Bleak History

by John Shirley

  Gulcher was having a hard time feeling relieved not to be in prison. He understood prison. But this—it was too much like the stories you heard about extraordinary rendition, or people taken to secret CIA prisons.

  Now they stopped in the center of the courtyard, and Gulcher glanced around, thought the courtyard looked disturbingly like some place they stood people against a wall to shoot them.

  They sure hadn't hesitated about shooting Jock. Bang, down he went. Going to miss that noisy son of a bitch.

  My turn now? Were they going to shoot him here? Enough guys with guns were standing right behind him. He tried to ask the whisperer about it—and got a reply, finally, but nothing helpful. “Hold on, just wait, Greatness is here and Greatness is on its way” was all it would say. “Ya see,” Forsythe went on, “your average yube has to work through humans, most o' the time.”

  Something about General Forsythe was bothering Gulcher, something that came out of the mysterious place the whisperer came out of. But Gulcher couldn't put his finger on it. And what was this talk of...

  “Yubes? What's a yube?” Gulcher asked. “That like a noob?”

  “No, no. Sorry about the jargon—slang really. Messin' with the acronym. U-B-Es— Unconventionally Bodied Entities.”

  “Oh, okay. Spirits. Elementals. Subtle bodies and stuff. Sure. I read about it in one of Aleister Crowley's books, first stretch I did in state.”

  “Did you read about it in Crowley! Well, I'll be damned. We had Crowley's spirit in a session with Soon Mei, there.” Forsythe nodded toward a nervous, little Asian woman, missing some of her hair, being escorted into the courtyard through a metal door opposite. Her escorts were two guards, a short, heavyset white guard and a tall black one, both with the same corps patches, the same black berets, same nonexpressions. “But Crowley just wanted to whine about things. Didn't care for his situation, inside some big, hungry critter in what they call the Wilderness. Some call it hell, I guess. Old Crowley! He was no use at all. Soon Mei there, though, she's useful. One of the only real mediums we can find. And that peanut-headed fella there, Krasnoff—coming behind her—he's useful as all hell. He's got second sight he can share with you like you were in a movie theater.” Forsythe said theater like thee-ate-er. “It's somethin' to see. And here's our adorable little Billy Blunt.”

  Billy Blunt, the only one with his hands cuffed, looked to Gulcher like a middle-school kid. A sour-faced, plump little kid of maybe thirteen, with a bowl haircut, gray sweatpants, flip-flops, and a too-small T-shirt emblazoned with BRAINSUCKER in Gothic letters. Brainsucker was a video game, Gulcher remembered, he'd seen an ad for it on TV.

  The kid glared at Gulcher and mimed snapping with his teeth, as if he'd like to take a bite out of Gulcher's face. Then he winked and stuck out his tongue.

  “Billy there, we've had him almost two years now, bought him from his parents out in Arkansas. They were glad to be shed of him, I can tell you. They tried behavioral therapy, everything, to no avail. Billy liked to set small animals on fire with kerosene, watch 'em run smokin' around the neighborhood. Got the family into some lawsuits. He can do something like you do—he can take control of people, sometimes. Not quite the same way. They tend to die, soon after. Something about blood clots in their brain. He doesn't control spirits to do the possessin'—he kinda steps out of his body and does the possessin' himself. Killed two of our guards. We're hoping he'll be useful... eventually.”

  Right behind Billy was a man who made Gulcher think of one of those old game-show hosts from the 1960s you saw late at night on the Game Channel. He wore funny little glasses and had a contemptuous little smile on his face like he thought everybody else was an idiot. Clearly he was staff around here. He was pushing something that looked like a portable heater, or maybe an air purifier, on a dolly. A long, orange extension cord trailed from the thrumming device, back through the door, and a tiny green light was glowing on it. The dolly, with a waist-high steel handle, made regular squeaking sounds with its wheels, the squeaks reverberating like dolphin noises in the courtyard spaces.

  “And that's Dr. Helman with the suppressor. He keeps that little machine pretty close to Billy. The boy might be our most dangerous resident.”

  “I think that's unlikely, don't you?” said someone, behind them. A soft, teasing voice that sounded like it was coming through clenched teeth.

  Gulcher turned around, thinking one of the guards had spoken out of turn.

  But it was somebody new. He was a lean, medium-size young man, with shoulder-length sandy hair, bright blue eyes—and a funny mouth. Kind of a squiggle, that mouth. Like it was struggling to keep its shape. He wore army-style cammies, boots, a khaki shirt, a short military jacket—same jacket the men with black berets had, but without any insignia except that same patch, on the left shoulder, that showed the knight shielding the world. The guy tilted his head a little bit forward, just a little, but you felt like he was going to butt you with it.

  “So who the fuck are youT Gulcher didn't like people sneaking up on him.

  “Aren't you the rude one,” the stranger said, with that squiggly smile, lazily scratching his head— and not sounding offended. “My name's Sean, is all you have to know.” He didn't open his mouth much when he spoke. Almost kept his lips shut. “You'd be our new protege—Mr. Troy Gulcher.”

  “I'm nobody's protege,” Gulcher said.

  “He means you're our new student, really,” Forsythe said.

  “You don't have to say what I mean,” Sean said, in the same soft voice. He smiled at Forsythe, then turned to look at Dr. Helman. His look became sleepy, as if he were about to nod off, as he gazed at Helman.

  The doctor seemed to trip, would have fallen except he had a grip on the dolly handle. Helman shot a glare at Sean, as he got his feet under him again. Sean chuckled.

  Gulcher watched him—and Sean, aware of the scrutiny, gave his twisty little grin and started to stroll around Gulcher, circling him just out of reach. Walking all the way around so that Gulcher had to turn around to keep an eye on him.

  Forsythe looked at Sean with hooded eyes and spoke with an edge in his voice that Gulcher hadn't heard before. “Sean—we need to keep ourselves contained, and directed. We do not wish to waste energy. This man is valuable to me. To all of us.” Forsythe had sounded friendlier when he'd warned that the sharpshooters might take Gulcher out.

  There was that feeling, again, Gulcher got, looking at Forsythe. Like someone was hiding behind Forsythe, peeking over his shoulder; like something on the Nature Channel—the way a wolf would peer over the stump of a tree. Only there was nothing you could see. Not quite.

  “Sure, he's valuable,” Sean said, still circling, still looking Gulcher over. “He's another valuable machine, like the rest of us.” Said with a hoarse whimsicality through clenched teeth.

  Sean ended his circling by standing beside Forsythe, looking toward Billy Blunt. “We're like those cell phone towers that pick up signals and send them on. That's all we are.”

  “The hell you say,” Gulcher snorted.

  “Funny you should use that expression,” Sean said lightly.

  “In certain respects, Sean is right, with his phone-tower analogy,” Forsythe said, watching as soldiers set up folding chairs for the three freakish “containees.”

  Gulcher had heard the word containees in an earlier conversation with Forsythe. And he didn't like the sound of it.

  He didn't want to be contained.

  He watched as Dr. Helman moved the suppressor completely out of range of the three containees —and well away from Gulcher. He noticed the guards bringing their guns to bear on the containees when the suppressor was out of range.

  “They going to use those guns?” Gulcher asked.

  “Not unless they have to,” Sean said, his voice barely audible. He reached up and caught a moth in his fingers and slowly crushed it.

  “Talented containees,” Forsythe went on, “are instruments for other beings to act through—and I s
uppose you can say it's kinda like being a useful machine. But of course that's what you call your oversimplification.”

  “I could do this, Forsythe,” Sean said. “We don't need him. This Gulcher thing.” Gulcher ground his teeth. This Gulcher thing?

  “If you could have done it, Sean,” Forsythe said vaguely, “you would have. You have...other specialties. And sure as the devil it's a process of specialization. We need Mr. Gulcher here for this.” “Could end up a mess,” Sean muttered. “But come to think of it, that might be entertaining.”

  Forsythe shrugged and called, “Are we ready, Dr. Helman?” “We are!”

  “Then, Mr. Gulcher—come over here with me, please.” Forsythe led the way to a seven-pointed star, about four feet across, painted in black on the concrete floor. “If you would stand on the mark there...thank you. I believe you require no special focusing devices.... So if you will simply stand here and”—he lowered his voice, speaking in a tone only Gulcher could hear—”reach out to the Great Power you call the whisperer.”

  “It hasn't been answering me much lately. Just once and that was...almost no answer.”

  “I believe, for this experiment,” Forsythe said confidently, “you will get an answer.”

  Again Gulcher had that sense of something peering at him from behind Forsythe. Or maybe from inside him. He was beginning to suspect what that might mean.

  Gulcher had been briefed, barely, on what he was to do. Now he stood on the appointed spot and looked at the three containees sitting in folding metal chairs with their backs to him. The spotty-headed Asian woman on the left was fidgeting, the Krasnoff guy in the middle was slumped like he was in despair, the fat kid sitting on the right, no longer in handcuffs, was picking his nose with an air of boredom. They sat about forty feet from Gulcher, facing the concrete wall. The soldiers and Dr. Helman had gathered behind Forsythe. Gulcher was supposed to apply the whisperer to these three losers in the chairs, and do it in a specific way.

  It occurred to Gulcher that if he contacted the whisperer, maybe he could get it to obey his wishes again and send influences into Forsythe and the guards and that Sean asshole—Gulcher really didn't like that fucker—and get them to take each other out, like at the prison, then he could get out of this place, be on his own again.

  “And if you are considering any digression from our agreed-on course of action here, Mr. Gulcher,” Forsythe said suddenly, giving him that hooded-eyed look he'd given Sean, “why, it won't work, and we'll be forced to punish you as we punish all problem containees.”

  The general had shown an ability to look into his mind, Gulcher remembered. Seemed like the old prick was doing it again.

  Okay, Gulcher thought, there's guns all around me, and the whisperer isn't doing what I want it to all the time. But it seems to need me to talk to it here. Maybe I can play along, do something useful for these spooks and get some kind of good deal for myself in return.

  “That'd be fine and dandy, Mr. Gulcher,” General Forsythe said, in a more courtly tone, stepping back out of the way.

  Gulcher didn't like people getting into his head that way. But he suppressed imagining what he'd like to do about it. And he went to work.

  He looked at the back of Krasnoff's head. He focused, calling out, inside, to the whisperer, using the names he'd been given. Wondering for the first time why there was more than one name. Focus, focus! The ethereal steam formed; the man-faced serpents wriggled through it. He stretched out his astral hands and the transparent serpents followed...

  Finally converging on Orrin Krasnoff; making him sit up straight and cry out. “These containees are difficult for us to control. “ Forsythe had told him, on the way to the courtyard. “Often they'll do just the opposite of what we want—especially the youngster. Control is what you do, with your...special interface. So what we're gonna do, here, Mr. Gulcher, we're gonna use you as a channel for forces that will control these problem containees. You, my friend, are uniquely suited to be of use. There is something Krasnoff does not want to look at. You will control him, make him look into the darkness between the worlds.”

  Gulcher felt abstract, now, like he wasn't even here. He felt like he was watching from a million miles away, though he saw it all crystal clear up close.

  All the while, the energy of psychic invasion built up around him—until, suddenly, it found an outlet through Krasnoff.

  Who screamed—and the scream cut off abruptly, stopped by the projection from Krasnoff's open mouth and eyes, the three beams converging on the wall next to the metal door: a circular, swirling image, edged with multicolored sparkles, a projected vision of a place where shapes constructed and deconstructed constantly; where buildings grew out of buildings, like growths of crystal in fast action, clusters of asteroidal shapes that weren't made of stone at all—you could tell, some way, that it was the stuff thoughts were made of—and boiling out of holes in these constructs were nasty shapes chasing others: some, the pursuers, were decidedly demonic, though in some way humanoid; the pursued were vaguely human, but also buglike.

  “One perspective on the Wilderness,” Sean muttered dismissively, behind. The general hushed him.

  Krasnoff writhed, as if trying to escape this vision; as if by projecting it, he was within it.

  Then the metal door opened. Three women came through into the courtyard—were pushed through from outside the door, really—wearing identical prison-style, institutional-blue shifts, identically bobbed hair, and blue canvas slippers. The door closed after them with a muted clang. The women huddled together and looked around in confusion.

  One of the women was blond, with high cheekbones and small eyes. Russian-looking, to Gulcher, or Ukrainian. The other two, much smaller, looked like they might be from Thailand or Laos, one of those places. They all looked scared but also dulled, and resigned. Like they'd been through a lot before they got here. Gulcher knew the type. They were probably sold women, who'd belonged to brothels. What the Internet news called sex slaves. Eastern Europe and Asia had a great many of them. Probably these spooks had bought some for this experiment.

  Gulcher didn't really care. He'd learned not to, a long time ago.

  “It's your turn, Billy,” Forsythe said.

  The Blunt kid was writhing in his seat—then he jumped up and pointed a finger at the blond Eastern European woman...and his face went blank. And the blond woman went rigid in response, her back arching, then she sank to her knees beside one of the other women, who shrieked and drew back —but the blond had the shorter of the Asian women by the knees, was gripping her hard, was biting into the woman's 7egjust below the hip.

  The girl screamed and pounded on the blonde's head but couldn't get her loose. Blood ran down the Asian woman's quivering leg. The third woman tried to back away, but a guard stepped in and shoved her back in place.

  Billy Blunt's jaws made biting, chewing motions. The bitten woman squealed and struggled to escape.

  “No, Billy,” Forsythe said mildly. “That's not what you were told to do. Now, Gulcher...control him. Control Billy, in turn.”

  Gulcher whispered to the whisperer and gestured, and the steamshapes swirled over Billy...and entered him. Let her go.

  The blond woman Billy was controlling jerked back from the Asian woman, her mouth rimmed in blood. She turned to glare at Forsythe.

  The bitten woman struck the other woman resoundingly on the back of the head, knocking her down. The blonde lay stunned—and the wounded woman staggered back, hunched down, clutching her injured leg, murmuring in her own language, rocking back and forth.

  The other Asian woman turned and ran—and stopped, suddenly, standing a step away from the swirling image on the wall, caught up, gazing at it, fascinated, gawping...then she gasped and her back arched and something ectoplasmic slipped out of the top of her head...and the ghostly shape went into the image of the Wilderness projected on the wall, as a solid person would step out of the open door of an airplane to fall through the sky. She was staring at t
he vision of the Wilderness—and she was in the image too: her soul, floating along, tumbling, clawing at nothingness. Even as her body stood there shaking with rigidity, ogling at the image of her own soul drifting away.

  “This ain't right,” Forsythe muttered. “Gulcher—take control of the woman sitting in the chair there, Soon Mei. Bring that woman's soul back. Control!”

  Gulcher was having trouble maintaining control over Billy and Krasnoff. But he sent a whispering spirit toward Soon Mei. Felt resistance. Felt it thrust at her...then...her back went rigid.

  And there was an explosion of ghosts.

  The apparitions erupted from the swirling circle on the wall, drawn to the patchy-headed little medium sitting in the chair, Soon Mei. Figures of wailing translucent gel were whirling around her— dozens of them becoming scores more, becoming hundreds, lost spirits compacted into a swirling, living vortex; terrified faces, translucent and tormented, all around Soon Mei—who jumped up, screaming, tearing at her hair, running toward the guards, babbling...

  And one of them, prompted by a gesture from Forsythe, knocked Soon Mei down with a gun butt. She fell onto her side, weeping. The ghosts circled in the air over her, a living ectoplasmic vortex, howling.

  Krasnoff was standing, shaking, eyes screwed shut, slapping at his own face.

  But the Eastern European woman was up then, blood on her mouth like sick lipstick, crouching, turning toward them, her eyes savage, her blond hair wild—Gulcher's control of Billy, who controlled the woman, incomplete. Gulcher struggled to hold her back.

  The armed guards tensed. But Forsythe gestured at them to hold off and shouted, “Gulcher—let them all go, release them!” Gulcher was glad to obey. He was way out of his depth.

  As Gulcher released Krasnoff, the image on the wall shrank away, as if swirling down a drain... and sucking the eruption of ghosts with it. They were drawn into the drain of the wall and were gone as the image became a pinpoint...and vanished.