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Year 127
“…Having seen you all train and study so hard these past three years, my friends, I am proud to say you may be the most best graduating class of Cleansers we have ever had. Thank you!”
The newly graduated Cleansers leapt to their feet in applause. It was not the first time they had met General Emil Västerström, head of the Known World’s most effective military force, but it was the first time he had addressed them as fellow soldiers. He had spoken so casually and with such camaraderie! A few of the young cleansers murmured in amazement that their perfectly dressed, perfectly coiffed general would make a glaring grammatical mistake in his speech.
As Emil worked his way along the line of recent graduates, shaking hands and speaking personally to each new cleanser for a few moments, only one had the courage to speak up.
“General Västerström, what do you mean by ‘most best’?”
Emil’s eyes misted over and he smiled softly, lost in memory.
“Just an expression from an old friend. She was my first and best teacher – if you’re half the Viking she was you’ll go far indeed.” He clapped the awed young Cleanser on the shoulder and smiled one last time before moving on.
Awed, the young cleanser repeated the words under her breath.
“Most best…”
Year 293
“Alright you horrible bunch, you have two days of shore leave in Sifni, try not to end up with broken guts and no money!”
Lalli Vesterstrom, captain of the Swedish navy ship the HSwMS Ostersund, watched as his eager sailors swarmed down the gangplank towards the desert outpost, enjoying a moment of calm before he would have to see to unloading the cargo and replenishing his supplies. The Canarianis had made great strides in the past ten years towards reconquering their ancient homeland of al-Maguecos.
Here on the fringes of the desert, there were few beasts or to contend with, and most of the trolls had succumbed decades ago to desiccation in the arid desert. The Canarianis had rapidly pushed far inland, recapturing much of the barren interior and hundreds of miles of coastline. After decades of steady progress, the bulk of their army was pushing towards the once-great city of Mar al-Rakish, and Sweden’s cleansers were there to support them.
The Ostersund was freshly returned from patrolling the South Atlantic. Leviathans were growing fewer these days as beast-fighting technology improved by leaps and bounds, but Swedish military vessels still typically accompanied the merchant flotillas that crisscrossed the Atlantic to trade with the rapidly growing coastal colonies of Africa and the Americas. The stop in Sifni was meant to resupply his own ship and relieve a company of Swedish cleansers that had spent the better part of a year embedded with the Canariani troops.
“Sir, Captain Hussein bin al-Floresi is requesting permission to come aboard,” said Vesterstrom’s aide and translator, effectively signaling the end of the captain’s peace and quiet.
“Please welcome him aboard, Private.”
Captain al-Floresi had the dark skin of most Canarianis, but with startling blue eyes. He saluted, and Vesterstrom returned the gesture.
“Captain Vesterstrom,” he said in Sparabic through his interpreter, “welcome to Sifni. I am Captain al-Floresi of the third desert brigade, and I oversee security from here to Gadir. This is my katib, Private Diallo, and my sahir, Wararni Mehiyas.”
The Canariani sahir – which was equivalent to a Nordic mage – caught Vesterstrom’s eye and gave him a dazzling smile. His prominent nose sat comfortably below a mass of curly dark hair and twinkling green eyes. Vesterstrom couldn’t help but grin back, feeling strangely pulled to the dark-skinned stranger.
“Kapitan Festerstrum,” he said in passable Neo-Nordic, “what is mean ‘broken guts and no money’? You say to soldiers.”
“It’s a common expression in the Swedish military,” he said slowly and clearly, entranced by Mehiyas’ lilting accent. “A warning to our young lads not to spend all of their salary on food and drink in the first port we put into. Not really sure where it comes from beyond that…”
Year 1399
“That is the biggest ship I have ever seen,” marveled Vic Hutag, Nordic representative to the Earth Resettlement Council.
Captain Emil Vistrum beamed proudly at her sparkling craft, newly arrived from the great factories of New Mora and ready to carry more colonists to Earth’s outposts on Venus and Mars.
“Isn’t she, though? Fits 1,500 colonists including provisions and effects. Truly lives up to the Resettlement Council’s motto: More people, more better.”
Hutag chuckled and ran a hand through his pale hair. “That motto! Where did it come from anyway? It’s not exactly grammatically correct.”
Emil shook her head in amusement. “Who knows? I think the Council lifted it from the Sundberg Bible. Probably the only relevant thing in there, unless you’re a fundamentalist Minnion. It’s full of myths about beasts and trolls… I guess the ancients needed a way to explain what happened to the prehistoric civilizations. Their primitive technology could never have conceived of how much the prehistorics accomplished… nor how much further we have come today.”
“Do you think any of it was real? The Rash Disease? Trolls?” Hutag was genuinely curious.
Emil snorted. “Of course not. According to the latest scholarship, prehistoric civilization was destroyed by a rapid shift in climatic patterns driven by overconsumption of carbon-based fuels – consumed by its own excess, you might say. The ancients were probably looking for an outside source to blame and came up with a disease. Easier to blame a mystery illness than yourself.”
She turned to admire her ship again. In the past hundred years, Earth had reached new heights, first exploring and then colonizing distant planets. Terraforming was moving at a health clip on Mars and had recently begun on Venus as well. Scientists were hard at work developing technology that would make wormhole travel and lightspeed travel possible within her lifetime. Humanity was multiplying and rising to the challenge of expanding beyond the Known Universe.
“More people, more better.” The quirky old motto had never felt more apt.