The room was blindingly white - perfectly smooth walls, ceiling and floor merged into a single space, devoid of shadows. No doors, no windows, no hint of anything other than emptiness. Light seemed to pour from everywhere, making the space sterile, almost unreal.
The only thing that disturbed this perfect white world was a translucent yellow barrier. It divided the room in two, separating the prisoner from his visitors. The barrier pulsed with a soft light, like a living creature, emitting a barely noticeable buzz.
There was not a single scratch on its surface, not a trace of touch - as if no one had ever tried to cross it. In the interrogation room, chained together, sat a boy with multi-colored hair - blond on one side, black on the other. His lips were split, but the smile did not leave his face.
The door creaked, letting in two men in the Gor uniform.
"You've kept us waiting long enough, Kiwooin," Joe said, his voice gravelly with age and impatience.
Kiwooin only grinned, sharp and mocking. "Old Joe? You're still alive? Miracles never cease. Tell me, how did you sleep?"
Jayar stepped forward, his eyes hard. "You know perfectly well why we're here."
Kiwooin tilted his head, studying the newcomer with a predator's curiosity. "And you must be Jayar. Four years in the Gor, and yet you carry yourself as though you only just buttoned your uniform this morning."
Jayar's fists curled at his sides, the tendons in his hands straining, but he held his tongue.
Joe broke the silence, his tone cold and deliberate. "We need to know where you obtained the internal information about the Gor—and about the Dome."
Kiwooin chuckled softly and leaned back against the wall, feeling completely at ease.
"Oh, that?" he drawled. "Let's just say… I enjoy listening. And people—well, people can't help but talk when they think no one's listening."
"Enough games!" Jayar snapped, stepping forward, his restraint fraying.
But Joe's hand rose, halting him. His eyes never left Kiwooin. "One more question," he said, his voice like stone. "Why did Dunakai beat you half to death before we caught you?"
For the briefest instant, something unreadable flickered in Kiwooin's gaze—a shadow, sharp and fleeting. Then he leaned forward, almost feral.
Joe's tone did not waver. "Why?"
Kiwooin spoke softly, almost in a whisper. "Now that… is a mystery even to me. Or perhaps," his smile curved like a blade, "I'm simply not telling."
Joe and Jayar exchanged a quick glance. The Gor protected Dunakai. The Dome protected Dunakai. And yet… it was becoming clear he was playing his own game.
Kiwooin's laughter broke the silence, low and unsettling. He leaned forward, eyes glinting. "Tell me, old man—have you ever wondered who sold you out?"
Joe's eyes narrowed, a subtle shift, but sharp as a drawn knife.
Joe's voice cut through the silence. "What are you talking about?"
Kiwooin only chuckled, shaking his head as though pitying a child. "You've spent your whole life serving the Gor, and still you believe the truth lies neatly in the orders you're handed? Pathetic."
Jayar bristled. "If you have something to say, say it straight."
But Kiwooin dismissed him with barely a glance, his eyes returning to Joe with predatory focus. "You already know where I got my information. Everything I've told you was true. The real question, old man, is—who gave it to me?"
"Are you sure you want to know?" Kiwooin's voice was quiet, almost gentle, though every syllable was weighted with cruelty.
A tense silence thickened the air.
"He did it, Joe."
The words struck like a bullet.
For a moment Joe simply stared, unable to process what he had heard. No. Impossible. His son couldn't—he wouldn't—
"You're lying," Joe forced out, his voice rough, almost breaking.
Kiwooin chuckled, tilting his head in mock amusement. "Oh, old man, you know I don't."
Kiwooin's gaze slid to him, sharp and dismissive. "Jayar, you're even more naïve than I thought." Then, slowly, his eyes returned to Joe, hungry for the reaction he was provoking.
"Someone leaked the information. Someone you trusted. Someone you loved. And who else could it be, hmm?"
Joe said nothing. A chill spread through his chest, coiling like ice around his heart.
Kiwooin's laughter was soft, unsettling. "You always trusted the Gor. And now it will do to your son what it does to traitors."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Then Kiwooin leaned forward, eyes narrowing, his voice dropping to a whisper edged with venom. "Do you see now? Stop trying to imitate Azartsum. Perhaps then… something might actually work out for you."
...
Sixteen years before the Dome was broken
Joe sat in the third row, arms folded tight across his chest. He was forty-nine, though the weight in his bones made him feel decades older. Perhaps it was the endless cycle of lectures. Or perhaps it was the bitter knowledge that most of what he heard was not instruction, but propaganda.
"The Outerdome people," the lecturer began, voice smooth with practiced authority, "are those unfortunate souls who have never known the order preserved within the Dome. They were born into chaos, raised in disorder. Their societies are fractured, their technology crude, their laws nearly nonexistent."
Joe exhaled sharply through his nose, a quiet scoff he dared not voice. In this room, no one would challenge the official truth.
"Historical records confirm," the lecturer continued, "that after the Great Separation, the Dome alone carried the torch of civilization. We secured survival. We managed resources. We preserved order. Those who remained outside chose—" the word lingered with disdain "—the path of degradation."
Or they were simply abandoned, Joe thought. Left to die.
He remembered the whispered tales passed down by the elders. When the Dome had sealed itself, millions had remained beyond its walls. Some perished. Others endured. They adapted, scavenged, built anew. The Dome called them savages, barbarians. Now they bore a name spat like a curse—Outerdome people.
"Studies show," the lecturer declared, as if reciting scripture, "that the intelligence of Outerdome populations falls below Dome averages. Their speech is crude, their customs steeped in superstition, their every instinct bent in fear of technology."
On the screen, a procession of grainy images flickered—shabby settlements, smoky bonfires, men and women clothed in rags. Their eyes, dark and unblinking, stared directly into the camera lens.
Joe shifted in his seat. Or perhaps they're simply different.
"This is why all contact is strictly regulated," the lecturer concluded. "Any interaction must proceed through official channels. We cannot allow their primitive notions to contaminate our culture."
Joe leaned forward, the thought striking sharper than he intended. Or is it that our ideas must not contaminate theirs?
He held the question in silence. In the Dome, the wrong question was often punished more severely than any wrong answer.
"Now," the lecturer continued, his tone shifting with deliberate gravity, "let us speak of the so-called Outerdome clans. After the Great Separation and the collapse of central authority, they fractured into tribes—alliances forged not by reason, but by blood, tradition, and brute power. Some of these clans, make no mistake, pose a very real danger."
The projection flickered, replacing images of ragged settlements with emblems, half-forgotten sigils, and the faded contours of ancient maps.
"The Ootsoro Clan," the lecturer declared, his voice lowering as though the very name demanded solemnity. "An ancient lineage, claiming their knowledge reaches back to the earliest days of the Dome itself. They are dangerous because they hoard fragments of pre-Dome technology. Their leaders are zealots—fanatics convinced that the Dome must fall and its treasures be scattered among the so-called true people."
The screen shifted again.
"The Sevar Clan. Perhaps the most enigmatic of all. They seldom engage in open conflict, yet their traces surface in the most unexpected corners of the world. Rumors persist that their influence seeps even into the Dome itself. Their ultimate designs remain obscure, but their mastery of hidden routes, forgotten passes, and buried knowledge renders them a constant and insidious threat."
Joe's brow furrowed. That name again—Sevar. It had surfaced before, in classified dossiers he was never supposed to see, and in half-whispered reports passed between officers. It drifted like smoke through the cracks of official silence.
"And finally, the Fulchiva Clan," the lecturer intoned with open disdain. "The least disciplined, yet by far the most numerous. They exist in a state of perpetual conflict, warring endlessly over scraps of land and dwindling resources. They can scarcely be called a clan at all—more a rabble of factions united by only one conviction: their hatred of the Dome. Their disarray offers them no vision, no future—yet their chaos itself is a weapon, unpredictable and destructive."
The images froze on the screen, a grim mosaic of banners, faces, and ruins. The lecture hall sat in silence, the weight of propaganda pressing down like a stone.
Joe did not move. But in his mind, the question formed all the same:
Are they a threat because of what they are—or because of what we've made them?
...
Joe knew as well as anyone that the Ootsoro and Fulchiva clans had been fighting each other for a long time. The Fulchiva clan is more active in tradition, while the Ootsoro clan is active in the long-term integration of its clan.
He could name the leaders among the Fulchiva clan by name, but he doesn't even know the leaders of the Ootsoro clan.
There are other clans. Sevar, Argent, Hugo, but now K. L. has announced that he will create his own clan and turn the Gor system around. The clan of K. L. And his sons. At the moment, he has a three-year-old son and newborn twins who are about a month old or less.
The Ootsoro clan did not appreciate his idea and agreed with the Gor to eliminate him. Gor did just that. But in an unusual way.
...
Joe's voice cut through the corridor like a thrown stone. "K.L.—what are you doing? How could you miss Azartsum?"
K.L. turned, his face a slab of ice. For a heartbeat he simply regarded Joe with an expression so cold it seemed to strip the warmth from the air, then he moved to go.
He halted after a few strides, pivoted on his heel, and—for the first time a crack of fire showed in him—spoke deliberately, as if laying down a verdict. "I am going to be Captain Alpha. I will do whatever it takes to get there. Because I am K.L."
Joe swallowed the warning that rose in his chest and forced it out instead. "Do you even understand what that will cost you? The Gor will tear you apart alive."
K.L. made a sound that was half a grunt, half a laugh, and turned away. He walked off without another word, his silhouette folding into the shadows of the hall.
...
Zach Rose rolled his eyes, impatient. "Azartsum knows more about the Fulchiva clan than we thought—maybe he's half-Fulchiva himself."
Adrian folded his arms, expression tight. "I can't authorize special treatment for a theory."
Zach snorted. "I wouldn't have pursued it without your okay."
The door slammed open and K.L. burst in, all coiled energy and barely contained fury. "Where is he?" he demanded.
Adrian frowned. "Who?"
Zach pointed, impatient. "The left coast of Yosonia — not Jasonia."
Before anyone could think to question the correction, K.L. was already sprinting for the balcony, vanishing into the corridor beyond.
Adrian stared after him, incredulous. "Can he read minds?"
...
Now
"Tell it straight!" Jayar snapped, his patience fracturing.
Kiwooin's reply came cold and measured. "Otherwise what?"
Joe interjected before the tension could spiral further. "Let's cooperate."
Kiwooin's eyes glinted with amusement. "And what's in it for me?"
Joe hesitated. His silence stretched until Jayar filled it. "You'll be alive."
Kiwooin's smile barely moved, a thin curve devoid of warmth. "A threat, then. You overestimate your reach. Neither the Dome nor the Gor has anything on me."
"Five hundred kanteeegan," Joe said suddenly.
Jayar's head snapped toward him. "A bribe?!"
Unfazed, Joe pressed on. "So. Who gave you the information?"
Kiwooin leaned back, savoring the moment. "Ah, but wait. This is the part where I pause… dramatically… so that the weight of my words has time to settle."
The silence grew dense.
"…," Kiwooin said at last, dragging it out with theatrical cruelty.
Joe stared, unmoving. "…," he echoed.
Jayar looked from one to the other, baffled. "???"
Inwardly, his thoughts swirled: What the hell is going on here?
Finally, Kiwooin leaned forward, his voice dropping to a blade-like whisper. "Your son, Bonamassa."