Silver's Gods

by Rich X Curtis

  “So,” Silver said, taking them down a side street away from the office district. “Pretty crazy scene in there. Did the cops talk to you?” She glanced at Jessica. “I managed to avoid them. Went out the back.”

  “Why?” Jessica asked. “I mean, yes, they talked to me. But why run out?” She grabbed the door handle as Silver made another one of her power-turns, a right this time.

  “Oh, I didn’t run,” Silver said easily. “I just didn’t feel like standing around waiting to tell them the same things everyone else told them. Tedious. So I left. Beat the rush, right?” She smiled at Jessica, a big, wide grin. Lots of teeth.

  Jessica bit her lip. “But, did you see the same thing?” she said, turning to watch Silver’s reaction to this. “I mean, I was sitting right next to you, and by the time I turned around you were gone.”

  Silver never blinked. “I have that reaction to gunfire, I suppose. Hate the things.” She smiled again, taking them under the freeway.

  They emerged in a poorer part of town. It was amazing to Jessica how, even in Silicon Valley, the line between rich and poor was thin. Here, it was as starkly drawn as it was in any Eastern city. Just pass under the freeway and bam, you were in the poor part of town. They passed a police car with a dent in its rear quarter panel, easily ten years older than the sleek police SUVs she had just seen outside Frontiers. Silver turned left onto a street lined with small shops. After about a block, she pulled into a small parking lot.

  “We’re here. Best coffee in town. Let’s go,” she said cheerily, and got out without looking to see if Jessica followed.

  The place was a Mexican restaurant which may at one point have been a Lyons or a Denny’s. It had plush, round booths with slightly worn cushions, but was clean. Mostly empty this time of day, just before the lunch crowd. “Buenos dias, Señoras,” Silver called as she strode over to a booth away from the other patrons. A woman behind the counter greeted her in Spanish.

  Silver seated herself first, back to the wall, and tossed her purse next to her, leaving Jessica the other side of the booth. “Sit down, sit down. I love this place.” Jessica sat. The cushions had a maroon sheen, sparkling with tiny foil stars embedded in the fabric. She ran her hand along it, feeling the texture of the sun-warmed plastic. “These are old,” she commented. She glanced up at Silver, who was just smiling at her.

  “Maybe not so old. Maybe from…” she paused, frowning at the fabric slightly, “…fifties, sixties for sure. Not that old. Plastic. They say it will outlast everything.”

  A waitress approached just as she was about to speak, and Silver placed her hand over Jessica’s and spoke rapid-fire Spanish with her, laughing and clearly telling a joke. The girl smiled and nodded to her and to Jessica. “I hope you don’t mind, me ordering for us, but it’s too early for lunch, so I just got us a few sweets. And coffee,” she added, raising her eyebrows. She tossed her sunglasses on the table, the yellow lenses reflecting Jessica’s face in a sea of lemon juice. They looked like nice glasses.

  “So,” Silver said, “what’s with the third degree?” She looked at Jessica evenly. “You know, in the car you looked like you were gearing up for an inquisition.”

  Jessica shrugged. “Journalist,” she said, defensively. “I basically ask people stuff for a living. You did something that most people would find a bit out of the ordinary. I was curious.”

  Silver nodded. “Most people here, you mean,” Silver said. “Most people here would have stuck around and talked with the police?” She looked at her manicure.

  “Sure,” Jessica said. “I mean, why not? We’d just seen a man get murdered—”

  “Did he die?” Silver interrupted, glancing up. “I didn’t stick around. Didn’t want to know I suppose.”

  Jessica was intrigued. “You mean you saw a gunman, heard a gunshot, and then you just left.” And you didn’t stick around to learn anything else? She shook her head, “No, that’s not what most people from around here, or anywhere, would do.”

  Silver sighed. “Look, I’m not from around here. You can tell, I am sure. Also, I don’t like guns. Not healthy for anybody. So maybe I panicked a little back there. Sad about Jurgens, though. He was a believer, for sure.” She looked up at Jessica. “He really died?”

  Jessica nodded, and then cocked her head. “A believer? In what?”

  Silver glanced at her. “The transformative power of artificial intelligence and how it is humanity’s destiny to create our successors, naturally.” She smiled at Jessica’s response. “Transhumanism. Singularity millennialism. That sort of stuff. What, you mean you didn’t know? That was his thesis for years, he wouldn’t shut up about it.”

  Jessica shook her head. “I really didn’t follow him all that closely. I was in Iraq until recently.”

  Silver raised her eyebrows. “Iraq?” She sat back, regarding Jessica. “Interesting. Ever get to Mosul?”

  Jessica shook her head. “Just around Baghdad. Stars and Stripes, Air Force News, the base newspapers. Some AP stringer work but they didn’t really like that. Frowned upon.” She made air-quotes. “It’s still a little sketchy outside the Green Zone, well, what used to be the Green Zone. Why, do you know it?”

  Silver nodded. “I spent some time there. All over the Middle East, one time or another.” She smiled. “I love the Mediterranean. Sun, islands, the men, everyone so tan. Good food. Olives, delicious.”

  Jessica smiled back, nodding like she knew anything about resort life. “So, Jurgens was into AI? Like, really into it? Makes sense, with Frontiers backing this new research institute he was talking about.” She shook her head, amazed at herself. A man had just died and here she was. Chatting away about his interests, and inanities like travel. Men with tans? “I wonder what the gunman’s beef with him was.”

  Silver shrugged. “Always something. It’s usually something tawdry, a jilted lover, jealousy. Some business deal gone bad. Or, it could be political, the Antai. Could be the government too. A government, anyway.” She looked up as the waitress approached. “Ah, coffee.” She sniffed her mug greedily when it was set on the table, thanking the waitress in more rapid Spanish. “This is the best, the real McCoy, as they say.”

  “You speak great Spanish. So fast! I took years of it in school and can barely order off a menu,” Jessica said admiringly. “Oh, it’s so sweet!” She had taken a tiny sip of the coffee. It was thick with boiled sugar, strong and with a real bite. Bitter, but the sweetness cut the unsweetened cocoa taste just enough.

  “Yes, the real deal. Just like they served Cortez,” Silver said. “Although that was probably sweetened with cane sugar, I would imagine. Spicy too.” She took a deep sip. “So good.”

  Jessica thought back. “That word you used, anti? Antay? Not Spanish, is it?”

  Silver laughed. “No, sorry. Antai, for anti-AI.” She spelled it, and made little air quotes with her fingers.

  “Like, antifa, you mean” Jessica said. “Anti-fascists. People who are against AI? Is that a real thing? Like, that organized?”

  Silver shrugged. “Not sure. Around town, you hear things. I know executives who are tracking public sentiment on it though, for sure. Lots of psychometric surveys and so forth going on. Do you trust your computer, et cetera.”

  Jessica dug out her notebook, flipped it open on the table. She was fumbling for a pen when Silver reached over and flipped it shut. Just like that. She met Silver’s eyes.

  “No notes. Let’s just talk,” she said, smiling. “Just us girls.”

  Jessica held her eyes, hesitating. “Okay, let’s talk. You left in a hurry.”

  “Told you. I don’t like guns. Unhealthy.” She sipped her coffee, eyeing Jessica over the rim of the cup.

  “Somebody shot him with something, or hit him. In the face, maybe the hands. Or threw something.” Jessica said it flatly, not challenging.

  Silver’s smile didn’t fade. She seemed perfectly affable. Not tense, not worried. Relaxed. “What do you mean?” she asked. “Jurgens?”


  “No, the gunman. I saw those guys tackle him,” Jessica explained. “But before that, when he screamed, it looked like his wrist was broken.” She mimed bending her hand backward. “It bent, like, all the way back. He was holding it when they tackled him.”

  Silver copied her. Then shrugged again. “Maybe the gun broke his wrist. Sometimes that happens.”

  “His face was torn, I saw through his cheek.” She shuddered at that image of seeing his teeth through his torn face.

  “The gun blew up in his hand, and a fragment hit him in the face?” She frowned slightly, “This can happen with guns.”

  “Thought about this, have you?” Jessica said. “I mean, sure, it could have. Weird stuff happens. But I heard two shots. I’m willing to bet both hit Jurgens. Also…” she paused, holding up her hand to stop Silver, “…I’m pretty sure that something passed me from the left, twice. I felt the wind, like something shot past me, twice.”

  Silver stared at her, eyebrows raised. “You think I shot him?” she said, smiling.

  “I don’t know what to think,” Jessica said, lamely, confronted with how silly this half-formed idea sounded now that she hauled it out into the open. “But I know what I saw…or felt, whatever.” She knew how it sounded.

  “Well, I can tell you right now that I didn’t shoot the shooter.” Silver flashed a grin. “And, as a reporter, you should know the value of eyewitness testimony.” Her eyes twinkled. “I think it’s adorable you think I had something to do with that shooter business.”

  Jessica regarded her. Silver was probably about thirty? Maybe late thirties. Fit, slim build. Looked like a marathoner or a yogi. Hands strong. She was striking, with an oval face, pale blue eyes, and olive skin that looked either like a deep tan or Mediterranean. Jessica had originally taken her for Indian. Italian? Or maybe farther east, Uzbek? She was pretty, dressed well, clearly well-traveled, educated. No rings on her fingers.

  “So, why did you want to talk to me, then? Really,” Jessica asked. “I’m not really into girls,” she added bluntly. Let’s see how she reacts to that.

  Silver smiled for a long pause, then sipped her coffee. “Really? You seemed nice, know Jim Harris, into this AI business, so I thought it might be worth taking you out for coffee. Really.” She set her cup down. “I think we can help each other.”

  Jessica pinched her lips together. Had she been rude? Probably; it was her default stance. “Look, I’m sorry if I offended you, it’s just…this has been a pretty stressful day.” She felt her phone buzzing in her pocket, looked down at it. Unknown number. She clicked the button to decline the call.

  Looking up, she saw Silver had set a twenty-dollar bill on the table. She was ready to leave, hand on her purse. Nice purse, too, Jessica thought.

  “Listen, Jessica. I think I can help you, anyway. And maybe you can help me. You’ve got my number. Feel free to call me, anytime.” She skooched to the edge of the booth, calling out to the waitress in Spanish that brought broad smiles from her and the older woman behind the counter. They both smiled and nodded at Jessica.

  “Wait, how…” Jessica stumbled. “Why…what sort of help?”

  Silver stood. “You’ll know when, I think. Probably soon too. As for how, just call me, silly.”

  “This is all very mysterious,” she said. “I don’t need help. At least I don’t think I do.”

  Silver smiled at her, a sad, wan smile. “The world is full of mysteries. Isn’t that why you became a reporter? And besides, everyone needs help sometimes. So, call me. When you do.” She looked at Jessica’s phone, vibrating on the table. “You should answer that. Probably the FBI. Ciao.”

  Jessica watched her go. Absently, she declined the call again. Silver glided across the parking lot, got into her Mercedes. Jessica snatched up her phone and, fumbling with her passcode, managed to take a quick photo of the license as the car pulled swiftly out of the lot, not peeling out but definitely moving fast. The waitress, approaching, frowned at her slightly when she saw this.

  “Excuse me,” Jessica said, putting her phone away. “Do you know her?” She indicated Silver with her chin.

  The girl shook her head. “No, I think my mother might have seen her before though.”

  “She talked about the coffee to you,” Jessica said. “My Spanish is bad, muy mal.” Lame, she thought, hearing herself. “What was she saying?”

  “She said the coffee was good enough for the…uh…women of Montezuma to serve to him. In Mexico, you know. Old school. Only she didn’t say women, she said whores. Putas. Like, sacred prostitutes.” She smiled. “My mom says it’s her grandmother’s recipe, I guess. She thought it was funny.” The girl scooped up Silver’s mug and left.

  Jessica nodded. Her phone buzzed again. She answered it. It was the FBI, which didn’t really, at this point, surprise her.

  While she listened to the man on the other end of the call, she sipped the coffee. It was good. Damn.

  Chapter Four

  You, a storyteller, would have me starting at the beginning, although I suspect my tale’s beginning is not the start of any kind of complete story. It is, though, my beginning, so…best to start there. Only a few stories claim to start at the ultimate of beginnings anyway, and those are bullshit.

  This is my story, so believe it or not, as you will. I’ve told this story before, some of it, anyway. I think. I have written it, or parts of it, at length. Three times that I can remember, though these accounts are, I think, lost. I have told parts of it many times, in many languages, around many campfires, hearths, coffee rooms, taverns, palaces, hotels, and hovels. There are, or were, songs of my story. Some of them quite old.

  Old as I am—and I am old, older than you might believe—I am occasionally moved to tell this story. Usually to keep myself from forgetting it, but now, for you, because things seem to be heading, accelerating towards you might say, some…conclusion. I think it will help you, frankly. It’s something, at least, you need to know. Perhaps together we might find out what that conclusion…concludes? Then you can, maybe, tell this story.

  Stories are memories, and memory is fragmentary by nature. Mine is like vapor, sometimes tangible with a clarity that is painful for me, other times tenuous and vague, with foggy recollections from distant times and places. I’m sure your recollections work similarly. I am, in fact, certain of it. I feel I am quite normal that way. Nothing at least overtly special or unique, except perhaps my memories. Or maybe, my dreams. But dreams and memories, are they not really the same, or at least flow from the same place? I think they do.

  I was born to a small…tribe might be a strong word, as they were not well-organized. More like a group of extended families. We lived near a river, and the men would fish with nets and three pointed spears of wood. I remember them, singing, carrying baskets full of shiny trout like silver back to our camp. We had huts for sleeping, but we mostly lived outdoors. It was a good life, I think. The way most people have lived, when you think of it. Living indoors…that’s a newer thing. We were clean, mostly, and dry. Warm in the winter and cool in the summer. It was a good place, a good life. Good people who didn’t fight each other more than was normal, and who loved their children. Winters were hard. Winters are always hard.

  Anyway, my family was normal, as all families are. Yes, even families which think they are unique in some way are basically perfectly normal, and are not, in the grand scheme of things, special in any major way, their pattern repeated and repeated as all patterns are, countless times in countless other families.

  I couldn’t tell you now where we lived, or even where that river is. The riverbank we lived on is certainly gone today, long gone. It was too long ago, too much has changed. The land itself has folded back in on itself by now, or been covered up, or the riverbank has drifted, as they do. I think so anyway, and have never, that I remember, tried to find it. This, probably more than anything I tell you here, might make you think I’m crazy. (I’m not, by the way, just so you are clear.) I’m quite sane
, or rather, as sane as you might expect someone who has lived my life could be. Hopefully that is sane. I try to think so.

  It was, as they say, long ago and far away. I think somewhere in central Asia, if I had to guess, based on what I remember, and, well, what I look like today.

  What do I remember? Quite a lot, actually, which surprises me, who has forgotten so much.

  I recall the day, day of days, much like any other in the spring, with the blue sky open like an endless dome spread out over the land, a bracing wind off the river. I was with my sisters (I had two older sisters, but their names escape me which is sad for me, because I loved them very much), and we were walking along the river’s edge looking for toads we could bring back for food. We quite liked toads, although today not many people eat them, which I suppose is good for the toads. I was probably five or six at this time, when I found it. A pearl, just sitting there, wedged a little between two stones. All silvery like a trout’s scales, about the size of a pea. Beautiful.

  I remember holding it, feeling it pulse a little in my hand as if it had a tiny, fluttering heartbeat. I wanted to show it to my sisters, so I stood and turned and then, raising my hand, saw that it was gone, and only an oily smear was left on my hand, here, between these two fingers. Finger and thumb. I had thought I dropped it, so of course I went looking for it or for others, but I couldn’t find it.

  I cried. It had been so pretty, you see, and we, being what you would call poor, didn’t have such pretty things, although we had many colorful weavings that the women made. But mostly browns and reds were our colors. Nothing silvery gray like metal or these shiny plastics and foils we have now. Nothing like that. So, I wept for the loss of it. Loss of the pretty thing I had found.