The Strange Encounters of Rodney McKay

by Soledad

Author's Note:

I know that the Russian scientist is called Markov in canon. But in this, canon is wrong. A woman's name always has a female ending in Russian, which, in our case, would be Markova. Trust me; I used to have Russian lessons for ten years, so I know what I'm talking about. Also, using one's father's name as a middle name with a possessive ending is Russian custom. Addressing someone by their given name and their father-name is a sign of respect.

Spoilers: Nemesis, Watergate

Chapter 02 – Markova

Rodney McKay had always nurtured a firm belief in the superiority of American (well, actually Canadian) science and technology, compared with anything Russia – or any other pathetic Eastern-European country – might have offered. He had similar opinions about American (well, Canadian) scientists. Consequently, he considered the fact that the Russians had been able to recover the original Stargate from the bottom of the ocean and connect it with the DHD found by Germans in Egypt and confiscated by the Russian Army after World War II, as a personal affront.

That they'd managed to make off-world trips without the SGC detecting it had not only been a serious security breach. It also showed that – given the right circumstances – Russian scientists were capable of about the same achievements as their American counterparts. And that they had found the planet covered by sentient water – water that could generate countless amounts of clean heat energy – was annoying. Even if the now abandoned Stargate project had been led by someone of the qualities of Dr. Svetlana Markova.

Rodney had heard of Dr. Markova, of course. She was the Russian counterpart of Major Carter, and easily as brilliant as Carter herself. At least according to Carter, who clearly admired the other woman's work. Rodney wondered whether or not he'd get to meet this Russian girl wonder – although calling Dr. Markova a girl would be silly, considering her age. He guessed he would. She had worked on a secret base in Siberia. He was on his way to a secret base in Siberia. Just how many secret bases could be hiding out in Siberia?

The futility of his question became clear for him during the countless hours of flight that gave him a vague idea about the true dimensions of Siberia, of course. He could never have imagined something to be so huge – and so empty. Nothing aside from the wilderness of his own home country, that is, which he never visited. Siberia was still sparsely populated, due to its harsh climate, and thus the ideal location for a great number of secret bases.

From Kuybishev, he was transported to his final destination by chopper. The whole journey took longer than he'd have feared, even in his worst nightmare. But the welcoming committee seemed genuinely happy to have him, and as his liaison to the Russian science community – a big and friendly bear of a man by the name of Gregori Oktharev, who probably was chosen for this thankless job because he spoke a surprisingly good, though heavily accented English – told him that he'd arrived just in time to join the party that they were throwing to celebrate their brand new naquadah generator program.

Rodney would later learn that in the Siberian wilderness practically every new event was a good enough reason for a celebration. And that Russians did nothing by halves.

Especially not when it involved music and the consuming of ungodly amounts of vodka.

Still angry about his abrupt reassignment – behind which he suspected the hand of an extremely pissed Colonel O'Neill, who, according to some people at the SGC, had been like that every time a member of his team was in danger – not to mention hungry and jet-lagged, the last thing Rodney wanted was to go to a party. To a party that was held in some godforsaken Siberian lab in the middle of the taiga, with only wolves and bears as possible unexpected party guests. But Oktharev, who'd already offered him to call him Grisha, insisted that the party couldn't be hold without its guest of honour, and that they all would be most upset would their new colleague not join the celebration.

So Rodney dropped off his luggage in his future quarters (refusing to take a look around, as he was depressed enough already), washed his hands and face and let himself be dragged into a large gathering room that Oktharev had called their aula. And there he had the biggest surprise of non-scientific kind he could remember, ever since Daphne Phillips had agreed to go out with him. He only hoped that, unlike that awkward and painfully embarrassing date, this surprise would prove a more pleasant one.

The aula must have originally been the middle floor of some abandoned power plant, but the Russians had managed to turn it into a buffet and a dancing floor. Granted, everyone was wearing thick parkas and other warm clothing, but some people were playing guitars and accordions, and the mood seemed high enough already. A few people were dancing to the music, the others were standing at one of the lab tables that had been pushed to the walls and were laden with food and drink. Various sorts of warm and cold dishes were offered, samovars were releasing the fragrant scent of freshly brewed tea, and even champagne bottles and flutes stood on a separate table.

Rodney blinked rapidly in surprise, several times. He'd expected to be welcomed with bread and salt (as some traveller's guides said was the tradition in Russia), not with champagne and caviar. But perhaps scientists did things differently. Well, as long as it was food, he could deal.

"What used this place to be before you guys turned it into a lab?" he asked Oktharev, selecting a particularly appealing blini from one of the trays and taking a huge bite. Fresh sour cream poured into his mouth from the blini, and he closed his eyes briefly in bliss. He liked to snipe about Russian food, but he'd actually developed a secret fondness for blinis during his year in Finland, which had involved brief trips to Russia.

"Once it was a power plant," Oktharev replied, swallowing a piece of dark rye bread adorned with hard-boiled eggs and caviar in one. "And experimental one. Needless to say that it wasn't a very successful experiment."

"I would assume it wasn't," Rodney remarked, his mouth full. "Otherwise, your government wouldn't be so eager to get their hands on naquadah generator technology."

Oktharev gave him an odd look. "Look… Dr. McKay. I understand that you didn't want to come here in the first place. And I sympathize. I really do. But you should work on that attitude of yours. It won't win you many friends. And out here, friends are the only thing one really has."

With that, he turned around and left Rodney alone, spluttering in indignation.

And that was the very moment when Rodney set eyes on Dr. Svetlana Markova for the very first time.

Oh, sure, he'd seen pictures about international scientific conferences where she had appeared, complete with evening dress and the heavy mass of her dark curls tumbling over bare shoulders. Simon Coombs, the most rabid Trekkie among the scientists of the Western hemisphere, even called her a Greek goddess and stated that she had a vague similarity to Deanna Troi, the character Coombs had had an immortal crush on since the 1990s. Actually, Coombs' drooling was rather ridiculous, not to mention disgusting.

Rodney wondered what Coombs would say, could he see the woman now. Markova was wearing the same thick parka and trousers like everyone else, and her hair was twisted into a bun on top of her head; a bun so tight that it made one's scalp hurt from the mere sight of it. Her lovely yet sharp features clearly revealed her as a woman in her mid-forties, and there was a hardness in that face that didn't came from the facial structure alone. Only the dark, shimmering byzantine eyes were the same as in the pictures.

Someone pushed Rodney forth to introduce them to each other, and he hurriedly wiped his face and hands because he could see that Markova clearly represented the highest and most respected authority here.

"Svetlana Vassilyeva," the unknown female scientist said, "this is Dr. McKay, from America."

"From Canada," he snapped, irritated that they couldn't make the difference. It wasn't so that any of the two countries wouldn't be big enough to notice. Or important enough. Just because people spoke English in both countries, it didn't mean that they were the same.

Those glittering, dark eyes were cold when they finally turned to him, making him feel like some lower life-form. All of the sudden, he became painfully aware of the fact that his fingers were slightly greasy and that there was sour cream smeared around the corner of his mouth.

Under normal circumstances, his own lack of table manners wasn't a problem for him. Not even a thing worth of any consideration. His brilliant mind was usually too occupied with really important things to care for such mundane niceties, his time too precious. And most people were more than willing to overlook such insignificant little character flaws in exchange of the insights his genius provided into problems they weren't capable of solving without his help.

However, facing this regal – and certifiably brilliant – woman who managed to look, if not like a Greek goddess but certainly like some Russian noblewoman from the 18th century, even wearing a parka and the ugliest hairdo imaginable, Rodney McKay knew he shouldn't expect such leniency here. Carter might have found him irritating – hell, there couldn't be any doubt that she did – but at least she'd seen him as a human being. He wasn't sure he could expect Markova to do the same.

Back home, everyone knew he was a genius. Well, everyone in Area 51 or in any other place he'd ever worked, that is. Out here, his brilliance was a vague rumour at best. He'd have to prove his superiority to this people. And somehow he had the feeling that it would be a long and tough dogfight. One he'd hoped he would never have to fight again.

Perhaps it would have been better had he shut up at SGC. Even if he had been right with his criticism. But it was already too late for that.

Hurriedly, he wiped his mouth and his fingers clean with a napkin and gave Markova his most optimistic grin.

"Nice to meet you, doctor," he said brightly. "I'm sure we'll get along fabulously.

Markova looked him up and down as if he were a slab of meat hanging at the butcher's shop. And as if she expected to find something fundamentally wrong with him.

"We'll see," she said coolly. "It's up to you."

With a regal nod, she turned away and left him standing in the middle of the room, the forced grin slowly freezing on his face. Rodney felt his spirits sink even lower.

The word exile had just become a brand new meaning for him.

TBC