THE JOINING
Chris Stephenson
Copyright © 2016 Chris Stephenson
All rights reserved.
ISBN:
ISBN-13: 978-1537300252
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.
ONE THOUSAND CYCLES AGO
1
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.
Pt'ron was doing the same thing, but he was taking a more proactive approach. Since there were no obstacles in front of him, he was able to take his eyes off the landscape and scan the control panels to look for anything he could identify. He knew the racing vessels built on this planet were for more 'colorful' sports, so he knew that somewhere on these vessels were at least rudimentary weapons. If he could use them, his escape would be all the easier, and considering who his pursuer was, it would also make it all the sweeter.
He took a chance and tapped an unlabeled panel, expecting that an ejection seat or emergency brake would be clearly marked and out of the way. For a moment, nothing happened. He frowned, until the schematic of the craft suddenly rotated on the console in front of him, and two red dots appeared on the sides of the display. Words began scrolling on the sides as a targeting reticule appeared. He couldn’t read the language that was being displayed, but he certainly could guess what had just happened. He allowed himself a smile, overcoming the fear and stress that had been enveloping him.
Critock shared no such smile as he watched two cannons slide out of the canopy of his enemy, flipping themselves around from their former forward position and training themselves squarely on him. A momentary flare of panic rose within him, but he had been well trained to ignore it and use it to heighten his senses and abilities. He forced himself to look closer and remember what few courses he had taken, years before in the academies, that would allow him to decipher whatever code this species used to label their defenses.
Pt'ron savored the moment as he quickly located the firing controls. He focused on his target, even as a small hook emerged from the front facing underside of Critock’s ship.
Critock fired the grappling hook, hitting its target and spearing through a side panel. It came to rest still on the interior of the craft, small spikes extending out to secure its position. He nodded satisfactorily, and tapped the panel that would open up the roof of the vessel to the air. As the insane wind whipped into the cockpit and around him, he grabbed the glass trinket. Slipping it back over his neck, he also checked his pocket to make sure that the small pen-shaped device was still present. Satisfied that it was secure, he began the uncomfortable climb.
Pt'ron growled. This wasn't going to happen. Not when he was this close to the first part of his freedom. He attempted to set the target on Critock himself, but the reticule could not get a lock on him, and missing shots would take away precious time and energy. Time in particular he did not have. Even now he could see on the limited radar capabilities that they were coming up on a small town. The same town he had planned on escaping to, as they had a small ship port there that was not well policed. Perfect for what he had in mind. He re-centered the targeting reticule on the craft itself, and pressed his finger down on the panel.
Critock had by now climbed out onto the hull of the craft, its auto-piloting capabilities proving quite useful despite it's total lack of comprehensive weaponry. He slowly crawled towards Pt'ron's craft, moving as fast as he could, almost touching the rope...
Red fire came out of Pt’ron’s cannon, striking the craft three times in rapid succession. A small explosion occurred as the right engine exploded, and fire surged throughout the craft. Critock knew time was short. Even if he could dodge the fire, one more good blow and the hovering capabilities would be gone, and him with them.
He saw one chance, and he took it. He reared up and flung himself forward off of his craft, just as the left engine blew. As he dove for and grabbed the rope, still secured within Pt'ron's craft, the hover jets lost power. The craft struck the ground, and
was torn apart from the velocity and a hundred tiny explosions rippling over its body. The grappling gun was ripped from the wreckage by the great speed of the lead craft, and Critock held onto the rope with all his might as the rope drug along the ground, pulled down by the heavy gun. He, thankfully, had pulled himself up enough so that he was not being drug along with it.
The angle of the craft and windows, along with the limited radar capabilities, were such that Pt'ron could not see Critock holding onto the rope. But he knew the rope was there, and that the gun would be dragging and slowing him down. Already his speed had dropped by a third. He relaxed a bit though, as he had rid himself of his adversary. A small amount of sadness entered his mind, as he wondered what had been done to deaden him so, that the man that he had spent so much of his life with could die by his hand and he would feel glad for it. Then he remembered the past, from his own point of view, and the sadness passed. He stole a peek inside the black bag, and smiled again. There would be no sadness for him. The future was bright.
Having finally reached the craft proper, Critock pulled himself aboard gingerly. The ride had gotten rougher on this end due to the excess baggage being drug behind, so he had made sure to keep a tight grip at all times. Reaching the top of the vessel, he reached in his pocket for the pen device and pulled it out. He thought for a second, wondering if he should warn Pt'ron somehow, or find another alternative. After all, he was ordered to bring him back alive so that justice may be served and the military population sated. At this point though, he knew that the only true justice was vengeance. The vendetta would be resolved. He aimed the weapon carefully...
Critock quickly ducked as he was nearly decapitated by the entry sign to the town of Kq-Ki kiki KTO. (No translation available). As he threw himself down he lost his grip on the pen device, and it flew off the craft to the ground now behind him. He didn't have a chance to mourn its passage, however, as he kept his eyes forward and made himself as flat as possible to ensure the next obstacle would not hit its target.
As Critock attempted to keep from flying off, his left foot moved over the front window of the craft. It was only for an instant before he moved it back out of sight, but it did not escape Pt'ron's attention. Pt'ron's mood soured, and he removed a sleek pistol-shaped weapon. He quickly thrust it towards the ceiling and fired, not aiming at any place in particular, just hoping to get lucky. The orange lasers burned quickly through the ceiling.
The first shot missed Critock's head by a foot, the second missed his leg by an inch. He threw himself to the left, almost falling off in the process. He awkwardly clutched one of the ridges, his feet dangling. All thoughts of anything but survival left his head as he desperately tried to regain his grip. As his feet found purchase on top of the exposed cannon, the craft jerked left, striking and dragging the side against a rock building in an array of yellow sparks. It slowed the vessel down, and would have crushed Critock had he not been able to move away from the cannon, which now took the brunt of the hit.
The smooth strike and drag helped Pt'ron realize that his gambit had failed, and Critock still lived. He growled again, which transformed into a yell as he fired many shots into the ceiling, taking his mind and eyes off the controls. None of the shots hit, as Critock had moved to the opposite side, having an easier time of hanging on. So focused was Pt’ron on eliminating his former friend once and for all that he didn’t notice that the speed of the craft had dropped by another third, nor did he realize that his destination was so close at hand. Critock saw it coming, and launched himself off of the craft, making a bet that they were going slow enough that he would escape any serious harm. The craft slammed into the old and rusty metal doors of the nearby abandoned space port, sending them flying without impeding the craft's progress at all. Critock rolled as he landed, scraping every piece of exposed flesh in the process but managing to stay mostly unharmed. He watched as the craft disappeared into the darkness of the interior, followed moments later by a horrific crashing sound. Grimacing at his aches as he rose to his feet, he began a slow walk towards the spaceport, already making plans in his head for the many different places this encounter could head next.
As he walked, Critock passed two short, round workers running for their lives. Obviously not used to any kind of excitement here, he thought. He also thought to himself about expending the energy to change his structure, for his body to reconfigure into what he jokingly called the beast formation. He very quickly chose against it. With the amount of energy that he would have to expend, it was very likely that once he had changed he wouldn't have anything left to fight with.
As he entered the dusty, dark brown interior of the spaceport through the recently made hole, he realized that the workers probably weren't used to much of anything. From the looks of the area, and the growing darkness the farther in he went, he correctly guessed that this spaceport hadn't been used for years, and probably was only manned in case of emergencies. Pt'ron undoubtedly knew this. Critock steeled his nerves. He could not let him escape again. If he got off this planet and escaped into the stars, it would inevitably start all over again. Wars engulfing another third of the universe. Countless races exterminated for living on the wrong planet. All for a madman's quest, for a legend that may not even be true. "He who holds the shards will control the universe." How many lives lost because of that one sentence? Where would it end?
The light had dimmed to the point that he could barely see in front of his face as Critock entered a large open area. He could see many ships, primed and ready for takeoff at a moment's notice, and realized that this was no ordinary spaceport. This must have been placed here for a planetary evacuation, he thought, set up in the earliest days of the War of the Shards. Luckily, this planet had become barren, and was known to not have any Shard activity whatsoever. Thus, it was overlooked and not thought of as anything more but merely a stopping point for armies to refuel and resupply. A perfect place to set up a secret base for an empire.
He reached the craft, still remarkably in one piece considering everything that it had recently been through, and peered inside the windows. If there was anyone in there, they were well hidden. It looked like the shell had been cracked, and someone had gotten out. Critock turned and looked up, making sure that the dome had not opened, allowing a ship to leave. It remained intact, and Critock turned back to the craft. At least Pt'ron was still here. Where he was, was another question. There was no time for him to find another escape route, and the only exit would have been past where Critock had entered. Taking a deep breath, Critock decided the only approach he could take was a direct one.
"SHOW YOURSELF, PT'RON!" He bellowed into the darkness. "THE FLEET IS ON ITS WAY. THERE’S NOWHERE FOR YOU TO GO!"
Silence. Up on the catwalks and grating Critock thought he heard footsteps, but that could have just as easily been a small creature searching for a meal. A Trk, perhaps. He strained his ears, reaching to find something, anything to reveal Pt'ron's position.
What he didn't expect was for Pt'ron to reveal himself directly behind him, whispering out of the darkness. "Was this what you wanted?"
Immediately after the silence ended, Pt’ron was on him. Punctuating every syllable of every word with a strike from his fists. "Was. THIS. What. You. WANTED?" The initial strike left Critock reeling, sending him backwards and down on one knee. Recovering quickly, he blocked the next punch and fired off one of his own, catching Pt'ron by surprise with the quick blow.
"YOU started this! You and your ‘Mistress!" Critock advanced, and Pt'ron backed up quickly. "It's going to end, Pt'ron. Your army is beaten, and the Shards..."
"Are right here!" Bouncing off his heels, Pt'ron lunged forward, something red and shining in his hand, slashing Critock across his chest. Critock fell back, Pt'ron pressing his advantage. "You never understood, Critock. Not ever!" He slashed again and again, Critock attempting to block the blows but having a very difficult time of it. "It was never about the Shards! It was never about them, or you, or armies..." Crit
ock fell, and Pt'ron kneeled menacingly. "It was about her."
Critock bellowed a primal roar at him. Pt'ron was prepared for that, and struck him in the face again. "And you had to have it your way, like always, didn't you Critock? You had to have everything in the universe. It's your fault, Critock! IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT!" Critock had long since stopped fighting back, but Pt'ron continued his assault. When Critock stopped moving, Pt'ron grabbed the back of his long hair, and pulled his head up. Pt'ron moved his face back and to the left, and whispered savagely. "And you're going to remember it." He slammed Critock's face down again, and stood, satisfied at the outcome.
He glanced around quickly, checking to see if any of the closest thing that this planet had to law enforcement had come to investigate the crash. Not hearing anything, he jogged to the closest starship to him, a sleek, silver, angular model that undoubtedly would provide ample speed to make his escape. He examined it, realizing that he would need the release codes so that he could take control. Pt'ron ran back to the front rooms, through the holes in the wall that he had created, and retrieved the items that he needed. He smirked, as they weren't even locked away. This had proved to be easy after all.
As he moved past the lifeless body of Critock, he thought about ending his life once and for all. The thought exited his mind as quickly as it had entered it. No, far better for him to have to live with his failure, and with the knowledge that everything that had happened was his fault and his alone. Opening the cockpit and climbing inside, he figured that Critock would end his life himself within a cycle.
Pt’ron could see by the overhead radar that the authorities were approaching. He knew it wasn't this planet's police by the speed and formation by which they were responding. No, these were soldiers. Critock may have chased him down with only vengeance on his mind, but backup was never far away. It did not worry him, however, they weren't expecting this.
The Joining: The Saga of the Shards Book One (The Cycle of the Shards 1) Page 1