In a voice that's shed its Midwestern neutrality and now flings words with sharp, Slavic corners, Oleg corrects the names of his associates. Katie is actually Katya. (Yes, they are brother and sister.) The flattop-eared thug, whose name I never caught in the first place, is Fedor. As he is being introduced—or reintroduced, whatever—Fedor flares his nostrils.

I feel queasy. It's not so much their new names, which are unsurprising given what I've discovered, as their attitude. These three don't look abashed at being found out. If anything, chests swell in their yellow polo shirts.

They're happy.

"Right here, right now," Susan says, her voice quavering, "someone tell me what in holy hell we're building."

Oleg, like a mistress with no remorse, folds his arms and looks to Carter.

"Blackquest 40 is a deliverable for the Russian government," snivels the CFO. "Due to the identity of the client and the time-sensitive nature of the project, it was necessary to, uh ... well, Oleg and I put our heads together and came up with this 'extreme training' idea."

"Put your heads together?" I can't take lingo in this moment. I just can't. "You turned this place into a prison, Carter. The engineers—we do the work, you know? We basically are the product you jet-set all around the world selling. And you cut these beasts loose on us."

Oleg says, "The motivational techniques are tough but proven."

"Proven on who, enemy combatants? Mercenaries? What's your real background? Like you said, time for artifice has passed. Tell us about the crate of weapons in the van downstairs."

The Russian's upper lip shudders in place. "This crate of weapons—you found it when you killed Mikhail, yes?"

The bosses' heads snap my way. Paul looks like a chunk of McGriddle is stuck in his windpipe.

"I didn't kill him," I say. "He attacked me. That was self-defense."

"Our logs show the van's security measures were defeated using spoofed disarm codes."

"So?"

"So you broke in. When Mikhail discovered you, you killed him."

"No—when Mikhail discovered me and tried his damnedest to strangle me, then I killed him. Like I said, self-defense."

Oleg shrugs, seeming to grant me credit. "How did you get him to the dumpster? Mikhail weighs nearly a hundred kilos. This is not possible for a female of your size."

Susan jumps in with a different objection than I expect. "There's a dead body in the dumpster on Second Ave? A municipal dumpster which anybody could stumble across?"

"The body has been recovered," Oleg says. "Nothing on police frequencies indicates it was reported or otherwise detected."

I can't be sure—my senses are oversampling wildly in this standoff—but does a flicker of relief enter Susan's face? How can she be worried about outsiders discovering Blackquest 40? Don't we want the cops in our business?

Aren't we stopping this?

Paul huffs from the side. "I still haven't heard a satisfactory answer on just what exactly my team is building. Is it part of a weapons system? Some hacking operation?"

Susan piles on. Why the time pressure? We've worked for governments before, how's this different? Both laying into Carter. I have a vision of the three back at Carnegie Mellon, spitballing in the grad student lounge about what their theoretical company might do. Academic consults? Pure software? B2B or consumer? One of these giddy discussions where all answers are right, all paths golden. You're just picking what flavor champagne.

How far wrong it's gone.

Oleg offers, "Is is no weapon. One could call it a hack, partly."

"Bag the twenty questions," I say. "Tell me what I built—or started building."

Silence grips the office. Midnight has passed. The streetlights on Howard blink red, their after-smear in the windows a mute, bleeding alarm.

The Russian looks out these windows and starts, "There exists a nuclear power plant near my country's border with Ukraine. Though it is physically in Ukraine, it was designed by Soviet engineers in 1988 using state-of-the-art technology. The mistakes made at Chernobyl were corrected; indeed the plant, known as Vlast, was constructed expressly to replace the output lost by the closure of Chernobyl. It was a marvel—is a marvel—of the Soviet mind.

"In 1991, when the Soviet Union disbanded and Ukraine declared its independence"—here Oleg grunts his dismay—"control of Vlast ceded to the new Ukrainian leadership. Two Chernobyl reactors continued producing power after the accident, but were being phased out due to international pressure. Ukraine boosted output levels for Vlask to compensate. Within five years, core heat readings were exceeding the maximums established by the plant's Soviet architects. My government warned the Ukrainians. If another meltdown were to occur, the fallout would be catastrophic for the populations of both countries.

"For a time, Ukraine moderated its demands upon Vlask. The filthy khokhols began stealing Russian gas from the pipelines that run under their soil, and this relieved energy demands. Often they were stupid and stole too brazenly. When we or their European neighbors caught them, they were forced to stop siphoning and lean harder on Vlask. During these periods, Russian satellites detected heat blooms indicating production far beyond safe levels. Again, we warned Ukraine. We offered to send experts, which of course the Ukrainians dismissed as attempted espionage. A minor incident occurred in 2013—press coverage was effectively suppressed."

Oleg smiles inwardly, pacing in front of Katya and Fedor, clearly enjoying his tale. I wonder which piece of handiwork he's congratulating himself for—the incident or media suppression.

"This scared the Ukrainians for a time," he goes on, "but their economic stresses have only worsened. Starting January 1 of this year, Russia will export no more gas through Ukraine. With Yamal—Europe and Nord Stream both operational, the dogs can ..." He spits a phrase in Russian that Fedor chuckles at. "This is as it must be, but now the pressure on Vlask is even greater. We have recorded unprecedented heat blooms this months. If Ukraine is not stopped, Vlask will meltdown. This is imminent. The politicians will destroy thousands of Russian and Ukrainian in pursuit of prosperity."

Grim reality falls into place. The injection piece of Blackquest 40, Jared's, hacks into the controlling software. My optimization alters Vlask's output subtly, without being detected.

It is the truest nightmare I've known. My head chugs against fatigue; my hip sings out with pain; my heart is sick about Cecil and carebnb and Mom eating dinner solo—and now I learn I've been drafted onto the same teams as the Russians?

Susan sat down at some point in a velvet chair. Now she's leaned back with a kind of gallows whimsy, one of her great calves propped up over the opposite knee.

"This is how you saved us, Carter? Plunk us down in the middle of a geopolitical, geo-environmental conflict?"

Carter sits with head bowed, digging in his lacquered 'do. "Look I realize communications-wise I made mistakes, big mistakes. But this is the kind of project we discussed explor—"

"You discussed," Paul says, eyes flaming. "Russian agents? Nuclear power plants? We would've never gone along with this."

The founders argue, hurling recriminations back and forth. Carter sticks to his argument Blackquest 40 was a valid, necessary step toward keeping Codewise competitive. Paul's speechless at this. Susan demands details about the software. Why does it need to be done in 40 hours?

When Carter can't answer, she rounds on Oleg. "Don't tell me you can predict this meltdown at that level of time specificity—that's preposterous. So why the rush-job? Why 40 hours?"

Oleg answers vaguely that the timeframe comes from his superiors. "I am not given every detail. The KGB may have an operational plan with precise windows of execution."

"KGB?!" Susan squeezes her eyes shut. "We are a private company. We do software and robotics and algorithms. We're a modest-sized group of people who get together five out of seven days of the week to meet in conference rooms. To bitch if the machine in the breakroom spits out weak coffee. That's it. No more, no less."

Strangely, Oleg's face brightens as she says this. He begins nodding along. He even purses his lips to egg her on. When she finishes, the Russian faces me with an expression like he just found that hundred-dollar bill I lost.

"Perhaps we should all think of Blackquest 40 as an opportunity, yes?" He tries grinning, but his lips form an ugly crimp. "An opportunity to do more. To do good."