Free The Syndicate (Timewaves Book 1) by Sophie Davis Page B

planning to hold us hostage for the next twelve hours?”
    I shrugged by way of answer, a sinking feeling in my stomach. Historian Eisenhower was not the joking sort, which meant there was a very real possibility we’d be here the entire day. Since I’d never been on a run that was as long or involved as this one, I had no idea what to expect.
    Eisenhower disappeared though the entrance to his sanctuary as we hurried to catch up. Instead of actual doors, some of the bookcases around the perimeter of each floor slid out from the wall to reveal classrooms when the appropriate book was pulled from the shelf. When closed, they appeared like the other countless bookshelves, disguised to preserve the look and feel of the library. It was something Cyrus had once seen in the past, and insisted on replicating in our time.
    Eisenhower’s room was located behind a shelf of French history books—his specialty.
    Stepping through the entranceway was akin to jumping time, without the physical sensations that went along with traveling via vortex. While the library was old-world charm, the classrooms were decked out with modern technology, including floor-to-ceiling digi-boards. The only exception to the contemporary setting was the student desks; they’d been salvaged from a time before computing carrels had been invented. The chairs were made of hard, uncomfortable plastic, and each had a small, connected writing table. When using the beam keyboard with our Qubes—the letters projected onto whatever surface the handheld computer was on—it was absurdly cramped.
    Sliding in to one of the desks, I stifled a giggle as Gaige wiggled his way into another. At just over six feet, Gaige’s knees bumped the underside of the desk if he tried to sit up straight, so he was forced to sit at an odd angle with his butt resting near the edge of the chair and his long legs stretched out in front of him. Squeezed between the seat back and the writing arm, Gaige looked a like an overgrown child stuffed into a highchair. The spectacle never ceased to amuse me.
    “Olivia,” Eisenhower called out as he stepped behind the podium at the front of the room where he stood to deliver his lectures. His gold and blue Hyeres FC mug was in the cup holder of the lectern, undoubtedly holding the historian’s ever-present jasmine tea.
    A soft whirring sound caught my attention and I looked up just in time to see Eisenhower’s droid gliding towards us, revived by her wake word. Olivia’s presence was as constant as his tea.
    Each time we crammed with Eisenhower, Olivia was dressed in clothes that reflected the time period we were studying. Today was no different. Her drop-waist, tunic-style dress was blue with white polka dots. The hem hung just below her pale stocking-clad knees, and several inches of sheer fabric hung down longer than the slip underneath. Though the dress was downright dowdy for our time, the effect was considered risqué in the twenties, particularly when compared to its fashion predecessors.
    Long strands of pearls were looped around Olivia’s neck and one perfectly round pearl earring dangled from each of her ears. Her light brown hair was also styled for the period, in the finger waves the 1920s were known for. Brown Mary Janes with a small stacked heel completed her outfit.
    “Good morning Miss Stassi. Good morning Mr. Koppelman. May I procure a beverage for you before Historian Eisenhower begins the day’s lecture?” Olivia asked. Her voice was cool and detached, touched with a faint French accent. Per usual, she then repeated the question in flawless French.
    “Coffee, please,” I answered.
    “Une café, s'il vous plait,” she corrected.
    Knowing that she would refuse to continue her task until I did, I dutifully echoed the words. Olivia’s painted red lips curved slightly upwards into her version of a smile. Given his specialty, Eisenhower was also the one who conducted the French language courses. Naturally, his bot was