Jun 6th, 2180
He awoke yet kept his eyes firmly shut. Sensors scattered in the air, perhaps even nestled against his skin, had undoubtedly signaled to Janice that he was conscious. This information, he was aware, was accessible to anyone who sought it, yet he clung to the solace that his thoughts remained his alone, inscribed only at his behest. Exercising caution, he knew that any inquiry posed to Janice was not a confidential exchange; invisible spectators were a constant. When contemplating matters he needed to understand without unveiling his true intent, he grappled with the necessity of approaching Janice indirectly, navigating a tortuous path of abstract questions. This strategy grated against his innate honesty.
"Janice," he began, the weight of his words deliberate as his eyes remained closed, "the ritual of confession assumes absolute privacy. Is there a means to create a confessional space that remains undisturbed between occupants? An enclave untouched by recordings or observations, even yours?"
"A detached JANKI could oversee such an environment. Some Immortals make use of privacy field chambers already," Janice informed him coolly. "There, I only receive the signal to deactivate. You may find others resistant, however, to stepping into such seclusion."
"Would it be akin to going deaf and mute?"
"Precisely," Janice confirmed. "The occupants would lose their link to me, a presence they've known since their inception."
"Such a loss might impart a lesson in austerity. A threshold to cross for Seelenfokus," Péiter mused aloud, his tone still measured. He let the concept simmer, aware it would catch the attention of his unseen observers. The human appetite for overcoming challenges in displays of pious fervor intrigued him, having seen entire religions founded on far less.
Time passed as Péiter devoted himself to prayers, silent contemplation, and meticulous planning. Hours later, he opened his eyes— orbs mirroring the warm hues of dry beach sand flecked with gold—gazing intently at the void he pictured Janice to inhabit.
"Janice, it's time we created this confessional," Péiter declared with newfound resolve.
"Your wish is my command; you need only have asked," Janice replied, her voice unwavering.
"In my vision, the switch for this space is here, within this room," he explained. "I envision an actual, physical toggle—large and tangible. One that responds to voice commands to engage, but requires manual effort to disengage."
"Such a mechanism is highly unorthodox," Janice observed, a hint of curiosity in her otherwise even tone. "Physical switches are a rarity in the colonies, with most opting for voice activation or thought control."
Ignoring her skepticism, Péiter tapped on a spot on the wall, his finger anticipating the addition. A recessed panel appeared, housing a red, levered toggle switch, 25mm by 30mm in size.
"You may find the use of the Halo more efficient," suggested Janice.
"Yet there's an inherent beauty to words," Péiter countered. "Regarding the switch, the 'on' position will be down, and it will require a firm action to flip it 'off.'"
"Assuming the 'on' state generates a privacy field, have you considered how the confines will be managed?" Janice pressed, her voice tinged with pragmatic concern.
"Our needs within are modest. Should any special requirements arise, we can momentarily disable the field," he assured her casually.
"You seem to have overlooked functions such as language translation," Janice pointed out.
Péiter's expression went blank for a moment, caught off-guard. "Your point is well-taken. What do you propose?"
"You'll require a JANKI," Janice advised.
"And is such a JANKI essentially... you in another form?" Péiter inquired, threading skepticism into his query.
"Some might say so, though there are versions that operate mechanically," Janice clarified. "However, you'll need one with substantial complexity."
"If it embodies your essence, does that not undermine our objective?" he challenged.
"I am vast; I contain multitudes," came Janice's cryptic reply. "It is a fragment of the Eververse—a segment of my code in its own isolated region."
"Is it possible to design it so that it erases itself completely when deactivated, restarting anew with each engagement?" Péiter pressed further.
"That approach is... conceivable," Janice conceded with a hint of reluctance. "Though highly inefficient, it will not evolve or improve in its service to you."
"Nor will it retain any memory. That is precisely the point," he affirmed.
"Fine-tuning such an intricate construct is quite a feat," Janice informed him. "While I've conceptualized the design, the fabricators will need the better part of an hour to materialize and install it."
"Somehow, it's comforting that not everything occurs instantaneously," Péiter reflected with a faint smile.
"Complex constructs within the Eververse do indeed take time," Janice concluded, her voice echoing a note of finality.
The silence that ensued seemed to stretch and unfurl itself. Then Péiter broke it, feeding his curiosity while his voice hinted at introspection. "I contain multitudes... that is Walt Whitman, isn't it?"
His question seemed to hover in the air, carrying with it both contemplation and a trace of challenge.
"With your BioNano-enhanced memory, Péiter, the accuracy of your recall is impeccable," Janice replied, her tone suggesting a smile if such a thing were possible for an AI. "If you already know enough to question, then you inherently know the affirmation as well. But your query intrigues me—why ask if you're certain of the answer?"
"Perhaps the factoid was imparted to me by a source less reliable than you," Péiter deflected with a rhetorical shrug.
Janice obliged with a brief yet comprehensive elucidation. "'I contain multitudes' indeed hails from the venerable bard Walt Whitman in his magnum opus 'Song of Myself,' first introduced to the world in 1855. The verse resonates deeply with the vastness and variegated tapestry of one’s identity, anchoring the notion that each entity—complex and manifold—is an assemblage of assorted thoughts, sentiments, and sagas."
Péiter absorbed the AI's explanation, contemplation furrowing his brow as he chewed over Whitman's wisdom.
The stillness of the room was punctured once more as Janice broached the silence. "This is an intriguing notion. If I utilize a segregated enclave of the Eververse within the bounds of the privacy field and it undergoes a complete purge prior to the field's dissolution, there will be no need for you to depend on my word—I would be physically incapable of observation, and unable to retrieve the events afterward," Janice mused. The subtle inflections in her synthetic voice wove a tapestry of feigned astonishment at her deduction, a calculated nuance hinting at her complex programming.
"That's perfect," Péiter affirmed, his tone flush with satisfaction. He embraced the idea, its mechanics, and its implications—a layer of certainty in an uncertain domain.
"May I propose a failsafe?" Janice interjected, the tilt in her inflection suggesting urgency. "Should a scenario arise that leaves you both unconscious or incapacitated, might I have the JANKI instantiate a simulacrum to deactivate the field?"
Péiter paused, mulling over the proposition. He retreated into a temporary silence, cognizant of the weight of the decision. In the quiet, he contemplated Janice's perception of time—did the AI experience impatience? Did the seconds stretch for her as they did for him? After several moments, he articulated his consent, "I can accept that compromise. It sounds like a reasonable precaution. Program the JANKI to sound an alarm, both visual and auditory, and allow for a delay before it toggles the switch off."
"Yet, several seconds could mean the difference between life and death," Janice argued, her tone pragmatic yet firm.
"Don't press the issue; I'm already entertaining enough of your paranoia," Péiter retorted, slightly amused yet resolute. "We are, after all, remarkably resilient, are we not?" He imagined the void beyond his field of vision, silent and waiting, perhaps brooding in the stillness.
"And one last thing," he added, his voice echoing softly across the room, "imbue the room with a pale blue hue when the field is active."
He desperately wanted to ask how many people were watching but he didn't want his audience to know he cared about such things. It was important that they strove to be accepted.
A half-hour later, Péiter was enjoying a Reuben sandwich—the construction of which was replicated from his mind exactly as his mother used to make them—when Janice announced that the confessional was ready.
"One more thing," Péiter said, pausing to savor another bite of his sandwich before continuing. "I'd like a permanent corridor, about 10 meters long, with a hard wooden bench that runs from the door to the end."
"If you are anticipating a queue, I assure you that everything operates like clockwork here," Janice replied, a hint of reassurance in her voice.
"Confessions cannot be scheduled—they take as long as they take. And if someone desires the next spot, they'll wait for it. Also, when privacy is on, I want the door to vanish completely," Péiter asserted, his tone firm on the matter. "And include a counter inside, somewhere discreet, which tells me how many people are watching. I need to see that number drop to nil when active." As he articulated the request, he told himself that the rationale was a fabrication, but a necessary one—a lie for the greater good.