{Book Two in the Sketch Rift Trilogy}
Samuel Lawrence, or Soal, is revolted by the mere premise of returning to the bleak metropolis of Hendera. But these hopes are laid to rest when sentinels of the enigmatic Charles Hemingway draw his reentr...
Soal was immediately overwhelmed with an intense impact, as he plunged into water so contaminated it was pigmented green and purple, pear-formed bubbles materializing and instantly vanishing around him. His initial, muffled expression of agonized shock, though nearly inaudible while submerged, was short-lived, as he struggled to clamber out of this predicament, reaching a relieved breath of slightly noxious oxygen, the darkness continuing to envelop him. No stars shone in this night sky.
Moments later, an unnatural illumination arrived on the horizon. Breathing audibly, Soal peered upwards to notice a canoe rowing towards him (autonomously!) on the water's surface, a familiar figure sitting on its top, using his own hands to steer not the boat, but the trajectory of his flashlight.
"There you are, Soal," a humdrum yet pained Hemingway reached down to assist him out of the water and onto the three-seat canoe. "We've all been expecting you." His attire was no different from the last time they had seen him, but it was no dirtier and no more aged. With a miraculous snap of Hemingway's fingers, Soal's dripping wedding tuxedo was instantaneously replaced with a fresh Henderian outfit.
"You couldn't have spited me more effectively, Hemingway," Soal quivered and squinted in the face of Hemingway's brilliant flashlight. "Not to mention... this," he continued, directing his great-grandson's attention to the autonomous oars of the canoe, busied in propelling this primitive, buoyant vehicle across the gentle waters.
"There was no better time," the pseudo-Sulukridger countered. "Had we lurked longer, the Henderian public would be convinced Count was incorrect about the Master Bringer all along. And what good would that do us?"
"Well..." Soal considered the decision currently available to him, despite an answer as clear as mud. "I'm only one of the Master Bringer."
"Exactly, Soal," Hemingway clicked. "She should be coming in any moment now." The canoe's oars ceased their mobilization and Soal observed the surrounding area as well as he could in misgiving. Finally, the Rift opened in the form of a wormhole inches off course from the canoe's final remaining seat. Soal was temporarily blinded by the vibrancy of its rainbow-hued complexion -- only for both to instantly vanish as his coat was dampened by a distraught watery sensation. Simultaneously, a disgruntled Hemingway reached to capture a perfect pyramid of metallic ashes in his moistureless palm, which had emptied from the portal in the dingy air.
A drenched Irene took her place across from Soal in the canoe, which promptly began to row once again. Aloof and disconcerted, she was very much worthy of shaking her head at the pseudo-Sulukridger as he took his central seat again (and setting the flashlight to shine at his feet, at a much dimmer splendor), refusing to contemplate her soaking strands of hair and permanently ruined apparel.
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There was little horizon to guide the canoe if one existed at all in this bleak, featureless wasteland. Convinced that it was a lake that laid below the earth, Soal (and Irene) remained attentive as the know-it-all pseudo-Sulukridger cleared his throat.
"We are among the furthest waters of the Waise Wells," his voice bounced across the vast, apparently dome-shaped walls, "a massive subterranean reservoir that drew Lint Corp to this region in the early 2070s. However, when the Fviron landed, their presence just above filled this hollow sea with an otherworldly chemical that contaminated its waters with an alienating chemical, making the reservoir purposeless."
"You better give me something suitable to wear when we get to Hendera, I assume," Irene jeered against her will, "or this disease in the water will find a way to my brain."
"I can do more," Hemingway, presenting an ornate grin, snapped his fingers once again, instantly replacing her outfit with one similar to Soal's. "You are very welcome. Now, I have brought you two here for a defined objective. Did you not feel the spirits of the fallen Sulukridgers surge as the bubbles swarmed surrounding you?" This merely attracted somewhat perturbed expressions from the Master Bringer. "Two and a half years ago -- it is now December -- Count supposedly ordered the executions of twenty healthy Sulukridgers living among them in the reservoir. It was what officially weighted the unrest."
"Gors -- Count would never do such a thing," Irene murmured over the paddling of the makeshift oars. Soal nodded with baggy eyes.
"There was a rancor that arose within the man only when his eye was stricken," Hemingway lamented. "Now, he only employed me in his operations due to an irreverent antagonism. But seeing the way that the Countess has softened him, he may be forgiven in time."
"The Countess?" Soal cocked his head. "Lucy, I expect?"
"The Countess Lucille, in fact. They reign in adjacent thrones and govern with equal power. You see, things have altered mightily since you departed. Hendera's infrastructure has been updated with creaky wooden frames, and the Fviron... well, we don't know much about the Fviron or whatever occurred with the Time-Bound Thief. But there is one thing that is clear to have changed staggeringly. Something only the Rift-benders and the Ambassador have realized."
"What?" Soal and Irene inquired eagerly in unison. Their attention spans had diminished in their own era of cell phones and instant messaging.
"When we bargained with the Fviron, and sent away the Time-Bound Thief," the pseudo-Sulukridger clarified, "we prevented the Thief's inevitable destiny. Now restricted, it had no chance to discuss with Kurst, the Crusade's highest commander, and begin the Eternal Crusade properly, as we have learned. Instead, Kurst died, and a self-proclaimed commoner named Ivel had taken the authority of the Crusade, with a vastly different system. Those who cannot foresee the outcomes of each branching timeline in the Rift will dismiss Kurst's former leadership as utter fantasy. The Crusade's role, however, is identical: for the defense of the Ambassador."
"Then how do we know?" Soal considered. "Logically, we heard from you that Kurst started the Crusade when we first returned through the dilapidated time machine. If anyone, we're not 'Rift-benders'. We're just the Master Bringer, and despite your claims of our Sulukridger-dom, I am not convinced, judging from what we have seen from a faux variant."
Hemingway scoffed. "Your abilities have not truly awakened. Take time, and practice with our new Kyson Scepter. No doubt you will see strength grow. But enough of what is blatant to us all. The boundary of the Wells draws near. As does your next mission, Soal and Irene."
