STARGATE SG-1: Oceans of Dust by Peter J. Evans

freezing as she picked her way towards the site. The civilian clothing they had been issued included heavy jackets, and Carter was glad of hers. The cotton shirt she had been wearing during the day would have done nothing to stop the chilly wind cutting right through her.
    The conditions were really nothing like Sar’tua’s bitter climate, but just close enough to throw up some unpleasant memories.
    It felt odd to be wearing civilian clothing and carrying a weapon, and stranger still to be looking at the world through night-vision goggles as she walked. Carter had always found the devices to be fascinating, but wearing them was a surreal experience. She trudged through a world made entirely of green, under a soupy, verdigris sky, seething with the random sparks of stray photons, while the sand beneath her boots was a livid emerald. Teal’c, stalking ahead of her and to her right, was an animated statue of dark jade, the leather jacket he was wearing so dark in the goggle’s view that it was almost part of the night itself.
    There was no sound, save that of a gentle desert breeze shifting sand from the tops of dunes, and her own breathing as she walked.
    Abruptly, Teal’c stopped and raised a hand. Carter moved up next to him and pressed a key on her radio handset twice, letting O’Neill know they were in position. Then she dropped to one knee, looking down over the dig site.
    The place seemed very different from the clear, daylight images TIAMAT had provided them, but its layout was familiar to her now. The rocky overhang was under her feet, curving away to either side for hundreds of meters before fading back into level sand, and ahead were the pitiful collection of fabric tents and battered furniture that had made up the dig itself. Carter spent a few seconds scanning the site carefully for any signs of movement, but saw nothing but green-lit stillness.
    “Looks clear,” she said quietly. “Teal’c, do you see anything?”
    “I do not. There are signs of damage, but none of life.”
    She keyed the radio. “Colonel O’Neill, this is Carter. We’re overlooking the site now.”
    “Same here. I think we missed the party.”
    Carter wondered if he would have used that word had he seen what had become of Laura Miles, but she kept her silence on the matter. “Shall we move in?”
    “Affirm —”
he began, then stopped.
“Hold on. What?”
The final word was fainter, and Carter realized it was not aimed at her. O’Neill must have been talking to Daniel.
    A moment later his voice returned. He sounded a little uncomfortable.
“Ah, Major? Daniel’s just raised an interesting point.”
    “Which is?”
    “Whether we’d considered the possibility of disease.”
    Carter frowned. She had been working under the assumption that the damage to Miles’ body had been the result of some trauma; a chemical or radiation burn, explosion or crush injury. But could a pathogen have torn into her so vilely? The secondary tissue damage, those internal pockets of decay seeding her muscles and lymph nodes, certainly spoke of disease.
    Maybe Miles had seen the work of some alien plague working its way up her arm, and had self-amputated to stop the spread of it.
    Or perhaps Mohammed Rashwan had done it for her.
    Remembering the Conservation Director put the theory out of Carter’s mind very quickly. “Sir, I don’t think that’s likely. Rashwan took Miles all the way back to Cairo, and there must have been a couple of dozen other workers here too. There’s no report that Rashwan was ill, and no scare stories about plagues in Cairo.”
    “Rashwan’s not been found yet, though.”
    “PLH probably had him under wraps. I’m sure he’ll surface once the company folds up.”
    There was a pause. Then:
“I think you’re right.”
    “Tell Daniel that he was smart to bring it up, though. He had me going for a minute there.”
    “You and me both. Okay, you and Teal’c go in and conduct a ground search. We’ll get the Wrangler