Silver's Gods

by Rich X Curtis

  “But we’re not simply building better optimizers, better mundane robotics systems. No, not by a long shot.” He grinned, a schoolboy’s grin, as if he were hiding a secret he was about to reveal, she thought. “We’re advancing our fundamental understanding of consciousness itself. We don’t know, after centuries of study of the human brain and behavior, where consciousness resides, how it comes into being. We don’t know. We simply do not know. But we’re about to find out.”

  He squared against the stage, facing all of them. From where Jessica sat she could see he had reached a “T” of duct tape on the stage. He smiled widely, eyebrows raised, and clicked the remote. “FRONTIERS OF THE MIND” faded from black to large white text. “Today, it gives me great pleasure and, frankly, I am stone-cold humbled by this, to announce our latest initiative, Frontiers of the Mind.”

  “Frontiers of the Mind will take everything we’ve learned over the past five years about AI, and by recruiting top academic and industry talent, and…” He paused, grinning, “…spending an absolute fuck-ton of money…” He nodded as they laughed along with him. “We’re going to create the first general purpose intelligent system. We’re pleased to announce, that through the generous partnership of our government and private sponsors, we’re earmarking no less than 10 billion dollars against this effort, over the next few years.” There were audible gasps in the audience, as this sank in. Companies had spent money on AI before, but never this much. “Yes, that’s right folks, literally tons of cash are being invested here, invested on the premise that this system will be worth it and pay off a hundredfold, both in monetary and intangible benefits. Benefits for all of us, and all our children.”

  There was a shuffle behind Jessica, and she heard a woman behind and to the right of her mutter “What the…” Several things seemed to happen at once. In the time it took to turn her head, she saw a man rush towards the stage, a shadowy figure in a sport coat, raising his hand towards Jurgen. There was a flash and pop from his fist, and then another, and she saw Jurgen crumple. Before he hit the ground, there was a breeze across her left cheek, once, twice. Two loud cracks.

  Then, things seemed to move more slowly, half-speed. The gunman, which is what he was, she realized with a jolt, also fell to his knees clutching both of his hands to his face. He had dropped the gun and his right wrist was held by his left at an impossible angle. His cheek was torn open and running blood. She could see his shattered teeth and jaw through the wide red-running rent in his face.

  He looked at Jessica and screamed.

  Chapter Two

  They came in the night. Horses, boots, and rough voices. I was sleeping in an inn of some kind. A house where travelers could stay, with a common room below and central fire where the folk of the caravan could pool our food for meals. There was a caravan in the little town, almost more travelers than townsfolk. I had planned to be with it when it left, blending in as one of them. It had worked before. A woman who will work and not make trouble is usually welcome. Usually. When I heard their boots, I knew it didn’t matter. I would be leaving sooner than I had planned.

  Their boots woke me. Boots were rare, and meant soldiers, who marched across country and needed tough leather boots with nails in their soles. I heard them on the rough plank floors in the common room and their harsh, raised voices. Hearing them enter, I woke with a jolt, rolled out of the low bed, and crouched beside the door. My knife was in my hand, a wicked little bronze thing that I kept sharp as a razor. One man came up the stairs at a run and kicked open a door. I heard the crash, and a yelp from the man in the room beyond. I swallowed, calmed my breathing. He was a man, expecting to find a terrified woman cowering in her bedclothes. He would be unlucky in this.

  And so he was. He burst in, took two steps into the room and I was on him. Jab, jab, jab. Two from behind and one in the belly. Here, on the side. A kill, that is, angled up towards the heart’s ribbons of vessels. He grunted, made a sound like vomit, and then collapsed in a heap. He stank. Sweat, drink, horses…and he shat himself in dying, which made him stink even more. I paused only long enough to snatch a purse from his belt, cutting it free. I stuffed it into my bag, slung it over my shoulder, and climbed out the window into the night.

  This was Babylon. Or a city like it, near there. Stone bulls with great wings guarded their gates, and the city was full of fountain-fed gardens. Rich and lush. I had been there…for some time, I think. It is hard to remember now. I knew they were servants of the King as they entered in his name, and when I later searched my victim’s purse, I found coins. New-minted coins, a dozen silver and two gold, bearing the sign of the bull. So I knew someone sent them. If not the king, then someone else close to the court. To murder me.

  Why? Who knows. Not me, for sure. That I had been there for some time, that much I know, in that place, that kingdom. Their speech, I knew. I had been there long enough to learn it. My pose had been traveling with merchants, which is always good cover for me. Beyond that, I recall little.

  I do carry memories of talking with a man. Tall, with a hook nose and weathered face. I had known him a long time, long enough to have watched his face age, and grow lined. To see him grow stooped and bent with age. He had been a mentor…a lover and then a friend. We were on a veranda, covered with an awning. It was early evening, the lamps of the city just being lit.

  “Precious,” he called me, gesturing for me to sit. “You are welcome here.”

  “But not everywhere,” I said, studying him. He was old, but guarded still. He had not yet entered the twilit lands of advanced age, where the aged become as children, and are open with their secrets. He held himself carefully, knowing what I could see in people.

  He shook his head slightly. “No, not everywhere. The king…” he gestured vaguely, towards the city center, a lamplit pile in the purple distance beyond his broad rooftop. “He listens to the priests. They fear you.”

  “They call me a demon,” I said, matter-of-factly. There was no use pretending. It was always this way, eventually, for me.

  His eyes flicked up to mine, then looked away. “Can you blame them?”

  I sighed and looked away, towards the black countryside beyond the walls. “I came to say goodbye.”

  “You will have been seen, coming here.” He looked at me. He raised a hand to his face. “Your eyes. You stand out.”

  “None saw. I came in as a servant, bearing bread,” I said. I smiled as I said it, to soften the words. “I looked down, and had a shawl. Like you taught me.”

  He smiled. “You never know who is watching. Even here, among my house, there could be eyes and ears.”

  I nodded. “Of course, this is always the case. I won’t stay. I wished to thank you.”

  He laughed gently. “Thank me? For what? Does the plow thank the farmer?”

  “I was more of a blade than plow. And you were no farmer,” I said. It was true. Far more a blade than a plow.

  “Farmers tend their crops with care, as I have done.” He met my eyes. “Sometimes one must cut back, and for that you need a blade, to be sure.” He smiled. It was not a kind smile, but his eyes held no malice.

  “I am going,” I said. I rose. The streets below were dark, with only a few lamps leaking light out into the street.

  “Where will you go?” He asked, then chuckled. “Where did you come from, for that matter? I never knew.”

  “I told you, long ago. Have you forgotten?” I said. Time erases memories, just as it, given time, erases towns and cities, or warps them beyond recognition.

  “I forget nothing!” He snapped, leaning towards me with speed. His hand gripped the sides of his chair. He stared at me, as if he did not know me. As if he had not known me for most of his life. He licked his lips. “I remember your tale.”

  “Tale?” I asked, arching an eyebrow at him. “You know my story.”

  “It is bullshit. A fantasy.” He coughed. “Worse than what the priests say.”

  “Worse?” I smiled.

  “W
orse!” He hissed. “Yes worse! How could it be so?”

  “It could be so, because it is so. I did not lie. You know me.” I did not like the pleading I heard in my voice.

  “I do know you, or thought that I did.” He was taken then by a coughing fit. It was growing worse, I judged. He would not last the winter. He waved me back, wheezing. Finally, he settled, breathing heavily. “Did I clutch a demon to my breast?”

  “I am no demon,” I said. “Just a woman.”

  He chuckled, and shook his head. “Just a woman…just a woman.”

  “I came here to help you. To help you help your king. I have done this, I think.” I said it simply, for it was true. The king was secure, with heirs and a fat treasury. “He has no rivals now.”

  He waved this away. “A dream brought you to me, you said. A dream sent by the gods.” He wiped his lip and stared up at me.

  I nodded. This was also true.

  “Where will you go? Have you had another dream?” He peered at me through wet eyes.

  I nodded. “A place, far to the south. A great river, with temples of red stone on either side, and boats with broad white sails.” I had told him this before.

  “Egypt,” he said, naming the place.

  “I think so,” I said. “I am to find a man.”

  “Is he like me?” He asked. “In service to a king?”

  “Perhaps,” I said, testily. I had no idea. “I think he is a builder. I am not sure.”

  He nodded. “They are mighty, and mighty kings have men like me. Be careful.”

  “I will be,” I said.

  “Their priests, too, will be watchful. Word travels between here and Egypt, you know. They will hear of you, in time.”

  “Then I will be careful of priests,” I said, knowing that it would please him to hear this.

  He waved, a gesture of dismissal I knew well. “Tell me again of your river, and how you found the pearl,” he said. “I would hear this tale.”

  “I have told you, and you have not forgotten it,” I said, glancing at the window. The night was new but I had hoped to make the most of the darkness, to flee the city before dawn. Another day here might mean capture. Capture would slow me.

  “Tell me again,” he insisted. “You owe me that.”

  “I lived beside a river. I found a pearl, wedged between two rocks,” I said.

  “But not like any other pearl.”

  “No,” I said. “Like no other.” I shook my head.

  “They will come for me, when they know you are gone. You know this.” He smiled at me.

  “Probably,” I said, knowing it was certain.

  “No matter,” he said, waving at the window. “I am prepared.” He tapped a small wooden box on the table beside him. “Sleep will bring escape.”

  I swallowed. “How?”

  “A tea, and then sleep. Perhaps I will dream of your gods.” He watched me carefully. I said nothing.

  Presently he spoke. “I loved you, you know this? In those years after I first met you.”

  I smiled. He had. “I remember,” I said. Then, “Shall I prepare the tea for you?”

  He shook his head. “Not tonight. Maybe I will drink it in the morning.”

  “They will come,” I said. “Are you sure?”

  “I am sure. They will not come right away. They will consult and dither, it will take a day or three.” He smiled. “I know them.”

  I nodded, and touched his face with my hand. It was warm, with wetness there, on his cheeks. “Are you afraid?” I asked.

  He nodded into my hand. “Of course I am afraid. And angry, that I age, and you are as you were when I met you. What are you? What are you? Are you a demon?”

  I shook my head. “Just a woman,” I said.

  “You found a pearl,” he said. “And it changed you.”

  “Just a woman,” I said again.

  “Just a woman,” he repeated.

  “Goodbye,” I said simply, and left him. I walked into the night and left the city. Four days later they found me at the inn. I hoped he got to drink his tea. I should have forced him to drink it, perhaps. But I am no monster, and although I have done monstrous things. I should, perhaps, have done another, to silence him.

  But time silences all. And time, I thought, was on my side. I walked south, through the desert night, the great river of stars wheeling in its dome overhead, twinkling mockingly at me. I walked towards a sunlit land cut by a broad river bearing boats with bright white sails. I would find a man there, the man I had dreamt of.

  You, a storyteller, would have me starting at the beginning. But what is a beginning, except where stories start? Mine began long ago, beside another, smaller river. A young girl found a pearl in the river, where no pearl should be, and it changed her. It changed me. Into someone unlike other people, but still very much like them. I was that girl, and now a woman. Many women, in many places. But just that. Not a witch and not a demon. Just a woman.

  Chapter Three

  The police held her for questioning with the others. She told them what she’d seen. A man had shot Jurgens, then a bunch of people had tackled the gunman. She didn’t mention Silver Samara, or the quick thwack, thwack she had barely registered as something had flown by her face. But had she, really? She hadn’t actually seen anything and didn’t want to volunteer more info than she had to. She just wanted to get out of there. The police had asked her what she’d seen, so she told them, and stuck to that.

  Jurgens was dead. She saw someone put their coat over him as she and the others had filed out, almost tripping over each other in their haste. And later, while being questioned, she saw the EMTs bring out a gurney with a body under a sheet. Her hands shook so badly she could barely hold her phone. She called Michael, her editor.

  “Jessica,” he answered, on the first ring, as he always did. “Saw something on Twitter about your conference. Active shooter. You okay?”

  “I’m okay. Jurgens, the CEO, he’s dead. Get a quick story up. Single gunman shot him during the keynote, right as he was announcing some big AI initiative. Big money, tens of billions or something. Jesus.” It came out in a rush. Get the story out, get it reported. She’d spent two years in the Middle East, sometimes in active combat situations. She’d seen dead bodies before. Heard the snap, crackle, and pop of small arms fire nearby. But she’d never seen anyone get killed in front of her. One minute he’d been there, then he just crumpled. And the woman, Silver…

  Michael was talking to her. Had been for a few seconds. “Sorry, repeat that?” She fibbed, “Bit noisy here.”

  “Any ID on the gunman?” He sounded annoyed. Well, fuck him, she thought. He hadn’t just been a witness to a murder. He was in his basement in Virginia. Safe and sound. She kept her breathing steady, willing her hand to stop shaking. She would not cry with her editor on the phone. She would not.

  “No, no ID. Barely saw him. Just run what you have and I’ll get you something meatier in an hour or two. The cops want to take statements. I gotta go.” She hung up. The police had already questioned her, so she was free to go. She’d taken an Uber over from her hotel, but it wasn’t far and she was wearing good shoes for walking, so she decided to hoof it back. Maybe find a coffee shop to write her story about the murder, and what it probably meant for Frontiers. This was the Futura take on things that Michael wanted to push, not just what happened, but what did it mean to the techies in the Valley and beyond. Speculate a little, just not too much. Don’t get out over your skis, he would say. The thought of him skiing always made her chuckle; Michael was not the athletic type.

  She found her way off the Frontiers campus, winding up on a busy four lane commercial street that she thought was the one her hotel was on. She resisted the urge to check her phone for directions. Shouldering her backpack, she saw the familiar Starbucks logo a block ahead of her. As she reached it, a low black Mercedes with darkened windows pulled up to the curb ahead of her, idling. The passenger window rolled down, and the driver leaned over. Olive
skin and pale blue eyes behind expensive looking yellow tinted sunglasses. The woman from the conference. Silver.

  “I thought that was you,” Silver said, her voice perfectly modulated to reach Jessica but travel no farther. “That was quite a scene back there, wasn’t it?” She smiled, her teeth flashing bright white in the darkened interior of the car. “Want to get some coffee?”

  Jessica hesitated. She didn’t know this woman, and disliked the idea of getting into a stranger’s car on principle. Still, they had been witness to a murder together. Be a journalist, dammit, she told herself. Take a risk. She leaned down and looked into the car. “Starbucks is right here,” she said, indicating the cafe with a nod of her head.

  Silver made a face. “Too close to what happened back there,” she said. “Get in, I know a place with booths and real coffee.” Jessica hesitated, just for a moment which she felt Silver, tracking her with her too-blue eyes, was sure-to have noticed. Stop caring what other people think. Jesus, what happened to you?

  She placed her hand on the door handle; it was warm from the sun. She got in, thinking such a low-slung car would be cramped, but it was surprisingly roomy inside. She stashed her bag between her feet on the floor and sank back into the leather cushion. Silver gassed the car as soon as the door closed, fast, pressing her back into the seat. “Sorry,” Silver said, “saw an opening.” She slewed the car through traffic easily, and Jessica felt the sedan’s powerful engine purr beneath her.

  The smell of leather upholstery, of money really, was strong. Cars like this were designed to remind the owner they were rich, special, and if you rode with them you were supposed to notice it too. So she noticed. The dash was polished leather and exotic wood—real, she was sure—with chrome accents. The instruments were projected in a HUD on the screen in front of Silver, who seemed to pay them no mind, but rather drove with an easy grace.