“Sara.”
I turn around. Did I just hear my name?
But it cannot be. Not down here, it’s impossible. I know I’m alone. I made sure of that.
People expect nuclear waste storage sites to be so full of radiation that we have to dress in hazmat gear all the time, but that’s not true. The waste arrives here from the nuclear power plants in sealed canisters that are checked for irregular radiation levels in origin and en route. I’ve never seen anything beyond normal when I’ve checked them. Hell, the counters get higher counts from the walls of the tunnels than they do from the canisters.
Fact is, we just dress for the cold down here. We have colour coded coats, and that’s basically all. Outside emergencies, that’s it. I’ve only worn emergency gear during compulsory drills.
“Sara.”
There it is again. Or is it?
The tunnels are empty. I made sure.
Engineering. Solid, bullet-proof engineering. Years of experience, the best brains thinking of the problem of radioactive storage. It’s really amazing, when you think of it. Only a few elements can be used as fuel for nuclear power plants, and they produce radioactive waste. What to do with it?
Send it back to the Earth where it belongs, that’s what. It makes sense: the radiation was down there, in the first place. But we put it in sturdy boxes inside of sturdy boxes inside of sturdy boxes, so it cannot escape when we handle them, move them and store them.
“Sara.”
Damn. Am I going mad? Has all the tension finally caught up with me? That was always a risk. Adn this goddamn breathing mask doesn’t let me see.
Another thing people ignore is that there are several types of nuclear reactors. And some of the newest ones can actually use waste from previous generations to produce even more energy. It’s almost like a miracle. But you know, scientists knew that could be possible years ago, so they didn’t want to simply, say, throw that waste down a deep chasm or anything. Hence storage facilities.
Oh yes, not all waste can be used, but it’s still sort of wondrous when you think of it.
What didn’t they take into account?
People.
“Sara.”
“STOP!”
My voice carries, and the echo answers. The corridor, excavated into the mountain, just stays there as I stare back. Nothing happens, nothing moves.
Nothing speaks.
It’s the tension. It’s my imagination.
Screening. Of course, they apply screening. But, and here is where this may look like a lie, they cannot really screen out sleeping beauties.
The term is mine. I like it. I am the Sleeping Beauty. I don’t know if there are any others, to be honest, but it doesn’t matter. Not any longer. Not now.
I am a sleeper agent. But not any sleeper agent: I’m a third-generation sleeper agent. How could anyone possibly screen that?
Grandad never got the call. Dad didn’t, either. I did. The fact I am a certified nuclear engineer was the icing on the cake.
“Sara.”
Now it’s real. It has to be.
No-one. There is no-one. And the control room is so close.
I check my watch. I can take the mask off, the gas effects must be over now. I am cautious, anyway. One breath, two breaths. I wait. No sign of nausea, I’m safe to ditch the mask. I run now.
What will they say? That I had some kind of crisis? That I went mad? No, it will be years before they can even enter the place, there’s no way they can know it’s me. It doesn’t matter. This is my duty.
The control room is ahead. Everyone in there, the skeleton crew of the graveyard shift, must be asleep on their boards now. All of it timed so I can approach and do what I have to do before any alarm goes off. Not that it would make any difference.
“Sara.”
“Get off my head!”
But it doesn’t. It doesn’t.
“Sara.”
Not when I use the stolen ID card to enter the control room when it’s not my shift.
“Sara.”
Not when I push the guy -Martin, he’s nice- off the central chair.
“Sara.”
Not when I disable all the alarms. Something that, I know, sends alarms off. Outside.
“Sara.”
Not when I stop and just sink on the chair.
“Sara.”
Not when the explosions start ringing off.
“Sara.”
Closer.
“Sara.”
Closer.
“Sara.”
“Oh, fu…!”