“Priests, above everyone else, should be able to keep secrets.” Father John looked around him for a suitable perch, and Petrovitch rolled his eyes: servos whirred, and tiny pumps squeezed some more moisture out to coat the hard surfaces of the implants.

“It’s not comfortable for me, and I don’t care if it is for you. I have somewhere else to be soon enough, so you haven’t got me for long.”

The father crouched down on his haunches and tried to sit. He started to slip, and Petrovitch’s arm slammed, not gently, across his chest. It forced him onto his backside.

“Plant your feet, you mudak. Be certain.” When he was sure the priest wasn’t going to start a landslide, he put his hand back in his lap. “It’s all about confidence, misplaced or otherwise.”

“A metaphor for your life?” Father John rocked slightly from side to side, trying and failing to create a buttock-shaped depression underneath him.

“Poydi’k chertu. It’s worked well enough so far.”

“So far,” said Father John, “but not any longer. You’re stuck, aren’t you?”

“Jebat moi lisiy cherep.”

“And if you’d stop swearing at me and listen, I might be able to help.” He risked falling to gesture at the people below. “So might they.”

“I…” started Petrovitch. He looked at the crowd. He zoomed in and panned across their faces. He could have, if he’d wanted, named every one of them from the Freezone database. “They come here, day after day, and they don’t say anything. None of them ever say what they want.”

“You must have some idea.”

“I haven’t got a yebani clue.” Petrovitch shrugged. “I’ve never been too good at the human stuff.”

“That much is true. Did it never occur to you to speak to them? That that’s what they’re expecting?”

Petrovitch’s mouth twitched again, and he pushed his finger up the bridge of his nose to adjust his non-existent glasses.

“What?”

“For the love of God, man.” It was the priest’s turn to be exasperated. “You might be reviled by every politician from the Urals westward, but they,” and he pointed downward again, “they love you. You saved them. Twice. The ones who actually think about it know they owe their lives to you. Even those that don’t think you’re a living saint are indebted to you to a degree that any leader, religious or secular, would give their eye teeth for.”

“I don’t ask for it or need it.”

“Yes, you do. You come up here every day and do this, this thing that you do. You know it’s futile, pointless even. You could have spent your time lobbying the EU, the UN, but as far as I know, you haven’t talked to anyone about what’s trapped under here.”

“Not what. Who. He has a name.” Petrovitch felt the old anger rise up, but he knew how to deal with it. Breathe slowly, control the spin of his heart, play a brainwave pattern designed to mimic relaxation.

“Michael,” said the father. “That girl said…”

“She has a name too. Lucy.”

The priest looked troubled for a moment.

“We’re not talking about Lucy now. Or ever. So stick to the subject because the clock’s ticking.”

“How long is it going to take you to dig out Michael from under here, using your bare hands?”

Petrovitch leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “When you say the magic words over your bread and wine, is it you who changes them to body and blood?” He knew he was on controversial territory, but he was doing more than enough to pay for the right, just by sitting and listening.

“No. It’s by the power of the Holy Spirit—not that I expect you to believe that.”

“So why say the words at all?”

“Because the words are important.”

“And you have the answer to your question.” Petrovitch stroked his nose. “This is a symbol.”

“But it has no efficacy.”

“What?”

“This. This throwing something down off this mountain. You’ll be dead before you finish and the A… and Michael will still be trapped. The sacraments have the power to save. This is nothing but an empty gesture.” Father John waved his hands in the air, to indicate just how great the nothingness was.

“One man’s empty gesture is another’s meaningful ritual.” Petrovitch pursed his lips. “You don’t want to go down that road. Not with me.”

The priest pulled a face. “Look, I’ve been sent here. Sent here to ask you a question, and this is the only time you’re ever alone.”

“It’s not like my answer is going to change in company.” His interest was piqued, though. “Who sent you?”

“The Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith.”

Petrovitch raised his eyebrows. “The Inquisition? That’s unexpected.”

“Give it a rest. They haven’t been called the Inquisition for over fifty years.”

“So what do they want?”

“They want to know whether Michael can be considered to be alive. And if he is, does he have a soul?”

“Really? He’s been trapped under this mound of rubble for almost a year and it’s only now they decide to take any notice. Where have they been?” He snorted. “Up their own collective zhopu?”

“I don’t expect you to understand,” said the priest. “They’ve been doing nothing but debate this since the Long Night. What if an AI shows signs of independent, creative thought? What if it can empathize? What if it has the capacity for generosity, altruism, compassion?”

“I could have given them the answers eleven months ago.”

“That’s not the point. They needed to decide theoretically about all those what-ifs. If it could, what should we do about it, if anything? They have,” and he hesitated, “a protocol they’ve drawn up. A sort of Turing test, except it doesn’t measure intelligence. It measures animus.”

“So the Vatican wants to know if Michael is a spiritual being, or the equivalent of meat.” Petrovitch blinked. “Yobany stos. They want to know if it can be saved.”

“Something like that. The Holy Father ratified the protocol last night. The Congregation called me straightaway. They haven’t been sitting on their hands; for the Church, this counts as indecent haste.”

Petrovitch considered matters, then made his decision.

“No,” he said.

“No? I haven’t even told you what the Congregation wants.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He got up and brushed the tails of his coat down. “The answer’s the same. I’m not playing.”

“If the Church declares Michael ensouled, then there’s a moral duty laid on every Catholic to help free it.” Father John tried to stand too, but Petrovitch had moved far enough away to be out of reach. The priest’s feet started to slide again. “I thought that’s what you wanted? You need us.”

“Yeah. So you say.” Petrovitch reached out and took hold of a broken iron beam. He knew it would take his weight, and he swung up on it. From there, he could regain the summit.

“Petrovitch! I thought you’d be pleased.”

That stopped him. He looked back over his shoulder and shook his head slowly. “What the huy made you think that? Listen to me, because I’m only going to waste my breath saying this once. I don’t care what a bunch of old men—and they are all men, aren’t they?—I don’t care what they say about Michael, whether they think he has a soul or not, whether he’s worthy enough to be freed or whether he’s going to be left here to rot for as long as his batteries last, slowly going mad in the dark. He is my friend, and I will not let him die. Vrubatsa?” He turned to leave, then realized he had one more thing to say.

“What?” said the priest.

“Stay away from Lucy. If I find you’ve so much as glanced in her direction, I’ll gut you from neck to navel with a rusty spoon. You can tell Cardinal Ximenez that, too.”

“That’s not…” Father John gave up. “You can’t stop them. Your cooperation is not necessary.”

This time, Petrovitch did give the priest his middle finger. “You’re about to find out just how wrong you are.” He climbed up, and out of sight.