1720
"I think I hate this planet already." Major Long's voice echoed dully through the hood of his radiation suit. "And the fact that it could kill me isn't even on top of the list."
"What is, sir?" Sergeant Biggins thought better of reminding SG-7's CO that he'd already been here nearly two days with SG-8. And unlike Major Long, he hadn't had a radiation suit the whole time.
"It's the dirt," the older man said. "The red. The desert. I grew up in Arizona. I hate desert."
He had a point – the dirt was a burnished color for as far as the eye could see in any direction. They navigated by Geiger counter, conferring often with two other groups as they attempted to triangulate the source of the radiation. "Stupid question, sir?"
"Just a second." Major Long scribbled something in his notebook and keyed his radio. "This is SG-niner. 3 kliks north, levels decreasing from six-point-five roentgens an hour. Turning east."
"Copy, SG-niner," came another voice. "SG-Bravo, continuing west toward you. Levels increasing at eight roentgens an hour. Estimate two kliks."
"Okay, Biggins," the major said. "Shoot."
"Why are we still here? If radiation cures this thing, take them to a cancer ward or something, right? We have plenty of this stuff on Earth."
"If only it were that simple. Different isotopes react differently in the body – like iodine gets used for the thyroid stuff, and strontium gets pulled into your bones. This isotope isn't one we know. At least, it isn't one this thing knows." Holding up his left arm, bulky in its suit, he shook the large isotope identifier he held. "Newfangled technology, you know. Never works when you need it."
"Yes, sir."
"I wouldn't worry too much about exposure, if that's your hangup," the Major continued. "All signs point to the villagers getting about eleven hundred millirems a year. That's well within safe limits."
Biggins turned his head to look at the other man, but only got a good view of the inside of his suit. "There are safe limits?"
"Yup. Some people say we even need some radiation for optimum health. You get about four hundred millirems a year just sitting in Colorado Springs."
"Really?"
"This is SG-Charlie," the radio spouted. "Reached western border, headed north. Levels increasing at seven roentgens."
"Copy that," Major Long answered before muttering something that Biggins could only make out as, "Damn Murphy."
"Sir?"
"Ahead in the distance and a little bit south, Sergeant."
The older man pointed with his large orange glove, and Biggins followed the line forward, forward... "You don't think it's that, do you?"
"Of course it is." Grid be damned, Long headed straight for it – an enormous rock structure. It looked daunting even from nearly a mile away. "SG-Alpha, this is SG-niner."
"Go ahead, SG-niner," Colonel Bates responded from the village.
"I think we found it, sir. We should contact the base. We're gonna need better gear."