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“This is the future!” Cub declares. He takes a step back and wipes grease from his fingers. “Let’s take a moment, Scar. Let’s take a moment to marvel at it. This here is the future of everything. Flight.”
“If it works,” Scar points out, and laughs. “If it doesn’t kill us.”
“It works.” Cub’s calculations are sound, the construction flawless. The machine will take them to the sky.
They are not quite the first. In this race, they were always the underdogs: No patron behind them, it was a miracle they ever managed to scrape together enough money to get their hands on the spoils of the expedition. They have no savings left. For the better part of the year they have toiled on this field, from dawn to nightfall. Flattening the ground, building the hangar, getting together all the parts. Making plans, sharing a dream.
Constructing the machine.
They are not the first, but they will be the greatest.
Scar throws a companionable arm over Cub’s shoulder. “Tomorrow, then.” He grins. “Tomorrow we fly!”
-
And the wheels of the aeroplane hit the ground, the machine bounces, dirt whirls, the engine roars. Scar sticks the landing. They whoop and they scream. The propeller spins, spins even when the plane comes to a halt, although it takes the better part of a minute for their bodies to accept the movement has ceased, the wind is no longer tearing at them, the view is still.
And Cub’s feet have barely touched the ground when Scar tackles him against the frame of the plane (it creaks, it will need to be checked, it will need to be reinforced in some far far away tomorrow when they will get to do this again) and kisses him, breathlessly, his hand slips under Cub’s jacket and it is the most natural thing in the whole world.
Cub never considered it, but it is right . In this moment, nothing is more right. Cub never considered it, but Scar has always known.
They devour each other’s mouths, in jubilance; the aviators, the pioneers. The cloud of dust settles and the propeller winds down. A final click. Cub stops thinking altogether.
They are young. They are new. They will be the greatest, and the future will bow down to them.
-
They will mount their own expedition.
“Nobody has ever flown to the End.” Scar is pacing. “Nobody. It will be so easy! How much did you say we can carry back? Ooh, Cub, we will be rich!”
They can bring back items equivalent to the weight of the fuel they spend on the way to the islands. Cub gives Scar the number again. Scar won’t remember it. He brims with excitement.
Flight shows have made them a little money, but it has all gone in bettering the machine in preparation for the true break. If their trip is successful, they will be set for—well, not for life. Their ambition does not end here; they will be set for the next big step, scaling up.
The first stretch of the journey is a walk in a park. The sky is clear. Come night, they land on a plain near the ocean shore. They camp under their plane’s wing and listen to the crash of the waves.
Next morning, they take to the sky again. The endless mass of water rolls below them. Clouds cover the sky.
The map they have is approximate at best. “How far should we go?” Cub yells at Scar over the sound of the engine and the wind. They have discussed it—in theory, they should only go so far that they can comfortably turn around and get back to the land even if the wind changes, but— “How far?”
Scar turns his head. There is a wild grin on his face. He shouts back: “We are going, Cub! We go as far as we can!”
They will press their luck. They will go as far as they can.
They fly.
The waters below them still. The ocean gets darker. Clouds are thick enough that it becomes difficult to tell the time of the day; the temperature drops.
No one knows how deep the End Ocean is. It is always placid, a vast blackness where nothing ever breaks the surface. Despite there being no storms, most of the ships that try to sail it never return.
They get lost, Cub suspects. No compass works in the world’s end. No stars are visible. Scar has suggested a more gruesome cause: There might be creatures below that take them.
Flying is safe, if they only keep the straight line.
There used to be a continent here at the world’s end, the story goes, but it sank long ago in a terrifying cataclysm. The islands are broken-off vestiges of a forgotten land. The first ones they spot are only isolated rocks too small to land on, but in less than half an hour they see the first bigger one. It has a cracked up landscape, strange vegetation, and in distance, ruins.
They circle above it. There is no sign of any previous expedition.
Neither one of them mentions they have used up too much fuel.
The landing is terrible. A wheel of the plane breaks and the wing tears. They inspect the damage in silence. The air in the end is difficult to breathe; it feels too thin and too heavy at the same time. It tastes of decomposition. Behind them rises a forest where the trees look skeletal, dead. Despite this, they bear a strange fruit the color of rot.
“Do you think we could eat it?” Scar asks.
“Better not,” says Cub, but he does not stop Scar as he reaches to pick one, two, three of them and carefully wraps them in a cloth. The fruits taken, the branch of the tree shrivels to dark dust.
They theorize that the lanky, black shades they see move in the corner of their eye could be memories; ghosts from the time the land still lived. Unable to move on, they are stuck to circling around the ruins, flickering in and out of existence. The shades are mentioned by every account written of the End. They are not dangerous, unless provoked. Nobody knows what provokes them.
Then End is quiet, but when they lie down trying to sleep, they hear an awful, lonely, ear-shattering bellow that seems to be the only thing that can move the stagnant air. It’s the beast. It nests at the very heart of the End, but it is said sometimes it takes off to fly over the skeleton cities on barren islands of a black sea.
The night is long here. The days are gray.
Scar huddles closer to Cub, eyes wide and wild. Cub turns, wraps his arms around Scar, feels Scar’s breath on his cheek, and like this, they manage to get a few hours of troubled sleep.
Physical touch is not only a comfort; it becomes a necessity. The island is fractured. There are wide, sudden chasms in the pale yellow stone. They hold hands when making their way over the dangerous landscape to the ruins of the city. The ship is high up, held in place by an ancient mechanism and a power even Cub does not yet fully understand, even though without it, their plane would not ever have flown.
“We need to get there,” Cub says.
Halfway up, the wall crumbles, and the dream of the bright beautiful future crumbles as well right in front of Cub’s eyes. Scar’s sleeve tears and Cub panics as Scar’s fingers slip from his grasp and for a split second, there is nothing connecting them, Scar floats above certain death—but then Cub in a final desperate reach gets a hold of his wrist, and they both are fine.
They are fine. The future is fine. It takes a while before they can continue the climb.
When they work at dismantling the ship, there is a persistent feeling that the other person has disappeared. A look of confirmation is not enough; they need to reach out, and touch, and squeeze, to be reassured of each other’s existence.
They are the only sure thing. Anything borne of the End, if they touch it, feels like it will either decompose or just blink away.
They get the parts they need to repair the plane. They get enough that if they sell it, they will be rich.
They do not celebrate before they see the shore.
They swear never to brave the End again.
-
Cub is doing bookkeeping when Scar rushes to the room.
“You’ll never guess!” He is pleased and he is so excited he can hardly stand in place. Cub smiles. The change in status and wealth will never affect Scar’s manner, the years will not dull his enthusiasm. He will always remain the physical representation of Cub's dream of a bright future. “I have great news, Cub! Amazing news!”
Cub puts the pen down. “Go on.”
“I found just the people we need! There are four of them, new in town but they seem competent enough and they will give us half of the profit for only providing the transport. I’ll fly, you’ll navigate and they will do all the fighting!”
Cub’s smile widens. He reaches his hand to Scar and lets his partner draw him up. Each one of their enterprises is doing well, but he has been feeling restless. Sometimes he catches himself missing the early days; the labor, the challenge, the clarity of the dream.
“Good,” he says. “That is very good news.” He squeezes Scar’s shoulder. Their eyes meet.
“Let’s go kill a dragon.”