The Coliseum at Halcyon is built of synthetic marble and stained glass, seating two hundred thousand patriots, give or take, in massive red bleachers, beneath a dark, huge dome. A statement, extramodernist, with big, black tribal sculptures, its pillars, polished and thick, appear both ancient and eternal. It is more than the wildest things most architects imagine. If their labor was unchained and their productive power was limitless, still their paradigm would crack with the potential of the Coliseum. It is an arena for genex competition, in new games, for the modern voyeur with the latest toys. It looms atop the hill, like a huge, crowned beast, covered entries looking down open paths.
Orion approaches. It is a short distance from the rail gate, with Day beside him. They come over marble paths toward a sea of people. Orion bears a sharp demeanor, taller than many of the spectators. A few seem to recognize him. Baseball-size drones hover and zip through the air, a couple remaining around these two, but quiet at a distance. “So I flushed all his hard drugs,” Day is saying, rubbing her bare arms in the sunlight. Her feathers ruffle. “He locked me in the cellar, you know. No shit. I had to get rid of them anyway. Some things mix, some don’t.”
They move into a dense throng of people, massive under the arch, and Day grabs his forearm, not to be separated in the current. They find a small vacant spot by the wall, close enough together that they may keep from yelling over the crash of cheers.
He says, “Faith is wrong, this time.”
Day hesitates. “But she’s a Prophet, right?”
“No, Faith is an Interpreter.” It comes to him easy for a second to explain something familiar. “Prophets don’t choose. That’s the difference. They are slaves to the truth. Faith decides what questions to ask.” A proud upturn appears on his lips. “And how to make sense of it all.” Surprisingly what he feels most at this moment is something deep released—a great tension unwinding, like a huge steel coil.
“It’s wild,” she says softly.
A face draws Orion’s attention. Sayd approaches, in a black hood, deep tribal tattoos dark across his chest. Scarla and Violet are with him, both dressed in shades of red. Day is silent as she follows Orion’s eyes. She sees Sayd for the first time.
“Hello, Orion.” His mouth betrays a half-risen smile. “Hello, Farfall.” Blond and orange hair spikes out from the edges of his hood. He is awesome in vulgarity. Day blushes at his acknowledgement of her, though she knows not what the name he called her means.
When Orion speaks he asks directly, reading his brother’s eyes, “You talked to Faith?”
Scarla beside him, anxious, looking away, Sayd says, earnest, his voice calm, “I want to fix things between us.” He extends an inked, sharp-nailed hand. “We might be brothers again. Let’s walk away from this, man. Let’s go get a juice, or something. You know?”
Scarla says, “That’s not a bad plan.”
“I won’t forgive you.” Orion’s words cut through.
Sayd withdraws. “I didn’t ask you to.”
Orion says, straight, “But I won’t play. I’ve already called ahead and canceled.“
Violet comes behind and grabs Scarla with one hand, by the upper arm, directing her words to Orion. Her voice shakes, “You could still listen.”
A group of teenagers cuts between them, impolitely brushing past, chasing each other in laughter. Orion watches them pass before saying, “People used to be mortal. Living life in fear of death.” Echoing roars of the crowd fill the stadium. Orion waits, then when the noise has subsided says, “We aren’t.” Speaking slower, stubborn, fighting the cognitive dissonance of competing ideas, he says, “I didn’t come here to play. She saved my life, I guess, right? Money doesn’t carry her phone. And we meet at the elevator, every time.”
Sayd’s voice is calm, volcanic. “We’re long past the chaos horizon.” His breath grows very heavy. “You want to know what I think? I think you won’t back down.” For a distinct, empty moment he stands there, fighting self-control. “That’s basically what Faith said. You just can’t submit. Always too good to consider yourself human.” He moves into the crowd.
Orion is shaking when Day looks back toward him. Her angel shape hits him like a sun, and suddenly he does not want to share this moment with her, like this. “Don’t be a tourist.” She winces. He reacts, offering, “The whole world is built on it. As basic, as important as what goes up must come down, we make choices.” Frustrated, he reasons, “I am not a stone. The Attractor knows it.” He adds, “You familiar with Occam’s Paradox?” Day shakes her head. “History is always a straight line. Knowing the future changes it.” She looks at him blankly. He explains, “Self-awareness makes prophecy impossible, that’s really what it means, even for the SA. It changed, in that very breath when she talked to me. If anything the paradox is an argument against free will, I’ll tell you. It’s just that things don’t happen twice. Faith warned me. The Attractor saved me. That’s what it’s for. Nothing here is hardly dangerous, even if I did play. I train for this four days a week.” He laughs. “I mean you’ve seen me on TV. I live for this game.”
Orion is in the locker room, surrounded by his teammates. The two closest are a pony-tailed and a butch-cut girl, strong in custom tracksuits, fitted tight. Electrodes run visibly throughout, intricate with circuit designs. His TLA suit is basic, hanging in his locker. His helmet sits above it on the shelf, on top of his four shock limiting rings and the SLR belt pack. He pulls a glove on, then takes it off.
Gradually his team files out to the elevator room.
He looks up to see Day coming from near the exit, lit from behind now, just a few feet away. She says, playful, “The fuck are you doing then?”
Dangerously, he feels the coil unwinding in his soul grow tense. A moment of natural stillness follows. “Waiting for Harmony to show.” He says, “Wondering if memory is immortal.”
Day shrugs lightly. “Well I came from heaven to save you from silly prophecy,” she says, unfolding her wings and smiling. “Come here.” He does. Orion follows her words. Even so he intends to hold her back.
Grabbing his waist with both hands she pulls herself in.
She breathes against him, her shape a counterpoint to his. Everything in existence is in that wave of her breath. He feels in her in this moment womankind, every girl, every spark and dream, every possible future. He feels in her, truly, Harmony.
He pulls away. She says, “Be careful.” Taking half of a backwards step she offers, humbly, “What goes up sometimes flies.” She looks at him and smiles, but there is fear in her eyes. Day puts her fingertips to his cheek and moves in again. Without warning her other hand dives into his pants, grabbing him, pulling him and getting him. She whispers, “Let’s go to the park.” He grabs her arm, her waist, but does not move her hand.
Hopelessly he kisses her.
Without a sound something changes in the room, and in the tension of her body.
Day looks past him now.
Harmony stands there, her cheeks bitten in, a lock of hair in her face. She holds her own hands, down at her waist.
He comes back from Day. Going right to Harmony, he reaches for her hand, but she steps away. He looks in her eyes. Between this kiss and the prophecy he finds no words, aware that words are not needed to make it real, that nothing could make it not.
The moment is unfinished like lightning followed by silence.
She is crying, but there is confidence in her eyes even in that pain, a sense of their unbreakable love.
“Get the fuck away from me,” Harmony says, venomous. She sits on the bench closest by, hiding her wet cheeks in her palms. Her hair drapes long, thick and black through her fingers.
He goes then, toward the large glass door. He still wears his casual black clothes.
Standing still, Day says quietly, “It’s not his fault. I’m relentless.” Harmony sits upright, looking past her.
“He . . .” Day hesitates, glancing after Orion, at the empty glass door, before choosing not to say anything more.
After she has left the room Harmony finishes for her, to herself, “He wants it all.”