No. What Cam needs is some meat-and-potatoes dogma that can give him a concrete yes or no.
There’s a Catholic church a few blocks away. An old one with impressive stained-glass windows. He puts together from his internal community a sizeable posse of believers—enough to give him a sense of reverence and awe as he steps into the sanctuary.
There are a few people present. Mass is over, and confessions are winding down. Cam knows what he has to do.
• • •
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“Tell me your sins, child.”
“I’ve broken things. I’ve stolen things. Electronics. A car—maybe two. I may have become violent with a girl once. I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure? How could you not be sure?”
“None of my memories are complete.”
“Son, you can confess only to the things you remember.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Father. I have no complete memories. Just bits and pieces.”
“Well, I’ll accept your confession, but it sounds like you need something more than the sacrament of the confessional.”
“It’s because the memories are from other people.”
“ . . .”
“Did you hear me?”
“So you’ve received bits of the unwound?”
“Yes, but—”
“Son, you can’t be held responsible for the acts of a mind that isn’t yours, any more than you can be responsible for the acts of a grafted hand.”
“I have a couple of those, too.”
“Excuse me?”
“My name is Camus Comprix. Does that name mean anything to you?”
“ . . .”
“I said my name is—”
“—yes, yes, I heard you, I heard you. I’m just surprised you’re here.”
“Because I’m soulless?”
“Because I very rarely hear confessions from public figures.”
“Is that what I am? A public figure?”
“Why are you here, son?”
“Because I’m afraid. I’m afraid that I might not . . . be . . . .”
“Your presence here proves you exist.”