Tromsø, Norge · 69°39'N 18°57'E

My first run across the network ended in failure. I moved easily between the servers on his farm, but couldn't break out. Couldn't execute the hack. Nearly died. Shelly smirked and said: 'We need bigger guns!'

Norway. Present day.

On the road to the farm, Shelly was VoiceCoding—talking to Liza on speakerphone. Handing out tasks, running research, checking systems.

Two kilometres from the petrol station he spotted traffic police pulling over nearly everyone.

'Liza, guests ahead. Ping me every minute. If I go dark, if the phone drops out of range—launch the Autonom protocol.'

'Got it.'

The officers were polite, professional.

'Where are you coming from and where are you headed?'

'From there to here,' Shelly said in English.

Foreigner, thought the officer.

Bjørn had his own view on such questions. He used to say: they're not asked out of idle curiosity. The system works the same in every country. Traffic police don't exist to collect fines and fill the treasury, to feed themselves and their families. Traffic police train people to fear. Did you fasten your seatbelt? It's not the fear of the fine that should hold you in its iron grip. It's fear of the system itself.

They gave him a breathalyser test.

Checks like these were rare on this road. And Shelly thought: most likely, they'll be waiting for him at the station.

Approaching the petrol station, his mobile lost signal. No connection.

Bjørn loved this sort of thing. The anticipation of battle. Overturned tables and chairs. Broken crockery on the floor. Enemies vanquished on the grass. But Bjørn was on holiday. Off somewhere, due back tomorrow. The weekend punch-up would have to wait until next week.

Shelly stopped at the Circle K for free coffee. The only thing that made this coffee 'drinkable' was the magnificent view: the lake, forested mountains, cliffs in the distance. On the way to the farm he always stopped here—and they knew it.

Code Yellow:

Thirty metres away, a parked SUV opened all four doors simultaneously.

Time suddenly stopped—he stood watching the scene from outside himself, appraising the figures walking towards him, the lake, the mountains, clouds thrown across the blue sky like flecks of foam on a dirty car. He liked the picture. Sat down and lit a cigarette. The freeze-frame gave way again to the ordinary flow of life, a mudslide sweeping away everything superfluous in its path.

The first man to approach sat down opposite him and delivered a line he'd clearly rehearsed well in advance.

'We've shut down OpenClaw...'

'Wasted effort. It would've crashed on its own...'

'Hand over the keys and we won't need to continue this conversation.'

A smile hung in the air. His interlocutor clearly loved theatre—appreciated a well-timed pause.

Code Orange:

'May I call my solicitor?'

'Of course, this is a "free country"—just no funny business, please...'

He slowly drew from his pocket something that immediately caught everyone's attention. A small object, smaller than a cigarette packet, something rounded like a worn bar of soap, black as an operative's suit, carrying threat like a pistol.

An antique Siemens ME45 handset.

GSM signal had been jammed within a kilometre radius—all signal—and everyone understood this... A monochrome yellow screen with just four lines, an archaic device by modern standards. Yet four lines were enough for him to read three words:

autonom mode. done.

No need to let go of the reins on a pre-calculated action. It was already done.

One hour later. Unknown location. Basement.

Code Red:

Liza often said that an interrogation room with a lamp and shadows on the walls was pure noir. Liza talked too much in general—who knows how many times she'd found herself in similar conditions—but she endlessly draped a romantic veil over every misfortune that befell her. But Liza, with her unshakeable certainty that 'everything will be fine' and 'this isn't the end', was far away, and he sat remembering the words of his comrade, spoken to him God knows how many years ago before his first interrogation: 'When you feel they're about to work you over—the kind that leaves no marks—smash your own nose, your own eye, spray blood on the walls, and scream so that it's...'

The door opened. The man who entered placed a photograph on the table. One. Meaning the bad cop would come later. Meaning there was still time.

'Which outfit do you work for? Ugol, Openoi, Grog?'

He 'attacked' first, and suddenly, from the reaction of the man in black... He understood. Too late:

Antolik. An-bloody-tolik. Who'd gone to any lengths to eliminate his runaway model.

He snapped his head back sharply, then bent forward and drove it into the corner of the table. Darkness. Silence. The river carries away the remnants of thoughts, remnants of blood, far, far aw...

He'd bought her one hour.

THREE CITIES. THREE STORIES. ONE MISSION.