Execution Plan
Page 18
‘Point the round end at the fuel cans, pull the trigger,’ I said.
Dermot picked up his gun and examined it.
‘It doesn’t weigh anything, but it’s solid. Is it going to work?’
‘It’ll work once I put my world over that world.’
‘And you can do that?’
‘I can do that. Watch me.’
I looked at the Bright Harvest building, sitting smugly behind its razor wire. I thought of all those video-game complexes with impregnable security that turned out to be pregnable after all.
I thought of the River Severn, bursting its banks, flooding Bewdley, replacing land with water.
I did the same thing with the contents of my head.
III
This is what Les Herbie had to say about imagination:
I imagine things for a living. This is my art. That is a cliché, but this is my art. You think that this is just thrown together. You’re wrong. You live in the West Midlands and you’re wrong.
To do this I need to see the whole of each column. I need to see the whole thing and then write it. You do nothing like it. I hate you all because I am better than you. None of you can do this.
Complaints to the usual address. Complaints from the usual names.
This is art. It’s not an installation or interactive, it’s art. It does what it’s there to do. It serves its function, which is the basis of art. It does it well, which is the next level. It does it with wit. That’s the whole thing. That’s it done and dusted.
It means what it means. It has no hidden meanings. It has no symbolism or subtext.
If it did, you’d miss it.
What artists do, is bring something out of their minds and into the world. That’s what we do. It changes the world as it happens. The world has a new view or vision of something.
That’s art. You don’t do it by wearing black and saying that you’re an artist. If you wear black and sit in bars smoking French cigarettes and discussing the Turner Prize, you aren’t an artist. You’re unemployed. Art is something you have. It’s there or it isn’t. Usually it isn’t. Going to art school won’t help. Throwing three trowels in a bucket and saying it represents the nature of womanhood doesn’t make you an artist. It makes you a fool. It makes you worthless. Function is first. A guitar solo without a song is a waste of notes. A thirty-page sentence is nothing if it doesn’t advance the story.
I imagine things for a living. They annoy you or cheer you up, or both. Each of you is changed by that little degree.
I am making a new world.
I am taking you all there with me.
Except for the usual complainants. You get to stay in the West Midlands.
You don’t deserve art. You barely deserve function. You barely deserve oxygen.
Of course, none of this is true.
I imagine things for a living.
He got quite a few letters about that one, too.
IV
The Bright Harvest building had changed. The walls were now higher and the razor wire denser. The gate was a metal grille and arcs of electricity jumped between the bars. The guards were now identical twins, and each carried a stubby sub-machine gun. The building’s windows were blacked out, and there were more cameras.
‘Jesus jumping fuck on a unicycle,’ said Dermot. ‘How do you know it’ll work? What if that’s just an illusion and when we go in we hit our noses on the fucking gate because we can’t see it?’
‘It’s not an illusion. It’s what’s there now. We can go in there, if we don’t get caught or shot.’
‘Shot?’
‘Shot. They have guns. They’re not real people, we can shoot them. I’d recommend shooting them.’
‘Won’t that kill the real guards? They’re in there somewhere.’
I hadn’t thought of that. I didn’t want any extra deaths on my conscience. It already had enough to cope with.
‘We’ll have to avoid them then. Forget sniper mode. You blow up the fuel cans and then get out of sight. I’ll disable the cameras. When the guards come back in I’ll knock them out, and then I’ll open the gate and let you in.’
‘So all we need to worry about is dying in some place you’ve imagined?’
‘That’s all.’
‘Here we fucking go then.’
He tucked his handgun into his waistband and pulled his tee-shirt down over it.
‘You’re starting to be fun to be with,’ he said as he got out of the car. ‘If you’re lucky I might not beat the living shit out of you for dumping me in Bewdley.’
He closed the door and started on his way round the wall. The rain had stopped – too much processing needed – and the demonstrators were muted. I got out and examined them. They were flat, like stage scenery. They were one-dimensional. They were still animated, but if you walked past them they vanished, and if you walked behind them you could see that they didn’t have a back. They were like a film projected onto plywood.
I looked at them from the front. Their eyes were insane. They didn’t like being reduced to scenery. They were frightened.
Good. It’d teach them not to waste everybody’s time in future.
Their flat eyes all looked to the left as a concussive blast rang out. A fireball rose from the back of the building. Dermot had created a diversion.
The gate opened, spitting sparks, and the two guards emerged. They looked at the demonstrators and then began to walk around the outside of the wall, falling into poised crouches. I crept up behind them and hit the rear one on the back of the head. He collapsed, unconscious. The other one didn’t notice anything, so I did the same to him. That was the guards sorted, done and dusted. They lay crumpled against the wall, and the cameras wouldn’t be able to see them there. I called Dermot and he came around the corner, looking dazed. I supposed the explosion was responsible. He shook his head.
‘That was fucking loud,’ he said. ‘And hot.’
‘Explosions are like that. Now just wait here while I sort the cameras out, and then we’ll be going in.’
‘Carry on there, don’t let me slow you down.’
I made my way back to the open gate and peeped in. Only one camera was pointing in my direction. A green light on it flashed yellow; computer game cameras did that when they might be able to see you but hadn’t quite decided yet. If it went red, the alarms would go off.
I ducked out of sight and gave it time to reset. Three seconds should be enough.
I looked out again. It had turned to look at something else. There was a small booth for the guards to stand in if it rained. I ran over to it and got in. On a prominently placed control panel there was a large red square button with CAMERAS OFF written on it in bold black characters. I pressed the button.
‘Cameras off,’ said a female voice. ‘Security override engaged. Cameras will reset in T minus sixty seconds.’
I went and got Dermot.
‘We’ve got a minute to open the door,’ I told him. ‘Then all we need to do is find the labs. Once we get to Betts I’ll put the real world back and hope that no one noticed.’
‘I think this pair might have an inkling,’ said Dermot, indicating the two guards. ‘What with the world changing and the explosion and being knocked out and all.’
We ran to the front door. After the gate and the cameras it was a disappointment to find it was merely a normal-sized door. It was of a dull metal and had three buttons instead of a handle. I pressed them in order, top to bottom. The door emitted a quack-quack fail noise. I tried the reverse order, and got the same.
‘Cameras will reset in T minus thirty seconds,’ explained the female voice.
I tried the buttons in different orders. There were only six possible combinations, and I got it on the fifth attempt. The door beeped cheerfully and unlocked with a sharp click. I pushed it open. Inside, a short passage led to a reception area. A small bright young woman sat behind a desk. Dermot levelled the gun at her.
‘Put that away,’ I muttered. �
��Don’t shoot the staff.’
‘She’s seen us.’
‘She’s only a receptionist. We can talk our way past her. I thought that was your specialty.’
‘I’m the master blagger,’ said Dermot, putting his handgun back in his waistband. ‘Watch and learn.’
He strode up to the desk. The receptionist looked at him. She had very blue eyes and kept her hands tucked neatly out of sight. Her hair was short and black, not matching the eyes. She wore a very crisp blouse, which had creases so sharp they looked like they’d do you damage. She had on a blue cravat with very straight edges. She wore no jewellery. Her lips were extremely red but she didn’t appear to be wearing lipstick. She opened her mouth.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked.
Dermot turned on the charm. I’d seen him do it before, and knew that it could sometimes take him a while to wind it up to full strength. I had a look at the lobby while I was waiting.
The floor was covered with alternating black and white tiles, and a single staircase led up to a landing and balcony. There were doors leading off at regular intervals. On the receptionist’s desk there was a red telephone and a single buff folder, along with two black pens. An open drawer held a small stack of blue cards. The walls were of matte white and the decor was of the tubular-chrome-railings school. The stairs were carpeted in blue. There were no signs or notices, and no security cameras.
‘We’re after the labs,’ said Dermot. ‘If you’d be so good as to point us in the right direction.’
‘Labs are on level twelve,’ said the receptionist.
Dermot looked at me.
‘There are only two floors,’ he said.
‘There are two above ground level. The others are underground for safety reasons. You’ll need a red pass to get into the lift and a blue keycard to access anything lower than level ten. You can get a red pass from reception and a blue keycard from one of the senior security staff in the security suite upstairs. Access to the security suite requires a red pass.’
‘Can we have a red pass?’
‘Not without a blue keycard,’ she said.
‘What’s your name?’ Dermot asked, preparing to take his charm offensive from the general to the personal level.
‘I’m not with you,’ she said.
‘What are you called?’ he tried.
‘Receptionist subroutine [1]
‘What do your friends call you?’
‘Other related routines call me by CALL Receptionist subroutine [1] {include parameters CONV_THREAD_MAIN and SUBTEXT_THREAD}.’
‘She can’t handle that sort of enquiry,’ I told Dermot. ‘You need to keep it simple. Just ask her for a red pass.’
‘I did, weren’t you fucking listening? She said I needed a blue keycard to get a red pass, and a red pass to get a blue keycard. How the fuck are we supposed to manage that?’
I took him to one side.
‘Distract her,’ I told him.
‘What should I blow up?’ he asked, fingering his gun and looking for a viable target.
‘Just chat to her. And keep it non-specific. Just keep her attention away from her desk so that I can grab a blue keycard. They’re under her desk, on the left-hand side, in a drawer.’
‘What do I talk to her about?’
‘You’re the blagging king, you think of something.’
We approached the desk. The receptionist looked at us.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked.
‘What’s through that door?’ Dermot asked, pointing up the stairs. The receptionist turned to look and I grabbed a card.
I hoped we wouldn’t need one each.
‘The security office,’ said the receptionist.
‘Thanks,’ said Dermot, and then to me: ‘Told you I could blag anything. Now we know where to go.’
We went up the stairs. The receptionist went back to looking at the front door, which wasn’t doing anything. I pushed the door at the top of the stairs and it opened. Going through it, we found ourselves in a small square windowless room. Desks were set at very regular intervals. A pair of identical security guards stood against the far wall. Each held a stubby black gun. They wore blue uniforms with black trim.
The door closed behind us.
‘We need a red pass,’ I said. The guards looked at one another. One lifted his gun and aimed it in our direction. The other asked if we had a blue keycard in a very deep voice.
I showed them our keycard. They looked at it.
‘Valid keycard,’ said one.
‘You may take a red pass,’ said the other. ‘They’re in the firing range. Tell them we sent you.’
They looked at each other.
‘Be careful in there,’ they both said at once. Then they ignored us while we went back out onto the landing.
V
There were no signs indicating the direction of the firing range. We approached the receptionist.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked.
‘We’re looking for the shooting range. The security guards told us to go there to get our red passes.’
‘It’s over there, third door on the left, follow the corridor to the end. You can’t miss it.’
‘Thank you,’ said Dermot.
‘Be careful in there,’ the receptionist said. ‘They’re usually very cautious but there have been one or two incidents.’
We went through the door she’d indicated. A long corridor stretched away in front of us. The corridor was well lit. The light appeared to be coming from fluorescent lights along the ceiling.
I was impressed. I hadn’t tried any lighting effects before.
‘What did the explosion look like?’ I asked Dermot. ‘When you shot the fuel can?’
‘I don’t fucking know, I had my hands over my eyes and I was pointing in the other direction. I didn’t want to get caught up in it.’
‘Did it seem bright?’
‘Put your hands over your eyes and see how fucking bright that is. That’s how bright it was.’
Our footsteps echoed loudly. From what seemed to be a long way away, we heard the sound of gunshots.
We headed towards the sound. After a long walk, the corridor ended in a set of double doors. On one was a notice:
FIRING RANGE. BE CAREFUL IN THERE.
‘I think we have to be careful in there,’ said Dermot. ‘I’m only surmising.’
He let me open the door.
The firing range was a single long room. Along one of the long walls stood plywood targets. They were vaguely humanoid, with the vital zones marked with black circles. Along the opposite wall stood large guns on tripods. At the far end of the room, beyond all the guns and targets, was a filing cabinet.
A man stood just inside the door. He watched us enter before speaking.
‘What are you here for?’ he asked. ‘There have been no requests for target practice.’
‘We’re here for our red passes,’ I said.
‘The security guys sent us,’ added Dermot. ‘They said to say they’d sent us.’
‘Ah,’ said the man. He was wearing body armour and a tin helmet. He indicated the far end of the room. ‘The passes are in that cabinet. But the firing routine starts any second now.’
One of the unmanned guns fired a burst of rounds. Its target vaporized. Another target rose from the floor.
Another gun fired. Spent bullet cases flew into the air. Smoke rose in blue-grey plumes.
‘They’ll do that for a week or so,’ said the man. ‘You can probably run across between the bursts. They’re very regular.’
‘Couldn’t you go and get them for us?’ asked Dermot. ‘You’re the man with the bullet proof vest.’
‘Not proof against those bullets. Those are big high-calibre mothers. They’d go through this in no time. If you catch one in the leg, you’ll have one less leg to worry about. If
you catch one in the body you won’t have time to worry about it.’
While he was talking the guns continued to fire, one by one. Shards of plywood flew through the air, landed on the floor, and faded away. New targets grew.
‘You could wait,’ he said. ‘They’ll only be on this cycle for a week. Of course, the red passes are invalid after tomorrow. Then you’d need to get green keycards from the security team, and they don’t come in at the weekends.’
‘We’ll get them,’ I said.
‘We fucking won’t,’ said Dermot. ‘I’ll stay here. There’s no point both of us going past that lot. You get the passes and then get back.’
I watched the guns, and noticed that they fired in a pattern. If I studied it, I could time a run.
I also noticed that they were all at shoulder height. I got on my hands and knees and simply crawled past them. It wasn’t a comfortable crawl. Sprays of shattered plywood flew at me, and the whistle of bullets tearing up the air came from above. After what seemed to be a long slow crawl I reached the safety of the far end of the room. I stood up next to the filing cabinet. It had four drawers. Three were locked; the other one opened. It held red passes. I could tell what they were, because they were red and written on them in large black characters were the words RED PASS. I took a couple and crawled back to where Dermot was waiting.
‘You’re supposed to run past them,’ said the man with the body armour, aggrieved. ‘That’s the whole idea. Still. Have it your way.’
We went back to reception armed with a full complement of cards and passes.
‘Can I help you?’ asked the receptionist.
We asked her where the lifts were, and she pointed to another door. Going through it, we found ourselves in a small square room. Two metal sliding doors were set into the far wall, with a button between them. Dermot pressed it, and a lift arrived. The doors hissed open.