2133 AD

They crash-landed on the planet just when the small, orange sun was about to dive behind the misty mountain peaks. Grayish clouds frowned upon the unspoiled, virgin soil covered by abundant grass. The air was warm and pleasant, and some exotic plants were spreading a barely perceptible, nostalgically sweet scent.

The Sergeant knew that he was going to die. He also knew that everyone else had already died. The impact was much too strong – it was a miracle that he himself survived, at least for those few minutes; still conscious, still lucid, not even feeling any pain yet. No, that wasn’t quite true. His soul was drowning in excruciating pain, impaled by one sharp, merciless thought: it’s over. No one will be able to deliver the news. There will be no colonization. Colonization? Screw that, there will be no humanity. The horrible war back on Earth was devouring his race. Those proud pricks and their stupid, stupid ideologies, all of them – the united, yet really isolated, paralyzed West, believing in nothing, devoid of essential instincts and love of life; the sinister, suffocating Middle Land, rooted in cold, rigid, dead social structures, unable to love and forgive; and the Caliphate – radiant, triumphant, but at what cost – eliminating or absorbing everyone else under its testosterone-soaked flag, a crude, cruel parody of a relationship with the Divine.

Philosophy on deathbed, the Sergeant thought and grinned to himself. He was versed in many humanitarian disciplines – like one of those bloody 19th century dudes he used to like. He even tried to remember some of the Latin he’d self-taught a long time ago – but his mind must have succumbed to delirium, because the only short phrase stuck in it, repeating itself ad nauseam, was, for some reason, fiat lux. That’s it, buddy. You’d joined an elite team of astronauts, sent by an independent organization to find a new home for the remnants of the mad, possessed humanity. Following years of unseen hardship, they’d found a suitable planet – better than suitable, wonderful, the best of all possible worlds. An idiotic, unfathomable navigation error – and there you go: the entire crew dead, and you are getting ready to kick the proverbial bucket very soon as well.

It’s unfair, the Sergeant thought – just like he had in his childhood when the humiliation of never getting even a drop out of that tempting condensed milk jar had become unbearable. Tears started flowing down his cheeks. It’s unfair, he thought again. Life is unfair. Everything is unfair. He wept bitterly, and then heard a whimper.

Unmistakably, that was a whimper, and it was coming from a large metallic box lying in the grass just a few feet away from him. He instantly remembered. They had taken two dogs with them. Male and female. Large and reddish – merry, chaotic mixtures of different breeds. And now they were just a few feet away, locked in the box, sure to die of thirst very soon if he didn’t do anything.

So he crawled. It was hard – much harder than he would ever imagine. It turned out that only one of his arms was functioning; the legs were dead, dangling helplessly as he tried to cover the ground inch by inch, full of incomprehensible determination. A rational thought flashed through his mind – why was he wasting his last moments trying to prolong the life of two animals? But what is rational thinking compared to the genuine urges of the heart, he thought, surprised and almost amused at the ridiculously inappropriate clarity of his analysis. He reached the box, unlocked the small opening, and fell on his back, exhausted.

Two dogs ran out of the box, moving their snouts left and right, looking fussy, confused, and lost. They noticed the Sergeant instantly, surrounded him, stood there with their tongues outside, glimpses of guilt in their tranquil eyes. They sniffed his hands, licked his fingers tenderly. And the Sergeant felt a strange happiness rising in his dying body. Just before he exhaled the soothing air of the planet for the last time, he attempted to smile at the dogs and whispered, remembering something he’d almost forgotten:

“Mul-ti-ply...”

II

3133 AD – 1000 CA (Cynian Age)

“Fine,” Inumoto Kenichi said. “We’ll keep going. If you insist. Anything to make you shut up ... you and his bloody majesty.”

Flavius Augustus Canis scratched his left ear with his hinder paw. The fleas were raging, he thought, it’s always that uneasy hot, moist, damp season on Cynia that brought forth the worst of those insects. He attempted a prayer to the Gods, but it didn’t work – concentration was not his forte.

“Guys, we need to move.” Ben Kelev stuck out a broad pinkish tongue. His saliva-covered hanging jowls looked intimidating, concealing tender vulnerability. The deceptive fearsomeness of the Boxers: a myth, like all the other prejudices plaguing sons of bitches from century to century. With disgust, Canis thought of the URCD – Union of Racially Clean Dachshunds, a dreadful name if there was ever one. Oh merciful Lords, when shall ye arrive and purge evil out of this long-suffering planet?...

“Yup, only about an hour left till dark,” Inumoto agreed easily, his boisterous Shiba posture contrasting Canis’s own stooping figure, his narrow, cool eyes so different from the old monk’s soulful Labrador gaze. Ben Kelev stood up, raised his large head, and at that moment the three of them saw someone coming down the hill.

He was just a regular son of a bitch. One may even say less than regular, Canis thought as the unknown Chihuahua stared at him. Like all his racial brethren, he was small, yet there was something vaguely menacing in the handsome face adorned with a pair of proudly–looking, oversized ears.

“Sons of bitches!” the Chihuahua said energetically, slightly tilting his head. “I am thrilled to welcome you in my humble abode.”

“Abode, my ass,” whispered Inumoto, wagging his tail. “Even a Miniature Schnauzer would be ashamed of calling this hole his home.”

Canis looked at him sternly, then raised his paw and spoke loudly:

“We are travelers, kind sir. We have walked many kilopaws, leaving behind a trail of urine too long to be measured by mere mortals. We seek nothing but a roof over our heads and a few bones to gnaw liberally when dusk throws its magic cape over the material realm. As the great playwright William Shakepaw says, ‘Oh beauty, how do I desire you! For chance has left some meat on your white body. Stop, stop, abundant drooling – am I not the master of my fate, a creature of reason?’”

“Well spoken, my friend,” the Chihuahua replied, though looking almost exclusively at the Boxer. “It is, indeed, refreshing to meet a son of a bitch of such literacy in this forgotten corner of Cynia. My name is Don Adolfo Alfonso Perrez, Count of Huesia, at your service.”

“Sorry, what was that? Count Basie?” Inumoto raised his front paw. “Never heard.”

“Kenichi!” Canis whispered reproachfully. “Behave, please!” Then he politely bowed to the Chihuahua and said:

“What a fortuitous occurrence! Just as the Holy Scripture says, in the First Epistle to the Sobakonians by the great Apostle Pawl, Chapter 11, verse 5: ‘And when the fleas make your life intolerable, remember that the Gods brought ye light, yet ye chose sin; but persevere, and they will heal your wounds today.”

Perrez bowed too, though seemingly without much enthusiasm, and spoke ironically:

“Always a pleasure to accommodate a holy son of a bitch here. As the Prophet Xiao Gou said, may your fur be long despite all your iniquities. That is a harmless Scripture quote; otherwise, too much horror in those Boxer books for my taste. Poetry must refresh our minds, liberate us from pseudo-ethical prejudices clipping the wings of our national philosophy. Excuse me,” he concluded unexpectedly, raised a hinder paw, and generously peed on the ground.

“National philosophy?” Inumoto asked, surprised and amused at once. “With all due respect, I’ve never heard of Chihuahuas producing metaphysical essays.”

“Not Chihuahuas,” Perrez said with barely perceptible hostility, putting his paw back on the ground. “Dachshunds.”

Thoughts started uneasily creeping into Canis’s head. He heard that the URCD was conquering those forgotten lands to make their dream reality: a unified, strong Cynia, with slick, athletic Dachshunds setting the tone. He recalled loud, colorful leaflets calling for the solution of the “Boxer question”: an unknown politician had earnestly suggested complete extermination of a race so ugly that it offended the new aesthetics. Dachshunds themselves were too stubbornly honest to write something like that; Canis felt a different mind, stuck in a laughably small body, disproportional pride poisoning it day by day. Boxers, the keepers of the Scripture, were under assault for their tenacious adherence to what the modern world discarded as fairy tales. A new order was coming, where there was no longer place for Gods – only sons of bitches.

The rather unconvincing friendly mask fell off Perrez’s face quickly. He knew that I knew, Canis understood. Three phlegmatic Dachshunds suddenly appeared behind the Chihuahua, and in the next moment Ben Kelev was caught and tied to a piece of wood in the middle of the yard.

“Hey!” barked Inumoto. “What the hell you think you’re doing? This son of a bitch is our friend! So what if he is crazy, saying he’s a bloody king and Gods are coming and all that? Gods or no Gods, you can’t do whatever you want!” He attempted to bite Perrez’s black nose, but missed by half an inch.

“Oh, can’t I?” smiled the Chihuahua, while three more Dachshunds were holding Inumoto and Canis in a tight grip. “Your prophecies say a great king is going to sacrifice himself to the Gods for us sons of bitches. Well, if you don’t believe that, why do you follow him? He is either right or he is mad; yet you, kind sir, seem to believe the latter! If such is the case, there are no Gods, and no salvation! Sons of bitches rule themselves! Freedom, freedom forever!” He was positively squealing with ecstasy.