“Throw down your weapons,” their leader said with a cruel sneer, “and we may let you live.”
Robin stood wish his back to a tree, his bow drawn, an arrow ready to fire.
“Not a chance,” Robin said. “Another step and you're a dead man.” His arrow targeted the man's chest. “An arrow will go through that shield you're holding like a hot knife through butter.”
The man shifted a bit uneasily. “Here now,” he began. “You can't—”
“I heard there's a city ahead where men with certain skills can find a good life,” Robin went on. “Is that true, or not?”
“What skills do you have?”
“I make weapons.”
“What sort?”
“Everything from bows to guns.”
“Guns, you say?”
“That's right.”
Grinning, the man stepped back and sheathed his sword. “Why didn't you say so, friend? We've had problems with the natives around here, so we can't be too careful. You'll be welcome in New Chicago, all right—the boss always has a place for another man with useful skills.”
Robin lowered his bow. “I should think so,” he said.
That New Chicago was a pearl buried in a pig sty was Robin's first impression. The original town, surrounded by a stockade, was exactly as Verne had described it. The streets were wide, the houses laid out along tree-lined avenues radiating from a large central plaza. The huge council building—now Capone's palace— stood at the exact center of town.
Around the stockade, though, lay a huge slum. Gaunt-faced men and women stared as Robin and Capone's man strode past. Thousands of hovels, flimsy constructions of logs, clay from the River, and bamboo, had been built between New Chicago and the River with no concern for order or sanitation. The reek of human waste was nauseating.
Robin covered his mouth and nose with a bit of cloth. Is there no degradation to which Man will not fall? he wondered.
“Don't worry,” the man to his right whispered, as though in answer to his unspoken thought. “You can't smell Pisstown from the city most days.”
“Good,” Robin said.
* * * *
At the stockade's gate, guards took Robin's longbow and quiver of arrows. Robin didn't protest; he knew it was a small price to pay for the information he would gain.
To his surprise, he was taken almost at once to a small whitewashed building fronting the central plaza. Two guards escorted him to an office. An engraved brass plaque beside the door said A. EICHMANN.
“Come in,” a young man with sandy hair said in a heavy German accent. “Please, sit.”
Robin lowered himself into a straight-backed wooden chair. It creaked faintly under his weight. He allowed his gaze to travel leisurely around the room—it was bare except for the desk—then back to Eichmann's thin, unsmiling face.
Eichmann had a paper in front of him. He dipped a pen into a clay inkwell, then asked, “Name?”
“Robin Huntington,” Robin said, and spelled it. Eichmann's pen made scritch-scratch sounds.
“Date of death?”
“The year of Our Lord eighteen hundred and forty-six.”
Eichmann noted it down, then paused to study him. “Skills?”
“I was a master gunsmith.”
“Excellent, excellent.” Eichmann wrote that down, too, then deposited the form in a small tray on the corner of his desk. Opening a drawer, he removed a card. The paper looked thick and coarse, but words had been printed on it with a printing press of some sort. Eichmann wrote Robin's name on the card, along with a series of numbers.
“This is your identification card,” he explained. “Carry it with you at all times. You will need it to enter and leave buildings, use the Provider for your meals, and requisition tools and equipment for your work.” He smiled. “You're lucky you're a gunsmith—the boss is big on weapons. He wants pistols as quickly as possible, and if you work hard to keep him happy, you'll find the benefits and privileges are enormous. As it is, you'll be among the elite of the scientific teams.”
“That sounds good to me,” Robin said.
Eichmann gestured to the guards. “Find him a room in the dormitories,” he said.
* * * *
The next morning, in the gunshop, Robin met the three other gunsmiths working for Capone. The head of the gun project, a Dutchman named Emile van Deskol who had died in 1865, gave Robin a tour of their shop. A dozen apprentices, varying in age from about seventeen to twenty or twenty-one, were hand-carving rifle stocks, pistol grips, and chipping flint for flintlocks. A few pistol barrels had been cast in iron, and their bores were being smoothed and polished.
“As you can see,” Emile said, “our progress is slow. The iron is poor, our casting methods worse, and the work is tedious and time-consuming. It will be months if not years before we have a single working pistol.”
Robin frowned. He was no expert, but progress on the weapons seemed far more rapid than that. He made no mention of his suspicions, though.
“This will be your area,” Emile said, indicating an empty table and bench at the back of the shop. “Each of us works on weapons of our own design. Any tools you need will be requisitioned, as well as assistants. Life is cheap; the more people we put to gainful employment, the better, if you understand me.”
“I believe I do.” Robin began to smile. Emile had a pretty good racket of his own going on ... as long as he looked busy and useful, he would be immune to Capone's bullying. In the meantime he'd pull as many people up from the slum of Pisstown as he could.
Robin knew, then, that he'd found an ally. He just had to convince Emile of that fact.
After the ten-hour workday, as the others hurried out to place their grails in the grailstone, the Dutchman took Robin's arm and held him back. Robin paused, curious.
Emile said, “You're no gunsmith.”
“I don't know what you mean,” Robin said.
“I've been watching you, and you don't have the faintest idea what you're doing. If you are here to spy—” Emile began.
“Actually, I am.” Robin lowered his voice. “I was sent here by Jules Verne.”
Emile took a step back as if struck. “Verne—he is still alive?”
“Yes. He wants to capture Capone and free New Chicago.”
“I would welcome the day!” There were tears on Emile's face. “Verne was a good friend of mine. Where is he? I want to know all that has happened to him!”
Quickly Robin gave him a summary of Verne's life since he'd escaped on the riverboat. The Dutchman nodded happily.
“I have something to show you,” Emile said when Robin finished. He led the way into the back room. Several of the floorboards were loose; he pulled them up, revealing a crawlway. Inside were dozens of pistols and muskets.
“These are our rejects,” he said proudly. “They all work perfectly, so of course we cannot give them to Capone. When he comes to see our progress, we fire the defective guns for him. When they explode, we tell him it is a problem with the forging process. When it is refined further, we say, the guns will work.” He chuckled. “He is a fool. One of Capone's men even lost an eye to a bit of flying lead.”
“How many guns do you have?” Robin asked.
“Thirteen flintlock pistols, eight rifles.”
“I need to leave here in five days to rejoin Verne and his men. We'll return ten days after that. Will you be ready to help us?”
“Yes,” Emile breathed. “All we need is a signal.”
“A flaming arrow at dawn,” Robin said. “Watch for it. Two minutes after it crosses the sky, join us in the attack.”
Emile and the other two gunsmiths covered for Robin over the next few days. As a gunsmith—even a new one—Robin found he had rights and privileges denied most other residents of New Chicago. He found he could move freely through the city, poking into its darker corners, mapping the streets in his mind. He even visited the roofs of several buildings, “for stargazing is my hobby,” as he put it.
/> There were countless places from which his men might strike. One of the smaller gates on the northern side of New Chicago seemed to offer the best possibilities for invasion: it was barred from the inside each night, with a single guard posted to watch over it.
Robin also learned that Al Capone left his palace early each morning to look over pet projects, accompanied by Eichmann and a few other trusted lieutenants. Such a routine begged closer examination, so Robin visited the city library one morning (several dozen authors were recreating famous works from memory, and interested readers could inspect new drafts of Moby Dick, War and Peace, Ubik, and Little House on the Prarie). Since the library faced out on the central plaza, he had a clear view as Capone—a small, round-faced man with powerful arms and shoulders—crossed the square. The gangster smoked constantly, his words interspersed with short, sharp hand motions. It took maybe three minutes for Capone and his men to cross from the palace to Eichmann's office building.
Robin stared up at the rooftops surrounding the square and thought about ambushes. Yes, he thought, the more he studied the matter, the higher he believe their chance of success.
On his fifth night in New Chicago, Emile drew him aside again. “I have it arranged for you to leave tomorrow,” he said. “We need more flint. You will be going to a high-quality outcropping you spotted some weeks ago in your wanderings, and two of our apprentices will accompany you to carry it back.”
“What about guards?”
“Seven men will accompany you for the first day. When you reach the edge of Capone's territory, six of them will turn back. Capone has an entire city to watch over and cannot spare guards for such minor missions as this.” Emile winked. “Besides, in my confidential reports to Eichmann, I have told him how happy you are here, and how hard you are working. They like loyalty in men such as us, eh?” He gave a hearty laugh.
Dawn the next morning found Robin and two seventeen-year-old apprentice gunsmiths standing at the main gates. As Emile had promised, everything was arranged: the guards were waiting, and they even returned Robin's bow.
“You'll be standing double duty,” said the guard who was to accompany them the whole time, a grizzled, tough-looking mercenary named O'Brien. “Keep the kiddies in line, keep yourself in line, and we won't have no trouble.”
“Sounds good to me,” Robin said.
Their fourth night out, Robin put an arrow in O'Brien's back as the man lay sleeping. Fast, quick, and painless by this world's standards: Robin felt not a moment's remorse. It wasn't like death here was permanent, he thought. O'Brien would awaken the following day, naked and confused, next to a grail hundreds or even thousands of miles away.
The two apprentices stared at Robin, clearly terrified. They tensed to run.
“Relax,” Robin told them. “I'm not going to kill you. I'm on a secret mission and had to get rid of our guard. You can either stick with me for the next few weeks ... and you'll be richly rewarded when we're through ... or you can return to New Chicago. If you go back, though, be warned that Emile will have naught to do with you. He knows about what's going on, and even arranged this whole trip. You'll be stuck in Pisstown or sent to a labor camp for the rest of your lives.”
“We will go with you,” they both said at once.
Robin nodded; he'd expected that answer. “Search O'Brien's body and split whatever valuables he has. The sword and shield are mine. Then hide the body where it won't be found.”
Both boys hurried to obey. Robin sat back and watched. He didn't know if they'd stick with him, hightail it back for New Chicago at their first chance, or just flee to another settlement somewhere downRiver. It didn't really matter, he thought; he'd be back aboard the Belle Dame the next day. Even if the boys tried to warn Capone, he'd beat them back on the riverboat.
The Belle Dame was anchored in the middle of the river exactly as they had agreed it would be. Little John and the others were practicing on deck. Arrows were notched, fired, notched, and fired again at the straw targets. Verne's men had improved vastly in the ten days he'd been away, Robin noticed.
The apprentices merely gaped. Robin clapped them on their backs. “What do you think now?” he asked.
“But this is Monsieur Verne's boat!” Jacques, the younger of the two, finally said.
“And there is Monsieur Verne!” cried Pierre. He gazed at Robin in awe. “You are a spy for Monsieur Verne!”
“That's right.” Robin cupped hands to his mouth and hallooed to the Belle Dame Everyone on the deck dropped what they were doing and crowded to the rails, waving excitedly.
A boat was rapidly dispatched, and in twenty minutes Robin and the boys had been transported safely aboard.
Jules Verne was the first to shake Robin's hand. “Congratulations!” he boomed. He looked completely well, his cheeky ruddy, his long brown hair whipping wildly in the breeze. “I knew you would return safely!”
“And I have good news,” Robin said. “It will be easier than we thought to capture the city.”
“Do not keep us in suspense! What have you discovered?”
Robin climbed two of the steps toward the second deck and turned. His men and the Belle Dame's crew all stared at him avidly. Taking a deep breath, he began to tell, in simple language, exactly what had transpired, and exactly how he planned to take the city back. Claude de Ves gave a running translation for the members of Verne's crew who didn't speak English well enough to follow.
There were startled gasps when he told of the flintlocks and the ally he had found in Emile van Deskol. “And so,” Robin said, “I think we stand more than a chance of taking New Chicago from Capone. I know we can do it. It will be hard, it will be brutal, and some of us will undoubtedly die. But in this world where death is but an inconvenience, we have nothing to fear. Come, let's drink to our success!”
To the cheers of the men, he led the way into the salon, where enough liquor had been stored for everyone aboard to share a toast. When it was done, Jules Verne led everyone in three cheers for Robin.
And Robin himself, riding high on the crest of their emotion, felt as though he were flying, as though he would never come down.
“I will need a few things,” Robin said.
It was the next afternoon; he and Jules Verne were in the riverboat's salon. The Belle Dame was headed upRiver for New Chicago at full speed.
“If it lies within my power, you know I will get them for you,” Verne said.
“First,” Robin said, “I need something like a portable periscope, to watch Capone and his men from cover.”
“We have mirrors on board,” Verne said. “It is simple enough to mount two of them in a box, arranged so you can look over walls or around corners.”
“Second, I need a thin sheet of metal, perhaps an inch wide and eight inches long—but it must be strong at the same time.”
“We have extra brass railings aboard. One caneasily be cut to that size.”
“And I need something flammable—an oil-soaked rag would be ideal—and matches to ignite it quickly.”
“Will flint and steel suffice?”
“If that's all you have, it must.”
“It is; we have found no sulfur deposits yet. What else?”
“Nothing but luck.”
“That, my friend,” Jules Verne said, “must rest with Providence.”
When they neared New Chicago, the crew doused all lights and ran the riverboat in darkness. Robin moved forward, studying the shoreline. Here and there fires from human settlements glimmered faintly through the trees. Overhead, alien constellations shone palely down, providing a wan sort of light that made the River's waves glimmer ever so faintly silver.
Several crewmen sat silently in the prow, dangling their feet overboard, calling instructions back to the pilot house. The pilot avoided sandbanks as best he could. Twice Robin heard the Belle Dame's keel scrape sand.
At last they rounded a bend in the River and New Chicago, some three or four miles distant as yet, came into view. Its tho
usands of lights and campfires gave the sky a glow visible for leagues in every direction.
“I think we should land here,” Robin said. “We're about an hour's walk away. We can be there well before dawn.”
“Good,” said Verne. He hefted his longbow. “This time I am ready for Capone.”
“No,” Robin said. “I want you to stay aboard. You're too valuable to risk in the fighting.”
“I did not journey all this way—” Verne began.
Mutch said, “Think of your wounds, sir. They're not fully healed. If you rip out the stitches...”
Claude de Ves whispered something in French in Verne's ear. Jules Verne frowned, but finally nodded and turned to Robin.
“You all seem united against me in this matter,” he said. “So be it. Take all the men you require; I will remain aboard the Belle Dame until success is assured.”
“What if you're attacked?” Robin asked. “Surely you need some crew to protect the riverboat.”
“The Belle Dame carries a few surprises for anyone foolish enough to attack her,” Verne said with a wink. “As for my crew, I need five strong men, no more.”
“Very well,” Robin said, “though I would gladly leave twice that number.”
Verne rose with sudden determination. “Let us see to the boats,” he said. “The sooner New Chicago is freed, the happier I will be.”
On deck, Verne gave the orders and the riverboat put in as close to shore as it could. The crew broke out four boats this time. Robin and his men went ashore first, then Verne's men followed. The Belle Dame pulled back and began to drift downRiver with the current, away from New Chicago. Verne would hide around the River's bend until dawn.
Robin found himself in command of no less than fifty-two archers. A skeleton crew of eight—including Jacques, Pierre, and Verne—had remained aboard the Belle Dame.
As the men gathered together for the march to New Chicago, Robin quietly asked Claude de Ves what he'd said to Verne in the salon.
“Eh?” De Ves chuckled. “Merely that he is too valuable to chance in such an attack as this. We will need his mind and his body to restore the city and the technocracy to its former glory. How can he do that if he is dead—from his old wounds, or from new ones?”
The Merry Men of the Riverworld Page 3
