Zenith

By B.D. Sweeney

It has been 300 years since the Great War turned the green to brown and the blue to gray. Zenith, the last bastion of civilization, and the only green place left on Earth, is in turmoil as the unbroken rule of one family is in danger of coming to an end. Regent Queen Burdette, a young charismatic leader, ruling in her dying father's stead, is refusing to conceive a child to continue the line which has stood for almost 3 centuries.

The Great City-State, with its formidable rules of population control and devotion to a religion that denies the existence of God, must navigate itself through, palace intrigue, a rising tension between working and wealthy classes, and a mysterious nomadic group of cannibals plotting war, to the west.

Along the way Burdette, her friends, and her rivals will all discover that Zenith, and its history, hold many secrets, some of which will upend the notion of their reality.

From wealth inequality, climate change, overpopulation, to authoritarian strong men, "Zenith" is, in many ways, an allegory for the current times in which we find ourselves. A captivating work of Dystopian fiction, this is the first book in a series of world building novels spanning thousands of years into our future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667824802

Book preview

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© 2022 B.D. Sweeney All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN 978-16678-2479-6 eBook 978-1-66782-480-2

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

For S, S, and S

I display the times; I appeal to the age.

The public is never advantaged.

Certainly, mankind has not

sacrificed its rights;

If mankind dared but to listen to

the voice of its heart,

changing suddenly the language,

It would say to us, as it would to

the animals of the woods:

"Nature created neither servant nor

master;

I seek neither to rule or serve."

And its hands would weave the

entrails of the last priest,

for the lack of a cord with which

to strangle kings.

-Denis Diderot

Let the law of Zenith be known to all:

The land shall support a number totaling 1,000,000. The number shall remain constant.

For any child born on any day, an aged man or woman must give up their place.

If an aged man or woman does not volunteer, an aged man or woman will be volunteered.

The volunteers will die in battle at the hand of the King.

All are one.

There is no god.

You are god.

—Found, inscribed in stone, beneath the ruins of the old city, A.H. 1364

In the time before time, Zenith was a small farming community in the middle of an area that was then called Nebraska. The predominantly farming community, with larger population centers to the east, went about their days, aided, as most of that time were, by small rectangular electrical devices with reflective black surfaces that would, as scholars of today generally have come to believe, aid them in everything from the procuring of clothing, work-related materials, and entertainment, to communication in various forms of what was called social media. While appearing harmless at first, these handheld devices soon became an abhorrent scourge upon not only the Nebraskans, but all people across what was America. The devices became an addiction, more powerful than the mind-altering drugs of the time. People verified their self-worth through virtual interaction on the little black screens. Social interaction in public places decreased in favor of the virtual. It was upon these devices that the final scourge, the fake news began to appear. The fake news told people how to act. The fake news told the people how to feel about others who were not native to their land. The fake news created monsters, pointed fingers, destroyed families, and started wars. Too many people had access to the fake news media. Too many people could spew lies and send them out for the world to see. It did not take long until no one knew what was true news and what was fake. Truth became absolutely corrupted. Truth became subjective. And that was the worst thing truth could possibly become.

Zenith, Nebraska, of course, was the home of the hero, David Heard. Many believe that David was a pig farmer who was born in Zenith. David Heard was in fact a banker in a small bank, located in the town center, and had only resided in Zenith for a brief time. He was born in the larger capital city of Nebraska. He arrived in Zenith under unknown circumstances that are debated to this day. What is known is that sometime in his early 30’s David wrote his book, Community, which was a commentary on a society that had been poisoned by fake news. A commentary on the lack of life balance that was tipping the scales towards our extinction. Balance would not, and could not, ever be achieved until the people put down the small handheld devices and stopped listening to the fake news. Truth is not subjective. Truth is not right or wrong. Truth simply is and cannot be changed. However, the fake news controlled the truth, and therefore controlled whoever held the small black device in their hands. He challenged Zenith to stand against evil. And so, upon his shoulders, Zenith declared that it would no longer be part of a society that engaged with fake news. And so Zenith became the first community in America to declare its independence and vowed to sustain itself without the help of either the centralized government far to the east, or the handheld devices that continued to poison people’s minds. The Zenites burned their black devices and separated themselves from America entirely. The Americans were watching. The Americans were listening, and some sort of rage, some sort of black and red simmering just below, deep down, only to be found when alone in the dark, began to boil over. Through his writings, Heard’s message spread like wildfire, infecting the media he sought to destroy. Ironically, the handheld devices were now serving as a vessel to transmit the power of his book, and his beliefs, to everyone far beyond Zenith. Using the social media, and fake news, David called for the immediate uprising of fellow citizens who shared the same beliefs as Zenith. He argued, through his works, that blood alone would fuel the engine of change. Violence, throughout history, brought change.

The people read. The people listened.

Throughout America, people openly rebelled against those who held the truth of the fake news. Violence erupted across large cities, as its people vowed to remove the leaders who would seek to temper them through the use of the small handheld devices. The Prez, the last Prez, the first Prez, (who had been seen by many as the reason the fake news spread, like a virus), in a moment of clarity and rightfulness changed his heart and vowed to join the people. He was the savior. He was the visionary. He was stable. He was a genius. It was not the fake news from inside of our great country that poisoned all, but that coming from outside, he proclaimed. Americans united and put down the weapons that they pointed at each other. And the people, knowing the truth spoken by David and echoed by the Prez, shut out the world. America first, the Prez would say. America would prevail whilst the outside world turned on each other at the hands of the fake news. The fake news would tear them apart, and a considerable pride swept across the nation. Walls were built, and those who did not speak truth or who would post evil and lies to the media, were shut out, cast out, or put to their death.

The outside world was not about to stand by. They would not let the Prez leave them to their evil ways. In their jealousy, and perhaps as a result of the fake news overtaking their way of life, war was declared. Terrible weapons fell from the sky and engulfed entire cities in fire. To scourge the land, the weapons brought with it a great poison that would lay barren the soil and deal a deathly plague upon those who survived the fires. We know the cities now, those that to this day remained poisoned. The terrible weapons left little to salvage. The terrible weapons turned the blue to gray and the green to brown.

But Zenith was spared and remained blue and green. In their fear, those who survived came to Zenith, dubbed by many as the last green place. The Prez arrived with his soldiers shortly after the first bombs fell. Joining forces with the hero, David, the savior eased the worry of the people. America had responded in kind and had laid waste to the outside world. America had won.

The number killed by the weapons, and the famine that followed, numbered 350,000,000. The number that had survived and had come to Zenith for refuge was 1,000,000. So, it was decreed that this would be the new number. No more. The mid-western lands, upon which Zenith laid its crop could not sustain more. Balance would become the new creed.

-Excerpt from the Flatt Water book of New Life

CHAPTER 1

Inside a low-lit room, a damp room, a room with no chairs, no windows, and one door, purposely left unchanged since the time before time, Queen Regent Burdette sat, cross-legged, on the old floor and meditated. As always, she was supposed to be in deep focus on the bloodshed that would happen momentarily. However, as always, she sat and thought of the small hill outside of Zenith’s walls, where she and her childhood friend, Nizoni, would lay a blanket and tell each other stories. The kind of stories about heroes and villains and dragons and dreams. In these mindful moments of calm, she did not smell the damp dank of a long-forgotten staging area where athletes, of the time before time, had used, prior to sport. Instead, the smell of wild lilac that grew near the tree where the two of them lay filled the air around them. Her meditation level had come to the point where she could not feel the cold of the 300-year-old concrete, but rather, the touch of the blanket against her thighs, and the prick of sharp grass against her bare feet. Deep into her mind’s eye, she could not hear the faint roar of the crowd calling her name from the stadium above, but the slight creak of the wind against the tree that stood nearby, or her friend Nizoni’s laughter. There, the two of them sat, best friends, not needing anything else in the world except for each other’s company. Sometimes, Nizoni would laugh without explanation. Light-hearted always, like she was recalling some fond memory the two of them shared.

What is so funny? Burdette would question.

Nizoni would smile and say, I’ll tell you later.

The vibration in the concrete was hard to ignore. The dancing, and oh how the people of Zenith would dance, the rumble of stomping feet and clapping hands, was hard to ignore. However, Burdette, having been here many times over the past 3 years, registered nothing except for the small green hill, where she and Nizoni would spend most summer afternoons.

The small hill overlooked sweeping acres of farmland within the outer wall of Zenith. Green for as far as the eye could see. This land had always been fertile. In the time before time, corn, and soy and wheat to feed innumerable amounts of bovine grew here. Now long extinct, the cows had been replaced by goats and chickens who did not require such amounts of food. These fields fostered wheat for bread, numerous vegetables, potatoes, and gourds that could be canned and stored when the winter came.

As a child, Burdette knew she was not allowed outside the walls. But there were no trees inside them. In fact, there were not many trees outside of the walls either. In her natural science studies, Burdette had learned of distinct types of trees, but she had only ever seen this one and a few others like it. A river birch, it was called, although the tree was nowhere close to the river. With Nizoni’s dagger the two had carved Niz and Burdy some years ago. Their mark was still there. The two were inseparable. The two were closer than sisters, together almost every day since they were children.

Far, far, into her meditation, Burdette reached a hand out from her spot on the cold floor into the space in front of her. Her vision brought forth the tree, and she ran her fingers across the old, shedding, thin bark that reminded her of paper. Niz sat next to her. Burdette felt the grass at her feet. She smelled the flowers. She heard Nizoni’s laugh. There was peace.

Your Highness? A voice from behind Burdette and Nizoni beckoned. Cross-legged on the cold floor, Burdette could feel herself rise from the grass and look back towards the towering residences of Zenith. She knew who was calling, and what that meant. She knew the routine like the back of her blade.

She turned for one last look at her childhood friend. A shared smile.

Your Highness, it’s time. The voice repeated.

Burdette raced through the tunnel of her mind and was suddenly back in the cold room, deep within the stadium. The vibration grew more intense. 90,000 patrons stomped their feet and jumped and danced. 90,000 people called her name. 90,000 people, still, almost 300 years on, drew an energy, an electric pulse from the common cohesion and togetherness that live sport brought. The sport had undoubtedly changed. Long gone were the days of young men and women dressed in similar garb throwing balls through baskets for points. But the hunger for competition remained; deep, innate, in the collective mind of all Zenites. Regardless of the sport, there was now, as there had been in the time before time, a thirst for conflict. A compulsion in humankind to choose sides, to take arms, and to do battle. The primordial feeling could be satiated but never relieved.

Now, the masses cheered for a tradition held sacred in Zenith. A tradition honored by all who lived within its walls. A tradition equal parts barbaric and beauty. Although the tradition never had an official name it had come to be called the Millionth. Two of the Zenith elders, volunteers, would have the honor of dying, in battle with the Regent Queen herself. It was written into the treaty of Co-Governance, almost 300 years ago, by Heard and the First Prez. Balance. There would be balance. Balance was the only way Zenith could survive.

The Millionth honored all those who would give up their lives so that the balance that had been so cared for, so manicured, so protected, would be allowed to continue. And here, in the cold concrete staging area, that had been left to rot for 300 years so as to serve as a reminder of what was, is where Burdette returned from her meditation.

Your Highness...

I heard you the first time, Ikiya, Burdette responded, eyes still closed. Give me a hand.

Ikiya, her loyal bodyguard and childhood friend, reached and helped her up from the floor. Burdette brushed off the dirt and dust from behind her legs. She stood, if only for a moment, placed her gaze towards an old mirror in the corner of the room, and took a deep, deep, breath. A flood of calm, from her time on the hill had washed over her.

Who am I, Ikiya? She asked, somewhat rhetorically, but at the same time wanting the answer she favored. She moved a long strand of red hair from in front of her eye. A strand that had given her fits since she was young. I can never get this fucker to stay.

This again? He thought. The Regent Queen, the Prez, your Highness, He replied with the answer she favored. He always did.

No, no, I mean, WHO am I? Like, what do you think when you see me? She began to lean over and stretch her lower body back and forth, like a sprinter preparing for a race.

I am afraid I don’t understand, your Highness.

I am Regent Queen, fine. But I don’t feel like it, you know. Do you see me as some grand monarch? I look in this mirror and see the same girl with whom you grew up. Pigtails and what not.

I see the first Regent Queen in our history to take up the ‘Maga’ sword and do battle with the volunteers. I see the first woman Prez in our history. I see the woman who campaigned as a leader of the people, by the people. A woman who will put an end to the greed of the Legislate...

Burdette cut him off. A woman viewed by many as simply the bearer of the heir to the throne? She patted her stomach and raised her thick red eyebrows.

Your duties as Regent Queen and Prez can be mutually exclusive. The treaty of Co-Governance states...

Ike, don’t fucking quote civics to me.

You were born into the Royalty. You chose to run for the Prez. You asked for the burden.

The burden?

The weight of the oppressed, yes? You vowed change. You are the one who must deliver in the face of the Legislate.

Burdette brushed this off. Fine, but I’m not talking about what labels the people have put on me. I am talking about my essence. You know, my being.

You are god.

Nah, Ike, don’t quote Watts to me.

Flustered, Ike responded, Well, your highness, who do you think you are? He replied trying his best to not seem annoyed at one of the Regent Queen’s famous gotcha question sessions.

Burdette ran her hand across the back of her neck as she stretched her torso, Sometimes I feel I am the candidate the people elected to end the patriarchy. Her thoughts turned to the Legislate and its elected chancellors. All of them old men, set in their tired ways. All of them crafting and scheming into law ideals that keep them in power and in profit.

She continued, Sometimes I am the woman who must find a suitor with whom to bear a son. Her thoughts now on her title of Regent. Zenith had never had a female leader in their 300 years. She was simply holding the place for a male heir.

But now...right now, because that is all there is, yes? Now I am the woman who wants to get the ‘Millionth’ over with so we can go get drunk.

Burdette walked the line. To the people a poised reflective intelligent leader. To her friends, of which there were few, a reveler of the awkward age where one can no longer be a child but cannot yet be an adult.

She smiled at Ikiya, as he pulled a flask from his side. A quick nip, your Highness?

Ike, you dog. Clear spirits or brown?

Brown. Rye to be specific.

UGGGGH, can’t do rye before a fight. She clapped her hands. Enough. Time to kill. Okay, enough then. Ike, go get the Maester.

Ikiya, who was hardly ever more than an arm’s length from Burdette, turned and walked hastily out of the room. Immediately, through the door, in scuttled the Watt Maester, Mika, in full red regalia. Long red robes, with an awkward red cap. He stopped a foot away from Burdette and fiddled with his bulky robe, searching for a small pocket at his side. A pudgy, middle-aged man, with one eye lost to a fever when he was young, pulled from his pocket a small tin of white paint and with his thumb, traced the word Id on Burdette’s forehead.

He began My queen, are you ready to die for the universe?

I am.

My queen, are you ready to kill for the universe?

I am.

My queen, are you the elder?

I am.

My queen, are you the Prez?

I am.

Then recite with me that which has been known throughout time immemorial.

The two bowed their heads, and together chanted a verse from New Life, "Now is all there is, all there was, and all there ever will be."

With his hands, the Maester made a W and Burdette returned the salute in kind.

And with that the Maester gave the Prez a smile, turned, and left the room.

Burdette was beautiful. There was no other word to describe her. She tried to hide her beauty, but most were simply overtaken by the radiance she exuded. There are just some whose beauty transcends their physical appearance. She was courted by many suitors over the years, all whom she deemed unworthy of her affection. Pale skin, unblemished by time, or weather. Large green eyes, under tinted eyelids. In the summer months small freckles would warm upon her cheeks and across the bridge of her nose. Long red hair, natural, and in line with the rule that all Kings, and now the first Regent Queen, were mandated to have by the Wattist faith—to either have red hair, or dye their hair red, or wear a red wig. A strange tradition that dated all the way back to the first Prez, last Prez, who too wore a reddish-orange hair piece. Her hair would cascade down past the middle of her back, had it not been braided up for battle. Burdette was tall, taller than most women. Burdette was strong, stronger than all women. The Wattist faith required all Royal leaders to lift heavy objects, raise their heart rates, and sweat on a daily basis. Exercise was pivotal to the appearance of a Royal. When she would grip tight her sword, bulging forearm muscles appeared beneath heavy veins coursing with blood mixed with adrenaline.

At 28 Burdette would still be considered young in the time before. Now, with 30 drawing near, and as a Regent Queen with no husband at her midlife, she was keenly aware of the pitfalls that awaited her. She had heard the whispers, and, with everyday closer to 30 and no heir to speak of, the whispers would become loud backroom conversations, that would turn into conversations within the Legislate behind her back, that would then turn into conversations in front of her face. Her rule was unprecedented, and it was assumed by almost everyone that she would fulfill her duty and birth a son to continue the royal line.

However, that battle was for another time. She had the keen ability to be present in the moment, a must for all practicing Wattists. She was able to set aside her concerns shared with Ikiya, moments earlier. She had her moment on the hill with Nizoni. She had her moment with the Maester. And now, Burdette turned to the 300-year-old mirror in the corner of the room and gazed upon her look. Fear. That was the word that entered her mind. What do I have to be afraid of? She thought. Death? I will be re-born. I will be the sun. I will be the moon. I will be the child in the street playing with her toy sword saying I want to be like Burdette when I grow up. No, she was not afraid. She feared no grave. She feared no pyre. She feared no fight. She feared a cage. She feared someone other than herself controlling her destiny. That was all.

She adorned the traditional white armor that all soldiers wore upon battle. A lightweight metal, with a thin coat of white paint, covered her chest and abdomen. A chain mail shirt that extended over her shoulders lay underneath.

White, so that our enemy has no doubt who they have crossed. White, so that our friends may know who to trust. White, so that the blood of the fallen should paint a reminder of what we have lost, lest we forget, across our bodies. She whispered to herself the old soldier’s battle hymn, as she brushed that same out of place hair from her face. She had watched herself grow up in this mirror. Her father, the old King, meditating in the same place prepared for the weekly Millionth, while she watched from the corner.

The last ritual now faced her. In an old small unassuming red rectangular box, Burdette released the latches and removed the Maga Sword. The sword of ages. The sword from the time before time. Forged, as the legend has it, in the fires of the Battle of the Twin Towers, a legendary battle fought only a few decades before the end. It’s width the size of a large man’s hand. When the edge of the sword was placed on the ground its edge rose to the height of her ribcage. Its helm wrapped in original cow hide, imbued, and imprinted with the handprints of all the royals that came before her. The first prez had brought it with him when he came to Zenith. A ceremonial sword, bulky, and heavy, but in the right hand, deadly nonetheless. Burdette lifted the sword into the air, took a few practice swings, and sheathed it in the large leather holster across her back. She was ready. The crowd, some 90,000 strong, stomping and singing above the low-lit damp room, were ready. Burdette walked through the door and met Ikiya in the hall.

I’m ready. She spoke. Ikiya nodded and turned to walk in front of her. Burdette never questioned the tradition of the Millionth. She understood the blood ritual as it was taught to her in school. She accepted population control. She accepted rule without a god. She accepted that she was as much god as the person next to her. Where she differed from most was her questioning of simply why things were the way they were. Most Zenites were okay living without the use of the word why. Not Burdette. Why the war to end all wars? Why do the scavengers and cannibals who tool about the wasteland not come to the gates and seek refuge? Why must a woman bear a child? Why must she take a husband? Why do the Patriarchal Chancellors continue to make rules that merely benefit the few and not the many? Barely a year into her term as Prez and already her use of the word why," coupled with the patriarchal attitude towards her, seemed to be at the root of the whispers. Those who ruled do not like to be questioned and she was elected as Prez based on her promises that she would do just that.

Through countless twists and turns, the two walked the halls toward the arena. She and Ikiya confidently paced the old concrete. Her eyes faced forward, intent and almost glowing with a determination that everyone lingering in the halls could see. Royal guards stationed every 10 feet saluted the Prez as the two moved forward. Random chancellors in their black robes nodded, most of whom loathed the Regent’s youthful motivation. There was Chancellor Hohu, who could not stand without the aid of his walker on account of his old brittle bones. There was Chancellor Omna whose old putrid breath wafted into any conversation within 10 feet of him. Chancellor Spaya saluted the Regent with his old wet, veiny hands. All of them impeders of progress for the sake of their bank account.

The muffled stomping and cheering of the crowd now turned to a roar as the two moved to the main hall that led directly into the arena. Here, the small talk of random members of the Legislate and Military, that stood in the main hall, came to a stop as they all turned in silence, and one by one made the traditional W with their hands as a salute, towards the Prez.

Without dropping her intent stare, she asked as she neared the entrance to the arena, Ikiya, do you know what the chef is preparing for dinner celebration tonight?

Ikiya let out a small laugh, Lamb, I think. He too had been here at this door many times. She had made a habit of breaking the tension right before the deed.

Ugh, not my fav. Hopefully there will be cake. Do you think there will be cake?

Your Highness, I will personally make sure there is cake, Ikiya replied.

Ike, what did I say about ‘Your Highness?’

Ikiya, turned and smiled. Burdette, I will personally make sure there is cake.

Burdette breaking her death stare, if only for a moment, returned his smile with her own and gave him a wink and an affirming single pat on the shoulder. See that you do. And nothing with fucking strawberries, you know I hate those tiny seeds.

Queen Regent Burdette, dressed in white, with the Maga sword on her back, moved in front of the large doors that would momentarily open to the killing floor.

Beyond the doors lay a dirt floor 100 yards long and 50 yards wide. According to the Chronicler’s Guild, the surface was once used to play a game called ‘football.’ The patrons packed tightly into row upon row ascending into the dark night. A balcony with thousands more rose above that, lit dimly by the peddle lights hung across the arena. There was an entire section reserved for the Zenith Men’s Choir whose song, deep and baritone, its words from a forgotten language, their meaning lost to time, floated into the cool evening sky.

Across the dirt, another door swung open and a pageantry of marching minstrels playing various brass instruments and beating drums, filed out two by two. One line went left, and one went right. The fans, rabid, sang the old hymns, and swayed with the music. A ritual of celebration that had been unchanged for the better part of 300 years. Everyone in the stadium stood, clapped in time with the drums, and reveled with their fellow patrons. Men and women vendors walked the aisles and passed out ales of different sorts to all. Inebriation was very much a part of the festivities.

The two lines of musicians marched in sync, creating ornate patterns for all to admire, and met again at the center of the arena. Here the music stopped, and the fans quieted as a small man, dressed in a light blue pea-coat and light blue linen pants that stopped just above his ankles, briskly walked from the open door to the center of the music line, waving to the crowd as he did. His jet-black hair perfectly coiffed, Tanyan was the master of ceremonies for the Millionth. A celebrity in Zenith, if there were any, Tanyan was surely the man. Beloved by all who heard his deep warm voice, he had led this event for years. Tanyan, like the Prez, was a devout Wattist. He took very seriously his role in this pageant that had come to serve as a symbol for Zenith itself. He could feel the energy of the crowd, how it flowed through his veins. He fed off it. From his waist he pulled a voice amplifier, connected by a long cord to the peddlers racing on their stationary bicycles, creating enough kinetic energy to give power to the event, far below the stadium. He motioned for the crowd for quiet, and they responded.

Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen, boys, and girls! He bellowed. The amplifier did not work great, but Tanyan’s voice was so resonant that he almost didn’t need it. Listen, now, that we may know the time before time. Too many people, too many problems. The earth lost balance, and those across the water blamed US! Too much death, lead too few people. He rotated slowly to face all sections of the arena. He reveled in the quiet the stadium gave him as he spoke. A true Master of Ceremonies. He had recited the Memory of Loss from the Flatt Water Book of New Life many times.

He continued, But we learned, yes, we learned. Live in harmony with nature. Take from nature no more than you need! Give back to nature only what you can spare. Balance. Balance is what brings us here tonight, my friends. This week we have had 212 births. The law of balance says there must be 212 deaths. 201 died of natural causes. We had 11 brave volunteers... Thunderous applause arose from the crowd in acknowledgement of the sacrifice. Tanyan paused to let the appreciation ring through the arena. ...And two brave men were given the highest death honor in Zenith, that is to fight and be sent to new life at the hand of the Queen Regent herself!!

Tanyan threw his arms into the air as the audience once again cheered for the moment. A bass drum beat loudly. Tanyan motioned to the same gate from where he had appeared, and, two men, both approaching 70 years old, waving to the crowd stepped forth and began walking toward the center of the arena. Both men wore the ceremonial black linen pants and shirt. Both men, although frail in appearance, were in good physical and mental health. They were not scared. They were not dazed or confused as to what was about to happen. Both men, long ago accepted the creed of the Watt faith that going to the black, if only for a moment, and then returning into the light of a new birth, a new life, was the ebb and flow of existence, and was necessary in order that Zenith, the last City, may carry on.

They stopped a few feet from Tanyan and were each given a sword. The older of the two, who had a full white beard, was in his youth a member of the army. He had some basic training with a sword and took a few practice swings. The other, a bald man who had lost his teeth many years ago and never bothered to get them replaced, was surprised by the weight of the weapon, but none the less thrilled, took a turn waving it back and forth across his purview.

Tanyan, always delighted to see the excitement on the faces of the volunteers, grabbed each man by the wrist and held their arms aloft. The crowd once more roared and saluted the men with the customary W made by their hands. Tanyan lowered the microphone and spoke directly to the two men. He knew his honesty in this moment was always appreciated. My friends, thank you. I only hope to be standing where you are someday.

Across the arena floor, the giant doors swung out, and trumpets blared. The Regent Queen emerged, removed the Maga sword from its holster across her back, and used it to salute the crowd. Cheers rained down as Burdette slowly paced her way towards Tanyan, and the two volunteers. Though she had become accustomed to the ensuing bloodshed, she was always amazed at the sight of the Zenites, packed to the rafters, cheering her name. Burdette, despite the fact she had no husband and no heir, was incredibly popular with the people. She was the first female Prez in the 300-year history of Zenith. She was the youngest Prez in the history of Zenith. Of the 52 Prezs’ that came before, she was one of only four royals to hold the position and the first in over 150 years. The separation of the Wattist faith and the legislate had always been a complicated affair. It was viewed by some in the government that a royal who had no real power, save for the head of Wattism, had no business being a Prez, who had almost total control over the government and the army. As the old ways taught them, a blending of church and state almost killed the world. However, those who opposed her in the Legislate could not deny that the people loved her, perhaps more than any other Prez of the past. In the eyes of the people, she was equal parts kind, and merciless. She was the leader that would understand and fix the injustices that over the years had begun to rear their heads. Problems like greed and indifference. Problems between the haves who had always had and the have nots which had never had. She did not hide from the injustices inflicted by the government, or the rich bureaucrats who bought and sold their influence therein. She sought to call them out, face them head on, and change the city-state for the better.

Burdette made her way to the center of the arena and stopped a few feet from the volunteers. At almost 6 feet tall, she towered over both of them. The musicians had returned to their seats just beyond the wall. Tanyan, once more, waited for the crowd to quiet before he spoke. Dear Prez, dear volunteers... another slight pause, Today two must die so that Zenith, the last green place on Earth, may live on. At the sound of the horn, you may draw your weapons and do battle until death takes two of you. Are you prepared?

Both volunteers nodded in approval and smiled at Burdette, still awestruck to be given such an honor. The regent queen nodded as well, took two steps towards the men, leaned in, and gave each a small kiss on the forehead.

Gently caressing each side of both faces she spoke softly, I will see your eyes in the eyes of the newborn. Thank you both. Burdette turned and retreated to the far side of the arena, awaiting the horn. The two volunteers, after a moment of amazement that the Prez herself had kissed them, turned, and briskly walked to their side of the arena as well. Tanyan said nothing, turned off the amplifier, tucked it back into his pocket, and hurried off to his seat in the front row.

Here, before the first swing of the sword, Burdette closed her eyes and thought of Nizoni and the hill one last time. The breeze on her skin. The touch of the grass upon her thigh. A moment of peace. A moment of truth. The crowd drew silent and lurched forward in their seats in anticipation.

A loud low guttural blast of noise emitted from the foghorn perched high above the arena. The crowd swelled. A fire drew in Burdette’s chest and she lunged from her side of the arena, full speed, Maga sword in hand, blade perched on her thick leather shoulder pad. Now, suddenly in this moment, she was not little Burdy on the hill, laughing with her friend. She was a killing machine on a dead sprint, muscles swelled, heart racing, nostrils flared, towards the volunteers.

The two men, looked at each other, knowing full well that new life was racing towards them like a charging bison, raised their swords, yelled a primordial call, and dashed towards the Regent Queen.

Meeting almost directly where they previously stood, with Tanyan, the two men simultaneously took overhead swings, which were immediately parried. Burdette, grunting through her teeth, thrust both men back with her sword and at once spun into a counter strike. Here, in these moments of battle, time slowed for her, as she had practiced these moves and counter moves, again and again, in a small garden with her loyal bodyguard Ikiya. Her spin, almost dance like, was perfect and calculated. A quick riposte from her pirouette instantly took off the right forearm of the man with no teeth. Blood quickly flowed forth at his elbow and spattered across Burdette’s chest and face. The man with the full white beard regained his balance, took a brief moment to look at the other man’s gushing stump, and lunged at the Regent Queen. Burdette effortlessly moved from her spin, arched her back, and thrust herself backwards, sending white beard stumbling though his lunge. He regained his footing just in time to see Burdette swing a heavy cross body. On instinct alone he moved back, but not enough as the first inch of Burdette’s blade entered his right shoulder and carved its way across his chest, exiting at his left shoulder. A horizontal line of blood took a second to appear and then promptly flowed down his chest. The strike was not enough to kill him. The man with the white beard took a quick moment to raise his hand to his chest in an attempt to catch his own blood. The man with no teeth, reached down with his left hand and grabbed his sword. He could feel his end coming. He had truly little experience with a sword and knew he would go quickly. He raised his sword high with his one arm and swung in a weak motion missing his target completely. Burdette, in one fell swoop, moved from carving a line in white beard’s chest, to swiping toothless’ hand off clean at the wrist. His sword clanged to the ground; his hand still tightly gripped to the hilt. There was just enough time for him to process this, turn to the Regent Queen, and smile a smile of deep gratitude. Her double-handed backhand removed his head from his body and sent toothless to new birth. As both head and body fell to the ground the crowd roared with appeasement. Burdette was now head to toe covered in blood across her front. She let out a yell, wiped her eyes with the back of her free hand, and spun back around in time to see White beard, although weakened from his chest wound, swipe a blow across her side. Her chain mail had done the trick and she, although startled, was unharmed. The crowd gasped. No one had landed a blow upon the Regent Queen in quite some time. The quick thought of what could have been sent a rush of fire into Burdette’s head. In a brief pause, White beard caught the eye of the Prez as if to say, Your Highness I am so sorry for having struck you. Her eyes widened and dilated. Burdette grunted and swung with a ferocity that broke White Beard’s sword at the hilt as he attempted to block. As he moved forward in an offensive jab with what was left of the sword, Burdette grabbed his wrist with her right hand. With her left she plunged the Maga sword through his stomach, and out betwixt his vertebrae. White beard, collapsing into her rms, paralyzed, entrails strewn across his lap, and seconds from new life, couldn’t help but gaze upon her beauty. Here, now, covered in blood, Burdette’s eyes looked into his and gave him respite. With blood flowing out his mouth, across his lower lip, and down his chin he managed Thank you, before drawing his terminal breath. Burdette released his body to the ground as the crowd, already roaring, had now turned deafening.

The Regent Queen wiped the warm blood of the volunteers from her face and held the Maga sword high in the night air. The stadium shook, vibrated, and danced. Revelry set in and would go on through the night. The fight had taken all of 42 seconds. Most never took more than a minute. But 42 seconds was all the people of Zenith needed to revel in the weekly restoration of balance.

The musicians began to play their ceremonial songs as Tanyan returned to the killing floor, voice amplifier in hand and boomed, Ladies and Gentlemen, the Regent Queen, the Prez, Burdette! He rushed to her side and extended his hand as to present her, trying his best to keep his distance so as not to get blood on