Ros Myers, Space Spy

by Domenika Marzione


Harry returns, storm-faced and the kind of silent that has an entire section's worth of hardened field agents and analysts shrinking in their seats to avoid his line of sight.

Ros doesn't flinch, which is just as well, since she doesn't think Harry sees any of them as he stalks past on his way to his office.

Adam, returning from either the loo or the storage closet, surveys the room, sees Harry moving about in his office, and cocks a questioning eyebrow at Ros, who shrugs. Whatever it is, it's not good and it will be on all of them soon enough. Adam first, though.

Harry summons him three minutes later, long enough for everyone in Section D to exhale, relax, and wonder what could have gone so terribly wrong, who could have been so awesomely stupid. Harry doesn't get this angry at mere evil.

Ros gets distracted by her own workload and misses the return of the room to some semblance of normal; chaos is their business and business is good. Whatever variety is coming their way now, well, someone is likely to have seen it before.

"Ros? A moment?" Adam calls to her from Harry's open doorway.

In the warm glow of hindsight, she will remember his mild expression and casual posture, summoning her like she's simply forgotten to sign one of her case files. His eyes twinkle in amusement as she passes him and she will remember that and think that he really had no fucking clue what was so funny about it at all.

She's met at Reagan International by two men in service dress, field grade officers who are brisk and friendly in that puppy-like way that Americans are, as if the whole world is their potential new best friend.

One of them offers to carry her bag, but she gives him a look and he shrugs as if to say that he was required to ask and didn't really think it a reasonable suggestion. They lead her to a black SUV with tinted windows, larger than her first flat, and explain that they will need to drive to Andrews Air Force Base to continue their journey. At Andrews, they board a Gulfstream that will take them to NORAD.

Once they have taken off and the officers give her a few minutes, she suspects, to enjoy the view of the national capital from on high, they settle down to work.

"How much do you know about why you're on this adventure, Ms. Myers?" Major Davis asks.

"Not a thing," she answers honestly. She's been punted to the Americans for a classified mission of unknown duration, an operation so black that Harry can't find a shred of a clue as to what it is. ("The Americans aren't normally this proficient at keeping secrets," he'd scowled, peeved at his own ignorance and at his inability to keep her from this unknown fate.)

By the time the plane lands in Colorado, she's sure this is a practical joke, that Adam will be waiting on the tarmac with a big grin and a bigger bottle of champagne and they'll board a jet back to the real world and one that does not involve extraterrestrial life forms.

The only thing waiting for them is another black SUV with another nattily-dressed officer with his hand outstretched to shake.

"Welcome to the Stargate Program, Ms. Myers."


She carries the assimilated rank of lieutenant colonel. She's a little unclear if there's any official mechanism for this or if it's just O'Neill making things up as he goes along again, especially as neither Jackson nor Teal'c carry any sort of warrant or rank. But within the Stargate Program it doesn't really matter as O'Neill's word is effectively law.

Back at the Mountain, it meant that the bevy of majors did what she told them to without questioning and, now that they are finally leaving for Atlantis, she finds herself expecting that Major Sheppard will do the same. He was pliant enough in the mobilization period, unwilling to put himself under the authority of Sumner and therefore keeping himself just out from underfoot of Weir, who dotes on him like a favored child.

Elizabeth Weir had a very good career in the diplomatic corps, everyone says. Often. Ros, with her own prior career that frequently meant undoing the messes the US State Department created in the world, takes that to be a backhanded assessment of Weir's brief time as the SGC's chief and nothing in her personal interactions with the woman has changed that. Weir is pleasant, eager, and, for a woman who spent a year authorizing off-world missions and essentially prosecuting a secret war with the Goa'uld, shockingly optimistic about what awaits them in Pegasus.

O'Neill sighed when Ros told him that while she understood that he wanted her along to provide competent leadership for investigation of the Pegasus galaxy, there was bloody little she could get done if they were led by a woman who expected to be greeted by the indigenous populations with leis and boxes of sweets. He assured her that Weir was far more competent and realistic than she looked and, besides, with Sumner bitching about the same things, Ros would have an ally.

"It's a wonder you two don't get along better," O'Neill told her. "You certainly sound exactly alike."

Except she doesn't have an ally, because one of the first things she has to do in Pegasus is kill Sumner. Which is ironic and terrible and, apart from the tragedy of it, leaves the marine contingent without a leader, a headless body of a not-very-bright creature. Ford is useless -- worse than useless; Ros has tried not to deal with him directly, afraid of those pitiful eyes full of unshed tears.

(Making Ford cry the first time had been an accident and, as it happened in Antarctica before either of them had been assigned to the Atlantis mission, without meaningful consequence. The second time, however, brought her a meeting with O'Neill, one of those meetings where he gets actually annoyed because he feels your behavior is not only counterproductive, but giving him more to do. Ros apologized, which made her a little relieved that the third time came in another galaxy and far from the General's disappointed gaze.)

Weir understands that Ford cannot assume command of the military element in Atlantis; it is not even discussed. Ros expects Weir will suggest Sheppard, which is slightly less ridiculous but not by much, and Ros expects to counter by suggesting herself. She led teams of airmen at the Mountain and Weir herself headed up a military program. It would not be that much of a precedent to set and, here in a new galaxy, there is no reason to adhere to rules that only made sense in the old one.

Weir does propose Sheppard, but she does so by giving Ros his service jacket to read.

"Where is this man?" Ros asks her, gesturing to the laptop screen once she is finished reading. "He never arrived at the Mountain."

Weir smiles at her, catlike. "In the aircraft bay, I believe."

Ros goes to find him there, expecting to find the lazy, slouching man she got used to slinking around the halls of the SGC. She does not find him. Major Sheppard is there, slouching against the side of one of the spacecraft as an excited Spanish engineer prattles on in heavily-accented english, but he carries none of the "none of this concerns me at all" insouciance she'd learned to recognize from afar like a bad body odor.

"Miz Myers," he drawls when he sees her, just enough of an emphasis on the honorific to let her know that yes, the rules have changed. She knows Weir hasn't said anything to him yet about assuming command of the marines, but it's clear he's taking that as his prerogative.

"Major," she replies in kind, accepting the challenge. She has no plans to change her routine of expecting obedience out of the Stargate Program's bevy of O-4s; Sheppard may have to be handled differently, but handled he will be.

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2 August, 2010