Goddesses of New Eden
Copyright© 2026 by Northman
Planet New Eden: Year 0
I am marvelling at the scene. I have the best possible view from where I am, up on the fourth and backmost row of the intimate circular amphitheatre’s seating arrangements. Only 15 metres away from the centre, and 5 metres above it. Not quite as close as those who are seated right around the lowest tier, but from my position I can survey everybody in the place, with nobody at all looking over my shoulder. I certainly like that. I can also enjoy sight of the great open spaces of the landscape beyond, as the warm breeze tickles me: blue skies with a subtle pinkish hue, lush meadows, rivers, forests, mountains – and two suns; a yellow and a red.
The arena, about the size of a tennis court except round, is surfaced with a type of firm clay you might indeed find at Roland Garros. Two fencing-type swords lay on the ground either side of centre, in symmetrical position such that persons coming from opposite directions can conveniently pick them up by the handles. The stadium is divided neatly into five segments in addition to the one I am in, so six in all. Mine is distinctly the fattest, with capacity of 133 individual seats, and each of the others has seats for 80. Every seat in the place is occupied bar two. Considering that 531 people were watching this, the silence of the moment is impressive.
This changes as two very human females, clad in thin grey torso-bodysuits, walk forth from the only two entrances into the clayed circle, situated across the diameter from each other. I have side-on vantage of this. The applause is certainly impactful in volume, but it has a deeply respectful feel, although punctuated by great anticipation and encouraging callouts to one or the other.
The two of them have very human names too: Gillian and Rachel. In fact, anybody would be struck by how ordinary they look, albeit both certainly well above average in prettiness. Neither look to be particularly fighty or sporty. They are aged 25 and 43 respectively: Gillian bespectacled, with long coppery-coloured hair and the pale complexion of her type and Rachel wavy fair-haired to a length just past her shoulders, but a more tanned complexion.
Both have their hair in ponytails, which is sensible considering what they are about to do. On assessing who will win this, you would tend to instinctively go with youth or apparent physical fitness. Well, Gillian has the former advantage but has awkward if lovely curves and lacks tone in her milk-white legs, whereas Rachel is markedly skinnier despite her senior years, so you’d think might move better.
As they meet in the middle, the crowd silences again, and the two take each other by the arms and place kisses on each other’s cheeks in an alternating order. Ceremony though it is, briskly done, you can sense there is no resentment or hatred between these two, but that will probably not be the case with some of those to follow. Well, in this case you sense genuine regret coupled with focus.
“May fate be kind to us,” they say to each other in unison. Gillian has a standard northern English accent, whilst Rachel has a refined southern English. “May the most divine prevail.”
That is ceremony too, and important. You see, to say they have no choice in this would be little exaggeration. To refuse would be to suffer some unspeakably worse fate courtesy of the ‘Overseers’, creatures whom nobody has yet seen but whose powers are undeniable and far-reaching. In any case, they – along with all the others – are genuinely motivated by that which they might become; if they can get through three such fights.
How do the fights work? I am beginning to understand the principles. The swords are real enough, épée style with rigid blades and hand guards, but their points are blunted and in themselves not lethal. The ladies’ faces and necks have an invisible protective forcefield around them to prevent accidental damage up there. Hits have to land tip of blade on the bodysuit area, otherwise do not score, although they sting a great deal wherever they land.
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