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December 14th, 2007

(Feed the Ferret)

April 11th, 2007

03:58 pm - One more fic for fun To Sleep... Authors Note: I love the idea of the city being vaguely sentient, having personality, or wishes and desires of her own. This story is a reflection of this. Insomnia had been the least of their problems in the beginning. The first few nights on Atlantis had been spent mostly racked out on sleeping bags and therma-rest pads in communal areas, guarded by Marines who took turns sleeping and guarding and looking vaguely stunned. Once the central core of the city had been searched, and power seemed slightly less of an issue, people started moving into rooms that seemed suitable for sleeping in slightly smaller groups, and then, after it seemed likely residency wasn’t going to be a fleeting thing, individual, or in a few cases, shared accommodations were chosen and assigned, and names written in marker on the doors. Right about then was when the insomnia complaints to the medical team seemed to disappear, but it made sense. No more snoring to listen to. No more being tripped over on the midnight bathroom runs. And a lessening sense of imminent death. Who wouldn’t sleep better? It wasn’t that no one complained of insomnia. It happened. Sometimes folks who crashed out in their labs, on dragged in sofas, would admit to restless nights, the odd person with a lingering injury would come begging for extra pain medication for the nights, and there was the weird incident where no one out in what they called ‘G’ section seemed to sleep well for three nights solid, but Rodney blamed noise and vibration from a malfunctioning power transfer unit, and once it was bypassed, everyone seemed to sleep well again. Except for that pesky little trip back to Earth… Elizabeth looked like near-death warmed over the second morning back at the SGC, Carson looked only slightly better, and even Rodney looked a little worse for wear. Each had a large cup of strong coffee in front of them, that they studiously kept filled, with even Carson refraining from commenting. The third morning, Carson looked better (but wouldn’t have admitted to taking 100 milligrams of the Dramamine he’d had in his bag, even if someone had asked), Rodney had the look of three days with minimal sleep (a not unfamiliar state to him), and Elizabeth still looked like death warmed over (a look Carson hadn’t seen on her in weeks). By the fifth day on Earth, Carson had run out of Dramamine, but cunningly replaced his stash on a trip to the Walmart in Colorado Springs, Rodney had come begging for something, anything, to help him sleep, but then refused to take the pills because he felt they made him less of Sam Carters intellectual better, and more of her peer. And Elizabeth just kept on looking like death. It wasn’t until on day six, Carson pulled rank, and dragged Elizabeth down to Dr Lam’s infirmary, gave her the once over, and prescribed sleeping pills, that she started looking better. And it wasn’t until after John Sheppard’s return to the SGC with a large duffel that clinked suspiciously that Rodney started looking better rested, but slightly hungover in the mornings. Ironic to return to Atlantis less well rested than they had left. After a very long first day back, on the first night back in her own quarters, Elizabeth was asleep before she even thought of taking the pills. The second night she reckoned she was tired enough to fall asleep without them, what from her regular workload and from renewing her workouts with Teyla, and by the third night; sleeping problem? What sleeping problem. Rodney and John drank a small amount of the ‘smuggled’ alcohol the first night back by way of celebration, and then fell back into the routine of exhausting exercise, running for their lives and general overwork that left them crawling onto their respective beds with barely their tactical vests pulled off. Carson swore he’d picked up a stomach flu on his last day on Earth (and judging from the 5 other people who seemed to catch it after his return, he may have been right), and polished off the second bottle of Dramamine he had in his personal kit bag in near record time. He never bothered to replace it with anything else for sleeping. And Atlantis watched over her citizens. And tweaked the room temperatures, and subtle vibrations, and added just the right amount of white noise to the rooms. And they all slept better than they ever had at home. The End T.C. Current Mood: artistic

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April 4th, 2007

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February 12th, 2007

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February 11th, 2007

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December 14th, 2006

01:12 pm - SGA Fic This fic was written as an assignment for school; write a piece of short science fiction, fanfic being an acceptable format, illustrating some of the themes discussed in class. Warnings: adult themes, discussion of torture A Difficult Decision By: T.C. Atlantis Expedition International Oversight Committee C/O Stargate Command, Cheyenne, Colorado, Earth May 22, 2005 As requested by the policy of the International Oversight Committee, I am writing a personal report to supplement the procedural records of these unusual events. It is very clear to me, in my role as expedition leader, that these events represent new and serious threats. Both the Goa’uld infiltration of Atlantis and the startling need for increased controls within Atlantis to prevent a reoccurrence of computer tampering require immediate action. I have addressed my concerns in regards to screening of Daedalus personnel in the formal report, however, my concerns about the events in regards to the treatment of Dr. Kavanagh will be addressed in this report. Dr. Kavanagh has been a valued member of this expedition, but there have, previous to this, been a number of incidents involving him. His behaviour, both since joining the expedition, but especially in the weeks before this incident, bordered on bizarre, and it was with a degree of relief that I approved his return to Earth. His behaviour once he was questioned in regard to the explosives was immediately hostile, offensive, and un-cooperative. His sending of messages from Daedalus and refusal to adequately explain them were especially suspicious. While he cannot be asked or forced to take responsibility for my actions, I emphasize his behaviour made him the best suspect in my opinion. Colonel Caldwell fully supported using extreme measures to get the access codes from Dr. Kavanagh, although with the benefit of hindsight, this likely represented an attempt to divert any potential suspicion from himself. At the time I approved the actions of Mr. Ronon, Dr. McKay estimated ZPM overload would occur in 24 minutes, and at the time when Mr. Ronon volunteered to interrogate Dr. Kavanagh, less than 10 minutes remained. I was fully aware that Mr. Ronon intended to use force as he saw necessary to obtain the code. The balcony overlooking the west pier was high enough above the deck below that the sunset still bathed it in yellow light, though it was starting to cool below as dusk settled onto it. Someone had found what passed for an Adirondack chair and placed it against the wall, but she leaned against the railing, savouring the view. Major Lorne had a platoon of marines training below; callisthenics intermixed with what looked like a combination of Athosian stick fighting and boxing. Occasional yelps as blows landed sounded between shouted encouragement and berating from the platoon commander echoed up between the spires. This was one of the reasons Elizabeth came up here, she was sheltered from the view of all but the most searching eye, but she could see much of the activity that took place outside the city, and she could hear a surprising amount. In the quiet of the night she could sometimes hear individual voices, but even in the busier day she could hear general murmur of the city below here, and gauge its mood. Tonight it was business as usual. Enthusiastic. Focused. ‘Elizabeth?’ John’s voice was soft behind her. He’d startled her from deep thoughts on this balcony more than once, and was always cautious to call out to her from the doorway now. “I’m fine John.” He hadn’t even asked, but she knew what he was wondering. She’d been quiet all day. She’d seemed to struggle a little through the daily grind of meetings and after action report. ‘You could have fooled me’ He came up beside her, leaning easily against the railing, watching the events below with a false casualness. He too spent hours watching the city from high balconies. “Really, I’m fine. It’s just been…” she paused, searching for the right word, “draining” “Kavanagh’s been released from the infirmary. Beckett says he’s fine, he didn’t even manage to hit his head on the way to the ground. Kate’s going to visit him in the morning, and then return him to duty if he seems okay to work in the labs, helping finish with the cleanup” He let the news hang in the air, letting the implication that normalcy was returning in every way he could encourage it to. “It was wrong.” Her voice was soft in the now fading dusk. Sound didn’t travel from the balcony to the pier, yelling down to the troops below would barely have reached them. “It was your only choice.” He’d said it before, before the actions had been taken, and after, and in the debriefing. And he’s say it again. “We stand here and think we’re better than the Wraith, and then we go and do this. We think that’s it’s justifiable...” she trailed off, leaning her head on her hands. “We’re at war, Doctor Weir.” it was a blunt statement. No room for argument left in it. “If a little coercion against Kavanagh is the worse crime any of us commit in this war, then we need to consider ourselves lucky…” He trailed off. From below, a sharp yell floated up, a few sharp voices and then an end to the muffled sounds of training. Looking down they could see a few marines knotted around each other. Weir’s radio was keyed to pick up only a few channels, allowing most of the cities communications to flow without any knowledge on her part, but the ‘911’ channel, was always live in her ear, to the control room, the security duty room, and to the infirmary. It was Lorne’s voice over the channel, calm, absent of panic, but not of concern. “Infirmary, Major Lorne. Can you send someone down to the West Pier with a wheelchair, there’s an ankle that’s going to need checking out.” It took only a moment for the control room to acknowledge the request, and for the infirmary to respond with the expected ‘Team’s on their way Major, just sit tight till they get there’. John and Elizabeth both leaned against the balcony rail, watching below, for the few minutes that it took for the medical team to respond, and for them to bundle up the now standing marine into a wheelchair. “We all knew there would be risks when we came here. You knew.” He waved down to the pier at the marines dispersing as their training came to an unceremonious end “They knew. Kavanagh knew.” She shook her head slightly. “Not like that. He didn’t know the people he trusted to keep him safe would torture him. He didn’t sign up for that” “He signed on for an extraordinary journey. Extraordinary risks…” “We didn’t have the right to do that to him.” But, her voice lacked passion. John took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “You were trying to defuse a ticking bomb.” His was certain, convicted. She laughed under her breath, “That’s always the argument in favour of torture, the perfect example….” John turned to face her, his outline sharp against the sunset. “There was a ticking bomb, not a figurative one, a literal one. You thought he had the information you need to save the city. If there was ever a situation that was justified, it was there.” “He didn’t have the information. We suspected him because we didn’t like him.” “Because he couldn’t have made himself a better suspect if he’d put on a striped shirt, and an ‘it was me’ sticker. You can’t hold it against yourself that he was the logical suspect.” “We were wrong about him.” She stopped; torn between anger and tears. The fading light did nothing to conceal the grey circles on her face, and the brightness of her eyes at the admission. “Elizabeth, you’re scaring me. You need to believe you did what you needed to. We won this battle. We may not win this war. But, we’re here today, and you need to believe this. I know this is hard, but it’s done now.” “Ronon won’t tell me what he said to Kavanagh. And, to be honest, I’m not sure that I want to know.” “Ronon wouldn’t have had to have said anything. He just had to be himself.” He laughed a little. “Hell, I’m afraid of him sometimes, and I think he likes me.” “He doesn’t like Kavanagh. It shouldn’t have been him.” She twisted her hair with her hand, pushing it back behind her ear, in one of her few nervous gestures. “No one likes Kavanagh.” She brought her hands back to her lap, stilling her own movements with one hand over the other. “Ronon isn’t exactly known for his personal control.” “Nooooo, he’s not.” He waited, his mouth crooked to one side as he wrestled with what to say next, or not to say. “I hate to admit this. I’d have done it, if you’d asked me to. I believed he was probably guilty. I figured he’d give up the codes with a little coercion…” “But you’re glad I didn’t?” She asked without a trace of irony. “Yeah. I am. But I’d have done it.” She waited a long time before she spoke again. “Thank you John.” She waited again, watching his face for any sign she could read, but it was held emotionless. “I have to finish the report still…” “Leave it for tomorrow. Get some sleep. The databurst doesn’t go for another week now.” He rested his hand on her shoulder for a brief moment, before turning back into the city, back to the routine of surviving. She sat back on the deck chair, watching the last of sun fade away, and the nights cooling dark settle around her. And in the last of the light, she headed back into the city. She couldn’t stay awake forever, she needed the sleep, and she owed it to them all to be ready for whatever tomorrow brought. I have reviewed the security camera record from the entire interaction between Mr. Ronon and Dr. Kavanagh. At no time did Mr.r Ronon make physical contact with Dr. Kavanagh. His audible verbal interaction with Dr. Kavanagh was limited to “Doctor Weir needs those codes. Now.” He advanced several paces into the room, and although he was armed with his usual personal weaponry (Note: it is policy that during times of heightened alert, personnel are armed with a personal sidearm or alternatives at all times), he did not use the weapon in any aggressive gesture. At this time Dr. Kavanagh appeared to experience dizziness, and fell to the ground. Mr. Ronon assessed him for vital signs, and finding them adequate, notified the infirmary of the need to send a medical team. It was during the interval between the call for the medical team, and their arrival that Colonel Sheppard ran from the control room to the briefing room where Dr. Kavanagh was confined to ensure that Mr. Ronon was aware that the situation was resolved, and that Dr. Kavanagh was not in fact in possession of the codes. While I am sure Dr. Kavanagh will view this entire experience as ‘torturous’, he, in fact, suffered no physical harm, and although he did experience a syncopal episode when Mr. Ronon approached him, I believe this was significantly a result of the overall high stress level he was experiencing. Dr. Beckett confirms in his report that Dr. Kavanagh was suffering from hypoglycemia and hypotension on his arrival to infirmary after his collapse, which in his opinion is compatible with a mid-to-long term stress response, as opposed to an acute reaction to the presence of Mr. Ronon. Atlantis was rarely a dark place at night. The water surrounding the city reflected the moonlight on all but the rarest of completely dark nights. As more and more of the city had gradually been brought back online, intentionally or unintentionally, random lights like warning beacons, started to power on at night, giving the city the appearance of a flock of skyscrapers too close to a major airport. Elizabeth paced her quarters restlessly; sleep was proving as elusive as netting one of the birds that spun in the air around the spires. The biologists were fascinated by the idea of examining one of the birds who used the city as a giant floating nest, and Elizabeth was fascinated by the idea of even a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. Neither was proving easy to catch. A few more keystrokes of her report written on the umpteenth pass of her desk didn’t help give her a sense of completion, and she finally gave up, hoping perhaps tea and a walk to and from the mess hall would exhaust her enough to let her rest. The mess wasn’t empty. It rarely was. Scientists had no concept of ‘mealtimes’ and the military component seemed to believe that anytime was mealtime. There wasn’t just a ‘Night Lunch’ in Atlantis. There was Breakfast, Lunch, ‘Tea’, Dinner, Late Supper, Night Lunch, Early Breakfast, and the ever open sandwich corner. And Rodney McKay viewed every one as an acceptable opportunity for staving off his hypoglycemia. He sauntered in, filling a large plate from the buffet line, and joined her at a window table. Elizabeth managed to tune out his chatter, sitting back her in her chair, her meal largely untouched, and vaguely nauseating. As a member of her senior staff, he’d never hesitated to tell her exactly what he thought, and, with unerring accuracy homed in like a chair-guided drone, to the crux of why she was awake at hours usually reserved for the graveyard shift and the sugar deprived. “Elizabeth, you can’t sit there, beating yourself up because of what Ronon did. You needed to protect us. If the systems had overloaded, the blast would have killed everyone left behind. Kaboom!” He managed to wave one bite of chicken strip on the end of his fork, as he gestured pointedly with his hand. He leaned across the table, and pushed her tray back towards her. “You can’t let this whole thing eat, or, ‘not eat’ you up. And you can’t tell me you’d have put Kavanagh onto one of the berths on the Daedelus. He was going to die here, with me I might add. God knows we have a history of trying to go down with this city. I was starting to feel like I wasn’t about to get down to the jumper bay in near enough time, anyway, he was going to die if the city went.” He paused to chew a few times, washing it down with coffee with ruthless enthusiasm. “In fact…” Rodney picked up another chicken strip, trying to make it look more delicious than could possibly be “I’m pretty sure that I could argue you should get a ‘pass’ on the ethics of the whole situation based on the fact that he was going to be real dead pretty soon anyway, and your only intention was to keep him from ending up that way. To keep most of us from ending up dead” Weir started to pick at the meal in front of her, half-heartedly skewering mostly cooled chicken, and nibbling at the meat. Rodney put down his fork, and leaned across the table. “I’ll be the first one to tell you this; if all we ever looked at is the end result, I think we’d be all be screwed” She gave a brittle laugh. Leave it to Rodney to put the ethical thorn they’d wrestled with into such indelicate terms. Pinching the bridge of her nose, trying to stave off the building pressure behind her eyes, she let the pain wash over her for a long moment, before her frustration broke through. “You know Rodney, since I took this job I’ve spent more nights than I can count trying to figure out how to keep our heads above water. We’re trying; yes, but that’s not good enough. We’re creating monsters out of ourselves by thinking we’re better than the rest of the monsters out in this galaxy. I’m making judgment calls that the International Oversight Committee is RIGHT to question. The results…well, we’re still here aren’t we? But maybe we aren’t even asking the right questions about our own ethics…” She trailed off a bit, running out of steam in her rant. Rodney leaned across the table, and in the softest voice she had ever heard him use, wrapped his words around her. “We’re asking Elizabeth. That’s more than the Wraith do.” He polished off the last of his dinner, and stood, all of his usual loudness returning, “You should finish that. Really.” He gestured at her dinner tray, before sweeping his tray off the table, and towards to ‘dirty’ racks. “See you in the morning, Rodney.” She made an honest effort to manage a few more bites, watching him as he disappeared into the hallway. Once any more possible scrutiny of her eating habits was out of range, she gathered her cutlery and radio, and headed back for her office. Although the Satedan culture has no equivalent term for ‘coercive interrogation’, I believe now, as I did before allowing Mr. Ronon to speak with Dr. Kavanagh, that he understood that the goal of his interaction with Dr. Kavanagh was strictly to attempt to obtain the override codes from him, if he indeed did have knowledge of them, and that at no point was punitive torture of Dr. Kavanagh considered. After discussion with Mr. Ronon, I have confirmed that methods we would consider certainly far into the realm of ‘torture’ were routinely employed as a part of the interrogatory, judicial and punitive process on Sateda. However, he clearly understands that the accepted standards of conduct within the Atlantis Expedition are radically different, and our conduct here must be subject to the provisions of UNCAT. Morning on Atlantis wasn’t announced by bugles, or ‘reveille’, despite one of the gate techs assertions that the city had a complete intercom system that they could have tapped into with any of a dozens of MP3 players. Morning was announced by a gradual increase in the noise, a gradual rise in the power consumption curves as people turned, or thought, on lights and showers, and systems that only activated as people moved around the city came back online (with daily variance in the number of systems that failed, and worked correctly). For Elizabeth it was heralded by the beginnings of glare on her tablet computer, as it sat barely propped on her knees, the same few lines of report staring back at her, as they had for the entire darkest hours of the night. The light reflected back into her dark, damp pupils, and brought her to the awareness that her headache had just used the night to lie dormant, and now was starting to rage. Dr. Beckett refused to allow any of the residents of the city, senior staff included, to self-medicate. Even a few plain Tylenol tablets were technically contraband, although easy enough to find if one asked any of the science team. But she’d play by the rules, and ask whoever the night staff in the infirmary was for them, and they would note them on her chart, again, and then maybe she could sleep. The infirmary day, like most hospitals, started early, and Elizabeth shouldn’t have been surprised to see Dr. Carson Beckett finishing his morning staff briefing. But she was. Startled enough to nearly back up out of the doorway, not entirely keen to be subjected to his scrutiny. Dr. Safir blew any chance she had of a quiet escape with an overly loud “Good Morning Doctor Weir”, as he brushed past her on his way off night shift. Carson, of course, turned and pinned her in his gaze, making it crystal clear he’d seen her, and the grey circles still under her eyes. Escaping with just a few Tylenol in hand would have been much easier if she hadn’t wobbled uncertainly on her third step into the infirmary. Carson, already having taken a step towards her, swiftly crossed the last few feet, handing off the duty roster, and freeing both his hands to steady her. “Are ye alright?” He guided her by the elbow towards one of his ‘treatment’ beds, at the edge of the main room of the infirmary. She couldn’t quite bring herself to shake off his hand, the warmth comforting through her sweater, but she drew herself away from him as he tried to manoeuvre her into lying on the bed. All she needed was a chair, and a moment to clear her head, and she told him as much, sitting heavily in the visitors chair at the bedside. He relented, instead leaning back against the bed himself. Critically assessing her in the full light of the treatment area, he shook his head lightly at her. “I’m fine Carson, I just need some Tylenol for a headache. It’s kept me up all night.” “Migraine?” He was one of the few, even of the medical staff, who knew she’d had them in the past. “No nausea? Photosensitivity?” His hands were starting to examine her, snagging her finger for the pulse oximeter clip, and wrapping the blood pressure cuff around her upper arm. She paused. A moment too long. “No. Just sinus pressure.” And then she was caught in a lie…. “That’s not what Rod….a certain rodent, told me at breakfast” His hand went for the ever present penlight, and she worked hard to hide the inevitable wince, not entirely succeeding. “Have ye slept at all since yesterday?” “A bit….” She trailed off, one lie had been caught already, and even fully on her game, she could rarely put anything past the astute physician. He clucked over the blood pressure readings, as it beeped ‘complete’ and moved behind her to slip his stethoscope under her shirt “Deep breaths for me, luv.” She took a few, and found even this simple act enough to bring back the dizziness she’d felt in the doorway. His voice seemed far away for a moment, and she waited for it come close again. “You’re plainly exhausted Elizabeth.” His arm was once again around her, holding her in the chair, and she wondered for a moment how all these men could stand to touch her. How they could so casually wrap arms around someone who could authorize one man to scare another to the floor. But they did, and he did, and she leaned into his warmth, shivering. “Shel, can you get me a blanket from the warmer?” He was calling out to his day nurse, and she brought a warm blanket, a glass of ice water, and kicked a spare chair towards them. He wrapped the blanket around her, offered the water, wrapped her hands securely around it, and sat down, almost toe to toe with her. “I need you to level with me. Is this the last 24 hours coming down on you, or have you a migraine?” “It’s the last 24 hours Carson. Not a migraine.” Her shivers eased, and he took the glass from her hands. “And no sleep last night?” She shook her head reluctantly, opting for honesty. “No. None” “And eating? Rodney mentioned you were in the mess late, picking at night lunch.” This was not going well….everyone was concerned for her, but she didn’t merit the concern. The concern needed to be ensuring safeguards so nothing even similar could happen again. The concern should be for Kavanagh. Wrongly accused. Tortured. Deeply wronged. So she fought, weakly. “I just came down for some Tylenol Carson, if I can shake the headache, I’m sure I’ll sleep.” “You’ll sleep today, luv. But, I think it’ll be here with us, for now. You’re right frightful looking right now, and I don’t think I’d be doing you, or the city, any favours to turn you loose” She rallied against this “I have reports, Caldwell to interview….” “That can wait. Stephens still sleeping in the isolation lab, the reports aren’t urgent, John can manage things for at least a few hours, without sinking the city. You don’t need to be up and about, or working on your paperwork” “I…” She started to rebel, just enough energy left for one attempt, and he silenced her with a filthy look. “What can I say tae help you, Elizabeth? John told me what happened up there, and, the whole bloody mess makes my skin crawl, but, I don’t think you had much choice.” His gaze strayed to the windows, past her shoulder, and his words were measured carefully. “Elizabeth, sometimes in medicine, we have to cause pain. To cure, to heal, to excise an infection. It’s part of the process. Part of doing a small harm, for a greater good.” He leaned back in his chair. “The situation, as I understand it, didn’t leave you a lot of choices. You were trying to do a greater good, and a smaller pain had to be inflicted. I won’t say it’s not god-awful….poor man is shaken by it, as are you. I can see that. But, Doctor Weir, sometimes for the greater good, you have to allow some suffering to happen….if we mask all pain with morphine, we can’t diagnose properly, if we never did surgeries, think of the harm”. He watched her closely, looking for any sign his words were easing her burden, but all he could see was a friend in pain, tired, and direly in need of sleep. “But enough of that. Lets get you resting here”. He patted the bed beside him, and offered his hand to steady her rise to her feet. Within a few moments he had his newest patient tucked under a new warm blanket, with a spare on top for comfort. His hands on hers were strictly clinical now; before she knew it, a tourniquet was around her arm, pinching slightly and cold alcohol was rinsing the back of her hand. “That’s not really necessary…” She started to pull her hand back under the blanket, away from the glint of the hollow needle he was peeling from its sterile packaging, but he held it tightly, and warned of a sharp pinch as he slipped the cannula into the back of her hand, taped it securely into place and adjusted the tubing to start the fluid dripping. “Just for some medication Doctor Weir. I won’t keep it in longer than I have to. I promise you’ll feel better for some intravenous meds, and I won’t have to see you sick to your stomach on my clean floor” His nurses were nearly psychic, and without even asking for it, he had a dose of Gravol and Morphine mixed into a syringe. “This might burn a bit as I give it to you, just let me know”. He watched her for a reaction, and seeing none, continued the slow push on the plunger into her intravenous. “How’s that?” Her eyes were staring to drift closed, from the warm bed, or the medication, or both, but she fixed her eyes with his for one last sentence, even as her words started to slur slightly. “Carson; You, Rodney, John, even Ronon have tried to tell me it’s alright. And you know, the strangest thing, you’re all telling me different reasons. And the only reason I can think of is; I thought it gave me the best chance to keep us alive.” He pulled the syringe out of the port, and laid his hand on her shoulder as she slipped into sleep. “That’s not a bad reason Elizabeth, it’s not a bad one” I have discussed this entire incident at length with my senior staff, and despite the fact that I believe legitimate arguments supporting the actions taken by myself and my senior staff can be made, I believe that we owe it to the success of the expedition, and to the representation we make of Earth here in Pegasus, that we set a higher standard of conduct for ourselves. In this instance, I alone authorized the actions, however, all of my senior staff are routinely making significant ethical decisions, with serious implications. In this incident, I believe I made a choice that could have been avoided with better diligence, and I sincerely regret any suffering this has caused Dr. Kavanagh. Dr. Kavanagh has once again requested to return to Earth with the Daedalus, which as you are no doubt aware, is scheduled to leave Atlantis as soon as the necessary drive repairs are completed. I believe it is in his best interests to not be permitted to return to Atlantis, although his continued contributions to the research from the SGC or ‘Area 51’ would be very welcome. Upon reflections of my personal actions, and the lack of explicit guidance in regards to where the Atlantis Expedition stands in terms of following the guidelines of the United Nations, specifically the Convention against Torture, I believe that we must take advantage of this time of relatively convenient communication with the International Oversight Committee to frame specific commitments to the manner in which all members of the Atlantis Expedition will conduct themselves, in all circumstances, so as to prevent a repeat of these most unfortunate circumstances. Dr. Elizabeth Weir Expedition Leader Atlantis Expedition Current Mood: creative

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12:51 pm - Fic to share Every day you should mess with at least one persons head. It's sort of a rule I live by, you know, it keeps life interesting. So, in the interests of messing with more minds, I have been encouraged to post some of my fic. Hopefully this will be easier than my cursed FTP server and webpage. So, come in, sit down, bring bacon, and enjoy. Current Mood: creative

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