Chapter 5. It's Been a Long, Long Time!

A year earlier, 100 billion light years from Earth, the planet Manhoodon, capital of the Canis Amatoris empire.

(note: Earth terminology is used for better context understanding)

While the elevator descends from the 50th floor to the first, all three fighters in white armored suits stay silent.

“Well, overall, the gift was pretty decent, if you ask me,” Callidum says, scratching behind her ear. “After all, the senator’s son is six years old. And besides, it’s the most popular gaming console…”

“You’re a female. And a hell of a lot smarter than our senator. He thinks that the moment a puppy is born, it should immediately grab a weapon and go beat up leftists,” Libidus says irritably.

“Apparently he’s afraid that if you don’t keep the kid busy with something serious, he’ll turn into a leftist himself,” Sarcasticus smirks. “You know, that transitional age. You’re just sitting there and suddenly, on a Saturday morning, you decide: fuck it, got nothing to do… Guess I’ll go overthrow the Emperor!”

“Four billion years ago our civilization almost got wiped out by communism, by the way,” Libidus reminds them gloomily.

“So what? That was a fuckload of time ago. Our civilization has had its ups and downs. Meanwhile, we ourselves live about a hundred years. I mean us, Dobermannus. Though I think it’s the same with our relatives from other sub-ethnic groups. Anyway, four billion years ago is like… some other world entirely. I don’t even know how to write that number!” Sarcasticus laughs. “It’s just that we adults also have fuck-all to do. Too much prosperity and achievement breeds too much boredom. It’s a problem for our whole civilization. So I get the motivation of the Casanova Dogs: protect intelligent species from communists and fuck hordes of various females.”

“Could you be a bit more respectful?” Callidum cuts in right away with a chuckle.

“I’m just stating a fact,” Sarcasticus replies to her. Then he turns back to Libidus, speaking in a sad tone with exaggerated theatricality. “Commander, we’re going to miss you.”

“I’m not dead, Sarcasticus! I just transferred from the Imperial Army to the Casanova Dogs!” Libidus snaps irritably. “What I definitely won’t miss is your little jabs! Smartass!”

The elevator doors open with a soft hiss. The three of them step out onto the first floor of the Presidium. They pass the front desk, where the receptionist—pretty female Dobbermannus—immediately looks up from her work.

“Good afternoon, Commander Libidus,” she greets with a nod.

“Afternoon,” Libidus answers curtly.

The office door opens automatically as they approach. Magnificus stands at the window, deep in thought. At the sound of the door opening, he doesn’t turn around immediately.

“Enter,” he says simply.

Sarcasticus and Callidum immediately take up positions on either side of the door, their movements precise and disciplined. Libidus approaches Magnificus, his heavy boots echoing in the quiet office.

“Magnificus,” Libidus says sternly.

Magnificus slowly turns toward him.

For several seconds the two anthropomorphic dogs in combat suits stare at each other, teeth bared, then they burst out laughing and shake hands.

“I knew this would happen sooner or later!” Magnificus exclaims. “Got sick of army discipline and chain of command, but becoming a regular mercenary was too low for you? Well then, I’m glad to welcome you, old man.”

“Alright, alright… you were right. I owe you two crates of Quintillian rum,” Libidus smirks.

“So, is this lady and this gentleman with us?” Magnificus asks.

“Nah, they’re just seeing me off, so to speak,” Libidus chuckles. “This is Callidum and Sarcasticus. I’ve told you about them.”

“Callidum… A beautiful name for a beautiful fighter,” Magnificus says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Don’t you want to join us, Ms. Callidum? We’re always short on smart and capable females.”

Callidum steps forward, her movements fluid and confident. Her canine features carry an air of sharp intelligence, and her uniform clings to a lean, powerful and curvy frame. She inclines her head toward Magnificus, a small smirk tugging at her muzzle.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she muses, the words rolling through the office like a blade being tested on a whetstone. “Aren’t you already short enough on competent leadership?”

Sarcasticus lets out a low chuckle beside her. Magnificus’s ears twitch slightly at the barb, but his grin widens rather than fades.

“Ah, yes, that’s what I like about you,” he says, wagging a paw. “A proper sense of humor. Well, I can always use another sharp tongue in my organization. Though I warn you—once you get in, there’s no getting out.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Callidum replies, her tone remaining neutral.

*

Ten minutes later, Magnificus’s office.

“…And that’s how it all ended.” Magnificus makes a gesture with his hand in the air, looking at Libidus sitting across from him.

Libidus turns slightly in his chair and looks at the office door—right now it’s just the two of them in the room.

“You know, I’m going to miss Callidum and Sarcasticus a little.” He thinks for a moment. “Alright, mostly Callidum. Sarcasticus always pissed me off.”

“That’s just jealousy,” Magnificus smirks. “I bet he imagined you two fucking every time you called her into your office.” He glances out the window at the Presidium gardens. “Though as I remember, the Army doesn’t allow that sort of thing. Discipline, chain of command and all that. That got to you, didn’t it? Or is the real reason something else?”

Libidus lets out a dry laugh, leaning back in the chair. He looks at the ceiling, his canine features shifting into a look of genuine contemplation.

“The Army is a cage, Magnificus. A gold-plated cage, but a cage nonetheless,” Libidus admits, his voice dropping an octave. “When you spend every waking moment worrying about the ‘correct’ way to salute or the ‘proper’ way to report a skirmish, you forget why we fight. I grew tired of the bureaucracy of virtue. I wanted to actually feel the wind in my fur without a manual telling me the optimal angle of the breeze.”

Magnificus turns away from the window, his expression softening. He respects the restlessness; it is the hallmark of the Canis Amatoris spirit—the drive for conquest, both territorial and sexual.
Magnificus smirks and leans forward a little, speaking in a whisper.

“Alright then. You’re in the Casanova Dogs now. Tell me one thing, as an old friend…”

He pauses for a long moment. “Have you fucked Callidum at least once? For real? I mean with the tie?”

Libidus sighs. He leans back in his chair.

“Twice,” he admits after a pause. “Once in the transmutation chamber after a mission—just the two of us, no audience. And then again… well, let’s just say she came to my quarters in the middle of the night.”

Magnificus throws his head back with a laugh, deep and resonant. “Oh-ho! I knew it!” He wags a finger at Libidus. “You couldn’t resist that female, could you?”

Magnificus leans back a little. “So that’s the reason you’re running from the army. If we set aside the ‘gold-plated cage’ philosophy. Alright, I think you’ll fit in with us. Right now we’re forming a new crew—we’re flying on one of the new ships to one of the unexplored sectors on the empire’s border. Judging by the fact that the universe is clearly infinite, they’re never going to run out.”

He leans forward.

“Basically nothing special: a reconnaissance and training mission. From what it looks like, they’ll make the two of us commanders. Crew of about 5,000 dogs. According to preliminary recon data, there don’t seem to be any intelligent races there. And even if there are—only the most primitive ones. All the celestial bodies there are no more than 4.5 billion years old. High command claims we can expect no surprises… But I don’t know. Better to always be ready.”

Libidus leans back in his chair, exhaling through his nose. He thinks for a moment before speaking.

“Yeap… Maybe,” he says. “Anyway, no more worrying about protocol or chain of command. Almost. Just the open galaxy. And if there are surprises, well…” He taps the side of his nose with a finger. “We’ll be ready for them.”

Magnificus nods approvingly. “Good. Because I need a right hand I can count on.” He stands up, walking to the window to gaze out at the Presidium gardens. The afternoon sun catches the edges of the chrome buildings and the green foliage below.

“Yes,” Magnificus says, looking at the gardens. “Exactly—‘maybe’ and ‘almost.’ The two most cursed words in any language in this universe.”

*

Present day. Lunar base, May 4, 1953.

“Maybe. Almost,” Magnificus says, sitting in his office. “It’s a very underdeveloped race. Almost underdeveloped—if these Soviet leftists managed to invent super-soldiers at this stage of development. And maybe they have something else in reserve. Just in case of unforeseen complications from space in the form of us.”

He switches on the intercom on the portable terminal lying on his desk and speaks, addressing his secretary and assistant. “Adjutans, report the latest news on McCarthy. Is the embedded agent handling him well regarding… um… contacts with extraterrestrial races? Does this McCarthy really have influence over their president? Maybe it’s better to work directly with Eisenhower?”

A calm female voice comes through the intercom.

“Our agent reports that McCarthy is gradually becoming receptive to the idea of cooperation with extraterrestrial forces, sir. He remains suspicious, as expected, but his anti-communist convictions make him a promising potential ally. His influence over Eisenhower is still uncertain, so I recommend continuing to work through McCarthy for now.”

Magnificus leans back in his chair, considering. His hands steeple beneath his chin as he thinks.

“Good,” he muses. “Very good. Keep working that angle.”

The intercom cuts out with a soft click.

“This McCarthy… He’ll do for now,” he says, half to himself. “But Eisenhower’s the target.”

He stands and moves to the window, gazing out at a blackness beyond.

Magnificus stands by the reinforced viewport, his reflection ghostly against the oppressive, velvet void of the lunar night. On the far side of the Moon, there is no Earth to gaze upon. There is only the abyss, punctuated by the cold, distant prickle of stars and the harsh, artificial lights of the base’s perimeter.

He folds his arms behind his back.

“Eisenhower,” he murmurs.

He thinks of the chaos unfolding on the surface of the planet they cannot see from this vantage point—the Arbat Incident, the crumbled apartments in Moscow, and the grotesque failure of the Soviet serum.

*

Lunar base, medical block.

“Well, I see you’re already feeling better,” Diligens says, sitting on a chair by Relaxatus’s bed. “You scared me, you bastard.”

“Yeah… Guess I shouldn’t have stared so hard at that pig through the peephole,” Relaxatus laughs. “That was my first coma, by the way. And out of all the visions—just dancing fruits.”

“You just have shitty imagination. Anyway, I’m glad you didn’t croak. Molchanov is here with his wife and daughter, by the way. And some of our staff are already eyeing these females—and they seem interested too,” Diligens laughs. “Really don’t want a scandal with screams of ‘Alien dogs are stealing my wife.’ That would be awkward.”

Relaxatus lets out a dry snort, shifting his weight on the sterile medical sheets. He looks at the ceiling, smirking.

“Screams? Please. Once they see the benefits of lunar gravity and a proper shower, they’ll be begging for the dogs,” Relaxatus says, his voice still carrying a slight rasp from the coma. “Besides, Molchanov’s daughter is eighteen, right? That’s the prime age for ‘diplomatic relations.’ I bet half of our males are already calculating the trajectory to her bedroom.”

Diligens chuckles and shakes his head. “Fuck. You’re… Okay, I’m not going to deny it.” He leans back in his chair, resting his arms across his chest. “Seriously though, you almost got us all killed back there. Next time, try not to die.”

Relaxatus waves a dismissive hand. “Nah, I just wanted to take a nap. And I got my wish.”

They fall into silence for a moment, staring at the white ceiling of the medical bay.

Then Relaxatus turns his head to look at Diligens.

“So, Magnificus got a report from Grand. He’s in the States now.”

Relaxatus laughs. “Fuck. I don’t even know—is this a comedy or a tragedy? The Emperor’s son joins an elite military organization to find his Canilecta among Earth females, while the rest will be liberating Earth from the communists.”

He props himself up a little on the bed, trying to get through a fit of laughter. “Did he lay out his plans to Magnificus? Like ‘fuck every girl in all of Illinois and see whose holes have the best compatibility with his dog cock’?”

Diligens snorts, a sound halfway between a laugh and a cough. He reaches for a datapad on the bedside table, idly scrolling through personnel files. “Knowing Grand? Probably. But Magnificus knows how to handle him. He’s not just some spoiled prince chasing primate females—he’s got that independent streak, even if it manifests as a sex drive the size of a small planet.”

“Still,” Relaxatus grins wickedly. “Can you imagine it? The chase. He goes in there thinking he’s the apex predator of Manhoodon and he’s hunting for some one-in-a-million fated female. Meanwhile, he’s supposed to be conducting reconnaissance.” He gestures vaguely towards the ceiling. “I hope his ‘recon’ includes a deep-tissue analysis.”

Silence hangs for a few seconds.

Then Relaxatus continues. “By the way, on this Earth there are creatures that look like us. Just non-intelligent and with more primitive anatomy. They…”

“No, human females don’t fuck them, Relaxatus,” Diligens laughs. “It’s forbidden for them.”

Relaxatus snorts. “Savages! But on Bestialimus there are intelligent primates too. And their females have sex with domestic animals—often with the riding ones. The happiest housewives in the universe definitely live there.”

Diligens shakes his head, grinning. “Oh, Relaxatus.”

Relaxatus giggles. “Hey, I’m just stating a fact. Sex with pets—the pinnacle of sexual pleasure for any female of any intelligent species.”

Diligens shrugs. “You’re probably right. And speaking of, you’re still recovering. No fucking for at least a day.”

Relaxatus gives him a look. “Don’t act like you’re any more disciplined than me. If a cute nurse came in here right now with a medscan device, I’d have my pants off before she even turned it on.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, but…” Diligens leans back in the chair, his smirk widening. “She does have a nice ass.”

*

Meanwhile, at Kholodnaya Rechka Dacha, Abkhazia.

“Why is this collective farmer’s sickle poking me in the ass?!” Ivan Putout exclaims, pointing at the canvas with the image. “Anatoly, are you out of your mind?! This woman’s sickle is jabbing me in the ass, and this worker’s hammer is hanging right over my head!”

“Calm down, Comrade Putout,” the artist says calmly—a thin, tall man of about forty with short dark hair and a neutral expression on his face. “This is socialist realism. It’s not actual realism, meaning it’s not a photograph. Besides, we have to save space—after all, this mosaic will decorate many buildings across the entire Union.”

“So you’re saying that all over the Union there will be an image where some woman is poking me in the ass with a sickle, and a worker is hitting me on the head with a hammer?!” Putout screeches.

Anatoly sighs.

“If you want, I can simply turn your figure around…”

“So that this woman can hit me in the balls with the sickle?! Why am I positioned like this in the first place?!” Ivan continues to scream, jumping around the room in outrage.

“It’s simple, look: you’re holding the sun in your hands and carrying it, lighting the way for the worker and peasant masses—there they are, positioned below. This is an allusion to Danko from Maxim Gorky’s work. The worker and the collective farmer embody the labor unity of Soviet families…”

“Ah… Redo it! I don’t want people shoving a sickle into every hole of mine!” Putout shouts. “Nightmare! I’d have you shot, but after the latest purges we barely have any decent artists left anyway! Redo it!”

Anatoly sighs. “Fine.”

Ivan Putout calms down a little. “Phew. Understand, Anatoly—I am the General Secretary of the Central Committee of the CPSU, the leader of the Great Soviet Union. We single-handedly defeated the German fascists and we will defeat the American fascists! I cannot go down in history as the one who got a sickle shoved up his ass!”

Anatoly bows slightly, his expression remaining a mask of professional indifference. “Of course, Comrade Putout. I shall adjust the composition to ensure your dignity remains untarnished by the tools of the proletariat.”

Ivan Putout exhales. “Good. Good.”

Then he yells at his secretary. “Glasha, now, where’s my fucking coffee?”

Anatoly nods once more before exiting the room, his shoulders stiff from the General Secretary’s outburst.

Glasha, a long-haired blonde in her 30s, hurries in with a tray bearing a steaming mug. She sets it down on the desk with a clatter that makes Putout flinch.

“Here, Comrade,” she says, voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. “Your coffee.”

Putout snatches the mug, nearly upsetting it. “Finally. You know, Glasha, you’re lucky I don’t have you sent to the labor camps for your incompetence.”

Glasha keeps her eyes lowered. “Of course, Comrade Putout. I’ll do better next time.”

Putout drinks, his beady little pig eyes darting back to the canvas still propped against the easel.

He says gloomily, lost in thoughts of the past. “Coffee. I haven’t had any in a long time. It’s been a long, long time…”