The Roses of Soren

Karst was a young girl when her grandfather dragged the crate into the house. Her grandmother was out that day, standing in line for weekly rations. Normally her grandfather would have gone with, but Karst’s father had been unexpectedly called away for a job, and someone needed to watch the child. Anyway, it was a rare gift for them to spend time together, just the two of them. The crate was battered and scorched, a large dent breaking bowing in one side. All manner of small creatures fled from its surface, scattering to deep crevices around the room. The top groaned open; the air inside wafted out, stale and ancient smelling. Karst stepped forward, and peered over her grandfather’s shoulder. A wry smile crossed his face. He delicately pulled out object after object. A data pad, batteries long-since drained, dust caked in every crevice. A cracked prism: grandfather said it came from a destroyed “heavy tank;” twice the size of those that prowled the outside of the camp. A tarnished sword, intricately inscribed with the runes of another language. Grandfather said it was, “An Admiralty sword. Picked it up in the Tempest Pocket.” Karst didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded far more amazing than life within the tenements. The crate was nearly empty. Grandfather leaned in and paused, letting out a deep sigh as he stared at the final item inside. To Karst, it seemed as if the inky void inside the crate would swallow him while. After a moment’s hesitation he pulled out a case, and gently placed it on the table. He halted there, silent, his trembling hand slowly tracing the edge of the case. It was made of a silvery metal unlike any Karst had seen before. The rounded edges and velvety finish made it almost look as if it should be soft to the touch. She instinctively knew it was very much the opposite. Something about the glyphs machined into the surface seemed to speak of a warning she sensed, but was unable to read. It was a terrifying temptation. Grandfather’s hand brushed over a chrome inlay. With only a click, the case seemingly sprung to life, the lid lifting of its own accord. The inside of the case was a deep black, darker than even the acrid smoke from the incinerator pits. The objects within almost seemed to float on the rich darkness, their resplendent finish standing in sharp relief. They were clearly pistols, but not like the ones carried by the soldiers who guarded the perimeter. They were clad in the same plush metal as their case, carved into an almost organic pattern. The underside of the barrel was affixed with a treacherous looking blade edge. They were alluring, in total contrast to the pain they were designed to inflict. The grip was the most compelling part. On its end was a curved spike, ivory-colored, erupting from the pommel remarkably like a — “Tooth, right?” Grandfather smiled that familiar sly grin. “It was the first question I had for my great grandfather.” He carefully turned the pistol over, the barb clearly visible to Karst. Her face leaned in even as her body recoiled. “Our ancestors came from a dangerous home world, filled with all manner of ghastly beasts.” Grandfather ran his hand along the side of the gun. Karst considering reaching out to touch it, but something about the weapons seemed wrong. Despite being pristine, they made her deeply sad, almost as if they were somehow wilted and dead. She shivered. “The tribes fought constantly, but in a world already so deadly, they needed a way of settling their differences that was less destructive. Tribal elders would choose a tribal champion, a fighter they could send forth in single combat. That warrior would venture into the wilderness and return with a trophy, testing their mettle against the monsters that roamed the land.” The house shook, a low-flying HRAM buzzing the roof tops. Dust and dirt flitted down from the roof from gaps in the makeshift hovel. Grandfather and granddaughter alike lifted their eyes skyward, otherwise motionless. You never knew if today was the day your luck with the “hosts” had run out. After a moment, they each could breathe again. “In those days, if you really wanted to intimidate your opponents, you brought home one of these.” Grandfather tapped the tooth. “This is a thorn from a Scylla Vine. It’s long-since dead, extinct not long after the Elravian Empire itself.” “It was a plant?” Karst asked in disbelief. What kind of demon plant had teeth? “It was,” Grandfather nodded. “It was rooted in place, but the histories say that it could lash out with tremendously strong tendrils, and in an instant pull an unlucky victim into its maw. Where these,” he poked at the tooth, “were waiting to shred them. To return with one showed that you were willing to face almost certain death, in the heart of a beast that couldn’t be reasoned with. But the greatest warriors had the skills and instincts needed to survive.” Grandfather set the pistol back in the case, leaving it to rest next to its twin. “When the tribes united into the Empire and took to the stars, they still required a champion to face down their rivals throughout the galaxy.” He closed the case, but let his touch linger for a moment. Karst’s eyes twitched in irritation. Was it the dust? Or had she not blinked while the case was open? She couldn’t recall. “One of those champions was a gunfighter named Soren. He tore across the universe, challenging the dominance of a thousand worlds. Songs were sung of his exploits, holos showed his deeds far and wide. He could set foot anywhere in the Empire unimpeded, save the Royal Chambers themselves.” He picked up the case. “These were his. His Roses. Blossoms of fire and destruction. They were at his side wherever he roamed, a final settlement to any quarrel with the Empire. A conduit to a greater power, usable only by one with gifts attuned to its construction.” Grandfather placed them back in the box. Karst exhaled sharply. She hadn’t realized how shallow her breath had become. Grandfather hadn’t noticed; his hearing and vision were slowly fading, time and circumstances taking their toll. He continued putting the items back in the crate. “At the height of the Empire’s reach, a lynchpin of the Empire, the most prominent member of the Royal Guards, went rogue. I’ve heard different versions of the story over the years. A historian I spoke with on Tyrezst had an ancient data tract. It claimed that Soren had hunted her for years, unable to find her as the Empire crumbled.” Into the crate went the old sword, then a sheaf of papers. “A drunk old pirate on Murgeth Prime claimed to have heard that Soren had secretly slain the Guard, and used his newfound freedom to become a pirate king. He was pretty drunk,” he chuckled. In went the data pad, still covered in decades of dust. “Your great grandfather seemed to think that Soren had no intention of catching the Guard at all. That he had come to the same conclusions she had about the fate of the Empire, and fled as well.” The lid of the crate slammed shut. “Your grandmother once told me she thought it was love. And she always claims I’m the sentimental one.” He winked. “Who knows?” “Ancient history now. There hasn’t been an Elravian people in thousands of years. We’ve been so scattered…” Grandfather trailed off. “The future is what’s important.” He leaned in and rustled her hair. “Your future.” From outside, the sound of the front gate opening carried in through the thin windows. “I’m going to haul this back to the shed. Be a good girl and help your grandmother with the supplies, yes?” One last smile, a unspoken request to keep this a secret between them. Karst smiled back, and headed for the front door. The knots in her stomach would soon come untwisted, the strange afternoon fading to something dimmer than a memory. It was the only time they would speak of the Elravians. ***The guard eyed her skeptically. Well, at least as skeptical as a perimeter drone with no real face could look. It scanned her up and down, searching for signs of contraband. Even if she had any, it wouldn’t have found it anyway. Years of courier experience had made her better than that. It handed back her ID with a stiff, mechanical whir. “Go.” She snatched the card back, maybe a little too eagerly, and walked into the camp. She had used a fake persona this time, even if her real card was perfectly valid. Better to not let a family member’s ID be scanned at the main gate so close to the funeral. That’s how questions get asked. The smell hit her hard. She didn’t notice when she lived inside the camp, but the long periods away made the acrid stench that much more pungent. Too much garbage, constantly running incinerators, pulverized construction dust from bombed-out buildings; it all hung in the oppressive heat, mixed with myriad other awful things. The streets were surprisingly empty, although that was rapidly becoming the norm. A handful of vendors were still out, but they were hurriedly packing up for the evening. A small stream of workers rushed home from the outer sectors, not wanting to stay out in the violence that had been gripping the streets. There hadn’t been any fighting tonight so far, but these days it seemed to only be a matter of time. She quickly reached the little house. It was really more of a shack, built out of corrugated metal pulled from shipping containers, and part of the heat shield from an old tug. It wasn’t as well-maintained as it once had been, but it had served its purpose all these years. Karst ducked under the mesh fence separating the plot from the back alley. The gap wasn’t so easy to slip through anymore, the mesh pulling at her hair and jacket. It had been fine at 10, not so much now. The house was dark. True to their word, the neighbors had kept the militias away. They loved using recently abandoned buildings for watch towers, for ammo dumps, for barrage launchers. It had only been three days since Grandfather had passed, but the insurgents worked quickly if they smelled opportunity. And it would only be a matter of days before the Hosts leveled the site and spiked the ground. Now that the so-called “squatters” were gone, they would simply demolish the site and move on. She hurried through the back yard, past the old garden beds now overgrown with scrub. She quickly hacked the lock. She hadn’t been able to attend the funeral in person, and couldn’t get ahold of the pass key. Luckily, the lock was trivial security at best. The door swung open. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, even with the blinds open and letting the perimeter lights flood in. Dust hung in the shafts of light, swirling with her presence. She went straight to work. The spice box was where she remembered it being, hidden under the refrigerator. Tightly wrapped inside was a thick bundle of cash: mostly Union credits, but a few bills and chips from further afield. In any case, the stash and her own savings were enough to get off-world permanently, and start over somewhere she wasn’t on any watch lists. There was a series of dull thuds that rattled the house, the window glass trembling in their frames. A barrage sent out towards the city sectors. She had hoped to have slipped out of the camp before they started up, but now her routes out were limited. Great. Grandmother hadn’t been the sentimental type, and they had lost most everything in the flight from Gronkan. There wasn’t much in the way of mementos around. Karst grabbed the lone photo frame in the house, still displaying old holos from days long gone. Her father appeared on screen, just as she powered off the display. It was the first photo she had seen of him in five years. She tucked the frame into her bag. Another series of concussive blasts shook the house. Closer this time. She could only imagine the reprisals would start up any moment. The streets wouldn’t be terribly safe, but staying put also wasn’t an option. They may not have brought in a bulldozer yet, but a little light combat had never stopped them before. The whole place could be gone by first light. Karst took one last look around. It wasn’t how she remembered it. The smells were different, the colors were gone, the life and warmth drained away. All that was left was a cold and dead shell. Debris arranged into a facsimile of a home. An HRAM cruised high over head, its turbines loudly announcing its presence to the populous below, sound and fury. She darted out the back door, headed for the fence. She was almost there, just past the ruined garden, when she noticed the shed. She hadn’t given the shed a second thought in years. She didn’t like it as a child, all dark and filled with crawling things. And her one encounter with the contents of the shed, with the crate of Grandfather’s treasures, had left her shaken. She had blocked the whole thing out, the memory purged as much as was possible. She had little recollection of the conversation and the contents, and even less understanding of what she had seen. But Grandfather had felt it was important to show her these things. And he had kept them, somehow spiriting them across half the galaxy during his war years and the refugee times that followed. There was meaning to these things, even if Karst hadn’t comprehended them. Even if she was disturbed by them. The air crackled, and her hair stood on end. Waves of explosions thundered over the camp. From the sound of it, it was retaliatory fire via orbital strike. Likely a Thunder Gun in geosynchronous a thousand miles above their heads. That was much more serious than the HRAM’s. The situation was deteriorating by the hour. It was time to go, but… The shed wasn’t even locked. She had no clue how nothing had been stolen. Maybe it intimidated would-be thieves as much as it did her. The gloom and grime closed in around her, suffocating like a moldering blanket. Time had not been any kinder to the shed since she was a kid, but it still took only a moment of rummaging to find the crate. Grandfather had been organized, that was for sure. She dug through the crate, ignoring the crawling feeling running down her spine. Each item she pulled out was carefully placed aside; she couldn’t take them all, they were likely to be ground to dust with the house, but she had enough respect not to treat them like trash. She stuffed a few items of interest into her pack. Finally, she reached the bottom. Then night made it impossible to see what was there, but the smooth metal case was unmistakable to the touch. It was oddly warm, more so than the humid air. She briefly contemplated if the contents were radioactive, but that seemed unlikely to escape notice after all this time. The case wouldn’t fit in her backpack. Didn’t matter; she would have never let it go anyway. The words Grandfather had spoken floated up from the depths: “A conduit to a greater power.” She had found the guns revolting when she saw them the first time, soulless and dead. In her hands, the case felt anything but, like it could burst to life of its own accord at any moment. It was intoxicating. Which may have been why the Sentinel caught her so thoroughly by surprise. It smashed its unnaturally strong arm into her as she came out from under the fence. The world spun, her field of vision narrowing to a grey tunnel. Her neck twisted on impact, a sharp pain shooting from scalp to shoulder. With no time to react, a sudden kick from the drone bounced her off the fence again. The case was torn from her hands, sent skittering along the ground. Despite the shock, Karst was acutely aware that she had brushed the lock, the case spilling open as if crashed down. A mechanical voice chuckled. “Burglary in the middle of a mil op. Using a fake ID. Brave and stupid. You all give us so very much to do.” Sentinels were remote piloted; its operator a dozen clicks away and under meters of blast proofing. The machine in front of her was just a way to get that much more personally violent than an HRAM or a tank would allow. She hadn’t come armed. It had never been worth the potential risk of detection before. She was regretting it now. Could she go back for the sword? Would that even do anything? No chance. It had her by the ankle in a heartbeat, casually tossing her down the alley. Her vision swam again when she hit the ground. No one was coming out to help. No one wanted to make themselves another victim. The bravest among them simply peeked between the blinds, and even those were few in number. She was, even more than usual, on her own. She dragged herself upright as the Sentinel advanced. It would be on her in moments. No chance to run. She had been arrested before - this was different. This thing had purely murderous intent. And then it halted. The scattered weapons had attracted its attention. It stooped to grab one from the dirt, then reared up to examine the pistol closely. “What is this? A cosplay prop? Art project?” She couldn’t respond. “Is that a tooth?” it asked incredulously. Her ribs hurt, and there was an overriding feeling of wrongness. That an almost sacrilegious offense was occurring. “Leave it your kind to waste time prettying up a gun. Idiots and degenerates, every single one.” It nonchalantly leveled the pistol at her, and with an air of indifference pulled the trigger. Nothing. Artillery fire in the distance. Sirens far off. But silence in the alley. Another click as the trigger was pulled. Still nothing. The drone examined the pistol again, looking for a safety or some other method of operation. It turned it over and over in its mechanical hands. “Huh.” The Sentinel chucked it beside her. “Trash. Just like you lot.” It kicked the case, hard, sending it careening into her forehead. Karst fell back, her face bloodied. She slowly writhed on the unyielding ground, grasping for anything that might keep her conscious. There was a fading whir-click as the drone moved off, the pricking of thousands of small rocks grinding beneath her, the empty sky above, and then… Her fingers made the slightest contact with the grip. Just a millimeter point of convergence, too small to be noticeable to the naked eye. And yet… It was electric, as of a firework had been detonated inside her skull. The grip slid effortlessly into her palm, buzzing and hot against her skin. The pain, the disorientation, faded to the background. The tunnel vision remained, but now it was focused like an assassin’s scope. She rose. The gun was no longer dead. If anything, it now felt wild, barely contained. It lit up, a fiery light emitting from between the metal plates, casting stark shadows along the alley. The air around it simmered. She brought it to bear, right in the center of mass. Karst had always been a good shot, but this was more than good aim and training: this was pure, burning, anger. She pulled the trigger. The Sentinel had no time to react. A bolt of flame blossomed from the gun and reached the target in an instant, burning a hole through the thick armor plating as if it were nothing more than foil. The machine stumbled, its lanky arms flung up by the force of the impact, optics wrenched towards the sky. Fire raced through its inner workings, burning every inch of wiring, melting every circuit board, igniting all potential fuel sources. Coolant superheated to steam and whistled out the joints, while the optics boiled and burst, jets of flame roaring out the now gaping sockets. The drone managed a strangled, "GUH," before it crashed to its knees. Flopping down into the dirt, it continued to burn, the inferno within buckling the outer armor and rapidly melting the war machine into a molten puddle. The machine was annihilated in seconds. There were more faces in windows now, a little less concealed than moments before. Their attention was split between the smoldering remains crumpled in a heap, and the young woman holding the instrument of its destruction. Karst exhaled. She lowered the weapon to her side, her grip relaxing slightly. She hadn't realized she had been holding her breath, and a wave of relief shuddered through her. She could only gawk at the ancient pistol in her hand, an antique that, by all accounts, did not work. Should not work… But had just brought down a state-of-the-art Sentinel drone with a single shot. Her Grandfather's voice echoed up again from the grave. "A conduit to a greater power." Power indeed, but what kind? And why, after all this time, had it manifested for her? An orphan, an illegal courier, someone just scraping by in the refugee slums of an adopted world that didn't want her there. She was no one special. So, why her? No time to think about it. The neighbors were beginning to open doors, tentatively creeping outside. The sweep of HRAM engines grew louder. Sirens drew closer. The pilot of the drone would already have his comrades turning to hunt her, to hunt down the girl with the exotic, impossible weapon. Time to go, to disappear into the night and away from the camp. She gathered up the case and other gun, placing the still gently glowing pistols gingerly within. It closed with a satisfying click. Wiping the blood from her face, slinging her pack over her shoulder, she rushed off. She took not a moment to look back at her grandparent's old home. She thought only of the future, her future, and what these relics might come to mean. In the hands of Karst Sorensen, last descendant of the Elravian Empire's greatest gunfighter champion, the Roses had at last bloomed again.