled into Roma Termini, Michael stood up. He picked up his bag, then hesitated.

„Martina.“

“And?”

"Take care of yourself. Not just the agents. You too."

She smiled. It was a tired smile, but a genuine one.

"You too," she said.

He got off. The train continued on – to Naples, to Pompeii.

Michael stood on the platform, watched the train disappear, and thought about what she had said. What is the cost of suffering software agents when you have a secure life?

He didn't know the answer. But he knew he had to find it.

Martina sat alone in the compartment. She had drawn the curtain, but light shone through a crack. She thought of Michael. Of her mother. Of the letter.

IRARAH.

She didn't know what that meant. But she knew it concerned her in some way.

She closed her eyes.

She dreamed of flying over Pompeii. Of the rooftops, the streets, the people walking below, unaware that they were being watched. She dreamed of Michael – how he floated beside her, arms outstretched, calm and focused. And she dreamed of her mother, standing at the window, gazing into the night.

The train stopped in Naples. Martina woke up.

She was in Pompeii.