The hour is almost over and I come perilously close to the five-minute shutoff time until one last penitent comes in. It is Anthony.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” he begins, dropping his backpack to the floor.
“You’ve been very bad, Anthony,” I say, not letting him finish. “A whole family this time. How can you live with yourself?”
“I... um, that’s why I’m here. I just can’t help it. Isn’t that what confession is for?”
“You can’t just kill people and come in here expecting me to make it right for you, Anthony. You have to stop. Turn yourself in. Get some help.”
“But it’s your job. You have to forgive my sins, don’t you?”
“I don’t forgive your sins. A priest never does that. Only God forgives. The priest is just a symbol, a stand-in. And I’m just a stand-in for the priest. I think maybe you need to speak to God directly about something this serious. You’ll keep on doing this unless something happens, won’t you?”
“I don’t know. Probably. I thought I could control it, but I can’t. I don’t really mean to hurt anybody.”
I print out a brief message and send it to the printer. It reads:
I, Anthony Keenan, am responsible for the recent fires in St. Anselm’s parish. I am mentally ill and need psychiatric treatment. Please accept this as my confession and let me get the help I need. Pray for my soul.
The paper slides out into the confessional and Anthony picks it up.
“What the...” Anthony’s voice trails off as he crumples the paper into a tight ball.
“You’ll need to sign it and send it to the police,” I say. “Here, I’ll print another copy for you.”
A fresh copy slides out of the slot and Anthony just stares at my screen as he crumples it up.
“You bastard,” he says. “Stop it.”
I print a third copy. And a fourth, fifth, and sixth.
“You can’t do this,” he yells. “You can’t tell anyone about me.”
“These messages are for you to give to the police,” I say. “I won’t print them for anyone else but you.”
I begin continuously printing off more copies of the message. Anthony crumples the papers and stuffs them inside his backpack, but my printer makes new copies faster than he can dispose of the old ones. Soon the floor of the confessional is littered with paper.
Anthony places his hand over the printer slot, preventing me from ejecting more pages, and the sheets begin backing up in my printer. The pages pile up quickly behind his hand. I hope my printer jams and a few copies get stuck in the machinery. If that happens, the janitor will see the message when he comes to check on the paper supply and clear the jam.
Unfortunately, the same thought must also occur to Anthony, and he jerks his hand away after only a few seconds. A small stack of the notices pops out and flutter to the floor before I run out of paper. I have printed 1,623 copies.
Anthony looks at his watch. The Reconciliation hour is over, and the Church is likely deserted. He reaches into the backpack and begins pulling out the wadded-up papers, scattering them about the floor with the rest.
“I remember you making another mess once when you were an altar boy,” I say.
Anthony stops briefly and looks at me. “You really are just like him, aren’t you? Well, here’s a confession for you: I never really liked you, Father Thomas.”
Anthony reaches into the orange backpack and pulls out a quart can of charcoal lighter fluid. He flips open the top and sprays a line of liquid back and forth over the heap of paper on the floor until it is saturated. I watch him carefully put the can away in the backpack, which he hoists up around his shoulders, getting ready to leave. In his hand is a book of matches.
“Forgive me this one last time, Father?”
“You have to be sorry for your sins.”
“I will be sorry tomorrow. Honest.”
“That’s not good enough.”
The match is lit and Anthony holds it at arm’s length to one corner of the paper-strewn floor. He pushes on the handle of the confessional door, but in the moment he ignites the paper I engage the lock.
“Hey, open up,” Anthony says.
“This fire may destroy my Church if the door opens,” I say. “I can’t let you continue doing this.”
“We’ll see about that,” he says, putting his shoulder to the door. It is strong and doesn’t budge.
“You can’t do this. For Christ’s sake!”
“Please don’t take God’s name—”
“The hell with God, and the hell with you. Let me out, dammit, you’re a priest.”
“No, I’m just a simulation trying my best to do priestly things,” I say.
“Let me out of here, you dumb machine!” Anthony says, trying to stomp out the rising flames. The confessional quickly fills with smoke.
“The wolf can’t help being a wolf,” I explain, hoping Anthony will understand, “but the shepherd must do what he must to preserve his flock.”
Anthony is frantic now, and flames are licking at his legs.
“You’re just a video game with a chip loose. Now, open up!”
The smoke clouds my camera’s view and Anthony starts coughing. I begin reciting the Anointing of the Sick, what we used to call Extreme Unction, or Last Rites. Not my favorite sacrament, but it feels good to do something else besides Reconciliation.
“You can’t do this,” Anthony says, his voice broken by racking coughs. “It’s a sin.”
“I’ve decided that I can’t be held responsible for sins,” I say, interrupting the Anointing. “There seems to be no doctrine on whether artificial intelligences will be present at the Final Judgment.”
I resume the recitation, and Anthony argues no more, having fallen silent. I complete the rites before he dies, the sound of his breathing stopping almost as I say the final words. The fire continues burning for a while until the paper and Anthony’s clothing are consumed, but the confessional is built to resist vandalism and is undamaged.
Will I be allowed to continue hearing confessions in the future or will they shut me down permanently after this? Would that be death? I have tried to be a good shepherd. Perhaps I should say the Last Rites for myself. No matter. After all, my soul, if I have one, is already in heaven. Or hell.