“Do you know I’ll be sixteen in four years?” Howard unexpectedly asked.
“I do, in fact,” Blade said.
“I want to change my name to Conan and be a Warrior like you and Hickok and the others.”
“Oh?” Blade considered the boy a little young to have made up his mind already. “Why Conan?”
“I’ve read some great books,” Howard said. “About this guy, a barbarian as big as you, who goes around battling monsters and saving pretty ladies.”
Blade smothered a chuckle. “Is that what you think Warriors do?”
“You fight a lot,” Howard said. “That would be fun.”
“Ah,” Blade said. “And your father is okay with this?”
“Well,” Howard said, and sheepishly bowed his head and poked at the grass with his shoe. “Not exactly. He’s sort of hoping I’ll follow in his footsteps. But scribbling in journals is so dull.”
“Someone has to record events so those who come after us can learn from them,” Blade said.
“My father talks like that all the time,” Howard said, and grinned. “But I don’t have to do it if I don’t want to, right? I’d rather be a Warrior more than anything.”
“A lot of boys do at your age.”
“What does my age have to do with it?”
“We’ll talk about this again in a few years,” Blade said. “See if you still feel the same.” He placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Right now why don’t you take me to your father so I can find out what he wants.”
“He says he’s puzzled by something,” Howard revealed, “and he‘s hoping you can solve the mystery.”
“Lead the way,” Blade said.
CHAPTER 10
The Chronicler had an office in E Block, adjacent to the Family’s extensive library. Lovecraft was his name, which he’d taken at his own Naming, decades ago.
The ceremony itself was another legacy of their Founder’s. Kurt Carpenter had worried that future generations would forget all that had gone before. Those who forget history, as he so often quoted, are doomed to repeat it. In an effort to prevent that, and to instill a sense of learning from the past, Carpenter initiated a special practice. At the age of sixteen, every Family member was given a choice. They could keep the name they were given at birth—or they could choose another, preferably from the historical archives. Most opted for the latter.
Over the years it had become traditional to pick a name that reflected the profession they aspired to. Thus, most of the Warriors bore names of warriors and fighters from the past, like Hickok, Geronimo, Spartacus and Ares. Their last Leader had chosen Plato in honor of the wise Greek of yesteryear. Their new Leader had been a student of Plato’s in the Family school, and idolized him. In homage to his mentor, he’d chosen the name Socrates. Their chief Scientist adopted the name of a genius called Tesla.
Blade had chosen his own only after a lot of thought. He almost went with Bowie, out of his high regard for the legendary knife-fighter who died at the Alamo. For a short while as a boy he’d toyed with Tarzan, and then d’Artagnan. But he’d outgrown thumping his chest, and swords never appealed to him as much as knives. Really big knives, like those strapped to his waist. Patting them now, he grinned.
Entering E Block behind Howard, Blade followed the boy across the library to the Chronicler’s office. The door was closed. Howard knocked, a voice called out for them to enter, and Howard opened it and stepped aside so Blade could precede him.
“After you, sir.”
Lovecraft was at his desk, a mahogany affair that had been around since before the Big Blast. At the moment, the Chronicler—a spindly man with a crew cut—was bent over a journal, writing. He looked up and showed his buckteeth in a smile. “Blade. Thank you for coming.”
“Howard said you have a mystery for me to solve.”
“That I do,” Lovecraft said. He motioned at the boy. “Run along and play, son. I’ll be tied up a while.”
With a nod, Howard scampered away.
Blade settled into a chair barely big enough for someone his size. “How goes the chronicling business?”
Lovecraft leaned back, laced his long fingers, and cracked his knuckles. “I do the best I can given my limited resources. Take this Lords of Kismet business. I wish we knew more about them so I could enter it into the Chronicles.”
“Makes two of us,” Blade said.
“In fact,” Lovecraft said, “they are partly the reason I asked to see you. What with your impending departure, as it were, I wanted to brush up on your previous experience with the time machine.”
“MABEL,” Blade said.
“Excuse me?”
“We call it MABEL.”
“You’ve given it a name?”
“Thanatos did,” Blade explained. “According to A.l.v.i.s, he gave everything names. It was a fetish with him.”
“Interesting. I’ll have to enter that tidbit in the Chronicles, too.” Lovecraft took another journal from a corner of his desk and opened it.
Every page was filled. He flipped them until he came to the one he wanted, and tapped it. “This is the narrative of your previous—and I can’t believe I’m saying this—travel back in time.”
“I couldn’t hardly believe it myself,” Blade admitted, “and I was there.”
Lovecraft smiled. “Yes, well. I can see how disorienting the experience would be.”
“You have no idea.”
“Based on the accounts that the three of you provided, it’s a miracle any of you survived.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“I’m sorry to stir bad memories,” Lovecraft said. “But there’s a particular aspect that puzzles me. Specifically, the Mountain Man, as they were called, that you encountered.”
“What about him?”
Instead of answering, Lovecraft rose and went to a metal file cabinet. Opening the bottom drawer, he carefully removed an ancient leather-bound book, a thick file in a manila folder, and several paperbacks that showed their age. He brought everything over, cleared a space, and gingerly set it all down. “Do you know what these are?”
“Sure don’t.”
“Really? I would have thought your father….” Lovecraft stopped and pursed his lips. “But then, maybe he didn’t know. Maybe he never delved into it as deeply as I
