Susan and I watch between the muscle-ridged backs of Oleg and Fedor. The laptop screen displays a dashboard of virtual meters: Number of Running Processes, Inputs Received, Outputs Replaced, Outputs Rejected, Total Duration of Output Circumvention.

This last meter, a bar, is significantly larger than the others, and shows a checkered flag at the end. I squint to read the value beside the flag.

5:00 min.

So that's the goal line. For testing purposes, five minutes will stand in for forever.

The Russians must want this nuclear power plant of theirs back in a hurry.

As the various meters begin populating with data, I catch Susan stealing peeks my way. The looks feel solicitous, as though she wants to impart some sentiment or meaning, but I ignore them. I'm thinking ahead to the next phase—to escape, once Elite takes off with our successful (or not) code.

How long will they wait before detonating the charges? Will they detonate the charges?

I have to assume so. Everybody will need to beat it outside, across the street. Should I yell that the whole place is wired to blow, or just gently encourage people to evacuate in an orderly fashion?

I have a feeling when the time comes, neither "gently" nor "orderly" will be high on my list of achievable modes.

I check the meter readings.

Number of Running Processes: 6012.

Inputs Received: 973,288.

Outputs Replaced: 973,124.

Outputs Rejected: 0.

Total Duration of Output Circumvention: 0:47 min.

Has it really just been forty-seven seconds? This test is going to feel like forever, anyway.

The group around us—engineers, account coordinators, middle managers—watches with rapt faces. Something like dog's breath reeks behind me, and elbows keep poking my ribs. The lobby monitors that've been showing static for the last forty hours are back on CNN; the news crawl rolls under a live shot from Cape Canaveral—the private spaceflight that gave the biz-siders their topic.

Up ahead, Minosh inches toward the double-doors but is stopped by a glowering Elite facilitator.

As Total Duration passes two minutes, a smile begins on Susan's face and one of her wrists uncurls. I feel a mild loosening of the gut too; the networking code, those TCP/IP calls out to the Cray, must be working—otherwise the test would have bombed immediately.

Oleg, standing before the laptop with great primacy, remains stone faced.

Number of Running Processes: 6012.

Inputs Received: 4,831,980.

Outputs Replaced: 4,831,729.

Outputs Rejected: 0.

Total Duration of Output Circumvention: 3:55 min.

With the Total Duration bar close to 80 percent full, a mere quarter inch of screen from the checkered flag, a floaty sensation enters my legs. I'm excited and revving for action—for the escape. No whammies in nearly five million value-pair tries is a great sign. There's every chance the Cray finished, that its text file is sitting on the hard drive done, three sextillion-odd rows big.

Number of Running Processes: 6012.

Inputs Received: 6,022,194.

Outputs Replaced: 6,021,935.

Outputs Rejected: 0.

Total Duration of Output Circumvention: 4:41 min.

Strange changes are occurring in Oleg. A vein near his temple begins throbbing visibly. His butt cheeks—I swear, they're practically in my face—clench in their khakis. His left hand goes for his stressball but, finding none, begins flexing and unflexing, stretching his pocket as though some furious rodent were trapped inside.

When the Total Duration bar fills, an up-chime sounds. The other meters stop. The laptop fan spins down. The screen background changes from neutral gray to cool green.

A message snaps across the monitor:

SOFTWARE COMPLIANCE CONFIRMED.

Susan throws her arms around me, wrapping me in her fine arms and lush aroma. "I knew you could do this, Deb! It was a rotten situation, but I knew you could—you're the best hire I ever made."

When we separate, she hikes up onto a glass coffee table to address everyone. It's a move I've seen her do before and admired—that bold, affirmative stride up, commanding the entire lobby from an unorthodox spot—but now she staggers and must right herself using both hands.

"Amazing, amazing job!" she calls once she's safely up. "Some mistakes were made—mostly by me, by us"—a whorl of the hand seems to lump in Carter, who's nowhere to be found—"but you persevered. You fought through. I could not be more proud of what we've accomplished today. Well, today and yesterday. I want you all to take a moment and give yourselves a huge round of applause."

Tepid claps answer her. A hacking cough rings out. The vibe is bizarre, bewildered; Susan's tone feels all wrong for the moment, which is more refugee transfer than victory party.

I'm beyond confused myself. What is she talking about? Has she forgotten about the nuclear power plant? Or is she referencing it—obliquely, to those of us who know? Is this more playacting for Oleg's benefit?

Is anything out of her mouth, any word or series of words slipping through those red ribbon lips, real?

Oleg closes the test laptop, snick, and flashes some tactical hand signal—pinkie and forefinger up, thumb twisting—to Fedor.

He says in an undertone, "Proceed with scenario A."

Purposefully, both men start for the double-doors. All crates, boxes, and string-bound files have been loaded onto the vans idling on Second Avenue: five black rectangles with yellow shoulders massed in the windows.

Only a few facilitators remain. One is Katya, who approaches her brother now with a stack of papers and carton of library-style half pencils.

"Many of you are eager to return to your families," Oleg says, accepting the papers and pencils, "and we are eager to get you back to them. The very last item required by Blackquest 40 is feedback on the exercise itself—on Elite Development."

He passes the stack to Susan. I'm standing right beside her and can read the top sheet, a generic ten question survey.

Were you satisfied with the quality of instruction? Did facilitators make clear the goals and objectives of the exercise? Et cetera.

The survey mentions Elite Development exactly zero times. It could be a feedback form for a kids' band camp.

"I'm dinging you guys hard on number six, 'treated politely and respectfully,'" I say, quietly reaching for Prisha, for Minosh, for everyone around me, ready to bolt. "I must be down two pints of blood, and I haven't gotten a single thank you for building your hijack-ware. For saving you from Siberian exile."

Oleg pays no mind to the perplexed faces around us. "We encourage everyone to be frank in these exit surveys. From you, Miss Bollinger, I would expect nothing less."

I'm holding hands with Prisha now, behind both of our backs. Minosh has taken my cue and is nudging forward again. Jared, noticing, slogs through the crowd and positions himself to leave too.

"Did you pack out your trash?" I ask. "Clean up all your spills, wipe down the counters?"

Oleg's gaze, which had become light and almost playful after the successful test, darkens again.

"We have left behind no traces, no mysteries to be solved. I would expect you"—he bites the word—"to be most appreciative of this."

I fix him with my own glare, trying to hold his attention there—high—while finding one of the exit surveys with my fingers, flipping it over, pushing it toward Susan.

I scribble blindly with a half-pencil, GET PEOPLE OUTSIDE FAST AS POSSIBLE.

As Susan reads this, I perceive only a slight shudder. She takes the pencil, which I've laid down beside the survey, and writes:

???

I take back the pencil and add to our running script, BOOM.

Susan manages to cover her gasp by clearing her throat. Elite continues evacuating the lobby. Fedor has already gone outside. Katya is passing through the double-doors now.

Besides Oleg, Graham is the last to go. He waits for our eyes to meet, then purses his mouth—a pained, thankful expression. I'm sorting through a mishmash of emotions when he flits his eyes skyward.

I crinkle my brow back.

His eyes flit skyward again. Is this some kind of prayer? Or appeal to an afterlife meet-up?

Is he telling me to head upstairs? Could there be some fail-safe switch on Twelve or Ten?

Before I even arrive at a decent guess, Susan has climbed back atop the coffee table.

"Everyone, please listen carefully," she announces. "These surveys are important, but I'm going to suggest we tackle them tomorrow, with the benefit of sleep. I know I feel like I could sleep two days straight—and I showed up halfway through Blackquest 40."

Grudging chuckles are heard. Paul, whose shirt tail hangs about his amorphous hips, is bobbing in place near the double-doors. Jared is shifting between feet, digging a finger into his ear.

Oleg responds, matching her volume, "The surveys must be completed now, while the exercise is fresh in your minds. The feedback loop is a vital part of our process to ensure we're providing the very highest standard of training."

Susan, standing on glass still, plants both hands on her hips. "We delivered your software." Her tone is low and gritty. "We fulfilled the contract."

This, finally, is no act. Our CEO's heel is dug into the tabletop—I'll be shocked if she hasn't made a chip—and her chin is cocked an angry fifteen degrees. For his part, Oleg stands in front of the double-doors with legs bowed, looking ready to bounce all comers into Semperinity.

"You did," he says, "and now we must insist on fifteen further minutes of your time."

Fedor is approaching from behind. From one of the vans, he's brought a oval slab—dark, maybe metal, definitely heavy from the slope of the goon's shoulders.

What is that? Some sort of flattened barbell?

I feel one ear start to sail up my head, that sadistic kite runner doing his worst again.

Oleg backpedals through the double-doors. I grab my coworkers and push forward and Susan is shouting, gesturing, diving down from the coffee table.

We're all too late.

In one slick motion, Oleg takes the slab from Fedor and snaps it over the door handles from outside. The lock engages with a deep clunk.

Our eyes meet for one last exchange of mutual revulsion—I feel the tips of my yellow spikes ready to ignite from the intensity—before he slips into a van and drives off down Second Avenue.