The Joining: The Cycle of the Shards Book One

1: ONE THOUSAND CYCLES AGO

Translator's note:

Several instances of time and distance have been translated and approximated from the Marconian language K'nu directly into English. Every effort has been made to maintain accuracy, but due to the incompatible nature of the languages, some inaccuracies may occur.

The two ships rushed over the empty desert landscape as fast as their engines would allow them, fueled by the mirrored desires of the two souls that were in control; One trying desperately to escape his fate, the other doing whatever he could to catch his prey. The chase had now lasted for over half an hour, which was not a long period of time by any stretch of the imagination, particularly for beings that could conceivably live for thousands of years barring accident or injury. But for the both of them, especially considering the events that had just taken place, this run seemed like it had been happening for centuries.

The crafts, built for high-speed racing on long empty stretches such as this one, maintained incredibly high velocities with little strain to their forms. On the exterior, both chaser and chased could feel every mile and every acceleration. The sweat flowed freely, both from the external stresses and the internal strife. But they were committed now, and neither would give up this game.

For Pt'ron, he felt that all his many sins that had built up through the centuries were chasing him. He did not feel sorry for what he had done. In fact he blamed most of the strife on his pursuer, however misplaced. But the situation was there, the sum total of his life culminating in this last run for freedom. What temporary victory he had in the past was now lost. He now had two runs to face, he thought as he clutched the manual steering column with one hand and a small black bag in the other. This would be the easier of the two.

The two crafts quickly jumped over a small incline, neither dropping in speed. Critock, the stone faced dark-haired Marconian in the pursuing craft, had thought about increasing velocity and possibly overtaking his adversary, but thought better of it. He knew Pt'ron's strategies like the back of his hand, having had been around him for so long. He refused to dwell on that particular fact though. With everything that had happened, everything so fresh in his mind...

The end of the war. The traitor. The battles...

Her death.

His mind overridden by vengeance, he tightened his grip on his own column causing the gold craft to surge forward. It nearly struck the red and white vehicle, its driver not expecting a direct assault so quickly. Pt'ron moved to the right and silently gave thanks to Gods he didn't believe in that there were no obstacles in the way. Indeed, the only items in this barren landscape were rocks and odd bush formations that were too low to the ground to be struck by the hovering vehicles. Even if they had been rumbling across the ground the scenery would have been pushed away without incident. So intense were the emotions and the chase that both believed nothing could stop them as they continued through the motions of their wordless battle of wills.

An unexpected large hill sent them both hurtling upwards, and then just as quickly back down. The bottoms of their crafts actually touched the ground and sent a spray of yellow sand into the air before the hovering devices reasserted themselves and the crafts regained their usual upright stance. As before, the chase continued.

As Critock focused his orange eyes menacingly onto the back bumper of Pt'ron's craft, the light from one of the desert planet's three suns shined off a small glass trinket that sat on the bench seat next to him. He refused to even acknowledge its presence, despite where it came from and who gave it to him. He used the feelings to push him forward, the anger and rage building up within him. He wished he knew the design of this craft better, to try and gain any advantage he could find.