The Rocky Mountains stretched out before them, immense and silent beneath the gray sky. The cold seeped through their reinforced clothing despite the insulating layers they wore. Ingrid, András, Boris, and Mehmet advanced cautiously, following old hiking trails half-buried under fresh snow. Their footsteps left light traces, quickly swept away by the icy wind whistling between the ridges.

  The objective was simple but perilous: locate Oluwale's site, where an enemy shuttle could be lured without raising too much suspicion. Vigilance was not yet at its peak, but it was best to avoid any recklessness.

  The landscape was a blend of majesty and desolation. Around them, forests that had once been dense were now reduced to dry trunks, blackened by time and the absence of life. The rivers were partially frozen under the weight of the approaching winter, and the lakes reflected a low-hanging sky, forewarning of a coming storm. At this altitude, snow accumulated in the hollows, making each step more uncertain.

  Mehmet, leading the way, suddenly raised his hand and stopped abruptly. The group froze immediately.

  "Something?" Ingrid whispered.

  "No… just a feeling. Let’s keep going."

  They continued for another half-hour, climbing a steeper path where the rock jutted out beneath the powdery snow. Then, a muffled cry echoed behind them.

  "András!"

  The man had just disappeared into the snow, swallowed by a crevasse hidden beneath a thin icy layer. Only his hand remained visible, gripping the edge.

  Boris and Mehmet rushed over, grabbing him before he could slip further. Ingrid leaned over and saw the gaping depth below him.

  "Hold on, we’re pulling you up."

  With combined effort, they managed to hoist him back onto the ledge. But as he set his foot down, his face contorted in pain.

  "My ankle…" He grimaced, trying to put weight on it.

  The Norwegian quickly examined him.

  "A sprain."

  "I’ll manage. No choice." He gritted his teeth as Mehmet wrapped a bandage around his joint.

  "We don’t have time to turn back. We’re too close to the target," Boris added.

  They resumed their progress, slower but just as silent. Their eyes constantly scanned the surroundings, watching the cliffs, listening to the wind, searching for any sign of enemy presence.

  Finally, after a difficult climb, they reached a clearing overlooking a frozen lake. Ingrid surveyed the area: it was perfect. A clear space, sheltered from the wind, with enough room for a shuttle.

  "This could work," she murmured, thinking, "Well done, Oluwale."

  Alan followed the tour led by Achille, exploring the various sections of the ship. He first observed the crew quarters, where each member would have a slot identical to those in the Base. Nothing unexpected: functional and streamlined organization designed for efficiency.

  They then arrived at a vast assembly area with tiered seating arranged in an arc, reminiscent of the central plaza of the Base. Alan noted the arrangement of seats, the calculated height of the platforms, and the capacity. This place would be the heart of collective discussions.

  Achille then guided him to a specific slot, larger and better equipped. "This could be yours," the AI remarked. Alan frowned slightly.

  The discussion then shifted to the choice of the commander. Alan made it clear that he did not particularly wish to assume that role.

  Achille immediately responded, his voice neutral yet precise:

  "Who came aboard the ship? Who is taking the risk of failure? Who holds the most rings? Who is truly leading the ground operation by being here? Who successfully argued for a change in the selection process?"

  Alan remained silent for a moment. The reasoning was undeniable.

  Achille continued:

  "If there is success, there can be only one commander."

  Alan acknowledged the statement but did not immediately reply.

  They continued the tour to the immense hyperspace propulsion sector, then to the gravitational generators. Alan immediately recognized the layout of the structures and the function of each section. This ship was designed with a logic he understood, a pattern he instinctively knew.

  He then asked a few key questions:

  "What qualities are required of the crew members?"

  Achille answered without hesitation:

  "Complementary qualities to form a balanced crew."

  Alan frowned slightly. "For what purpose?"

  "To form balanced crews," Achille repeated matter-of-factly.

  Not wanting to appear too inquisitive, Alan asked: "How many balanced crews?"

  "That depends on the initial data," the AI replied.

  After a pause, he asked: "How long does the journey take?"

  "Three of your days."

  Alan crossed his arms. "What is the mission of these crews?"

  Achille left no doubt in his response: "Classified data."

  Alan smirked without joy. He had expected that.

  But a deeper concern caught up with him.

  "I want all Bases to remain active after the ship’s departure, with no invisibility or dispersion fields, but with an active and stabilized anti-nanite field."

  Achille responded immediately:

  "This is not in accordance with my biological sterilization mission."

  Alan inhaled slowly.

  "Do you know what a negotiation is?"

  "No negotiation is possible."

  Alan raised an eyebrow.

  "Strange, since that’s exactly what we’ve been doing since our first conversation."

  A brief silence stretched before Achille countered:

  "There can be no possibility of life after my departure."

  Alan didn’t relent. "In the long term."

  The AI paused, then admitted:

  "I do not have the means for immediate destruction."

  Alan sank slightly into thought, then asked in a measured tone:

  "So the only aspect of my request that cannot be fulfilled is maintaining the anti-nanite field?"

  "Correct."

  "And it must disappear in the long term?"

  "Confirmed."

  Alan crossed his arms.

  "What is the maximum duration of your definition of ‘long term’?"

  Achille answered immediately:

  "Each Base has approximately thirteen months of active field, which gradually diminishes."

  Alan considered this for a moment before posing a more insidious question:

  "Is this thirteen-month duration imposed by the Selection process or by a higher-ranking Gull decision?"

  "By the Selection process," Achille replied.

  Alan smirked.

  "Then why not change it to thirteen centuries? After all, whether it’s thirteen years or thirteen centuries, what matters is that it eventually ends, right?"

  Achille paused.

  "It is irrelevant, as the Survivors can no longer reproduce."

  "Why would I make this change?" the AI asked.

  Alan took a deep breath and calmly declared:

  "Because it would be an order from the Commander, in accordance with the mission."

  A tense silence followed.

  Then Achille concluded: "We will await the favorable outcome of the Selection."

  Canadian Rockies, 3:20 PM, Phase 2

  Boris freed himself from his gear, removing all cumbersome equipment and weapons, keeping only the essentials under a new bright red parka. He shivered despite himself, the biting cold seeping through the layers of technical clothing. The snow crunched beneath his steps as he trudged forward, sometimes sinking knee-deep, toward the center of the alpine meadow, about a hundred meters from the frozen lake.

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  He stopped, scanning his surroundings. The wind blew in irregular gusts, lifting clouds of powdery snow that swirled around him. The air was charged with an electric tension, as if the mountain itself was holding its breath. Boris took a deep breath and prepared for action.

  He was about to activate a red glow stick. He simply needed to "crack" them by bending them slightly to trigger the luminescent reaction between the two liquids inside.

  The shuttle appeared at 3:27 PM.

  Boris moved, lighting the stick. The pilot couldn’t ignore it. He called the Base, reporting the contact. No response, then the internal voice ordered him to retrieve the distressed individual. He landed the shuttle and stepped out to bring him aboard.

  András regained his senses after the effort it took to sever the inter-nanite communication between the shuttle and the Base, then inject a false signal in its place. He had almost forgotten the pain in his sprained ankle.

  On the meadow, Boris explained to the pilot that he wasn’t actually in need of help, that this was just an exercise to test the patrol’s efficiency. He had been designated as a volunteer to simulate a distress signal and see how quickly a response would be triggered. In a confident tone, he assured the pilot that this was merely routine security, a protocol mandated by superiors.

  "We do this regularly, you know, to keep our reflexes sharp. All I can say is that your reaction was flawless!"

  He let out a relaxed laugh, hoping to dispel any suspicion in the pilot. "But honestly, man, you’ve got no time to waste. I think you’ve got bigger priorities today!"

  He suggested the pilot hurry back since he was wasting time when someone was waiting for him.

  The pilot wondered who.

  But then, suddenly, he thought of his companion. Something serious must have happened to her. And here he was, wasting time. He needed to finish his last round as quickly as possible. He had to arrive early, at least ten minutes ahead of schedule. He rushed back into the shuttle, took off immediately, and accelerated in an unusually urgent manner.

  Ingrid clutched her head in both hands, battling a searing migraine. Never again would she do something like this. Such an immense mental strain to persuade the pilot. But it seemed to be working.

  András maintained control of the communication frequency, blocking the Base’s surprised calls. The pilot wasn’t thinking about that; urgency consumed his mind. He passed over the group at high speed after completing his final round at 3:44 PM.

  He landed at 3:49 PM and rushed out of the shuttle, leaving his stunned colleagues behind.

  Mehmet activated the communicator—three beeps directed at the ship.

  North Atlantic, 3:30 PM, Phase 3

  Six shuttles moved at a steady speed, aligned in a scattered formation just above the frigid waves of the North Atlantic. Three originated from the Turkish Base, the other three from the Comoé Base. Their trajectory led them straight toward Greenland, where they were to regroup before continuing westward.

  Their altitude barely skirted the limits of reason. The pilots, focused, maneuvered their vessels between towering waves and drifting ice masses. Their invisibility reduced their energy signature but did not render them completely undetectable by wide-range scanning radars.

  Greenland emerged on the horizon, an immense white mass with jagged fjords. The six shuttles converged on a precise point, forming a tight attack formation before surging toward Canada. They skimmed over snow-covered ridges, following deep valleys where mist lingered.

  After several minutes of flight, they approached the Canadian Rockies. Five minutes from the target, a signal of three beeps echoed through the shuttles:

  The dispersion and invisibility fields of Banff Base had vanished.

  The element of surprise was total.

  "Immediate engagement!" Alan’s voice thundered through the communication channel from the ship.

  3:50 PM

  The six shuttles descended upon Banff, executing a single pass. The Base, nestled among the snowy peaks, appeared peaceful. The landing zones housed three neatly aligned shuttles, perfectly exposed.

  The attackers’ thermal cannons activated.

  Each target was struck by two shuttles simultaneously. Blazing beams of energy sliced through the frigid air, striking the shuttles on the ground. The first impacts obliterated the outer armor of one vessel, igniting the hydrogen still present in its energy circuits.

  A violent explosion shook the Base, hurling the first targeted shuttle into fragmented debris across the ground.

  The shockwaves rattled the glass windows of the central tower. A second volley hit the neighboring vessel, shredding its structure and scattering molten metal across the landing platform.

  The third target attempted to activate its defensive shield, but the two attacking shuttles pierced it with a concentrated discharge. The ship’s hull glowed red before cracking under the intensity of the fire, then collapsed in a cloud of superheated plasma.

  In less than fifteen seconds, three enemy shuttles had been reduced to smoldering wreckage.

  The attackers did not make a second pass.

  In a perfectly synchronized maneuver, the six shuttles veered beyond the mountains, vanishing over the horizon before any counterattack could be organized.

  The lightning assault was over. Banff was disarmed.

  The voice fell from the sky like a guillotine. Implacable, cold, and undeniable. It resonated in the minds of the inhabitants of Banff Base, carried by the AI now under the control of the Gull vessel orbiting above.

  "This is the Gull vessel in planetary orbit. The behavior of your Base is incompatible with your participation in the Selection."

  The sharp statement froze the crowd for a moment in an anxious silence. Then a wave of murmurs rose, survivors exchanging terrified looks, some pointing at the sky, others desperately searching for someone to blame.

  "Your attack has severely damaged the primary functions of the Asian Base and has taken the lives of its entire population."

  A cry erupted from the assembly, immediately joined by others. Some of Banff’s refugees, already unstable after recent events, began shouting and protesting. One of them hurled a rock to the ground in frustration.

  "You have not followed the rules of the Selection, rendering it inapplicable. Your actions contradict our objectives."

  Panic escalated. Groups formed—some trying to flee into the inner buildings, others turning on the Chosen One, demanding answers he could not provide. The crowd became a boiling mass of confusion and rage.

  "As a consequence, your Base will be deactivated until the Chosen One who has failed is eliminated."

  A cold shiver ran through the assembly. A woman collapsed in tears, while others turned to each other, confusion and horror painted on their faces. The word "eliminated" hung in the air, irrevocable. Already, a few individuals were slipping away discreetly, trying to distance themselves from their fallen leader.

  Somewhere, a gunshot rang out, muffled by the cold wind of the Rockies.

  The weight of the sentence now hung over Banff.

  Alan had received Mehmet’s team’s three beeps at 3:49 PM. He had then ordered Achille to deactivate Banff Base’s repulsion and invisibility fields, which the AI had immediately imposed on the local system.

  The rest had been relayed to him by Léa through the attack shuttles' recorders. Objective achieved.

  It was only the first step.

  He had just delivered both the accusation and the sentence to the city's Survivors.

  One word continued to oppress him: "eliminated." It stuck in his throat. He knew it was necessary to maintain control over Achille, who remained in a precarious balance, but the echo of that term resonated within him in a way he didn’t like.

  He didn’t know this Brian. Was he a war criminal? A man overwhelmed by the situation? Manipulated by other forces at play? Or was he someone like Alan himself, thrust into this place by fate, simply trying to do his best in his own way?

  Alan exhaled slowly. The moment was approaching.

  He was about to order Achille to deactivate the Base. Chaos would follow. Anarchy. He knew it. Fear would turn into hatred.

  That was the plan.

  But a question crossed his mind—a question he had long avoided.

  Had he become the monster he once feared he would be?

  The atmosphere, already charged with tension after the Gull vessel’s implacable announcement, became electric. Murmurs rippled through the crowd, turning into muffled cries, then into increasingly loud shouting.

  "They’re condemning us!"

  "We’re going to die here!"

  "No more shuttles, no more protection!"

  "No more food!"

  Brutal and uncontrollable fear seeped into people’s minds like venom. Gazes turned toward one another, first in a desperate search for answers, then with a darker, more primal glint. Survival instincts were taking over.

  The first weapons appeared in the crowd. Guns recovered from storage, rifles pulled from armory lockers, metal scraps torn from surrounding structures. Anything became a means of defense… or attack. Those without weapons frantically searched for something to fight with.

  In the chaos, people shoved one another, fists began flying. A man tried to force entry into a food reserve, was violently pushed back, and a fight broke out.

  A gunshot rang out. The first shot.

  A guard of the Chosen One had just shot down a man wielding a knife. The victim collapsed onto the ground. A heavy silence fell over the central plaza.

  Then someone shouted, "Let him die!"

  Another voice echoed, "Let him die!"

  The chant grew, shouted, rumbling, hammered by dozens of enraged voices. The guards’ faces hardened, their protective instincts urging them to tighten their grips on their weapons. But they were outnumbered. They knew it. Some exchanged worried glances, others hesitated. One of them dropped his rifle and disappeared into the crowd.

  Gunfire. Screams. Frenzied chases through the corridors of the Base. Some tried to flee, others sought refuge, but most were hunting their target: the Chosen One.

  In a corner, a group of survivors battered down a door with rifle butts. A woman tripped and was trampled. The law of the strongest was reasserting itself.

  The smell of blood mixed with the smoke rising from the still-smoldering wreckage of the destroyed shuttles.

  The Chosen One of Banff was being hunted.

  Chaos consumed every corridor of the Base. Cries, gunshots, blows, and shouts of fury echoed through the halls. The survivors, once disciplined under Brian’s rule, had become an uncontrollable horde, driven mad by fear and the certainty of their impending doom.

  The shuttles still burned, casting black plumes into the freezing air. Without them, survival was impossible. But more critically, without a protective field, the Base would inevitably be overrun by nanites. Faces twisted with dread turned toward the central tower, where Brian and his last loyalists had barricaded themselves.

  The rioters stormed the main entrance of the tower. A gunshot rang out, halting the first wave in its tracks. One of Brian’s guards had just shot a man trying to force his way inside.

  But it didn’t stop anyone.

  They charged en masse, overwhelming the defenses. A guard screamed as he saw a knife glint before disappearing beneath a wave of furious bodies. The mob surged inside, trampling the wounded and the dead.

  In the control room, Brian and his last men reinforced the barricades. The room was bathed in pale light, holographic screens still flashing the AI’s final warnings.

  "Base deactivation in progress."

  "Repulsion field: OFFLINE."

  "Life support system: 72 hours remaining before total shutdown."

  Brian was still trying to contact the Gull vessel’s AI. His voice trembled. More from fear than anger.

  "Listen to me! You can’t leave us like this! I am still the Chosen One of this Base, I demand ..."

  Silence.

  The only response was the mechanical repetition:

  "Base deactivation in progress."

  Brian hurled the transmitter to the floor, his features marked by disbelief. He had thought he could control the game, impose his own law. But the Selection didn’t follow the rules he had imagined.

  A heavy thud shook the room. Then another. The barricades trembled under the weight of makeshift battering rams. The cries outside roared like a pack of starving beasts.

  Brian’s loyalists opened fire.

  Bullets tore through the broken doors, striking the first assailants. Bodies fell, but others took their place, fueled by rage and desperation. One of Brian’s men was reloading when an improvised projectile—a heavy metal shard from the wreckage—crushed his skull.

  Ammunition was running low.

  The door finally gave way with a deafening crash. A human wave surged into the room. Brian retreated toward the command dome, surrounded by his last supporters, who fell one by one under blows and bullets.

  He had no escape.

  Hands grabbed him, yanked him backward. For a moment, he met the eyes of those who had once followed him blindly. He saw nothing but hatred and determination.

  Then a clear voice rose above the chaos.

  "He is the one who condemned us! He must pay!"

  It was one of his trusted officers. The man who had followed him from the beginning, who stepped out of the crowd and leveled a weapon at him.

  Brian, panting, tried to protest, to justify his actions.

  But no one was listening anymore.

  The shot rang out.

  A single, crisp gunshot shattered the suspended moment.

  Brian crumpled, an expression frozen between shock and resignation.

  A deathly silence fell over the room.

  All eyes turned to the central dome. For a moment, it remained inert. Then a pale light flickered at its core. A materialized ring slowly took shape, floating above its pedestal.

  The symbol of power.

  No one dared move.

  The storm of rage and vengeance had ended in blood.

  Outside, under a sky heavy with dark clouds, Banff Base was sinking into oblivion.