Phoebe Harkness Omnibus

by James Fahy

  “Oh, really?” the fox mask tilted toward me. It looked rather surreal and sinister. “Well, yes of course, the two of you know each other, don’t you? Bit of history there, that awful kidnapping last year. It was quite the scandal. Our Dear Ms Cloves covered the story as I recall.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  There was a moment of long silence. The band weaved music around us, and I smiled at the reporter. I wasn’t going to give her anything more on that.

  “You do seem to get yourself involved in the most interesting situations,” she went on doggedly. “I admit, I’m surprised Oscar Scott’s father altogether approves of the association. From what I hear, he can be more than a little overbearing.”

  My smile tightened a little on my face, but I held it up like a shield. “Oh, I doubt very much that Marlin Scott is aware of even half of his son’s associations. He seems altogether more focussed on his anti-GO movement, and I’m sure he has his hands full right now. With the power plant and the Tribals. I’m sure Oscar is the last thing on the old man’s mind.”

  “Well,” the reporter glanced over my shoulder. “From the way you’re searching this hall, it’s clear he’s at the forefront of yours. However, we may yet discover what is on his father’s mind, after all.”

  I turned, following her line of sight. She was peering with interest at the raised circular podium. Small spotlights had illuminated its base and, as we looked, the music softly stopped and the lights in the great hall dimmed, turning the glass above us invisible, so that it seemed for a moment that we were suspended in the darkness, high and remote above the world.

  Conversations died one by one around the hall, masked faces turning with interest in the gloom to see what the spectacle was. When the hush fell over the whole room, the lights went out entirely, completing the illusion. The now silent crowds focussed on the glowing central podium, and a disembodied voice spoke.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, good people of our fair city of New Oxford, my thanks for your time this evening, and my warmest welcome to you all, to this gala evening presentation. I am your host, Marlin Scott.”

  A bright flicker on the podium, and, ghost-like, green, and semi-transparent, the figure of Marlin Scott appeared, smiling warmly.

  “I regret that, due to minor issues with my current health, I am unable to attend in person, although please believe that I am with you all in spirit.” A glass appeared in his flickering hands, in a small swirling tornado of pixels. He raised it in a toast. “The spirit of vodka in my case, to be exact.”

  Polite murmurs of laughter ran through the darkened ballroom.

  “However, it takes an awful lot more than a little common cold to keep an old dog down and, as has ever been our motto here at Scott Enterprises, if you can imagine it, it can be done. So here I am, again to welcome you, and to hope you all enjoy the evening of music and dancing. And most importantly, donating and sponsoring.” He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, raising more good-natured mirth from the crowd.

  “Because as you are all aware, the purpose of this evening’s presentation is to ensure your ongoing support for a project of unprecedented scale, which only with the donations and backing of New Oxford’s finest and most socially-concerned citizens, can ever reach fruition.”

  The hologram version of Marlin Scott, which from where I was standing looked a little taller, straighter-backed, and far less scowly than the miserable old tycoon I had met in person last year, turned his hands upwards and peered up at the great glass dome.

  “New Oxford,” he said, and in the great space above us, like a shimmering green constellation, our city appeared, a bird’s eye view, staring down from the ceiling at us. Our necks craned up to see. It was dizzying. All the familiar buildings, the districts: Portmeadow, Headington, St Giles and the GO areas, the sprawl of the Slade, the Woods. Through it all the river flowed, a green and shining band, and, encircling all, the great Wall, the boundaries of our land, our one protection from the post-apocalyptic world outside.

  “Our world. Our city,” the phantom of Scott said. “Everything we saved from the monsters. Everything we have built since. Our home. And, of course, the Wall.”

  The wall in question shone above us, pulsing with reassuring light.

  “Scott Enterprises built the Wall,” we were told proudly. “We maintain the Wall, and like all you good people here tonight, we have a responsibility to protect everything within it.”

  The flickering green face of Marlin Scott was solemn. “But as we know, there is a grave issue at hand here in our new Eden…Power.”

  He swept his hands around the room. In real life, Marlin Scott was bent and crooked, and relied heavily on a cane. His electronic doppelganger needed no such aid. He stood before us like a hale and hearty prophet.

  “We are suffering from an energy crisis. You will be aware of this. Failing power. City-wide brownouts. And things are only getting worse. We rely so heavily still on the technology of the old civilisation. But how long before, like everything else, it fails us? When the lights go out for good…what then?”

  The lights of the illuminated city hanging above us, an enchanted mirage, began to flicker, and then to go out, one by one, like dying constellations.

  “We all know what lies outside our walls,” Scott said. “Death, in its multitudes. The Wall protects us. It runs on more than power. As is well documented, Bonewalker skills and technology play a part in its repellent abilities, but can we risk the loss of our great defence? The only solution, and one which I am happy to offer to our good citizens, to our civilisation, is more power.”

  The hologram above zoomed in on a dark area, which I recognised as the Botanical.

  “Here, at the proposed site, I give to you the new Scott-Oxford power-plant. It is the only site within our walls capable of housing such an enterprise. The only place where we might make this great work to sustain our city safely for future generations. And the only thing stopping us from production are squatters.”

  Marlin Scott’s face was grave. “Not even human squatters. Yet the fate of humanity rests in the hands of these…creatures, who have set up their nest in what was once a beautiful part of humanity’s most beautiful city.” He sneered. “Will the future, the safety of humans, depend on the whims of these gypsy beasts, who gather around their campfires in the dark, hating us all?”

  Concerned muttering ran around the crowd. I swear I heard people tutting.

  The hologram of Scott appeared to me to have grown slightly, both in stature and in brightness. He raised his arms up toward the city suspended above him, like a futuristic god holding a glowing galaxy.

  He launched into a diatribe filled with the usual Mankind Movement species-ist crap. Fearmongering of the ‘monsters’, that we would all be killed in our beds, blah blah blah. I tuned out and scanned the crowd looking for Oscar. Scott the elder continued whipping up his crowd but of the younger there was no sign. I finished my champagne, turning my attention back to the evangelical hologram grudgingly.

  “…new power-plant will provide a beacon of humanity…”

  In the display above us, a detailed schematic of the power plant appeared, drawing itself in bold, white lines in the gloom, filling the Botanical site. From its bulk, warm spider webs of light raced out across the city map, bringing light and life to every building it touched, until above us the city floated like a blinding supernova, casting its reassuring light down onto our upturned faces.

  “At present, our power comes from the Harcourt Arboretum,” Scott told us. “A site beyond our city walls. A fortified area, once filled with beauty, now only a crumbling ruin, ever in danger of being infiltrated and overrun by the Pale. It was built during the wars. A temporary solution in a time of desperation. Why outside the walls? Necessity, at the time. It was a new world, new power sources. Unstable nuclear energy. Nobody wanted a meltdown in a walled city. But now, with the advances of the last thirty years, it is safe to bring the power back within.

 
; “Beneath our city streets, during the war, we built the Labyrinth. It is an elaborate network of service tunnels. Makes the old London Underground look like a knot in cotton. We used this, at the height of our doom, to ferry supplies into the city, to ferry people when we needed to. Now, only one tunnel remains active outside the city. The subterranean power cables leading from the Harcourt.”

  He shook his head. “This new power-plant will allow us to close forever this weak spot. To seal off the Labyrinth forever. To make…” He thumped his fist into his hand, making his image flicker with each word. “…us…safer!”

  I had never heard of any Labyrinth? This was news to me. Wartime tunnels burrowing like an ant hill beneath and beyond our city. It didn’t sound like the safest set up.

  “I know what many of you must be thinking,” Scott said. “But rest assured, Scott Enterprises has always had security as its primary drive. There is no way to access the tunnels, either in, or out of the city, without passing through blast doors a metre thick. The Labyrinth is extremely secure. And each of the tunnels doors can be accessed only with a twelve digit punch code, broken into three parts, each alphabetic and numerical. Impossible to break either accidentally or deliberately.” He smiled and I shivered a little. It was like he’d read my mind. “The Pale may be formidable creatures, but the last time I checked, they didn’t have the skills to do this.”

  Nervous laughter pattered through the room like rain.

  “There are almost endless combinations of letters and numbers in such a code. Even if someone, or some…thing, in search of ending our peace, found access to the Labyrinth, they could punch in codes until the end of time and never open the doors. The codes are known only to those who built and maintain them. And I am one of those people.”

  The image above glowed brighter still, until the room seemed almost filled with warm daylight.

  “But enough talk of darkness and fear,” Scott said, bringing his hands together. “We are all here tonight because we share a vision of humanity’s future. Of New Oxford’s future. With your support, the vocal support of the most influential people in our city, we can ensure that we attain the Botanical. We…will…build the power plant. I am so deeply confident in our success, that I would like to announce that we will have secured the site in as soon as two days’ time.”

  I frowned. This was an oddly confident prediction.

  “And to celebrate the triumph of humanity. Of our refusal to go gently into darkness, but to always strive toward illumination, I am glad to announce that we at Scott Enterprises will be celebrating the breaking of first soil on site in two days’ time at midnight, with what I assure you will be a spectacular firework display.”

  Another party? I thought. Scott just lives for these things. “…Which we are in the process of arranging,” he continued in his lively manner. “And which will take place from the rooftops of the distinguished Ashmolean Museum.”

  This was met with encouraging applause.

  “How better to celebrate the illumination,” Scott said, “than by lighting up the city skies!” Scott bowed. The mirage of the city suspended in the dome of the lens exploded in an electronic firework display which rained down multi-coloured sparks and glowing trails on the crowds below. It was met there with rapturous applause and shrieks of merry delight as the illusionary fireworks cascaded around us.

  The city disappeared in flickers of digital explosions. The hologram of Scott bowed, and disintegrated, leaving the podium once again empty.

  His voice, disembodied, rang out. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, I urge you to enjoy yourselves. Enjoy the evening, enjoy your masquerade, safe in the knowledge that death does not dance masked amongst us tonight. And here in my home, enjoy the light.”

  The lights came back up, bringing the ballroom back to life. The band started playing again.

  The crowds were impressed with Scott’s demonstration. Many were chattering amongst themselves. Some were already reaching into purses and jacket pockets for chequebooks.

  “Quite the light show. Scott talks as though he’s single-handedly responsible for saving mankind,” I said to Merriweather. “People don’t realise where the Pale came from in the first place.”

  I realised I was talking with a news reporter, and that Scott’s direct involvement with the development of the Pale themselves was hardly common knowledge. I changed the subject as quickly as I could before she could pounce on me. ”I wonder if this is why he clashes with Oscar so much? Oscar doesn’t strike me much as a shepherd of the people.”

  “Oh, he’s always mindful of his responsibilities,” Merriweather nodded, sipping her drink. “What with his father’s reported failing health, it comes to the prince to take up the sceptre, as it were. However reluctantly.” She tipped her glass toward the far side of the room. I followed her indication, blinking through the eyeholes of my mask.

  Through the circulating sea of ball gowns, tuxedos and feathered masks, I finally saw Oscar, secreted away beside an ornate pillar at the far end of the room. He was in white tie and black tux, like everyone else here, although I noted his elaborate white silk cravat covered as much of his neck as a polo jumper would have. All the better to hide the bite-marks, as any dedicated Helsing would attest. If it hadn’t been for Merriweather and her snooping reporter’s instinct, I probably wouldn’t have found him at all, especially considering the top half of his face was obscured by a silvery, beaked mask. He looked like every other Aryan blueblood here. Considering he was New Oxford’s richest and most eligible bachelor, you would have thought he would have given off a soft golden glow or something. Like a background radiation of money. As it was he was looking rather furtive, and deep in conversation with a waiter, who was leaning in and saying something into his ear. I watched him sip his martini and smile.

  “That’s my waiter,” I noticed. Merriweather raised her eyebrows at me. Oscar was indeed chatting to the same young waiter who had helped me with my mask down in the lobby. They were standing very close, the waiter’s hand resting on Oscar’s forearm with surprising familiarity.

  “They look rather intimate,” Merriweather observed lightly. “Quite the man of the people, your Oscar.”

  I shot a glance at her, though it was difficult to be withering through an eye mask. “I told you, he isn’t my Oscar.”

  “Hmm,” she nodded. “Apparently. Nonetheless, if I were you, dear, I’d make myself known. As you said, you’re here as his guest, are you not? It wouldn’t do to leave the poor boy flying solo having to rely on the hired help for conversation.”

  I passed the reporter my empty glass, which she took graciously. “If you’ll excuse me,” I said politely.

  By the time I made my way across the sumptuous glittering dance floor of the oculus, the blonde waiter had melted away, and Oscar Scott was once more standing alone, looking very much as though he would rather be anywhere other than at his father’s function. He blinked at me through his silver mask as I approached. Clearly not recognising me in my ballgown and bulletproof society hair.

  “Hello Oscar,” I smiled. “I was wondering when I’d see you. It’s hard to find anyone with all the pageantry, isn’t it?”

  His face lit up like a happy light bulb as he recognised me, and he shot me a beaming smile. I noticed his expensive dental work had been money well spent. Last year, he had had most of his teeth forcibly removed by the extremist vampire cult which had kidnapped us both. You’d never know from his pearly white million-dollar smile.

  “Phoebe?” he spluttered. “Oh thank God!” He set his drink aside and reached down and took both my hands. It was an oddly innocent and childlike gesture. “A friendly face. I got the message from your office that you were coming, but I wasn’t sure if you would. I mean, I left you so many messages, you never got back to me. I didn’t recognise you with the mask.” He looked me up and down, his eyes practically glittering. “Wow,” he breathed. “Works for you, though. I love it. It really brings out your lips, you know.” />
  I shrugged. “How could I say no? The chance to see inside the hallowed halls of Scott Tower? I guess I always suspected your dad had Bonewalker servants everywhere, like a private army. I was curious.”

  “And you wanted to see me too, right?” he checked, making me feel like pond scum.

  I smiled as warmly as I could. It was hard to dislike someone as insecure as Oscar.

  “Of course, dummy,” I said. “Rather me than some stuffy old dowager forced on your arm, as you say. You look well, Oscar.”

  “The better for seeing you,” he said. He glanced around the room. “God, I hate these things. Look at them, it’s like a room full of old powdered corpses. Dad’s people make my skin crawl.”

  I thought it odd that Oscar felt more at home in a nightclub filled with vampires, the actual undead, than here – but I wasn’t surprised.

  “The old fart wouldn’t even come himself, you know.” He rolled his eyes. “Except in sci-fi ghost form. Honestly, he’s embarrassing. He gets more senile every day.”

  “I thought he would be here,” I admitted. I had met him once before, and was quite glad not to meet him again. He had been fairly unpleasant. “Is it true he’s not well enough to attend?”

  Oscar shrugged. “Depends what you mean by not well,” he said, grabbing two champagne flutes from a passing waitress and handing one to me. “Physically, he’s in fine form. All that crap about being frail is a ton of horseshit. But he never comes out of his private quarters anymore. The old coot’s got too many bats in the belfry.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s paranoid. Thinks someone’s out to get him. Thinks everyone’s out to get him, to tell the truth.” He downed the drink in one swig, throwing his head back. “He’d laugh if he knew what you said about Bonewalkers. As if one would be wandering round here in black tie offering a pyramid of Ferrero Rocher. He’s so anti-GO these days he won’t even allow them in the building.”

  “But he owes everything to them?” I said. “He couldn’t have built the wall without them. They made him rich.”