On Monday mornings, I send out a story via email: ultra-brief tales of 1,000 words or more, usually in genres including horror, science fiction, and the supernatural. Those stories collectively are called Once Upon A Time. I’ve also published several ebooks and compendium volumes of those stories so far.

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Here's story 253, of 266 so far.

The Repository

There were twelve people around the table, and thirteen cups of coffee. The woman from Belgium had brought her own travel mug.

The clock on the wall said it was only minutes before 4AM, and even the military people in their starched uniforms looked rumpled and half-awake. The room had no windows, and the harsh fluorescent lighting somehow gave the simultaneous impression of both perpetual daylight and the deepest hours of the night. There was no conversation, because idle chatter was deeply frowned upon in this building, but barely-contained annoyance was clearly visible on most of the faces present.

The facial expression of the woman from Belgium, however, was blank.

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen,” said the man at the head of the table, “Thank you for being here at this unsociable hour, and at such short notice.”

He wore a dark grey suit that was expensively cut, but his jawline bore the tell-tale signs of a rare electric shave, probably while he rode in the back of some luxury vehicle on the way here. His hair was silver, and his face bore etched lines that spoke of many decades of concern. Every minute or so, his manicured fingertips would find the side of his own chin, and a look of dissatisfaction flickered across his features.

“We had little choice, Monsieur le Secrétaire général,” said one of the military people; a general in command of the EU Battlegroups. The older man gave a small smile which managed to convey that he cared little for any inconvenience currently being suffered by those in attendance.

“Perhaps if we came to the point,” the woman from Belgium said, and the older man nodded. She wore an eye-catching diamond solitaire ring on her left hand, which glittered ceaselessly in the artificial light.

“Quite so,” the Secretary General replied. “You’ve all been brought here due to a development which has occurred in Finland. I must caution you that, as of fifteen minutes ago, this situation has attained a grading of CHALLENGE-3.”

The room was utterly silent. The woman from Belgium glanced around at her fellow attendees, and was able to watch as the colour drained from the faces of even the most decorated and experienced military officers that the European Union had to offer. There was also a group of four scientists on the far side of the table, and at least one of them now looked like they might faint. One, a middle-aged woman, reached for the coffee cup in front of her with an unsteady hand, and then thought better of picking it up.

“Jesucristo,” said one of the remaining participants, a Spanish politician who sat on the EU CIVCOM — the Committee for Civilian Aspects of Crisis Management.

“I doubt he’ll be much help,” the woman from Belgium said, and the politician gave her a startled look. She understood his response; indeed, she understood how they were all feeling — except for the surprise. The situation’s classification and status was not news to her. After all, she was the one who had applied the grading.

The Secretary General cleared his throat. “How many of you have heard of Project AUTUMN?”

One of the scientists frowned, and then tentatively raised his hand. The older man turned his attention in that direction, raising an eyebrow.

“It was… I consulted on it. Briefly,” the scientist said. “There are many of them across Europe, and the world. It’s a deep geological repository, or at least the plan for one. Like HADES in Sweden, or Grimsel in Switzerland.”

One of the military officers nodded. “Radwaste storage.” He glanced at the politicians with an expression of well-worn vague disdain. “Radioactive byproducts of nuclear fission have to be stored while they decay. We do it deep underground. They’re planning and building new sites all the time.”

“Stored for how long?”

It was the Spanish politician’s voice again. The military officer slowly swivelled his head towards the other man. “Depends. Can be hundreds of thousands, or even millions, of years.”

“AUTUMN is indeed such a repository, and not our first in Finland,” the Secretary General said. “It has been in the planning stage for a number of years. The site was selected from a shortlist, the decision was made and approved, and initial drilling began four days ago. Late last night, a situation developed, and I was informed as soon as was feasible.”

“The site was perfect,” the woman from Belgium interjected, staring down at her own hands resting on the conference table. “Geologically stable, receptive to holding a facility at a depth of over nine hundred metres, and adequately isolated from future glaciation. It was by far the most logical choice.”

The Secretary General nodded, and for a moment he had a far-away look on his face. Then he shook his head briefly, as if to dispel whatever he’d began to think about.

“The excavation team bored a series of narrow test shafts, using robotic equipment to retrieve samples, and to inspect the subterranean environment. They managed to reach the planned depth yesterday evening, opening out into a… cavern.”

He swallowed, looking ashen now, but he continued nonetheless.

“There was a radiation signature, but only an extremely faint one. With illumination, the probe’s images showed…”

He tailed off, a small laugh escaping from his mouth. It was not a sound of amusement. One of the scientists shifted as if a chill had run down his spine. Two of the military officers exchanged a glance.

“They showed an excavated area and structure,” the woman from Belgium said. “As best we can tell, a deep geological repository. There are markings indicating radioactivity within. The drill shaft had come out in an antechamber, which was a remarkable stroke of luck.”

“The thing we wanted to build was already down there?” the Spanish politician asked, a frown creasing his brow as he blinked in confusion. The woman from Belgium simply nodded.

The military officer who had complained about not having any choice in attending now snorted. “And it’s in Finland. So, what, the Russians? A territorial violation below ground?”

The woman from Belgium shook her head, then watched as the officer made the obvious realisation.

But why would a territorial violation attain a CHALLENGE grading?

“There was debris, neatly piled,” she continued. “The probe was able to obtain an organic sample: a piece of wood. Perhaps from a tool, or a container, or an item of furniture.”

The middle-aged female scientist spoke as if she was talking to herself. “For radiocarbon dating.”

The woman from Belgium nodded.

The military officer looked expectantly towards the Secretary General, but the older man’s eyes were unfocused. The officer turned his attention back to the woman from Belgium, and his tone was impatient.

“Well? How long has it been down there?”

She turned her hand over and rapped the large diamond ring against the table’s surface. The sound was unnaturally loud.

“As best we can tell,” she replied, “approximately twenty-five thousand years.”

JINX

KESTREL face a new and terrifying enemy: an all-seeing mastermind who already knows exactly who they are, and many of their deepest secrets. Nothing stays hidden forever, and the line between privacy and liberty is razor-thin…

Book 3 in the KESTREL action-thriller series.

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