'Contemporary readers are unable to understand those times,' continued Mr. Gordon Brown. 'Finally, humankind has spread its wings, attempting to colonize every place found in their proximity. They were eager, thrilled, and also without other choices.

With their homes inhabitable, they abandoned the mother planet, leaving it exhausted and ruined. They believed a new start was a better option, or perhaps a challenge with intangible rewards. After all, their first generations exchanged frugal yet safe life in a polluted atmosphere for cramped and dangerous habitats that make them live like rats in a cage.

Surprisingly, they managed not to fall into greater chaos. Granted, the exodus was not without hiccups, yet the space settlers (how we call them) adhered to established rules, avoiding anarchy if possible.

Material and energetical resources, transportation, and communication had priorities above anything else. No effort has been spared to ensure the Saint Four, the basic necessities of space explorations. With practicality in mind, they stopped caring about luxury, pursuing only useful science and knowledge.

This is why they called their most prosperous planet, The Federation of Advanced Nations (lately The Advanced Nations as we know it today), as if they were ridiculing those who had stayed behind.

After a short adaptation period, they established lawful societies - improved societies as they loved to underscore when comparing themselves with the struggling old world.

At least, the ordinary citizens believed so, while in reality, the lawfulness ended with their borders. No one cared what was happening in the surrounding emptiness. Even nowadays, the space has remained a hostile and wild periphery, in which might is right.

The man, whom history labeled as The Emperor In The Mask, founded his organization in the outskirts of explored areas, having built a decentralized network of production and research facilities. We have no records of details, but as you will see later, he had prepared the stage on which he intended to act before the official accounts took notice of him.

As already explained, communication belonged to the foremost priorities of space settlers. In every step of human expansion, its progress relied heavily on central store bases. In case of any problem (like an unpredicted shortage of essential items), the sooner the problem was handled, the better. When lives depended on a prompt reaction, Instant Communication Devices (ICDs) were perceived as godsent, and rightfully so.

The Emperor In The Mask understood the situation from the beginning. The moment he stepped out with his groundbreaking technology, he had already known the war between him and humankind was inevitable. Thus, once humankind had decided to take his secrets by force, the defense was already put in place.

For instance, the intelligence agencies convinced themselves they had developed a reliable methodology to track the ICD Empire by monitoring its supply lines.

With almost twenty known locations in their databases, the political decision was to commence simultaneous attacks aimed at penetration or destruction of mere five bases. Bene note, the governments hesitated to approve more massive engagement in the fear the supply of ICDs would be interrupted or feared denial of services would be enacted over their homeworlds. The plan expected the Emperor In The Mask to yield and begin cooperating once he saw the resolve of the "police forces."

In hindsight, we can only laugh at the naivety of the politicians and generals who discussed the whole issue. They thought they were dealing with a businessman who went rogue, who greedily insisted on a monopoly to make a profit. No single human suspected him of having more ambitious goals.

Do you still remember how The Emperor In The Mask addressed all people? He called them "my subjects". But the revelation of what it meant became apparent later. But now, let us get back to the planned attacks and their surprising culmination.

The bases turned out to be mere empty shells! Such a conclusion took months to be generally accepted since many found it hard to believe. So what happened?

The mighty punch, intended to demonstrate the power of mankind, hit the void.

We said before that the bases were self-destructed before they could be overtaken. After careful examination of debris, the agents started to suspect these facilities to be fake dummies, never used to produce anything. Nothing significant was found there.

ICD Empire's bases were like black holes; whatever had gotten into them, everything seemingly disappeared. Even the already delivered supplies have been missing. Analytics repeatedly reviewed the footage from spying devices monitoring the ICD bases as they suspected the cargo to be re-directed to other instances. Still, the footage did not confirm their guesses.

Immediately, two theories emerged, and both were equally frightening. The first one, accepted as more likely, assumed the ICD Empire had meaning to hijack spying software and edit the sent data. The second one, bordering with fantastic fairy tales, suggested a technological advantage far beyond the capacity of human science. Given the outcome of their analysis, a handful of experts were inclined to believe the ICD Empire could teleport material objects!

Of course, such a possibility sounded as ridiculous back then as it sounds now, so the main focus stayed on proving the hijacking of spying devices. With passing time, no reliable evidence had appeared, so the missing cargo became a nightmare for all people involved in the operation.

As of today, we still know nothing. Was teleportation technology lost five hundred years ago? We can only speculate. When I was discussing the whole issue with contemporary scientists, almost all of them dismissed the very idea at once. But the same scientists dismissed the existence of instant quantum communication as it was available in the times we were talking about.

In my research, I had found only a few exceptions to the rule, and one of them was Professor K. Zhutra of The University of Enlightened Mind. We both explored the same period, and since Professor Zhutra is well-versed in physics and history, he kindly shared his insight with me.'

"I want to die!"

Gromov could not bear it any longer and tossed the book unceremoniously away.

"Well-versed in physics and history," he roared. "So this is why the idiot had the copy. I am afraid Mr. Gordon Brown had to search very hard to find an authority to confirm his wild conjectures."

After reading so far, Gromov learned only a longer version of what Khamal Zhutra had told him before. The difference was Mr. Gordon Brown happened to be out of Gromov's jurisdiction, which was unfortunate as, with increased drowsiness, Gromov felt an inexplicable urge to catch the writer and torture him in the most vicious manner he was capable of thinking of.

"Pulling out nails," he mumbled on the way to the kitchen. "Chopping fingers. Breaking limbs. Skinning sounds great! Boiling oil into their mouths. Good heavens! The world needs to punish these writing bastards. Blind them! Cut them! Maim them!"

"Are you alright, Captain Gromov?"

Infuriated and drunken, Gromov almost crashed into Simone Yeubleux, who was leaving the kitchen with a huge glass of something that resembled roadkill mixed with green salad and blueberries.

She was dressed in elastic sportswear, comprised of blue t-shirts and leggings. Both were tight and quite revealing, so Gromov could not help picturing her wide rounded breasts.

"Hm," he said afterward. "What have you butchered to get your drink?"

"Oh, this? My morning cocktail. Just lettuce with fruits and raw beef meat. With salt and pepper. Do you find it unusual?"

She carefully examined his complexion and went so far as to put her palm on his forehead.

"You are ruddy and feverish. And just now, you were laughing like a maniac. And the words you spoke! You scared me, captain."

"Call me Sava, please."

"Sure."

For a sweet moment, Gromov enjoyed the warm touch; then, he shook off the female hand and stepped back. Ashamed, he did not want her to know he was drunk.

"To be honest, I'm not sure if I'll ever be OK," he said gravely, retreating to the fridge. "I am in the middle of the book Khamal gave me, and it is taxing reading, if you get what I mean."

"I see!"

To Gromov's horror, she turned on heels and went back to the kitchen with the obvious intention of having a conversation.

"So it's already morning," he uttered and fled to the coffeemaker. The euphory caused by vodka was over, and the guilt took over his mind. "It was a long night. A very long night!"

Simone took a step closer. He shrunk like a worm.

"Sava, do you avoid me?" she asked in confusion.

"Yes. Please, stay away from me."

Gromov was too tired to stay polite. Moreover, he preferred to appear rude rather than drunk.

"This is not necessary," she comforted him. "I can recognize the syndrome. I saw it before. It is not something you should feel ashamed for."

"And here we go," Gromov rolled his eyes. "A syndrome, is it? So now I am an alcoholic, right? A kidnapper, rapist, voyeur, and last but not least, an alcoholic. Look, Simone, it was only a half bottle of vodka, and I have no great need to repeat it. Well, I cannot anyway. Luciano bought only vine. This vodka was leftovers of my inglorious getaway from Space Forces, wasted to wash the aftertaste I've gotten from that bloody book."

Simone nodded. "Exactly as I thought," she said and continued soothingly. "The book is disturbing reading, captain. It makes people upset, but I've never seen anyone so hugely affected. I owe you an apology, captain. Considering how shaken you are, I am very sorry I thought of you as a big, dangerous bully. You are incredibly sensitive for a man."

"Eh?"

"In my experience, women can better understand the terror of The Emperor In The Mask. He was the embodiment of toxic masculinity, the ultimate chauvinist, who never admitted his true sexual orientation, dwelling in constant denial that brought the Solar System into irreversible catastrophe."

"So you don't mind I'm drunk?"

"Who am I to judge you, captain? I was crying seven days after I had read the book. Seven days in pain, thinking of all these consequences and wasted opportunities. I'm not like Khamal, Sava. Not at all!"

"Glad to hear that. But what exactly means you are not like him, Simone?"

"I'll show you."

Simone came closer and hugged him tightly.

Gromov stiffened.

"This is not necessary, Simone. I am fully aware of the physiological differences between Professor Zhutra and you. And whatever you plan to do, I may be a bit old-fashioned, but the proper etiquette requires me to be clean-shaved and odorous, with a few drops of eau de toilette here and there, donned in something more fashionable than... Well, wait, I'm still in my suit anyway. So one quick shower should do... Moreover, even in danger of encouraging you to cement my psychological profile, I have to admit I'm not very comfortable in the presence of women who try to seduce me for no apparent reason, especially if they find me in this sorry state. To be blunt with you, I have a hangover, so do not take it for rejection, but what about postponing this awkward situation, like ten hours later, when we both will be sober and less confused?"

"Please, don't speak, Sava," Simone whispered while laying her head on his chest. "I am not like Khamal. Because of that monster, I happened to be here, lost in space, alone with you - a man I would normally never meet and I would casually detest because I despise all these paternal patterns in your behavior, the way you exude the insecurity covered up with the need for discipline and strictness, your blind obedience to the rules..."

"Well," Gromov pondered. "Is it because I don't follow recent trends, but isn't this foreplay a bit otherwordly? I have trouble getting into a nasty mood. Would not be more traditional to say something like: 'Take me, you stud!'"

But he was clever enough not to express his thoughts aloud. He asked instead: "What's with Khamal? Is he the monster? And if so, in which way?"

"Not Khamal. The Emperor In The Mask. Just the name makes me shiver, Sava. I am not like Khamal or Brown. The book Brown wrote doesn't stress much about the true horror brought on humankind by that monster's existence. Men like them think that the monster was some kind of evil genius, and you can hear the admiration and reverence in their voices even if they pretend to be appalled. Deep inside, they all want to achieve the triumphal ride, standing on the pedestal, governing like a sovereign over poor souls who kowtow before them, and stabbing their sturdy swords into loosened sheathes."

Gromov gulped.

"Speaking of loosened sheathes and sturdy swords, this is the difference between Khamal and you?" he asked.

"Yes. I've not been idealizing that cunny monster, not even for a second. I'd do anything to stop his legacy from falling upon the human race. Anything! As a woman, I have to step in where men have failed."

"Good grief!"

Not even in his wildest dreams Gromov imagined that reading a sensational and untrustworthy book would affect someone's psyche, but Simone seemed genuinely desperate. On the other hand, he knew about her superior acting skills, so he hesitated to trust her.

Then, she raised her head and looked directly into his eyes. He could observe black lashes soaked in salty tears.

"You are different, Sava," she insisted. "I can tell. By now, you should understand how dangerous is the egg. Promise me you never let Khamal have it. Did you read what that monster proclaimed when they had finally hunted him down?"

"I'm afraid I dropped Enemy of humankind before the grand finale."

"Not that I blame you. You're too fragile, Sava, to continue any further with this book."

"Yes, I'm notorious for my mental lability."

She kissed him. It was a gentle, loving kiss in which the smooth skin of their lips touched barely, yet the physical reaction Gromov experienced resembled a storming waterfall.

"Drop your walls," Simone whispered. "No need to be so jaded with me. What's the purpose of all that sarcasm? To keep other people away before they hurt you?"

Almost not able to resist, Gromov felt that he should not let proceed with their tete-a-tete any longer if the reason behind was her flawed assessment of his soul. What will happen once she realizes there is no scared boy inside my body? Will she be disappointed? Ruined? Devastated? Or is she just projecting her Mr. Perfect on me?

"Say, Simone," he mumbled, trying to delay the natural course of action. "What was the final message of The Emperor In The Mask or that monster? - I assume you prefer to call him this way."

"I don't want to mention them. Not now."

"Please, Simone! It's hard to believe an adult can be so anxious over words spoken five centuries ago."

"You can read them in the book. They are ominous and foul, even sinister, if you will. Don't force me, please. There is a cult that repeats them like a sacred mantra; in a belief, it was a prophecy that should be fulfilled soon."

"Oh, so even rotten cultists are involved," sighed Gromov inwardly. The more he listened to Simone, the more he was convinced that sleeping with her was equivalent to sleeping with an innocent and brainwashed child. Not the deed a true man should participate in.

"Tell me the words, Simone!"

"Never!"

"It doesn't matter, my husband. I'll speak for her.

A familiar voice reverberated through the room, a clear contralto with the quality to tame wild beasts and charm mortal men. Out of the blue, Samara the Demoness materialized in the middle of the kitchen, dressed in a red robe with a gold-embroidered cape and intricate sleeves with half-naked slender arms crossed over the lower belly.

The black polish on sharpened nails and pointed fingertips evoked a bloodthirsty bird of prey, while the fang-like teeth under her crimson lips with pale green slit-shaped pupil made the impression of a hunting cat.

No more, Samara gave the semitransparent illusion of ghostly presence; her body was solid but too perfect for a mundane human. No freckles, irregularities, or blemishes devalued her blueish skin with flame-like undertones.

The differences between the real woman Gromov held in his arms and the artificial woman standing in front of him was so stark that he could not help pitying poor Simone. It was similar sympathy he felt when he saw a crippled child or old folks shakingly approaching their homes; a similar sympathy he felt for Andrey Jerzinski when his friend had become a mere shadow of his former self.

"She is of no use, husband," Samara proclaimed. "I'll show you the words found on my creator's tomb. Behold!"

She waved her hand, and letters started to appear in the air, creating a short poem:

My gift to awake

None shall care

Inferiors at stake

Bow to supreme one

Grieve, weep, despair

The act is done