AN:

IDK why I even bothered to write this. Probably because I'm really, really, really bored even though I've only just written. And by the way, I'm changing the name of this fic. It will no longer be 'Span The Galaxies' and will be changed to 'Modern Friendships'. Yes, I am only updating this now.

And keep in mind that the first chapter and a good part of the first bit of the second were written over a year ago, back when I had next to no experience with writing and was just getting into it.

Sunday.

Sam hated jet lag. Here they were, two Americans looking to go skiing in Iceland – who did that in Iceland anyway? - his odd, sometimes eccentric uncle Henry and himself. They would've gone to Europe and the Alps, but supposedly it was too expensive, even though his uncle was filthy rich.

Well, maybe not filthy rich, since Sam didn't know how much money he'd got, but he was rich enough to shell out seven-hundred grand for a nice house on twenty acres of property, and that was just the house.

He was rich, that was all that mattered.

Here they were, ready to hit the slopes – or Henry was, because Sam was running on nine hours of sleep in the last twenty-four, and the fact that the sun had risen at his equivalent of three in the morning hadn't helped things.

He didn't know why he was here, why his parents had agreed to let Henry take him.

"It's a chance to see the world," said his father.

"Lots of culture, you know?" said his mother.

Sam wasn't interested in culture or seeing the world. The world worth seeing didn't get much farther than fifty miles from his house. Anywhere else took too much effort to get to and was too underwhelming for the bother, anyway. Especially when seeing the world meant waking up with jetlag.

His uncle, on the other hand was chipper and energetic this morning. Naturally.

"So, son, ready to go?"

Sam groaned.

"Five more hours. Please?"

"A productive man wakes up early and gets the most out of his day."

"But I'm a teenager."

"Where do you think they get the habit?"

"Fine," said Sam, grunted, and then sat up. It was winter, and outside the temperature was probably a hundred below and threatening to turn everyone walking the streets into a popsicle, and winds blowing ice particles into people's faces and weathering them to leather till they looked fifty and were really twenty-five. He looked outside, saw the neon hotel sign in the parking lot that read 'Welcome to Reykjavik: temperature -2 Celsius, 26 Fahrenheit.'

So much for the cold weather, though it was dark outside yet, the presence of the arctic sun marked only by a blue glow that promised to turn yellow in about five hours.

"Can't get your bag if you don't get out of bed," said Henry. He was already fully dressed, wearing a checkered blue-gray business button-up turtleneck sweater over his customary white polo.

"You have no clue when it comes to fashion," said Sam. "No clue."

So this was why his uncle wasn't married.

"It's good enough for me," said Henry.

Sam got out from under the covers as slowly as he could, treasuring the warmth. The hotel heater would've been nice, if his uncle hadn't set it on high, and the breeze cooled him more than the hot air did. He opened his suitcase; it swung open and rattled his uncle's roller bag with a light bump of the lid.

"Careful," said Henry. He pulled it out of the way, quickly but gingerly with his left hand.

"Fragile?" asked Sam, putting on a matching pair of black socks, blue jeans and a nice gray sweater, probably wool, only it was a kind of wool that wasn't itchy. Magic.

"In a way, yes."

"I didn't hear any bottles or anything."

"No, something different. Enjoying the clothing we got?"

"Yeah," said Sam. The sweater alone had probably cost more than his beat-up gym shoes. Well, at least they'd been clean when he'd bought 'em.

He looked outside, saw something odd. "There's a man out there. Jogging. Wearing shorts. Going past snow drifts… crazy people."

"You see men like that in the states," said Henry. "Looks like a good way to burn energy."

And he sounded like he wanted to do that himself.

"Mom says you need to eat more. You're a skinny stick," said Sam.

Henry didn't contest that. He checked his watch, then got his roller bag. Though he was used to nice things, Sam noted, he traveled light.

"What time is it?"

"Seven after midnight," said Henry. Of course he'd adjusted his watch. "We've got to catch our ride."

Sam grabbed his backpack and they left.

"We could've rented our own car, right?" asked Sam, hands in his pockets as they waited at the bus station, two islands in a flowing crowd. "We don't have to be waiting out here in this cold, right? Range Rover woulda been nice."

"Not for a fifteen minute drive to the airport," said Henry. "That'd be a waste of money."

"On the bus it's going to take three hours," grumbled Sam. "What with all the stops."

"It never takes that long," said Henry, sure of himself.

"You've been here before?" asked Sam, looking up at his taller, green-eyed and dark-haired uncle.

"All the time," said Henry, and he ruffled Sam's straw hair.

It turned out that more people were going into Reykjavik than leaving it. The bus arrived on time, and got to the airport on time, and it was only on the bus that Henry trusted himself to look at his blackberry phone. He dialed a number, made a call.

"Hello? Yes, yes. That works. My plane leaves soon but I can catch you there… That's bad news… Thunderhead sounds alright… bringing along a guest… see you soon… take care… bye."

"Citigroup's slashed its dividend," he said.

Citigroup? Dividend?

"Why are you talking about an American bank, when we're in Iceland?"

"Because it's interesting," said his uncle. Leave it to Henry to think financial statements were interesting. "And because I used to be invested in them."

That told Sam everything and nothing. He put his hands in his pockets again and tried to catch some sleep. And as soon as the vibration of the engine had him drifting off, it stopped, and Henry shook him, because it was time to disembark.

"Are we going north yet?" asked Sam, shaking himself awake.

"Not right now," said Henry, picking up the roller bag and hopping off the step of the bus door. "I'm waiting for someone."

Well, Sam thought later, reclining in the comfortable booth seat across from his uncle in the Thunderhead cafe, the trip wasn't all bad. The air was nice and the furniture was nicer, and the hot chocolate was the best of all. The place had a mixed feel, as if the owners had wanted it to be quaintly Icelandic, what with the dragon's heads embossed on the trim, and beside them the giants and little people, living in small rock castles.

"What are those?" asked Sam, pointing to the small men.

"Elves and Huldufolk. Tiny beings from their myths."

"Ah."

It had that feel, but then on top of that it seemed to have been recently Westernized, with American-style menus and saltshakers and french fries, if you wanted some, on sale for five bucks, overpriced because of the financial boom and because, as Sam looked around, this was a place where well-to-do people went, bankers with suits and ties and smiling faces and badges under their pen-pockets that promised cheap credit. Yeah, it was American-style alright, even if those bankers didn't look like your stereotypical baseball-cap wearing football cheering wife-and-two-kids mid-westerner.

"Food's expensive," said Sam, looking at the menu, which was in English and a language his uncle had told him was called Islenska. Sam just thought of it as Norse.

"They can pay for it," said Henry. "Who knows how much longer." And he looked at his phone again and Sam caught the time: February something-something two-thousand and eight, a Monday, and just after the weekend.

"This is more than just a skiing trip," said Sam.

"It's also a business trip," said Henry.

"I knew it. What next? Business while skiing?"

"Pretty fun, actually."

Only Henry.

Sam finished his hot chocolate, took a look at the french fries (five bucks!), decided he wasn't all that hungry for shellfish, fish, barnacles, or any seafood, really, put his elbow on the table and his hand to prop up his chin and snoozed, just like he did at school when he could get away with it. Their plane left in an hour, heading off to Icelandic-sounding namey mcname, and them on it, but until that happened he was free to catch up on some shut-eye.

"Morning, Eric," came Henry's voice.

Oh, come on!

"Good morning, Mr. Hysesson," came another's.

"Same to you. I swear we go through this every time..." said Henry, and he trailed off. Sam looked up and saw a man standing next to him, almost as tall as his uncle, and stouter. This must be the Eric Henry was talking to. He had straw hair, like Sam, though with a reddish tinge, and he was wearing a navy blue suit with a red tie and a badge below his pen-pocket that said Landsbanki, with no english translation to go with it.

"We do, yeah," said Eric. "And this is?"

"Sam, my nephew."

"Not much family resemblance," said Eric, noting Sam's golden hair and blue eyes and average-sized limbs and average-sized everything, really, and Sam huffed.

"Different side of the family. He's a Lockhart."

"How old are you, Sam Lockhartsson?" asked Eric. He held out his hand for a handshake, and Sam took it with both of his, though they still looked tiny compared to the banker's. At least, Sam assumed he was a banker. Maybe he was a frontman or something.

"Fifteen, going on sixteen," said Sam, comfortable with the familiar direction the conversation was heading in.

"Can you come over to my side?" asked Henry, just before Eric gave himself a seat on Sam's half, boxing him where he sat.

"Never mind."

Eric put his hands together in front of him. "Our loan department stalled, so I had to talk to management," he began. So he was a front man. "They've decided to hold off and evaluate your position."

Sam felt fairly certain he was hearing something he wasn't supposed to hear, or wasn't intended to, at any rate. He closed his eyes and pretended to keep snoozing, but kept his ears on a swivel.

"Really now?" came Henry's voice. He sounded surprised, but the surprise wore off quickly. "Is this because of Citigroup?"

"They wouldn't say why," said Eric. "I call the woman in charge of this stuff and she says 'we're having a technical issue; please wait, yeah'. And I haven't heard back yet."

"When was this?"

"Before you left America."

"That's odd," said Henry. There was a rustling beside Sam, as if Eric was pulling out his blackberry or something.

Then came an odd noise, maybe from Eric pursing his lips. Then a rustling once more.

"Landsbanki announces substantial losses on asset-backed securities… assures investors of its liquidity. Them too?" That was Henry's voice, and Sam could imagine his uncle adjusting his non-existent glasses, a thing which he liked to do. He really wore contacts.

Sam opened his eyes. Yes, Henry was pretending to adjust a pair of glasses, and Eric was showing him the article on the banker's phone.

The waitress came to their table then, asked, "Would any of you like something to drink?"

"No thanks," said Henry. "I have to make a call."

"Beer," said Eric.

"How much does a hot chocolate cost?" - and that was Sam.

"I'll put it on my tab," said Eric, and then, "But a small one."

"Sure thing," said the waitress. She wrote down the order and moved on.

Henry got up discreetly, walked to the entrance, where the sound of the ringtone wouldn't disturb the customers, and dialed. Presently someone picked up on the other end, and Sam watched with interest, wiggled his ear toward his uncle so he could hear better. There was a trick Henry had taught him.

"Translator… backing… go ahead… Galli… may have to… a lot of… thanks… no problem… bye."

He came back, checked his watch. "My plane is arriving soon."

There was a hint of a frown on his face, and his tone was brusque.

"Is there a problem?" asked Eric.

"No," said Henry. "But when we get to Isafjorour - " and he rattled off the tongue-twisting Icelandic name as if he'd been saying it all his life - "I'll need to contact Kaupthing."

Kaupthing?

"Is there a problem?" asked Eric.

Sam noticed that there might be trouble, sat up, the better to get a view of the action. Well, if not trouble, then something more interesting than loan details and accounting statements and technical issues at Landsbanki's financial department. Here was a hint of something exciting.

"I'm on a time schedule," said Henry, saying everything and nothing again.

"I'll talk to management about it," said Eric. "Here's to hoping it's a technical glitch, yeah?"

"Software issues," said Sam's uncle, though he didn't sound like he agreed. "They'd better call in the IT people."

The waitress came back then, served Eric a beer and Sam his hot chocolate, and Henry sat down and gave them both time to finish their drinks. Then his uncle checked his watch again, said "We'd better be going," and Sam licked the last of his cocoa out of the bottom of his small mug.

"You still paying for it?" he asked Eric, and Eric, perhaps seeing a way to make up to his client, said yes, and would have taken on the whole tab, if Henry hadn't said that he'd pay for it himself, thank you very much.

Then they left the cafe, and Sam was very nearly bowled over by some other banker who wasn't looking where he was going, just before they got to the security station at the airport; the badge under his pen-pocket read 'Glitnir'. The woman at the desk didn't bat an eye at it, though she must have seen it, and so they were checked in fairly quickly – there were no metal detectors, no need to take off your shoes to have them searched – and headed out to the runway for their flight on an ATV, the driver swerving around baggage carts and jumping fuel lines as they went.

"That sign at the gate said 'Welcome, People'," noted Sam, when the trip had finally landed and they were waiting by the side of the airstrip. "Not 'Welcome, Icelanders' or 'Welcome, Travelers', or 'Welcome, Potential Terrorists'."

"It should have said 'Welcome Dragons And People'," said his uncle, not being entirely serious. Then, he might have been.

Sam scrutinized the gate, lit up by the artificial lighting, as the sun had yet to rise, despite it being nine o'clock. "Nah," he said, and added, "The doors aren't big enough to fit them."

"Then it's on the other side," said Henry.

"But that's the international side."

"Foreign investment."

"Pfft," said Sam. "The dragons are all in nature preserves. Say, where's our flight?"

He had a point. There were no aircraft nearby on the tarmac. On the other side of the airport engines roared and jets took off, brand spanking new 737-600s with shining metal and big engines and sleek paint jobs with livery that said 'Icelandic Air', twin-engined planes which promised to be the future and delivered. They had to cost a million bucks. At least. A hundred million. A thousand million. Seven-hundred and thirty-seven billion, plus six-hundred greenbacks, that was it.

And Sam looked and imagined dragons in their place. That American Airlines plane with its red tail and blue cabin paint and white wings was a Monstrousitus Nightmarus – that was what he liked to call them anyway. And that Cessna Citation going the other way was a Nadderus Spineus – but it wasn't. It was faster, and it was newer and cooler, but mostly it was faster, and that was why people didn't use dragons for transport anymore, those that were left.

The terminal heaters hummed and the turbofans whined and the prop planes droned as they taxied about, but among the noise Sam heard a closer droning, louder than the rest.

"Here comes our flight," said Henry. "I got a good pilot for the job."

It was a yellow piper cub, taxiing on the ramps after exiting the hanger, swerving around baggage trains and fuel lines as dangerously as the ATV driver had, only, instead of a four-wheeler, this was an aircraft that weighed half a ton and spun a propeller blade that could make mincemeat of anyone standing too close. Sam half-expected smoke to billow from the exhaust, and parts to drop from the undercarriage. But it was a fine little machine, and the engine purred – at first. The plane rolled up to them on the tarmac, and as it drew closer Sam could see odd things about its construction.

The wings looked longer than they ought to, with struts that didn't look company made, and it had beefier landing gear than he would've expected on such a small plane, along with a large propeller. It rolled up to them and Henry bent down, to avoid banging his head on the yellow metal over him.

"Hop in!" said the pilot, and Sam was surprised enough so that he did, without asking why he was doing it or where he was going. There were two seats in the back of the craft, small and rather uncomfortable, as if the original springs in the frame had been stripped out, an aluminum bench seat put in and styrofoam layered on top with no regard for the ease of the passenger whatsoever.

Sam tossed his baggage into the rear of the plane, looked forward to see a smiling face with a grin that was too big to be settling.

"Nice to meet you," said the pilot. "Ujevna Nott. And your name is?"

She pointed at Sam when she asked the question, perhaps unaware that pointing was rude, or perhaps impolite on purpose.

"Sam," said Sam, and that was that, for though he would've said his last name, she shook her head.

"Kids these days, all getting dyed hair and colored contact lenses."

So she thought he was his uncle's son, and that his strawberry hair was fake. Very impolite indeed.

Sam tried to shift the topic.

"Nice plane," he said. "When was it built?"

"Nineteen-forty, but the way I have it the whole shebang's practically new."

So it was as old as his grandfather. That put it into perspective. But what did she mean by it being practically new?

"And what are those?" asked Sam, pointing to the tubes coming out from each side of the craft's nose, when the pilot had finished talking on the radio in cryptic pilot speak. "Exhausts?"

"And air intakes," said Ujev. "Doesn't come standard, but I put a supercharger on this thing. See, this plane was a J-3F, and it got nice radials, so it wasn't too hard -"

And Sam leaned forward, interested in what she was talking about.

"Anyway, it gets about a hundred more yaks than a normal engine, runs better at altitude and cools better."

Sam had a question. "Yaks?"

"What you Americans would call horsepower, Iceland style."

And Henry leaned in and whispered "Icelanders just use horsepower," in Sam's ear, and he chuckled.

"So it's got about twenty more dragonpower, and that's good," she said.

"What's dragonpower to yakpower?" asked Sam.

"Five yak power, five horsepower," said Ujev, instantly, and she waved her hand. "If it had a hundred more dragonpower I'd be flying a twin-engine jet, or the engine would be so big in front of this thing I'd have to navigate this kaboodle by instrument."

Kaboodle? She was weird; maybe weirder than his uncle, Sam thought.

"I did a whole lot of modifications to this bird," she said, and waved her hands again, this time to the sides of the aircraft. "Extended wings, reinforced by me, to carry extra weight. The Piper's a small aircraft, but I could add a fourth passenger seat if I really wanted. Don't know if the airframe could take it though. And there's a lot of other small things I did, quality of life, you know."

"Does it have a name?"

"My brother calls it Thor," she began, and Sam raised an eyebrow. "I fly in it so often it might as well be Home, or Hang the Expense. Take care of your aircraft when you grow up."

"So I don't crash?" asked Sam.

He felt like he was forgetting something.

"So you can pull awesome stunts, that's why!" said the pilot, and she laughed.

Sam peered out the window, saw a big jet land, then taxi onto its ramp. Business class, he thought. At least it looked nice.

Ujev pressed a button on the stick, which looked rather new for a plane built in the forties. Maybe it was one of her additions. She listened through her headphones, then spoke.

"Nott One holding position on ramp, comma, requesting permission for takeoff run, over."

Sam couldn't hear the response well from the back seat, but there was one, electronic-sounding because of the way the radio worked.

"Takeoff run is seven, six, comma, load is five, seven, zero, kilos, over."

Another pause, a longer one this time.

"Roger that."

She leaned back. "Private jet's already lining up for a landing on this airstrip. New-fangled planes stealing all of my business." She waved her hand again, this time at the little speck Sam could just see coming towards the runway.

"Private jets have been around for a while," said Henry.

"What with the boom-tunes going on and the krona making a hockey stick chart, a lot of pilots are getting fancy Citations and P-series and Beechcraft and that jazz nowaday. Our currency is going up so much any old fisherman can buy some other country's junk and borrow against that with his krona, pocket the difference and buy his own twin-engine, bankrolled by Kaupthing one hundred percent. You can get paid to borrow money in this country. Isn't that something?"

Henry looked like he already knew that, Sam thought, looking at his uncle, but as for him, the sleep had gone out of his bones. Even he understood that you had to pay money to borrow money, in any sane nation. Or maybe Icelanders had just lucked into a fantastic trade and were too ecstatic to keep it secret.

"I think it's a bad idea to get all this stuff on debt," said Ujev, looking out the window at the approaching plane. "Feels like the banks could go bust at any minute."

"What are you doing against that?"

"What I've always been doing; flying contracts, paying bills. My brother's buying guns and gold."

"I see," said Henry. "Hunting or?"

"Explosives too," said Ujev, offhandedly.

Sam wanted to meet this guy.

The plane went past in a roar, engines at maximum reverse thrust, flared, touched down, bounced, touched down again, slowed, and braked on the tarmac. It taxied down to the ramp and turned off the runway.

Ujev pressed the button on the stick again, and Sam leaned forward to catch what the traffic controller said to her.

"Nott One to tower control, comma, requesting permission for takeoff, over."

"Tower control to Nott One, query: request info on short run, over."

"I'm running a supercharger on this baby, over."

There was a long pause from the other end of the line. When the controller came back on he sounded surprised.

"Tower control to Nott One. Oh, comma. Nott One, permission granted."

"Roger that tower control," said Ujev. She revved the engine and taxied onto the runway.

"What was that about?" asked Sam.

"They were just surprised because I told them this plane could take off in less than three hundred feet."

"That's shorter than a hundred meter dash," said Sam. "… Nice."

The pilot released the brakes and the plane rolled forward, then turned onto the runway with a flourish, nose aligned perfectly with the stripes on the asphalt. Then she pushed in the throttle, the engine roared and the plane jumped forward, the force of the engine pulling the fore of the craft almost into the ground. There was a drumming sound of cylinders firing, the sudden wind rising in tone until it resembled a howl, then cutting off abruptly as they passed the sixty mark on Ujevna's dash.

Then she pulled back on the stick and the engine cowling rose above the horizon, the ground at their sides falling out from under them. Sam felt like he was floating and riding a motorbike all at once, and the motorbike was running over potholes.

The pilot yelled something to the back seat, something which might've been 'This is awesome!'. But Sam couldn't tell, and the plane kept climbing at a furious pace, halfway between pointing straight up and straight ahead, though his stomach kept telling him it was straight down, before it changed its tune and felt like it had been crushed into his spine, along with the rest of his organs.

Ujevna pressed the red radio button, talked into the mike, though whatever she said was ripped away by the roar of the engine before it got to Sam's ears.

It was different from a commercial takeoff, for sure, where the engines whined and the plane bucked slightly, and the only sensation he had telling him when he was in the air was when the wings rose and he was lightly pressed into the bottom of his seat instead of the back. This was nothing like a commercial takeoff.

He could see the pilot, for one, wearing a rambunctious grin, perhaps at the mortified face she could see in the mirror. And that face, Sam realized, was his.

And as the plane roared towards an uncertain future, Sam figured out what had eluded him.

"Uncle?" he asked, "Where are we going?"

AN:

The first installment in a new series, ladies and gentlemen. I completely plotted out this story beforehand, and several chapters have been prewritten before publishing, which means Modern Friendships should receive consistent updates from now on. Updates to be posted bi-montly (if possible).

The review box is right down below – tell me your thoughts! Feedback has helped me in the past and it will help me again, and that helps you guys since I get to know what you'd like to see. Do consider giving me your ideas, a follow and a favorite – Blackberry Avar.

Published on Fanfiction Sunday March 1st, 2020.