The Syndicate (Timewaves Book 1) (8 page)

I squinted, as if that might allow me to read the small print thirty feet above my head.

“It’s a biography on Hugh Hefner,” Rupert continued. “He was this American guy who ran a club where the waitresses dressed up like bunnies.”

“That’s just odd,” I proclaimed, visions of women in giant furry costumes hopping through my mind. The floor must’ve been a veritable cocktail of spilled drinks.

Gaige snorted.

“There’s a lot more to his story than that,” he muttered.

Before I could ask what he meant, the mechanical whirring of a classroom door echoed through the library. A short man with a head of snow-white hair and a black historian’s robe came into view on the balcony of the level between Rupert and us.

“Ms. Stassi, Mr. Koppelman, our meeting was to begin promptly at seven o’clock, if I’m not mistaken?” Historian Eisenhower’s tone was light and inquisitive, as if he really thought he’d made an error.

Eisenhower wasn’t fooling anyone. The scholar was a shrewd old man who never made a mistake. He also never forgot any of ours. Even now, I imagined him placing a black mark beside our names in his mental files.

“No, sir,” I replied, lowering my gaze to show I was properly abashed. Gesturing between Gaige and myself, I muttered an apology from both of us.

“No matter,” he waved off my words. “You are here now. Come along, come along.”

The historian paused to shoot Rupert a meaningful stare.

“Mr. Rudolph, I trust your father has approved your chosen reading material for the day? If not, I suggest you rethink that choice. Mr. Hefner’s biography is not on the list of suggestions that I provided for you. Why not try Theodore Roosevelt or Winston Churchill if you are looking for biographies of twentieth century figures?”

“Y-y-yess, sir,” Rupert stuttered, turning a shade of red so dark it verged on purple.

“Very good,” Eisenhower replied, before turning his attention back on us delinquents. “Mr. Koppelman? Ms. Stassi? Today, please. We have a lot of ground to cover before the sun sets.”

Moments like this one served as a reminder that I was something of an outsider. The historians always addressed runners by their last names, but I didn’t have one. Instead of a familial name, I had a numeric signifier given to me by the work camp. I was the eighty-ninth child to arrive in the year 2446, so my full name was technically Stassi 2446-89. Though Cyrus had repeatedly told me that I could choose a last name, I hoped to discover my lineage and claim my rightful surname, as opposed to using a placeholder.

“Sunset? He’s joking, right?” Gaige whispered to me as we reached the third floor, drawing me away from my thoughts. “He’s not seriously 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 programmed to aid our proficiency.

“Your pronunciation is coming along nicely, Stassi 2446-89.”

“Merci beaucoup,” I replied.

“And for you, Mr. Koppelman?” she asked, turning her entire body to face my partner.

“Ditto,” he said.

For a moment, the droid simply stared. I pictured gears turning inside of her head as she tried to puzzle out the translation for “ditto”. Of course there weren’t actually gears beneath Olivia’s synthetic skin, since she was a modern creation and not something from a steampunk novel, but it was a fun visual.

“Mr. Koppelman, the term you speak of has no literal translation. In American English, ‘ditto’ is used colloquially to agree with something another individual has just said or to convey that your wishes or feelings are in accordance with those of another individual. Is this to mean that you, too, wish to say: ‘Une café, s’il vous plait’?”

Gaige grinned. “Oui.”

Historian Eisenhower cleared his throat loudly and tapped the lectern with his laser pointer.

“Mr. Koppelman, I have asked you many times—please do not deliberately confuse her.” To the droid, he said, “Carry on, Olivia. Thank you.”

The humanoid’s electronic parts whirred faintly as she turned and nodded to her boss.

“As you wish, Historian.”

She briskly set off for the open door behind Eisenhower to fulfill her task. In the back were a kitchen, the historian’s personal study, and a room for a selection of clothing from the wardrobing department.

Not one to waste time, the historian set down his mug and set to business.

“I trust you both have studied the assignment dossier?” he began. Without waiting for a response, Eisenhower continued. “What can you tell me about your primary asset for this run?”

“Andre Rosenthal was a gifted and well-known writer from the twentieth century,” Gaige said, quoting verbatim the first line of the author’s bio.

“Yes, yes, what else?” Eisenhower made a
hurry-it-along
gesture with his hand.

“His works didn’t reach their height of popularity until after Rosenthal’s death in 1967,” I piped in. “In fact, only four of his novels were published while he was alive. The most critically acclaimed books—those that rendered him one of the era’s most influential writers—were actually found after he passed away, and purchased by Dabber and Baehr Publishing at the estate auction. With the consent of his niece, the house published the novels posthumously.”

Gaige scowled at me. “Suck up,” he muttered.

“Very good, Stassi.” Eisenhower narrowed his muddy brown eyes at my partner. “Now, Mr. Koppelman, maybe you could explain why the target manuscript,
Blue’s Canyon
, was never found among his possessions?”

“Yes, sir.
Blue’s Canyon
was thought to be his magnum opus, but the manuscript was never found. Some believe that the existence of
Blue’s Canyon
was nothing more than a rumor propagated by Rosenthal himself,” Gaige began, emphasizing the novel’s working title to show he was paying attention.

Our teacher smiled and nodded, sipping his tea. That was high praise coming from Eisenhower.

“Editing notes that were found in Rosenthal’s home hinted that he did in fact complete the book,” Gaige continued, spurred on by the approval. “But the location has remained a mystery since the writer’s death.”

As Gaige explained Rosenthal’s famous paranoia and his relationships with other notable authors of the day, Olivia whirled back into the room. A serving tray was perched atop one robotic hand, holding two china mugs, a French press, a small pitcher of cream, and a bowl of sugar cubes. She placed one cup and saucer in front of me, poured the coffee, and then offered me the creamer and sugar. As I dumped enough of both condiments into my cup to all but obliterate the bold, rich flavors of the beans, she poured Gaige’s coffee.

“Merci,” Gaige and I said in unison.

Eisenhower didn’t allow our translation chips in his classroom, so when Olivia responded in rapid French, it went in one ear and out the other.

“Thank you, Olivia, that will be all for now,” the historian told her in English.

The droid retreated through the open doorway to wait until she was summoned again.

“Stassi,” Eisenhower began, his tone a warning of the Socratic method portion of our lecture coming my way. “Why do we believe the complete manuscript may be found in Paris in the year 1925?”

“In a Parisian newspaper’s interview of Rosenthal in March of 1925, he was quoted as saying: ‘This is a time of extravagance and excess. The art, music, literature and fashion are all exceptional. Here in Paris, society is celebrating. To not document my days spent among those who have shaped and influenced the culture of this age would be a great disservice, not to mention a blatant snub. The manuscript is in its final stages and I am proud of it thus far. In fact,
Blue’s Canyon
is my finest work to date.’

“Finally,” I concluded, returning my gaze to the historian, “We believe we can find a version of the complete manuscript then because the editing notes found in his home span from 1921 to 1925.”

“It is so refreshing to see how seriously you both are taking this assignment,” Eisenhower said with a genuine smile.

And on it went.

After we’d talked ourselves hoarse, Eisenhower dimmed the overhead lights and flipped several switches. Behind him, the enormous digital screen came to life. A headshot of Rosenthal that was taken in 1925 emerged, the same one on the first screen of the dossier for this mission. He was twenty-five at the time.

Eisenhower clicked the handheld controller several times, and the daunting cast of characters appeared, arranged in a circle around Rosenthal. Red lines connected his picture with those of the century’s most influential minds: Gertrude Stein, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ezra Pound, James Joyce, Alice Toklas, Sylvia Beach, Adrienne Monnier, Carmen D’Angelo, Ernest Hemingway and his wife Hadley. And those were just the primaries.

With a click of Eisenhower’s finger, a second, larger circle of photos ringed the first. Blue dotted lines darted out from it like broken spokes of a wheel. These connected Rosenthal to individuals who orbited the inner sphere of influence, but only played a minor role in his life. Green lines made connections between the entire cast of supporting characters.

Directing his finger beam at each in turn, Eisenhower began the lecture portion of our prep session. While he filled in the gaps that our brief dossier had left behind, Gaige and I furiously tapped notes into our tablets like good little pupils.

A helpful bit of information that was absent from our original mission specifics was the name of an alchemist whose main duty it was to socialize with noteworthy people of the time.