Chapter 3. A Kiss To Build A Dream On!

In the conference hall Magnificus sits with his closest associates. Since Libidus has been suspended from command, he is not present—all decision-making responsibility rests with Magnificus.

A speaker reports over the video link.

“The new head of the USSR, Ivan Putout, has shifted the blame for the Arbat Incident onto Western countries, primarily the USA. What happened has been classified as sabotage. Naturally, no mention of giant mutant pigs or anything of the sort. Everything is explained as the mining of buildings by traitors ‘brainwashed by Western propaganda.’ Naturally, a purge of the state apparatus has begun, along with tighter censorship. Right now all of Moscow is flooded with their army.”

“And all of this only a few hours after it happened?” Magnificus says in a flat voice, leaning back slightly in his chair. “Looks like they had the provocation prepared for a long time. But they’re giving themselves away with the lightning speed of the reaction. Typical red scum—same as anywhere else in the universe. So how did they stop that pig?”

“They didn’t ‘stop’ it in the traditional sense, Commander. The creature—the primate-like pig Relaxatus and Diligens encountered—simply grew tired. It shrunk back down to… a human-sized form and retreated into the sewers.”

Magnificus lets out a tired whine, throwing his head back and staring at the ceiling.

“So… Am I understanding correctly that a race which only recently discovered antibiotics has suddenly learned how to grow supersoldiers?” he addresses the speaker. “And not the USA, not Great Britain… In short, not the normal countries on their planet, but the fucking leftist scum? How the hell is that possible?”

“These pigs, Commander,” the speaker explains, voice carrying the tension of analysis and alarm. “They’re not normal creatures. They’re human… they used to be human. The Soviet intelligence division, based on our captured information, has apparently developed some kind of genetic serum. They call it ‘The Spirit of the Soviets.’”

“And with this filth they want to create a horde of supersoldiers and attack the Western countries with them?” Magnificus leans forward slightly, arms crossed on his chest. “I already know a good deal from their history. One of their commanders, a man named Zhukov, didn’t spare soldiers when they fought some Third Reich. So have they put production on an assembly line, or are they only experimenting on their own?”

“According to the intercepted data, it’s a mixture of both,” the speaker responds, a holographic schematic of a porcine double-helix flickering into view. “They are prioritizing the ‘True Believers.’ The serum requires a specific psychological profile—leftist conviction—to stabilize. If the subject lacks the ideological fervor, the transformation is… unstable. But for those who fit the mold, the results are devastating. They are currently mass-producing the serum for the KAPI, the Red Army of the Fifth International.”

“Fuck,” Magnificus says. “Judging by the images of Old Arbat we received, there’s not much left of it. We barely evacuated Relaxatus—he’s still in a coma. When I sent the guys on the mission, I told them they could freely take out the reds. Except civilians, of course. How many total casualties in Moscow besides those militia and KGB representatives our agents managed to eliminate?”

“Casualties are… difficult to quantify, Commander,” the speaker responds, the holographic image shifting to a grainy, aerial photograph of a shattered city block. “There was only one pig. However, the collateral damage from its ‘growth spurt’ and subsequent rampage through the Arbat district has left almost all residential buildings leveled. We estimate hundreds of civilian deaths, mostly due to structural collapses.”

“Looks like communists are literally the same all across the universe.” Magnificus frowns. “All right then.” He addresses everyone gathered. “We have two main objectives: obtaining as much information as possible about their fucking serum, and saving civilians… at least those whose minds can still be saved. Don’t reveal yourselves during operations—I’ll contact headquarters in the capital regarding additional reinforcements and instructions.”

Magnificus sighs, pausing.

“As for the USA: according to all the information we have, they’re clearly concerned about so-called ‘UFOs,’ that is… us.” He smirks and looks toward one of the secretaries. “That McCarthy of theirs—he’s effectively the head of their state, right? What happens if I personally make contact with him?”

The secretary, a slender canine agent with a sharp gaze, taps a few keys on her console. “Senator Joseph McCarthy is currently leading the Senate Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations. If you make contact, Commander, you would be dealing with a man who views any unknown entity as a potential communist infiltrator.” Magnificus lets out a short chuckle. “Well, we’re similar in that.” He pauses, thinking something over for a couple of seconds before adding, “I’m afraid I’ll have to be harsher than usual in the near future as well.”

*

Right after the meeting Magnificus heads to the retreat block on the base, where Professor Molchanov has been placed together with his wife and daughter.

However, he doesn’t manage to walk more than a couple of feet down the corridor from the conference hall before Frigidis catches up to him.

“Magnificus…” she begins, but the base commander cuts her off.

“What is it, Frigidis? Whatever it is, can it wait? Just don’t tell me this has anything to do with Grand. I don’t care that your relationship didn’t work out: his dick doesn’t get hard for you, and you don’t get wet for him. What’s that got to do with me? Relaxatus nearly died—he’s still in a coma, though the doctors say everything’s fine. Diligens is in shock from the actual failure of the operation, and Grand went off looking for his Canilecta among the American women—probably thinking I wouldn’t notice him studying the map of that Illinois. What do you want from me?”

Frigidis sighs irritably at the word Canilecta—that’s what Canis Amatoris culture calls the “chosen one of the heart,” the female a male singles out from all the others.

“It’s not about Grand,” she says, voice laced with bitterness. “It’s about what he does and how he treats everyone else. Do you think he doesn’t know what he’s doing? He’s leaving the lunar base whenever he pleases, going off on his own to Earth, and now he’s somewhere on the surface of the planet? And we’re just supposed to accept this? The base runs with a skeleton staff while he does whatever he wants!”

Magnificus laughs good-naturedly. “Calm down, bitch. Reinforcements will be here soon. And I’m personally reporting to the emperor about all the antics of his little son. In any case we need a presence in at least all the major human states. There are only about five thousand of us at the moment—you know this was supposed to be a light training mission in a remote sector of endless space. We didn’t come here for a war. Or are you suggesting we go up against 2.66 billion primates with what we have? Fine, let’s say the USA and their allies turn out smarter and don’t turn on us, maybe even support us—but the numbers are still incomparable if you count only their leftists.”

He exhales irritably.

“Listen, you’re one of the quartermasters—better stick to your duties. I need to run the base, develop a plan for the future war against Earth’s communists, keep an eye on the rescued civilians, and find an approach to their fucking McCarthy, who might turn out to be either a smart primate or a dumb ape. Grand’s a big boy: he’ll scout what he needs to and fuck whoever he needs to.”

Frigidis sighs irritably but agrees. “All right, you’re right. I won’t keep you.”

Magnificus continues walking toward the retreat block, his boots echoing against the sterile alloy flooring of the lunar base. His mind is already shifting gears, moving from the annoyance of insubordinate staff to the grim reality of the Soviet genetic experiments.

*

Meanwhile, in the God-blessed and peaceful little town of Pussydale, in the fair state of Illinois, the lovely Sabrina Smut spends the early hours of a Sunday morning in the house her father bought for her. Whether for good or for ill, the girl is never likely to learn that poor Mr. Smut presented his daughter with the place so that he might see less of her and thereby excite himself less. Ah, how heavy is the burden of a man who looks upon his eighteen-year-old daughter and sees not only a beloved child, but a grown and comely woman!

Despite her troubled thoughts concerning the fate of her friend—the handsome, quiet young man named Richard Cummings—she and her companions are only just stirring from sleep after the lively pajama party of the night before.

“But don’t you have things to attend to? Church, for instance? Do your parents even make you go to church?” Sabrina asks with a little laugh, seated at the kitchen table and sipping her morning coffee. She wears only white panties and a white bullet brassiere, and looks less like a future student of Pussydale College than like one of those pin-up models from the magazines boys use for their private pleasures—the very sort that get a fellow packed off for treatment against the solitary vice, as poor young Mr. Cummings was.

“They took me off the church rolls,” she sighs. “Though I did enjoy sitting there. Especially that Kevin… Mm.” She gazes dreamily at the ceiling while her friend Cherry ties her hair into two braids and weaves blue ribbons into them. Lovely sits at the kitchen counter with a book, glancing now and then at Prudy as she butters the toast.

Prudy’s face twists slightly as she spreads strawberry jam. “Sabrina, I still don’t understand why you think church is a respectable place to spend your time,” she says, carefully balancing the knife on the plate. “Surely it’s better to focus on something useful—like women’s political rights, or a business career that isn’t completely dependent on a man.

“Cherry giggles. “Oh, don’t give her that speech again, Prudy. Some of us actually enjoy the simple pleasures of life.” She twirls a strand of Sabrina’s freshly braided hair between her fingers. “Besides, I think she’s right about that Kevin fella. If you weren’t banned from the church, I doubt half the boys in town would come to mass just to see your little skirts ride up when you kneel.”

Sabrina flushes faintly and nudges Cherry with her elbow.

Cherry giggles and goes on with Sabrina’s hair.

“You really ought to take a leaf out of Sabrina’s book, Prudy,” she says, plainly enjoying herself. “Our Sabrina already has a house of her own, thanks to her father. And why did he give it to her when she was seventeen? Because she was a good daughter. And a year later she still is. Besides, she cooks splendidly. And she keeps the place neat. In fact, I rather think that’s why the whole town goes wild over her. You may say clever things, Prudy—but you run the risk of ending up an old maid.”

Prudy sets the butter knife down with a sharp clink against the ceramic plate, her gray eyes narrowing. She draws herself up, her posture stiffening with a haughty elegance.

“Being an ‘old maid’ is a small price to pay for intellectual autonomy, Cherry,” Prudy replies, her voice crisp and devoid of warmth. “The idea that a woman’s primary value lies in her ability to scrub a floor or fry a chicken is precisely the kind of archaic mindset that keeps us shackled. Sabrina is a lovely girl, but she’s playing a game that only benefits the patriarchy.”

Sabrina lets out a soft, airy giggle, leaning back in her chair. The movement causes her white bullet bra to strain against her curves, a sight that would make any man in Pussydale lose his train of thought. She looks at Prudy with genuine affection, despite the lecture.

“Oh Prudy, you always say such serious things,” Sabrina teases, twirling a lock of her golden hair around her finger. “But if my cooking keeps my house clean, and I like men who appreciate a woman’s home, well—why is that so wrong? You’re always reading books, and I’m sure that helps you think. But I like to please my father, and someday a husband, and isn’t that what we’re made for?”

Prudy stiffens further, her fingers curling slightly against the countertop.

“You make it sound so simple,” she says, her tone controlled and measured. “As if a woman’s worth is measured by how many men she can make happy. There are universities in this country, Sabrina. We could study. We could become doctors, or lawyers—anything we want!”

Cherry sighs. “Oh, all right, Prudy… Let’s not quarrel. We’re all girls here, and we ought to stick together. After all, everything has its points and its drawbacks.”

She glances at Lovely and giggles.

“Now here’s the one who’s sure to make good in the law or something of the sort—Lovely. She’ll have a head like a super-brain before long, the way she goes at those books!”

“Oh, and Prudy,” she continues with a smile, “do you really think a woman ought to go through life without ever feeling the thrill of pleasing a man? I’ve noticed it’s you who are sometimes excited and nervous most when we see men look at Sabrina—“

Prudy rolls her eyes.

“I’m not here to talk about the perverse nature of the male gaze,” she says. “I just think that our dear Sabrina is talented and intelligent, and it would be a tragedy to waste her potential only on men.” Her sharp eyes flick to Sabrina. “Besides, Cherry, you’re the one who reads those ridiculous romance novels under your bed. You should try reading something… different.

Sabrina giggles again, stretching her arms above her head in a way that makes her bra strain beautifully.

Lovely finally looks up from her book, her thick black-framed glasses slipping slightly down her nose. She pushes them back up with a delicate finger, her voice soft and melodic. “I think Prudy has a point about potential, but I also think Sabrina’s heart is in the right place. There’s something very noble about wanting to create a beautiful home for someone.”

Sabrina beams at Lovely, her expression one of pure, guileless sweetness. “See? Lovely understands! It’s not about being a servant, Prudy, it’s about… harmony.”

Satisfied with her victory, she reaches for the coffee pot, her movements graceful and natural.

*

Meanwhile, at Kholodnaya Rechka Dacha, Abkhazia.

“Eh, have to look for a new maid again.” Ivan Putout says with dissatisfaction, looking at the woman’s corpse. “Need to find someone younger. And with tighter holes.”

The bastard sits down in the chair behind his desk and looks at the guard. “What are you standing there for, piece of shit? Drag the corpse away and have the boys bring me that fucking scientist! He promised me, for fuck’s sake, that the army of the Fifth International would be ready in the shortest possible time! And these freakish pigs that come out of the test subjects—they’re stupid and die fast!”

The guard nods and drags away the poor woman’s corpse.

A couple of minutes later an old gray-haired scientist of about seventy stands before him in laboratory clothes. He doesn’t tremble with fear, knowing perfectly well that Putout hates that.

“Listen, I’m not going to kill you. You’re too useful.” The Soviet dictator grumbles, stroking his enormous belly through his military tunic. “Even if you are a fucking Jew. Rootless cosmopolitan.”

He leans forward. He squints, and his small eyes on a large face swollen with fat make him look more and more like a repulsive boar.

“Fine. I’ve come to terms with the fact that all the test subjects turn into humanoid pigs for some damn reason. No question. The pig will now become a sacred animal in the USSR, like the cow among those stupid Hindus. Why, after a few days, do my supersoldiers lose their superpowers and die?! I’ve already selected a lot of people to turn into the Fifth International that will finally finish Lenin’s work on the World Proletarian Revolution—and now I can’t use the serum on them! These will just be unjustified losses! When are you going to fix the formula, you scum?!”

He slams his fist on the desk and the scientist jumps slightly.

“Forgive me, Comrade Putout!” he gasped, adjusting his thick glasses with trembling fingers. “The formula temporarily rewires gene expression, forcing cells to operate at the absolute limit of Homo sapiens’ evolutionary capacity. But this process comes at a staggering cost! Ultra-rapid cell division and mitochondrial overload trigger an avalanche of accelerated aging. The current variant of the serum increases the subject’s physical capabilities many times over, turning them into the ultimate weapon—but due to the total depletion of the body’s resources, the test subjects only live for a week.”

“Bullshit!” Putout snarls. “Make it work for at least a month!”

“I’m already trying,” the scientist mutters. “With new modifications. But in order to test the latest version… we need more test subjects. Young and healthy.”

Putout grins, revealing yellowed teeth.

“Young and healthy test subjects? You’ll have them.” Putout forces out through his teeth and gestures to the guard to take the scientist away.

A minute later the dictator sits in his office, collecting himself. He dials a number on the rotary phone standing on his desk.

“So, Yuri, that dumbass pissed me off again. Need to rest. Any new ones?” he says into the receiver. “How old is she?” The dictator’s face spreads into a repulsive smile. “Excellent. Bring her.”

*

At the same time, lunar base of the Casanova Dogs.

In one of the rooms in the retreat block the door opens and Magnificus enters the room. He looks at Professor Molchanov, who is reading a book. Nearby at the table sit his wife and daughter—they are playing chess.

“How are you settling in?” Magnificus smirks, leaning against the wall. “I understand this is a lot for humans. One moment your apartment is destroyed by a humanoid mutant pig, and the next you’re on the Moon in the company of aliens with dog heads. And you’re communicating with them perfectly well. Yes, it sounds literally like a delirious joke, but it’s reality. Believe me—some things are simply better accepted as a given, without thinking too hard, otherwise you can go mad.”

He sighs before continuing.

“There are two pieces of good news. First: we are currently evacuating your fellow citizens here. All who… In short, all who are normal. The far side of the Moon will hide everyone. Second: your dictator has problems with the serum, so these pig monsters die very quickly, and for now he can’t create a full-fledged army of them to start a war with the West. This information was obtained literally a few minutes ago. So not everything is as bad as it might seem.”

Professor Alexei Molchanov closes his book, his gaze steady and thoughtful. He looks at his wife and daughter, whose faces carry a mixture of relief and lingering shock. The sterile, futuristic environment of the lunar base is a far cry from the suffocating atmosphere of Moscow, yet the silence here feels safer than any silence he ever knew on Earth.

“Acceptance is the only logical response to the impossible, Commander,” Alexei replies, his voice calm. “I spent twenty years pretending I didn’t hate the men who signed my paychecks. After a lifetime of living a lie, the truth—no matter how absurd—is a luxury I intend to enjoy.”

His wife, Margarita, looks up from the chessboard, her eyes softening as she glances at her husband. Daughter Yulia remains silent, her young face curious, staring at the alien commander with a mix of awe and apprehension.

Magnificus straightens up, his expression shifting from casual to professional.

“Haven’t you remembered anything, Alexei? Our telepathy can’t read thoughts—only see the general picture. And control the bodies… of weaker races. For the latter I officially apologize. However, I think you understand why my agents acted that way with the three of you. In any case—your memory was clearly erased, Alexei. And more than once. What could they have used to do that?”

Alexei sets the book down on his lap, his expression darkening. He exchanges a meaningful glance with Margarita. The mention of memory erasure makes him stiffen.

“They did something to my memory,” Alexei says, his expression darkening. “Drugs, perhaps. Hypnosis. Something more complicated, most likely. They wanted me to forget certain things, not everything. Whatever they used, they knew exactly what they were doing.”

Margarita looks at Magnificus. “I could tell something was wrong every time he came back from the research facility. He remembered us, he knew where he was, but something was missing. And he never remembered what he’d been working on.”

Magnificus sighs.

“All right,” he says. “If you remember anything—let me know right away. And if you need anything… well, in everyday terms—feel free to approach one of the quartermasters here.”

Alexei nods slowly, his brow furrowed in thought. “I’ll do my best, Commander. Though I’m not sure what’s buried in my mind.” His gaze flicks to Margarita, and he reaches out to take her hand. “If I remember something that could help you… I’ll tell you.”

Margarita gives his hand a gentle squeeze, her hazel eyes fixed on Magnificus with a mixture of wariness and curiosity. “And if we need anything,” she says softly, her voice tinged with both gratitude and uncertainty, “thank you for the offer.”

Yulia leans forward, her pigtails swaying as she peers up at the alien commander. “Are we… safe here?” she asks, her young voice steady despite the tremor of nervousness beneath it. “From the pigs? And from everything else?”

Magnificus nods. “Yes, completely safe. The same can’t be said for those who are on Earth right now.”

Magnificus walks to his apartments on the base—more comfortable and furnished than his work office. Taking off his uniform, he takes a shower. After the shower he approaches the full-length mirror in the main room of the apartments and looks at his image.

“Well, damn… Libidus really did sense it all with his hairy ass… Got out just in time.” He says, looking at his reflection. He turns on music automatically—pleasant jazz begins to play and a pleasant voice of some African-American singer sounds.

“And still their music is better than ours.” Magnificus says thoughtfully, sitting down at the table. “Molchanov… Well, at least he seems to have sorted things out with his wife and daughter. Don’t feel like playing psychologist for primates.”

He opens the portable terminal and begins silently composing a report for Emperor Longus Erectus Shaft LVI—Grand’s father.