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The Merry Men of the Underworld
by John Gregory Betancourt
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Fantasy

Wildside Press
www.wildsidepress.com

Copyright ©1992 by John Gregory Betancourt; "Introduction" copyright 1994 by John Gregory Betancourt

First appeared in "Tales of Riverworld", 1992

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

INTRODUCTION

When you're a kid, reading science fiction is the ultimate escape. You get to explore strange new worlds, boldly go where even television shows can't take you, and meet all sorts of fascinating characters in incredible situations. It's Wonderland.

When you've been writing the stuff for years, though, that initial gosh-wow feeling starts to fade. You become tired, a little jaded, a little unimpressed. Your uncle is an Martian? Aren't they all. Alien fleets are massing near Jupiter? Don't they always. The galaxy's collapsing? It happens a thousand times a year. That's when you have to go back to Wonderland.

When I was asked to write a story set in Philip Jose Farmer's Riverworld, at first I was thrilled and excited. Here was a trip to Wonderland already scheduled with the bus parked adn waiting at my door. The books in the Riverworld series—To Your Scattered Bodies Go, The Fabulous Riverboat, The Dark Design, The Magic Labyrinth, and The Gods of Riverworld—are filled with that magic, that sense of wonder, that draws children like moths to its flame.

It was great. I reread the series, picked up the themes I liked, and and refilled myself with that sense of wonder, I wrote the best story I could, full of swashbuckling action, heroic escapes, and favorite historical characters.

It seems critics and fans alike thought “The Merry Men of Riverworld” among the best non-Farmer Riverworld stories in the collection. I hope you agree.

—John Betancourt

THE MERRY MEN OF RIVERWORLD

The man in green paused dramatically at the top of the rocky cliff, one hand shading his eyes against the sun. His shoulder-length hair, the color of wheat, ruffled faintly in the breeze. He carried a yew longbow and had a quiver of bamboo-fletched arrows slung across his shoulder. With the sun on his face and a thick, dark forest at his back, he cut quite a striking figure.

Below, the River wound like an endless silver ribbon as far as he could see. On its far bank, half a mile up, stood a town—a ramshackle accumulation of forty or fifty log houses. Smoke rose from clay-brick chimneys, and men and women dressed in brightly colored robes moved among the buildings.

He heard a woman's low voice singing a tune he didn't recognize in a language he didn't know. His men would have warned him if there was any danger, but he still didn't like surprises. He'd speak to Will or Tuck about it later.

Slowly, he dropped his right hand from his eyes. In a single movement he whirled, drew his bow, and notched an arrow.

It was a half-naked woman with skin the color of chocolate, and she was carrying a bundle of bamboo. She dropped the bamboo in a clattered heap, her mouth gaping in surprise and fear. Her hair was long and black, Robin saw, and she wore a grass skirt. Her naked breasts were small and deeply tanned.

“Ya linya!” she breathed. “Me ton fevin!"

Putting down his bow, Robin leaped onto a low boulder and looked her up and down. His voice was low, powerful, when he asked, “Do you speak the king's English?"

The woman started to back away.

Robin gave a whistle. The woods around them suddenly erupted with motion—two dozen men from the trees, from the bushes, seemingly from the very air itself. All wore green and carried longbows.

“I am Robin Hood,” he said. “Welcome to Sherwood, m'lady!"

Screeching in terror, the woman turned and fled into the trees. Robin threw back his head and laughed.

“Sir Robin!” said the tall man he called Little John. “On the River—"

Robin turned to follow his friend's gaze.

Coming around a bend in the river was one of the strangest looking riverboats he'd ever seen. They had encountered three others on the River, but this one—

It was huge, easily two hundred feet from pointed prow to broad, flat stern, with a large wheel on either side and a third wheel churning water at the rear. Its three tall decks had intricate woodwork, and twin smokestacks rose from a central pilot's cabin. Sunlight glinted off glass windows and what looked like brass railings. Several dozen men did various tasks on the upper two decks, while sword-bearing guards maintained a vigilant watch on the lowest.

“Incredible,” Robin said. He stared, looking thoughtful.

“What do you think?” a portly Friar Tuck asked.

“I've never seen anything like it,” Will Scarlet said.

“Who could have built it?” asked Little John

“A better question is, where did they get the metal,” said Mutch. He'd been a civil engineer in the last life and tended toward practical questions. “Did you see those windows? That was glass! Real glass!"

“I think,” Robin said, sitting down, “we're going to wait for the riverboat's return. Will, Ben—scout the hill. There should be a grailstone on the other side. If the natives are peaceful, we'll spend the night here."

“Yes, Robin,” Will Scarlet said. He and Ben Taylor slipped into the forest like shadows.

While Robin stared out across the River, deep in thought, the rest of his men began setting up camp: clearing the area, gathering wood, building a circle of stones to hold their fire. After a minute Robin opened his pack, took out a small square of cigarette paper, a tiny clay jar with a stopper, and a carved fishbone pen. He opened the jar, dipped his pen into a thin grayish ink, and began to write. His script was tiny, meticulous.

When he finished, he wrapped the paper around an arrow's shaft, tied it in place with human-hair string, and returned the arrow to his quiver. Now it was just a matter of time.

The natives turned out to be surprisingly friendly, considering the language barrier. They were a shy people, quiet and simple in their ways, all living in grass huts around a grailstone. They allowed Robin and his men to fit their grails into the unused slots in the grailstone, then clustered at the far side of the village to keep a wary vigil.

Robin counted twenty-five men and thirty women. He noticed each man kept a long, bone-tipped spear close at hand, though none made a hostile move.

“Polynesian,” Friar Tuck suggested, “or from another of the Pacific Islands.” He had been a sociologist before being recruited into the merry men: one of the reasons he'd joined was to see more of the people resurrected along the River's banks. “Probably never saw a white man in their natural lives..."

Nodding, Robin collected his grail from the grailstone after the charge had come. “Do you think they'll attack?"

Tuck hesitated. “They were a friendly people. But I wouldn't want to press our luck."

“Come on, then,” Robin told the rest of his men. “Back to the River. We shouldn't push our welcome by eating in front of them."

He led the way back to the cliff. Will Scarlet was standing guard, keeping an eye out for the riverboat.

“No sign of it,” he reported.

Robin nodded slowly. “I'm sure they're on a scouting mission this time,” he said. “They'll be back."

“In such a craft?” Little John said, his bushy black eyebrows coming together in a frown. “They could go to the ends of the River. Why should they return here?"

“Any of a dozen reasons.” Robin hunkered down and opened his grail. There were thin crispy wafers, little packets of what looked like peanut butter, strips of some dried, cured meat, and a little flask of brandy ... as well as the usual tobacco, marijuana, and dreamgum.

Robin took a chew of the meat and continued, “First, that riverboat's one of the most valuable pieces of equipment on the River—but it burns wood. They'll have to put ashore whenever they run low. I'm betting they only stop at prearranged safe bases, and if they're scouting new territory they won't stop at all. They'll head home when they start to run low on fuel. Maybe two days, maybe three. Second, they didn't have enough people on board for an extended journey. If it were my riverboat and I were going far, I'd pack it with armed men. Every petty tyrant on the River will try to steal it, given half a chance."

“Shades of Robert Fulton...” Little John murmured.

“Unless you're wrong,” Will Scarlet told Robin.

Robin flashed a dazzling grin. “Of course,” he said. “If it hasn't returned in a week, we'll push on."

* * * *

In the old days, before the Resurrection, Robin had been a classically trained actor named Edmond Hope Bryor. He'd played minor parts on stage for twenty-two years, since the age of six, before his big move to Hollywood and the silver screen. After three tragic love stories, eight forgettable westerns (critics admired the horses more than his acting talent), and one gangster movie where a young Spencer Tracy shot him in the end, he made the great leap to the enfant terrible of acting: television.

Cast as Robin Hood for the fledgling Dupont Network's twice-a-week Robin Hood and His Merry Men would have made Edmond Bryor a hero to tens of thousands of children. He'd known that when he signed onto the project. He'd also known he was going nowhere fast in movies, just as he'd gone nowhere fast on stage.

Only Diablo, the ill-tempered white stallion the producer insisted he ride, threw him on the first day of shooting Robin Hood and His Merry Men. Edmond had no real memories after that, just a vision of the sound stage floor rushing up to meet him. A broken neck, he assumed; instant death or close to it.

In three years of wandering the River's banks, he hadn't met anyone he'd known in the old life to verify his suspicions. It was just as well, he often thought; he'd given up his old life and assumed a new one: that of Robin Hood. It was the role he was born to play, a childhood dream he'd never truly outgrown.

As the only son of two Thespians, he'd been molded to their ideals, with elocution lessons, dance lessons, and music lessons instead of play-time. He knew it had warped him in subtle ways. Awakening on the River, he'd decided to start over again, to live the sort of life he'd always wanted for himself, full of adventure and romance. And so his wanderings began.

He assumed the name Robin Hood and began journeying up the River, righting any wrongs he found, on the pretense of searching for King Richard the Lionhearted. Play-acting, yes, but it was curiously satisfying. Along the way he'd found others willing to share that quest, and he'd filled his band of merry men from their numbers. It seemed his dream was contagious. He'd even talked a politics-weary Abraham Lincoln into abandoning a new political career and assuming the role of Little John. They'd been fast friends ever since.

Two night later, a light hand touched Robin's shoulder. He was awake instantly, gazing up into Mutch's stoic face.

“You were right,” Mutch said. “It's come back."

Robin leaped to his feet and ran to the cliff, as close to the edge as he dared stand. The riverboat was easy to spot; its windows shone with a clear yellow light, like beacons in the darkness. What kind of lamps, he wondered, did they have on board? What kind of people could civilize a world so quickly?

“Build up the fire,” he said.

The others obeyed, throwing wood onto the embers, fanning them until a huge bonfire blazed.

By the time the riverboat drew even with the cliffs, Robin had his bow strung and his special arrow notched. He'd had two weeks of intense archery training for his television show; the producers had planned to bill him as the greatest archer of the twentieth century. To his surprise, he'd found he had a talent for it, and he'd honed that talent to perfection in three more years of practice along the River.

He aimed, then let his arrow fly. For an instant his eyes lost it in the darkness, then he saw it hit the pilot house's door with a thunk audible all the way across the water. The door opened. A short, broad man was silhouetted for an instant. He saw the arrow and its note, grabbed them, and slammed the door closed. The riverboat's paddlewheels continued their steady chugging.

“They didn't stop,” Tuck said.

“They will,” Robin said.

“What if they don't understand English?” he persisted.

Mutch said, “The riverboat is an American invention. They will speak English."

Little John asked, “What did you tell them, Sir Robin?"

“I'm sure you'd approve—the truth."

He inclined his large head. “Ah, but which one?"

Robin smiled. “Mine."

The riverboat slowed, but did not stop. It almost seemed as if some debate raged within. Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen. Finally it began to turn, the huge rear paddlewheel coming to a halt. It began to drift slowly downRiver with the current, away from them.

“What does that mean?” Friar Tuck demanded.

“It means they don't want to meet us in the dark,” Little John said. “They will float with the current until dawn, then paddle back up to see us."

“My thought exactly,” Robin said. He sat, crossing his legs. “We wait."

The riverboat reappeared an hour after dawn, chugging faintly, smoke from its stacks leaving twin gray smears in the air. Robin stood and began to wave his bow. His men did the same.

The riverboat slowed, its paddles turning just enough to keep abreast of Robin and his men. Sailors dressed in black and white swarmed across the deck. They broke out a small boat, lowered it, and two men began to row briskly toward the cliffs. Two more men aboard, armed with short curved swords, kept a vigilant watch on Robin and his men.

Robin began to make his way down to the rocky shore. The others followed. He arrived just as the boat reached the shallows and waded out to help pull them to shore.

"Bonjour," one of the men with swords said. "Je m'appel Claude de Ves. Je suis—"

Robin shook his head, interrupting. “I don't speak French. Do you speak English?"

“A little,” he said in a heavy accent. “I am Claude de Ves of the—how you say?—ah, the riverboat Belle Dame."

“Who is your captain?” Robin asked.

“Monsieur Jules Verne."

“The author?"

“Oui."

The name meant nothing to Little John and most of the others, Robin saw. Quickly he explained about the famous French technologist and writer, who had foreseen the invention of everything from the submarine to atomic power.

“This is a man,” Little John vowed, “that I would truly like to meet."

“Yes, he is a great man,” Claude said. “Your letter—alors, I do not know the word—but the captain, he wishes to meet with you."

“Excellent!” Robin said. “It should not take four or five trips to get us all over—"

“You are the leader?” Claude asked.

“Yes."

“Monsieur Verne wishes only you to visit."

Robin looked at Little John. “What do you think?"

“If this Verne is as great a man as you say, you will have nothing to fear."

“My thought exactly.” Robin looked at Claude de Ves. “Very well, your condition is acceptable.” He clambered into the rowboat and sat. His men pushed them out into deeper water, and Verne's men maneuvered them around and began to row toward the riverboat with powerful strokes.

Once Robin glanced back and saw Little John standing there, staring back at him with an unreadable expression. Robin waved, and shouted, “I'll be back soon."

The riverboat itself was a technological marvel, but up close Robin began to notice subtle details that marked it as the product of a more primitive technology than he had at first suspected. The glass in the windows was cloudy and full of bubbles. The brass had been beaten to shape the rails; mallet marks were clearly visible. As he climbed onto the lower deck, he noted the square-headed nails in the ladder. The riverboat had been built by hand, he was sure, and represented the product of a fantastic amount of sheer physical labor.

“Monsieur Verne is in his cabin,” Claude said. He led Robin to a hatch, then rapped sharply on its frame.

A feeble voice answered.

Claude undogged the hatch and stood back so Robin could enter first. Robin ducked through.

It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom inside. When he could see, he discovered a pale man with short, wiry black hair propped up in bed. There was a sweet smell in the air, almost like meat left in the sun too long. Infection, Robin thought.

“Monsieur Verne?” he asked.

Jules Verne nodded. Despite his sickness, his blue eyes held a fire Robin could not deny. Verne held the note Robin had attached to the arrow.

“You claim to be Sir Robin of Loxley?” he asked in nearly unaccented English.

“I am he,” Robin said. “I am delighted to meet you, sir."

“Draw up that chair and we will talk,” Verne said. Robin did so. “You have a nineteenth century British accent, I would say. How do you explain that?"

Robin shrugged. “Would you understand Saxon?"

“Touché."

“And it's a twentieth century accent, by the way.” Almost before he knew it, Robin found himself telling how he'd adopted the role of Robin Hood, of his adventures and misadventures along the River as he and his men sought to right the wrongs of this new world. Verne nodded now and then, an avid listener.

“Life is indeed a most series of curious events,” he said. “I needed someone such as you a week ago. Indeed, I nearly died because of it."

“What do you mean?” Robin asked.

Verne sighed and sank back on his bed, closing his eyes. Suddenly he looked tired, frail. When he spoke again it was with the voice of an old man.

“When I awakened on the River and found myself young,” he said, “it seemed almost as though God had created this world for me alone..."

Now (Verne said) I could do those things of which I had only dreamed throughout my life. All my research, all my books and writings, they had led me inexorably toward this moment.

I vowed to create a perfect society. This new civilization would be modeled on mankind's old one, but with all its various flaws and imperfections cured. Mankind had been given a fresh chance here, I felt, and it would be up to us to make the best of it.

I was fortunate enough to be resurrected among a group consisting primarily of Frenchmen from late nineteenth century. Also among us were Russians from some twenty or thirty years in our future, Chinese from yet another age (I could not pinpoint their place in history; alas, my schooling in matters Oriental was somewhat lacking), and a few others from what seemed random periods in our world's history.

The Chinese immediately banded together and left, seeking whatever it is Chinamen seek; to my regret, we never circumvented the language barrier. The Russians, on the other hand, stayed with us. One among them, a fiery youth with an unpronounceable name who had us call him Lenin, began preaching socialism to the masses, but his voice fell on deaf ears. Most people were content to live natural lives, eating food from the metal Providers, sunning themselves on the Riverbanks, eating the dreamsticks, and fornicating in a hedonistic frenzy.

Lenin was murdered his second week there. But what he'd said interested me. The idea of all men being equal is, of course, ridiculous; but the organizational system he outlined seemed workable, even practical in our current circumstances.

I combined his thoughts with my own. As I talked to my fellows, I found among my them a number of engineers who were sympathetic to my new ideas. Their names would be meaningless to you, for they were in no way famous, but they were sturdy men, well schooled in their fields and not afraid of hard work.

First we moved away from the general population, to a more remote Provider in the hills. Here we began a systematic analysis of the land and its raw potential. There were deposits of iron, tin, and copper within easy reach. Trees could provide wood for fires and tools. And, I must admit, we made use of whatever human corpses came our way—bones were our first tools.

Over the next few months, we set about creating a community based on scientific planning. As we discussed matters, we reached a general consensus that our resurrection was a test of some kind, and that to prove our species worthy we must strive to create a more perfect society from the materials available.

Needless to say, it was difficult. But as more people joined us, we found strength in numbers. Houses were erected; a stockade was built to protect us from both our neighbors and whatever marauding animals this world might harbor. Soon we were smelting bronze, then iron. Sand, with some refinement, proved suitable for the crude glass you see in the Belle Dame's windows. In three months we had a prosperous town, with every man and woman working ten hours a day toward the common good. My dream was coming true, shaping itself before my very eyes.

Of course our society was a technocracy. Our Technocrat Council of Engineers ruled, with me at its head. When it occurred to us that we should try to bring all the best elements of this new world together in one place, we sent out emissaries. Our scientific ambassadors ranged for a thousand miles up and down the River, persuading whatever engineers and scientists they found to join our cause.

Again, the plan worked. People from all ages flocked to our incipient city. The vast laboratories we set up were something to see! We had mills, running water, and even a number of working clocks and watches within a year. Every success fueled our drive forward. A railway was begun to link the Providers. Hot air balloons scouted the air. Cartographers began to chart our new world. And, finally, we began to build this riverboat.

No, don't interrupt—let me finish my tale. I am near the end now.

Perhaps we were too giddy with our successes. We allowed anyone to join us who wanted to—anyone. That was the mistake. We woke up one morning to find our little society drowning in an unskilled “proletariat,” to borrow Lenin's word.

Among those who had joined us was a man called Capone. He came with a group of followers. He was small, quiet, a smooth talker. He offered to set up a bureaucracy to deal with our population as a whole. Indeed, we had already seen the need for administration and police ... but none on the Council truly wanted to oversee such mundane matters. We were all scientists, visionaries, men looking toward to the future. Each of us had pet projects to oversee. Letting Capone handle such matters seemed the ideal solution, as it would allow us to concentrate on our work.

Capone gave us all bodyguards. At the time it seemed like a good idea, since there were grumblings from the masses, but I understand his plan now. He wanted to isolate us from the population so he could control us. I'd heard of many 20th century inventions by this point—men walking on the moon, satellites, computers, television—and I wanted all these scientific miracles and more. Perhaps that's what blinded me. I wanted to leap centuries in months, to claw my way to the highest point of mankind's technological achievement in the span of a few years.

Perhaps it truly was punishment for my hubris. Perhaps it was blind stupidity. I awakened one morning to find myself a prisoner. My bodyguards had become prison guards. I—and the other technocrats—were no longer in control. In the space of a single night, our government fell in a bloodless coup. Al Capone had taken over.

He was a clever man, I admit. When we met with him in the Technocrat Council's chambers—us on the floor, him on a low throne—he made it clear who was in charge. When Leonardo da Vinci dared speak against him, Capone bludgeoned him to death with a wooden club. The blood, the blood! It was horrible ... the most horrible moment of my life.

I longed to see Capone dead, but there was nothing any of us could do but agree to whatever he demanded. Perhaps we should have spoken against him, should have joined Leonardo in death. That would have been the proper thing to do. Even though I knew I would be resurrected somewhere else along the River, I could not stand up against him. I'm ashamed to say I was afraid of death, and of the pain it would bring.

Capone kept us on tight leashes after that. We never appeared alone in public, never spoke to anyone except on scientific projects, and then always under the close scrutiny of our guards. Capone wanted my pet project, the riverboat, completed as quickly as possible; I assume that's why I had what little freedom I did. Most of the other technocrats were locked in their rooms, forced to work on blueprints for machines which others would fully execute in their absence.

The greater body of engineers and working scientists, I found out later, had deduced most of what had happened. Capone was a greedy pig. He renamed our little city New Chicago and began taxing everyone of their tobacco, marijuana, and dreamsticks. Anyone who didn't have a useful skill suddenly found himself drafted into a labor gang and sent into the hills to mine metal or cut lumber to fuel New Chicago's technological machinery.

The next year was, indeed, a grim one. But the riverboat was nearing completion, and though Capone had decided to turn it into a floating brothel and casino, its presence offered hope to many of our scientists.

On the night before the Belle Dame's test voyage, they staged a revolt. Using crossbows they had made in their spare time, they shot the guards on the building where I and the other technocrats were quartered and set us free.

It took seconds for them to explain their mad plan. We would seize the riverboat and set off to start a new technocratic state. This time we would not repeat the mistakes that had brought Capone to power. This time we really would create a perfect world.

To make things short, Capone somehow found out about the rescue attempt. He sent the bulk of his men to stop us—to kill us, rather, since the riverboat was finished. If none of the scientists could be trusted, our usefulness to him was ended.

It came down to hand-to-hand fighting. I had written about it, had studied fisticuffs, but still found myself little prepared for true mortal combat. One of Capone's lieutenants slashed my belly open with a sword. I fell, unconscious.

I awakened here, aboard the Belle Dame. A handful of men had rallied around my fallen body, fought their way free to the riverboat, and launched. We were searching the river for another suitable site for our technocracy when you contacted us.

Robin sat in thought when Jules Verne finished his tale. Every word of it rang true; he had no doubts about its veracity.

“What you are looking for,” Robin said at last, “is a place like the last one, with abundant metals and wood, with easy access to the River, and a Provider—what we call a grail."

“That is correct.” Verne leaned forward again, wincing a bit from pain. “Do you know of such a place?"

“We've travelled thousands of miles along the River, always heading upstream,” Robin said. “I've kept an eye out for metal along the way, and I know of places where lead and copper have been found. But iron ore? No, there's none."

Verne sank back, face ashen. “Then perhaps we truly are lost,” he said. “Providence led us to that spot, and in our pride we failed to see the dangers we courted."

“Providence may have brought us together for a reason. Don't you wonder at the convenience of it all?"

“What do you mean?"

Robin stood and began to pace. “You have been driven from your town by a thug and his men. After that you meet me, a man with a band of loyal followers who are looking to fix the wrongs of the world. Can you think of a more appropriate partnership?"

“Are you thinking what I am, sir?"

“If you're thinking we might be able to wrest control of New Chicago from Capone—then yes."

“I must think on it,” Verne said. “Violence has never been the answer to the world's problems."

“But sometimes it is the only solution,” Robin said.

Verne closed his eyes. “Find Claude,” he said. “I will have him bring your men aboard. We will talk again later."

That afternoon Will Scarlet, who'd had spent a year training as a medic before dropping out of the program, went to see Jules Verne. Robin hoped he'd be able to help the technocrat. Will was the closest thing to a doctor on board.

While they waiting for the prognosis, Robin met with Little John in the salon. It was a beautifully decorated room; the tables all had floral designs inlaid with ivory taken from the bones of the giant fish that lived at the bottom of the River. Robin had only seen such fish twice ... once when a twenty foot long corpse had washed ashore; another time when a fisherman had been devoured whole while Robin and his men were passing through his town. Robin wondered how Verne had gotten so many of their bones that he could afford to waste them on decorations. Perhaps the riverfish were more numerous around New Chicago.

Robin and Little John drew up chairs and sat facing each other. The two always conferred on major decisions; the former President was a wise man, brilliant in many ways, and his advice carried a great deal of weight with Robin.

“I'm not sure I like the sound of this Capone fellow,” Little John said.

“We'll handle him easily enough."

“Edmond—listen to what you're saying."

“I heard myself."

“You're an actor, not a hero. I admit it's been fun to play this game with you, to romp through the hills as Robin Hood and his men would have done. It's been grand, a chance to live out my childhood daydreams. But perhaps the time has come to end this charade. We aren't bandits from the greenwood, we're civilized men. And Capone will not be easy to scare off."

“I don't want to scare him. I want him locked up—or, lacking that, dead and resurrected a million miles away."

“I doubt we are capable of doing it."

“Have you forgotten all we've accomplished?"

Lincoln's bushy brows knit together. “We've scared a few peasants into giving up grail-slavery. We've broken up a few drunken brawls. We've explored a thousand miles of this damned endless River. That's all. We aren't an avenging army, and we're not the fist of God. This man Capone is a dangerous criminal. He has surrounded himself with a private army, if what Verne told you is true. Twenty against two hundred is suicide."

“So you're saying we should leave him there, building the biggest criminal empire in the history of mankind?"

“I'm not saying that, either. I'm saying we can't recapture a city by treating it like a romp. It will take planning, strategy, and a lot of patience."

“What about luck?"

“You're impossible!"

“Little John—"

“Call me Abraham!"

“Little Abraham, then. I've always felt I should have a calling. My life was more or less forced on me—first by my parents, then by my acting troupe, then by a string of agents. I've always known I was meant for something greater. Since our resurrection, that feeling has come over me stronger than ever. My assuming the role of Robin Hood, our finding Verne and this riverboat, everything—it's all been leading up to this moment. It's destiny. The dice are rolling, and I can hear them."

Lincoln stood. “It's time to put away your childish dreams,” he said. “If we are going to take New Chicago from Capone, we will need a man to lead us, not a character from storybooks."

“Are you sure?"

“That I am.” Abraham Lincoln stalked from the room.

Robin Hood, né Edmond Bryor, sat alone for a long time, deep in thought.

Will Scarlet's prognosis was promising: he had cleaned and dressed Jules Verne's wound, then sewed it up properly, and now felt certain his patient would recover completely in time. “His problem was loss of blood and a bad infection,” he reported. “Luckily no vital organs were damaged."

It was welcome news to Robin. “Is there anything else you can do?” he asked.

“Let him sleep. It's the best thing for him right now."

“Good,” Robin said, nodding. “Stay with him. Let me know if you need anything."

Two days later Jules Verne sent word that he wished to see Robin again. Verne looked vastly improved, Robin thought when he entered the cabin. The color had returned to his cheeks, and his voice was stronger and more authoritative.

“I have decided to agree to your plan,” Verne said with no preamble. “We will return and try to win back New Chicago. I will leave the details to you—I am a man of science, not violence, as recent events have shown. Whatever you need, I will arrange it. Now, what are your plans?"

“I have none as yet,” Robin said. “Little John and I must study the town, count our resources, and estimate the enemy's strength before committing to anything."

“Very wise.” Verne nodded slowly. “I have instructed Claude de Ves to give you any help you need. Our diverse talents stand at your disposal, sir."

“Thank you,” Robin said. “Your trust in me is not misplaced. You won't be disappointed."

Robin held no false illusions about himself or the task at hand: he knew it would be difficult, that the fighting would probably be bloody and violent, that some of his men—perhaps even he himself—would die as a result. But he also knew Capone needed to be removed from power, and that he was the one man capable of carrying it off successfully.

The next day, Claude de Ves gave Robin and his men a tour of the riverboat. They saw the steam engines driving the paddlewheels and the huge bins where they kept wood for fuel; they saw the pilot house and the luxurious salons; they saw the cabins and the empty cargo holds.

The riverboat had tremendous potential, Robin decided, but they wouldn't be able to use it in their attack. It was too large and too obvious—Capone would have too much time to prepare for a fight if he saw it coming. Besides, Verne and his men would be easily overwhelmed by a Capone's superior forces. No, Robin decided, given the odds against them, they would have to rely on their wits to gain the upper hand.

The riverboat paddled upRiver for three weeks, crossing hundreds of miles, passing thousands of different cultures. Aztecs, Minoans, modern Japanese, 17th century Indians ... the sheer volume of people was staggering.

During that time Robin drilled his men and Verne's mercilessly in the art of the longbow. They made straw targets in the shape of men and shot them again and again behind the pilot house. The pilot house's back wall became filled with chips and holes from being hit by countless arrowheads. Slowly, though, their accuracy improved.

In the evenings Robin and his men worked on making more bows and arrows, aided by Verne's crew. Eventually every man and woman on board had two longbows and two dozen arrows. Robin felt certain—and Little John tended to agree—that they would need everyone aboard to retake New Chicago.

When they were a week's walk from New Chicago, the Belle Dame slowed and once again put in to shore. This time Robin was the only one to leave. The riverboat would return in three weeks’ time to pick him up; in the meantime it would wait far downRiver, where Little John and Will Scarlet and the others would continue to drill Verne's men in archery.

Robin's mission was simple: he would scout the land, see New Chicago, get an estimate of Capone's strength, and return.

The trip to New Chicago proved disappointingly uneventful. The native populations along the River were sparse—most, Robin learned, had migrated to New Chicago during its early days. Since Al Capone's rise to power, the remaining people had migrated downRiver ... rumors of slave camps, spread by a few escapees, did the trick.

As he walked, every possible plan for taking Chicago ran through Robin's head. Storming the walls ... poisoning Capone's food ... leading a slave revolt ... all seemed equally mad, and equally improbable.

One day out from the New Chicago, he blundered into a patrol of Capone's thugs: six men, all armed with swords and shields. They ringed Robin at once, weapons drawn.

“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 thousands 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?"

“Very logical."

“Indeed, it is logic to which Monsieur Verne listens best."

Robin divided the party into three groups, one led by Claude de Ves, one by Little John, and one by himself. “We stand less chance of being spotted if we move quickly and in small groups,” he told them. “Little John, follow me in five minutes. Claude, follow five minutes after Little John."

They nodded. De Ves translated for the Frenchmen.

“Remember,” Robin told his group, “we will be the first ones to run into any trouble. Should guards challenge us, shoot first and ask questions later. We have plenty of arrows; don't be afraid to waste them."

He looked his men over one last time, making eye contact with each and every one. They all hefted their bows, shifting impatiently, like hounds eager for the hunt. At last Robin nodded, convinced they were ready. With a sharp whistle, he turned and padded softly into the darkness. They followed on his heels.

The journey took one of the longest hours of Robin's life.

Every noise in the night, every creaking branch, every rustle of leaves grated on his nerves. He would pause, motioning his men to silence, and listen. Usually it was the wind, or a passing animal. Twice patrols of Capone's men passed within yards of where they crouched; Capone's men talked loudly to one another, their swords and shields making occasional metallic clangs. They were arrogant in their strength, convinced they were invulnerable here, Robin thought. He let them pass unharmed to maintain the night's facade of normality.

They circled the stinking mire of Pisstown, keeping upwind as much as possible. The northern side of the stockade faced out on a sea of tree stumps sprinkled with little copses of saplings; the forest had been cleared for hundreds of yards around New Chicago for its wood. Like phantoms they drifted from hiding place to hiding place until they were twenty yards from the stockade walls.

While the others waited under cover, Robin and Will Scarlet jogged over to the side gate Robin had scouted during his time in the city. Robin pressed his ear to the wood and heart deep snoring from the other side. The lone guard had fallen asleep at his post.

He mimed it to Will, who had taken out the long, thin strip of brass Verne's men had prepared. Nodding, Will inserted the strip between door and frame, working it carefully upwards. It caught on the bar. Will shifted left, then right, then up again, and the bar lifted out of place.

Using his fingertips, Robin pushed the door back. Will reached in, caught the bar, and lowered it silently. They both slipped inside.

Next to the gate they found a guard sprawled in a high-backed wooden chair, his mouth open. He was snoring softly. Robin notched an arrow and leaned forward until its tip pricked the man's throat. He came awake with a frightened mew.

“Don't move,” Robin said. “Will, tie him up."

Will Scarlet did as instructed. In minutes the guard was firmly bound and gagged with strips cut from his own clothing. He could do nothing but stare at them with wide eyes.

Turning, Robin pushed the gate completely open and motioned toward the saplings. In groups of three and four, the rest of his band crossed into the stockade.

As they entered, Robin reminded everyone where to go and what to do. “Watch for a flaming arrow,” he said. “That will be our sign that the attack has begun."

His men dispersed, melting into the dark streets and alleyways like a fine mist.

Dawn brought a cool gray sky, with a brisk wind that held the promise of rain. Robin, Little John, and five others sprawled on the roof of a building that overlooked the central plaza. Their bows were strung; arrows lay close at hand.

“He'll come from the central doorway,” Robin was saying. He passed the little periscope Verne had made to each man in turn; they looked over the roof's peak with it, down into the plaza “He'll have at least four others with him, possibly more. The best time to strike is when they're in the center of the plaza. I'll give the signal. Agreed?"

“I'm not sure assassination is the answer,” Little John said.

Robin turned to look at his friend. “Abe, he's a criminal and a murderer."

Lincoln bit his lip.

“If I thought we could safely take him prisoner,” Robin went on, “I'd try it. You know I don't want Capone free to raise another criminal empire somewhere else along the River. But I also have to balance our possible losses against his. This is the best way."

Little John shook his head sadly. “Perhaps you are right. Even so, I find the idea of assassinating him distasteful."

“It's not murder,” Mutch pointed out. “He won't die."

“But he'll feel it nevertheless."

“True,” Robin said. He retrieved the periscope from Mutch and took up watch. A second later, the palace's main doors opened.

Robin let his voice drop to a whisper. “Get ready. They're coming out!” He selected his arrow and prepared to stand and fire. Around him, his men did the same.

“On the count of three,” he said. “Everyone aim for Capone. He's the short, round-faced man in the center. One ... two ... three!"

And on three, all seven rose and fired.

Either the whistle of arrows in flight or the sudden movement on the rooftop gave Capone the warning he needed. The gangster jerked one of his men around, and he took two arrows in the chest and one in the leg. It was Eichmann, Robin saw. The German staggered, a startled look on his face, then collapsed.

“Guards!” Capone was shouting. He grabbed another men as a shield. “Bring out da guards! Archers on da roofs!” Guards!"

Robin fired a second time, just missing Capone's head by a hand's breadth. The gangster continued his retreat, still bellowing for help.

Meantime, the Robin's men had killed the rest of Capone's lieutenants. Their bodies lay in the plaza, surrounded by growing pools of blood, arrows protruding at odd angles from their bodies.

Robin calmly notched a third arrow, took careful aim, and let it fly. This time he hit the lieutenant Capone was using as a shield, killing him instantly. The gangster continued to drag the corpse in front of him, though, and made it up the palace steps and through the doors unscathed.

“Get down!” Robin said. His men crouched out of sight once more. “Damn, damn, damn,” he said, pounding his leg with his fist. “I should have had him!"

“It wasn't meant to be,” Little John said.

Robin grimaced. “We'll take him later, if we can,” he said. “It's time to start the second phase of our attack. Mutch?"

Mutch produced flint and steel. Robin pulled an arrow with an oil-soaked rag bound tightly around its shaft. Mutch struck sparks until the rag caught fire, then Robin rose and fired. It arched across the sky, bright as a flare, a clear signal for everyone else involved in the plan.

“Let's hope the others succeed in their tasks better than we did,” he said grimly. “I'll lead the guards away. Little John, you stay here and keep watch, in case Capone comes back out. The rest of you, scatter and keep an eye out for danger. If you can, rally the people to our cause."

With a cry of, “God save the king!” Robin rose and ran across the top of the roof. With an Indian war-whoop, he leaped to the next building's roof. Shouts came from below as the guards spotted him and gave chase.

Robin grinned and sprinted toward the next building, ten feet away and six feet lower. He'd lead them a merry chase, all right. He reached the edge, leaped, and hung over thirty feet of emptiness. Then, with a grunt, he hit the other building's roof and scrambled for purchase. His feet slipped on the wood shingles and he fell forward, grasping for a handhold. He slid six feet before he found one.

Pulling himself up, he glanced over the edge. Twenty or thirty guards were staring up, swords drawn. A cry went up, and Robin began to run again.

He led them from rooftop to rooftop. Over the next ten minutes, he found the number of guards had grown alarmingly—there were at least a hundred men following him below, waiting for him to slip or get himself trapped.

At last he reached the end of his chase, as he found himself on the roof of a meeting hall. He stood on the top of the roof, looking around in seeming confusion, as if he didn't know where to go from there. Then he climbed down to an open window in the second story and climbed inside.

The guards rushed the building en masse. As they entered, Robin dashed across the balcony that overlooked the ground floor, drawing their attention.

Then in the center of the balcony, Robin held up his hands and shouted for their silence. A bit to his surprise, the guards paused and stared at him.

“I have come,” he shouted, “to free this city from tyranny! Look around you—you are surrounded by my men! Lay down your weapons or you will all be killed!"

For the first time, Capone's men began to look around the meeting hall. Robin's archers had been waiting motionlessly up against the walls. Now forty-five of them stepped forward, arrows notched.

A sudden, confused babble of voices rose from the guards. Bewildered questions—puzzled demands—angry threats.

Robin shouted them down. “Drop your weapons and put your hands on your heads!” he instructed. “This is your last warning!"

One by one swords began to thud against the floorboards. Two of Robin's men moved forward and began collecting them, while the others kept the guards covered.

Chuckling, Robin descended to take charge.

Outside, he could already hear scattered gunshots, as the smiths and their apprentices took care of what other guards remained. It would only be a matter of mopping-up after this.

The city had completely fallen to Robin and his men. By noon the last of the fighting had ended, as the last few holdouts among Capone's men were disarmed and locked into the meeting hall with the others. All told, three hundred and forty-four of Capone's guards and lieutenants had been rounded up. Another sixteen lay dead, and eighteen more were wounded and not expected to live through the night ... mostly due to New Chicagoans settling old grudges with their former captors. The whole city had joined in the revolt at the end. Robin hadn't lost a single man.

Of Capone, though, there was no sign. Robin assumed he'd somehow made his way from the city and fled. With such complete victory in hand, though, it seemed a minor detail. They'd send out patrols to try and find him later. Considering all he'd done to the land and people, Robin through Capone would have few friends willing to aid his escape.

That afternoon, as the Belle Dame sailed close under its skeleton crew, Robin's men raised a red flag over the council building as a signal that all was well. A long whistle blared from the Belle Dame in reply.

Musicians were already playing in the streets, and men and women were dancing in the plaza with joyous abandon. The gates to the city had been thrown wide; most of the population of New Chicago and Pisstown had come in to join the celebration.

Emile van Deskol and the other gunsmiths and their apprentices had organized themselves into a police force, and the threat of their guns kept order. Truly, a new age had come to New Chicago.

* * * *

“Look!” Mutch said, grabbing Robin's arm and pointing toward the River.

It took Robin a minute to see what he meant. Two outriggers had cast off from shore and were sailing toward the Belle Dame. In the lead boat ... was Al Capone!

Robin counted quickly. The outriggers held a total of twelve men ... all armed killers. The Belle Dame had a crew of eight at the moment, and two were little more than boys. They wouldn't stand a chance against Capone and his men.

“They must have been waiting near the water,” Mutch said. “We weren't guarding anything but the city. They saw their chance to escape and took it ... and the Belle Dame just happened along at the wrong time.

Robin felt an electric shock run through his body. “We've got to stop them!” he cried. “If they gain control of the riverboat—"

“Get two boats ready,” Little John said. “I'll fetch some of our boys with guns. It's not too late. We can still stop Capone."

Robin and Mutch raced for the water.

Ten minutes had passed by the time twenty armed men made it to the outriggers from New Chicago. Robin had to stand helplessly and watch as Verne and his men scurried across the Belle Dame shutting hatches, fastening wooden shutters over the windows, doing anything and everything they could to protect themselves before Capone and his men could board. At Verne ushered everyone into the pilot house, slammed the hatch, and (Robin assumed) bolted it closed from the inside. Perhaps Verne would be able to hold out long enough for Robin to save him.

As Capone's outriggers pulled even with the Belle Dame and the gangster and his men began to climb aboard, a curious thing began to happen. Robin had to blink and rub his eyes to make sure he wasn't seeing things.

The riverboat was sinking.

Or perhaps submerging was the appropriate word, since it didn't seem to be happening in any way like a disaster: there were no explosions as cold water hit the steam boilers, and the craft was descending evenly, prow and stern simultaneously. The newsreels Robin had seen of ships sinking had always shown them turning tail-up and then sinking into the depths.

“It's a submarine, too,” Mutch breathed.

“But the smoke-stacks...” Robin said.

“Perhaps they stick out of the water at all times,” Mutch said. “He's brilliant!"

“I don't understand,” Little John said. “Is it sinking or not?"

“It's not!” Robin let out a relieved laugh. “That's how he knew his ship could never be taken by force—he can submerge it whenever he's attacked!"

“Keep us clear of the riverboat,” Mutch said. “When she goes down, the sudden undertow might be enough to capsize us.

They circled the Belle Dame from a hundred yards away, watching as she continued to sink. Capone and his men had abandoned their outriggers when they boarded; now they could only climb higher and higher as first one deck, then another fell awash.

At last they stood on the pilot house's roof, pounding futilely on the wood with their swords, screaming obscenities at Verne and his infernal riverboat. Then the water covered even the pilot house, and they found themselves floundering in the river.

“Riverfish...” Little John murmured. “The riverboat has stirred them up."

“Where?” Mutch asked.

He pointed, and Robin saw them too: four or five dark shapes moving swiftly through the water. In seconds they reached Capone and his men and pulled them under. The water turned bright red.

Robin swallowed and found a lump in his throat. He found he'd been unconsciously rooting for Capone to make it to shore. Devoured by riverfish ... that wasn't a fate he would have wished on anyone, even Al Capone.

Over the next few weeks, things gradually returned to normal in New Chicago. The people went back to their jobs, trials were held for Capone's men (all were sentenced to five years at hard labor in the mining camps), and Jules Verne himself restored the scientific council, to continue the press toward new research and the reinvention of all mankind had lost.

Robin and his men were declared Heroes of the City and awarded every honor Jules Verne could think of. Verne himself pinned the Nemo Medal on Robin's chest in a holiday to celebrate ten days of liberty for the city.

At the end of the evening, as Robin and his men returned to their temporary quarters, Robin found his thoughts wandering toward the River and what lay ahead once more. He knew it was time to leave, to continue his journey.

“I've been thinking,” he said at last, “that it's time we were moving on. What say you, men?"

They all cheered mightily. The merry men had increased to thirty-eight during their stay in New Chicago: it seemed many were sick of the city and longed for the open road to adventure.

At dawn the next morning Robin and his men gathered at the gate to the city. Jules Verne and most of the people of New Chicago had come to see them off. There were more than a few sad farewells.

“Robin,” Little John said solemnly, “I don't know how to say this, so I'll put it plainly."

Robin turned. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

“I've decided to remain here,” Little John said.

Robin stared. “What?” he cried.

Abraham Lincoln took off his cap. “I'm sorry, Robin,” he said in his low, powerful voice. “I've been looking for my place in this world, and I think I've found it here. Jules Verne and his scientists need people like me. Their problems came from their system of government. They never planned for the common man. If their quest for scientific enlightenment had paid more attention to people instead of machines, Capone never could have taken over from them."

“But what could you do?” Robin asked.

“I've already spoken to Mr. Verne. He has agreed to let me draft a constitution to govern this city and its people. Democracy must be kept alive, and New Chicago will be its headquarters. Do you understand now why I must stay?"

“I think I do,” Robin said solemnly. He put his hand on Lincoln's shoulder. “I wish you all the best, my friend.” The two embraced briefly. “Goodbye, Abraham."

“Goodbye, Robin."

Robin swallowed, took a step back, and looked over the rest of his merry men. One of the newest additions, a tall, thin youth with straight black hair and a ready smile, stood at the back. “Little John,” Robin told him. “Henceforth you will be Little John."

“Pardon, Monsieur Robin?” Little John said, looking confused. One of the other merry men translated for him, and a slow smile spread across his face as he understood. “Merci!” he cried. “Merci bien, Robin!"

Robin sighed mentally, but didn't let it show. He'd work on it. After all, how bad could a Frenchman playing Little John be? It couldn't be worse than the first Little John, who'd tried to introduce the merry men to something he called “the Ministry of Silly Walks."

And so, his band stronger than ever, Robin Hood headed from New Chicago, continuing his quest for justice and King Richard the Lionhearted.

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