They left the shattered case and moved on, heading still deeper into the Standing. They all had a gun or a sword in their hands now. The emptiness of the rooms seemed somehow significant, even threatening. It was like walking through a gigantic trap, waiting for the punchline. Mechanical drones appeared from time to time, silent mechanisms of varying size, gliding through the empty rooms on unknown missions. They ignored the human intruders, who in turn gave the drones plenty of room. They varied in shape from simple spheres that rolled along the spotless floors to disturbingly human forms that tapped through the rooms on pointed toes, inhumanly graceful. Owen was frowning so much by now that his head ached, but he couldn't help it. No one made machines in the shape of men anymore. Not after the AI rebellion. So these androids had been here for more than nine hundred years, following programs laid down centuries before. No one now could make machines to last that long. It was a forgotten art. First the portals, now this. What other forgotten secrets were waiting for them in the heart of the Last Standing?
They pressed on, moving cautiously now, blinking in and out of existence from room to room, and found themselves in a hall of mirrors. The mirrors stretched from floor to ceiling, forming a maze with no apparent pattern. They moved constantly, turning and twisting, light shimmering from every direction. There were reflections upon reflections, images within images. They merged and blended, and some reflections seemed to be moving independently of the people who cast them. Owen moved slowly forward, drifting between the mirrors, following hints and whispers and beckoning figures. He thought he saw his father, and his long-lost mother, and other faces from his past, and then himself, grown old and feeble. He saw himself at his wedding, beside a veiled bride, and then fighting alone on a bloody battlefield littered with the dead. He moved on, drawn by a need to see, to know more, and then Hazel was suddenly beside him, her hand on his arm.
'Come away, Owen. It's not safe here. They're a trap; they show you what you want to see. Come away.'
Owen allowed her to tug him away, and the party stayed close together until they made it through the hall of mirrors and out the other side. They'd all seen something in the mirrors they didn't want to share with anyone else. They stepped into the next portal and vanished, and if their images remained for a time in the mirrors, they never knew.
Owen stepped out of the transfer portal and found himself in a world of ice. Three inches of snow covered the floor, long icicles hung down from the high ceiling and thick hoarfrost made whorled patterns on the walls. It was bitterly cold, and Owen shuddered convulsively. He pulled his cloak tightly about him, folded his arms across his chest and watched his breath steam on the air as he tried to stop shivering. The others appeared behind him, and they all huddled together for warmth. Except Moon, who didn't seem at all bothered.
Owen's thoughts slowly returned to him, having been driven aside for a moment by the sudden shock of the cold, and he looked about him. The air was crisp and sharp, with only a slight haze of mist. The room wasn't all that large, compared to some of the rooms he'd walked through to get here, but it gave the impression of great size, as though the walls were not strong enough to contain everything the room held. In the middle of the room a bright shimmering light shone from the floor to the ceiling, a silver pillar of illumination, and in that pillar was a man, standing unnaturally still, held in the light like a butterfly transfixed on a pin.
Owen walked slowly forward, impelled by an impulse that was half curiosity and half awe. The snow crunched loudly under his boots, and he realized he was the first person to break the surface of the snow since it had first fallen, some nine hundred years earlier. He felt in a strange way as though he had stepped back in time when he entered this room, stepped into an earlier age when the Empire was still fresh and new, the product of great men and women, carved from the unfeeling emptiness of space with courage and audacity. There were heroes and villains in those days, when events were larger than life and everything had the stamp of greatness. Giants walked the stage of Empire then, and this was one of them. Owen stopped just short of the silver pillar and studied the man within.
He was as tall as Owen, but sparsely built, though his arms were curved with muscle. He looked to be in his early fifties, with a solid, lined face, a silver-gray goatee, and long gray hair held back in a scalplock. He wore a set of battered and shapeless furs, held in at the waist with a wide leather belt. His leather boots were starting to come apart at the stitching. He wore thick golden armlets and heavy metal rings on his fingers. He carried a long sword in a leather scabbard hanging down his back, and a gun of unfamiliar design hung on his hip. Overall, he gave an impression of strength at rest, and with his eyes closed he looked only as though he was thinking for a moment and might at any time open his eyes and look around.
'So that's him,' said Hazel, and Owen jumped despite himself. He hadn't heard her move up alongside him. The others gathered around the silver pillar of light, giving it plenty of room, just in case. They seemed impressed by the morn, if not the man. Owen found himself thinking of an insect caught in amber.
'This is him,' he said finally, careful to keep his voice calm and even. 'The Deathstalker. The original Deathstalker, founder of my Clan. We still sing songs about his valor and his exploits, though the Empire banned them long ago. He's been here over nine hundred years, waiting for someone to come for him. Waiting, while the wheel turned and the Empire moved on without him.'
'He doesn't look like much,' said Ruby. 'I could take him.'
'Are we really going to wake him?' said Random. 'He's been asleep a long time, and things have changed. He might find it very difficult to adapt.'
'He was a warrior,' said Owen. 'And some things haven't changed at all. Family. Loyalty. Betrayal. I think he'll fit in quite well. Besides, we need him.'
'You're right,' said Hazel. 'Some things haven't changed at all.'
Owen started to answer her, and then stopped. She was as much right as she was wrong. He stepped forward and thrust his hand bearing his father's ring into the shimmering silver column. The light blazed up blindingly, and Owen had to turn his head away. He tried to fall back from it, but his hand was held firmly in the light. A slow rumble of power filled the chamber, as though ancient engines were awakening to life again. The floor shook, and icicles broke off from the ceiling, plunging down like swords. Then the silver light snapped off, gone so suddenly it was as though it had never been there. Owen looked back at his ancestor, standing there before him. The man's chest rose and fell slowly, and then he lifted his head and opened his eyes. They were a surprisingly mild gray, but his gaze was firm and direct. He studied Owen for a moment, and then shook his head.
'I don't know you, but you bear my ring.' His voice was calm and assured, the voice of a man accustomed to power. 'Are you Family, boy?'
'Yes, sir. I am Owen Deathstalker, your descendant. I am first of the Clan, though the present Empress has tried to strip that from me and declared me outlaw. I need your help, kinsman. The Empire has turned on me, as it did on you. It is time to take up the sword again.'
'Maybe,' said the Deathstalker. 'How long have I slept?'
'Nine hundred and forty-three years, kinsman.'
'Have things changed much since my day?'
'Surprisingly little, kinsman. The essentials are still the same. I've studied the Empire's past. I'm a historian.'
The older man gave Owen a hard look. 'What kind of occupation is that for a Deathstalker? What campaigns have you fought in? How many wars?'
'None, actually,' said Owen. 'I'm not really the warrior type.'
The Deathstalker shook his head slowly. 'I've been gone too long. The blood's grown thin. Let's get out of here, boy. Too damn cold here for my liking. Reminds me of the grave. You can bring me up to date as we go. And call me Giles. It was my name long before I gave my Clan the name Deathstalker.'
He headed for the door, giving the others just enough time to get out of the way. Owen hurried after him, and the others scrambled to keep up with them.
'Historian,' Giles said thoughtfully. 'Tell me, how much has science advanced in my absence? Are you still using disrupters?'
'Yes, sir. The Empire has kept a careful control on science and progress down the centuries. This helps to keep things stable and reserves what advances are made for the ruling classes. Just another way to keep power. We still use disrupters. Recharge is down to two minutes now.'
Giles sniffed. 'I suppose that's an improvement. Energy guns. Flashy things. Powerful but limited. Projectile weapons are much more versatile, but they were already being phased out of the Empire when I had to leave in a hurry. The aristocracy wanted them stamped out. Too easy to make, too easy to use, and far too much power to be
