When I come in, he's already waiting in my office, eyes down in mock-penance, hands clasped in his lap like he's done this a lot. I don't need to have read his file to know that John Sheppard has spent more than his fair share of time in the principal's office. I can't stop my concern, however. Despite all the things I need to say, stirring in my belly and making me take a seat on the chair's edge, I can't wipe those few seconds out of my mind - the ones when we heard nothing but silence over the radio and I fought to keep my hopes alive. "You okay?"

He shrugs, trying to play the 'modest hero' again. "Yeah, just a little nuked, nothing really." I try not to wince at the word - 'nuked.' I doubt he knows the full implications of it, or the reality of how close we've come...

I guess, the best thing to start out with is to not get him on the defensive. Maybe hand out a little praise. "The naquadah generator plan was very cleaver. Good work." I certainly wouldn't have thought of it. Then again, what was it that Machiavelli said? Those not smart enough to rule with the pure force of their own intellect should find advisors that are and steal their ideas... that was the gist, at least. And it's one good reason to put up with Rodney.

"Thank you." He has this smug little smile on his face, and I press my lips together to keep from saying something I shouldn't. He did risk his life to save us all. Unfortunately, that's not what's in question. And he knows it. "Now... I'm going to bed." Even saving the day isn't a get out of jail free card, though he's trying to make it one, beating a hasty retreat. He thinks he can charm his way out of this... play the hero. But I've long outgrown the days where I used to sit outside in the sunlight reading tales of Hercules and Odysseus... my life has turned to Sophocles now.

When John Sheppard first walked... or sat, his way into my life, I admit I was impressed. I wanted to call him savior, with those Movie Star good-looks and that easy smile, the modest trivializations of miracles. But, as much as I want it, I know he can't save us. As Halling once said, 'We are not the Ancestors.' John Sheppard is not a god. A hero, maybe, but heroes belong to past glories, tales and legend of epic feats, poetry and song. In the present we call them soldiers or murderers, or cocky flyboys with a hatred of authority that turns even those gorgeous green eyes blind. But all the heroism and charisma in the world does you no good if the action itself is wrong. Hitler was a hero to his people, and so were Mao and Stalin and Castro and Osama Bin Laden.

But, as he's just proved, what power do I have against him? When it comes down to it, John is the dashing young hero, give him a leather jacket and a motorcycle and call him James Dean - and I'm the mother that's always reminding him to get back by curfew. He has the guns, the guys that would die for him; he's even managed to win the loyalty and support of Mr. Anti-Military himself, Rodney McKay. All I have, all we civilians ever have if you take threat of American Military or Purchase Power away, are empty mandates... a General galaxies away who neither of us may ever see or talk to again. There's a reason that even with so-called 'soft power,' the country with the biggest military is still the hegemon. John has all the cards and all I have are the emotions and loyalties his real Mother instilled in him long ago. It hurts to know that all my power here is a sham, that I am at John's mercy - not just personally, but because it hurts to know that if we leave this up to John, more mistakes will be made and they'll be painful ones, ones that we can't afford. "We need to discuss what happened earlier."

"Now?" He turns to face me again, accusing, like I'm asking so much of him. Like it's wrong to hold him accountable for his actions. Somehow I'm the bad guy when what he did nearly cost 32 people their lives - people we both know and care about.

I make myself look at him, pulling in the anger but unleashing the disappointment that I know is a thousand times more dangerous. "That can never happen again."

He doesn't quite meet my gaze. I know it's stern, the Medusa one. Maybe that's the only power I truly have - the force of my condemnation. But that demands respect, doesn't it? He raises his hand in the way he does when he thinks he's doing you a favor by making a concession... explaining something in that 'well, if you insist...' way of his. "Look, I'm sorry about..." He's not sorry, but I'm pretty sure if I let him keep talking he'll shift gears straight into all out 'apologetic' and 'troubled,' maybe even throw in a little 'vulnerable' for a bargain. But deep down, he can't be sorry. Because, if he was, he wouldn't be doing this right now. If he was truly sorry he wouldn't even want to get away with this, let alone think he could succeed.

But all that time in Beijing, watching those proud little men half my height puff up their cheeks and get right up in each other's faces, voices booming, eyebrows quaking, has taught me that you don't fight fire with fire when it comes to arrogance. You make a compliment and then quickly move in for the kill. I can do civilly academic with the best of them, at least all my professors at Wellesley thought so. "I understand your expertise in military matters." He looks shocked that I've interrupted him. I may be a trained diplomat, but I'm by no means always polite. "And I agree that I should defer to those expertise in such situations."

John's used to being fawned over, but he's not used to getting praise from above. But I'm not all those Generals and Colonels, and even his own father, who taught him that authority is so far detached from humanity that he doesn't have to listen. "Thank you." He says warily, eyebrows frowning.

"But you are not the one who decides what is and what is not a military situation." He looks away and I can see that I've already lost his attention, filed away as just another father-figure to be rebelled again. Any credibility I may have gained with the compliment fading away the second I dare contradict the fact that John Sheppard is a gift of God, bound to no temporal authority. His arrogance astounds me and I can feel my own temper rising. Only years of schooling my features, learning to put feelings aside to do whatever needs to be done to ensure the greater good keeps me from screeching, shouting. I haven't felt this way since back in the days after the Wall in Germany, running around, getting coffee and typing memos for the ambassadorial staff, because us women were those strange creatures whose asses you could no longer slap in public but still had to drag along with you to satisfy the affirmative action requirements. "Now both General O'Neill and Colonel Sumner warned me that you don't respect the proper chain of command..."

"Sometimes I see a situation a little differently..." There are no excuses. The only emotions that matter in command are the ones you can use to your advantage. I know it's cold, but it's the truth. As a policymaker, as a commander, you know that every decision you make will cost lives - every word you utter can change the course of history, but more likely the course of a life. Even things like changing a single line in the tax code cause suffering, if not death. A friend once told me that a change in the way McDonalds purchased to make french-fries caused 50,000 additional potato farmer suicides in India. And we're out here with limited resources and personnel fighting legions of technologically superior nearly immortal creatures who see the human race as the french-fries. Even John Sheppard can't charm his way out of this one.

"No, listen to me John." As though that will do any good. He may hear, but he definitely does not listen. "Now, you endangered yourself and the lives of many others..."

That, at least, gets his attention. Whatever anyone says about John, they can't deny that he cares about his people. He narrows his eyes - attacking his commitment to his people is asking for a fight. "Because I thought it was the best course of action to take." But that doesn't make it right. Ignorance cannot be an excuse, especially when repeated stimulus proves it to be only denial. His ego... even his deeply ingrained morals, are not worth the lives of all the innocent people relying on us to make the right decisions.

The last time I let his diehard little moralisms -the idealism that drags me back to the good old days in college when I thought I could heal the sick and feed the hungry and mobilization was the only thing needed to change the world- get the better of me... succumbing to the attack on my honor, the determined righteousness in his eyes, I let him go on the mission that awoke the Wraith... cost the lives of thousands... millions... civilizations marched to the noose so far before their time. Fifty years - that's two generations, that's the time it took us to go from an age of industry to an age of information, from overwhelming paranoia to talk of human rights, from rationing to Wal-Mart an a consumer empire, an epoch.

But that's my problem - I'm in so far over my head, we all are, that I want to let John's confidence soothe me. I want to have the same faith that he does that if we do the so-called 'right thing,' consequences be damned, then everything will turn out all right. And John has that way about him. He makes you believe. But I've seen too many mistakes... witnessed the fall of so many heroes, watched the statistics as social or economic policy doomed peoples to starvation or revolution or genocide or cultural assimilation... I've seen too much to believe that heart and dedication and that inexplicable Je ne sais quoi that makes you want and hope and trust beyond reason will ever be enough to win this war.

"And, by the way, I saved your ass." He says it like he's just pulled a trump card out of his sleeve. But we're not talking about Thoth and his great scale, or Peter at the pearly gates. In policy we like to pretend that decisions can be weighed on the balance of cost/benefit analysis, but, unlike numbers, negative and positive, they don't cancel each other out. The whole point of CBA is that you know bad things are going to happen because of what you do, and that you accept those consequences for the hope of good.

"I know you did. But you have to trust me." That's what this is all about, really. Credibility, and the things we have to do to get it. The thing is, I doubt John is even capable of fully trusting me, not just because I'm a woman, or a civilian, or someone in command, but because somewhere, somehow, he learned that the only person he can rely on is himself. I heard the uncertainty in his voice when he ordered Bates. I hear it every time he asks Rodney a question. John's a smart man, and I know that he's weighing all the scientific possibilities he can understand every time even our self-proclaimed genius says anything. When the storm was about to hit, he even tried to argue with the ridiculous claim that it simply couldn't happen, as though the name 'Atlantis' was shielding enough. But, like the structural integrity of the city, there are realities that myths and heroes cannot shape.

He nods that ridiculously insincere little nod of his, the one that says, 'I'm only humoring you' or 'I'll take that into consideration' or, in other words, 'yeah right.' "I do."

I narrow my eyes. He can't bluff me. In fact, I doubt he's even trying. He's throwing it back in my face, though I can't be sure whether or not it's intentional. "Do you?" I can be just as sarcastic if I want to be. He's not the only one who grew up in a military family and pseudo-rebelled. Of course, Daddy was a Navy man, not a sexist cold warrior from WestPoint.

I'm sure we could stare each other down pretty well, to the end of time; we're both that stubborn. Except I hear the clompity-clomp of heavy footsteps... the horsemen of the apocalypse?

"You guys have a minute?" Trust Rodney to pick the worst moment and invite himself right in. And he's completely oblivious... the tension could knock him on the head and do a little jig on his chest and he probably wouldn't notice. Carson, who followed Rodney in, looks nervously from me to John then gives Rodney a look - which he conveniently ignores, and the moment is lost. We both sit back in our seats refusing to be the first one to look back and see if the other has cooled, prepared to listen to a complicated scientific ramble.

John hurries out before I get a chance to tell him to stay, talking amiably and a little too loudly with Rodney, like it's all forced - designed to make it seem as though he doesn't care, that he's not running, when we both know he is.

"So, McKay, I hear that you gave a little 'last will' type speech."

"I thought I was dying, Major. You would've done the same."

John snorts. "I tried, but you guys wouldn't let me."

I see Rodney's shoulders slump as I rise and start to follow them out, ostensibly to check in at the control center. His voice has this strange almost underwater quality as he speaks. Even when he stutters and speaks a million miles per hour, Rodney generally doesn't mumble. "That's because we couldn't accept that you were dying. You... you... well, you always seem as though..." He stops walking and looks up to meet the major's gaze. "you just have this permanent quality about you."

John gives an exaggerated and sarcastic nod, but I catch as soft smile playing on his lips. "Ah. Like the white knight that always sweeps in to save your geeky ass."

Rodney turns away and keeps walking. "More like athlete's foot. And since when have you bailed me out of any trouble you haven't caused yourself?"

John chuckles saying, "So, did you say anything about me in you last words?" then steps closer and gives Rodney a nudge in the ribs. I frown, John isn't the most physical of people, despite how expressive he is, but he's obviously making an effort today.

"Sorry, Major, as much as you mean to me," I can hear to eyeroll in his words, "I had more important things to say... like oh, say, ways to save the city and important scientific experiments and telling the rest of these fools how to..."

I can't see his face, but I'm positive John is pouting. I inch closer to where they're stopped in the hallway just outside the control room. "Aw, Rodney, I'm disappointed. Not even a parting insult? I know how much you like to have the last word."

They're standing very close together and I can almost feel this strange energy between them. Are they flirting? I obviously don't know if either of them is the type, seeing as how John would never be able to tell anybody, but strangely, they don't move apart. But, then again Rodney does love attention, about as much as he loves arguing. John's just pushing all of his buttons.

"Not if it's my last word."

John actually laughs, instead of his usual snort or scowl or sarcastic half smile. "Well, it all turned out fine... as fine as can be expected."

"But do you have any idea how close we came to a full-blown plague? To scream, croak, kapooey?" Rodney gulps.

"But we didn't. That's the important thing. By the way some people around here act, you'd think we had..." He leaves the full accusation unsaid, the last part mumbled. I feel myself bristling, remembering his 'petulant child, left out of the big kid's game' routine from the first time he contacted us from the gym, his selfish demands that we compromise the critical time of our medical personnel so that he wouldn't be left out of the action.

"Did Elizabeth say something to you? Because even though it turned out not-so-great, I thought you did the right thing." Of course he does - he was the one that suggested it. And the Fat Lady needs to start singing before Rodney McKay admits that he was wrong.

John snaps, but he doesn't put anywhere near the usual amount of weight into it. "I said 'some people.'" So he's not ready for full treason just yet. That's good to know.

"Well, good for you. I still don't think she has the right when you were acting in the best interests of..."

I take a deep breath and approach the door, not ready to hear Rodney completely betray me just yet. The second he sees me, Rodney's jaw drops and he give the phrase 'a fish out of water' perfect physical illustration. "E... Elizabeth. Nice... How are you?" He squeaks.

"Fine thanks, Rodney," I say dismissively, focusing both my attention and my glare on John. "We're not finished, Major."

He stares back, impassively, putting on a good show for Rodney, who's wringing his hands and looking at the floor guiltily. "Well... er... I'd better... I think Carson's still doing some tests... he no doubt needs my... I'll just be going now." He takes off at an awkward not-quite-run, almost stumbling as he rounds the corner.

"Well, he's jumpy today." John frowns and pretends confusion, as though he's going to get away with things. "What can I do for you?" He makes it sound as though he's granting me audience, starting us at a walk down the hallway, away from witnesses.

"John. I know that what happened to Colonel Sumner is not your fault, but, frankly, I didn't bring you on this mission for your leadership skills, and certainly not for your ability to follow orders."

He clenches his fists and looks away quickly, obviously trying to stifle his anger in favor of proper protocol. At least I still have that, even when his voice is charged with resentment. "You brought me as a tool. A gene with a body and a rank attached - a means to an end."

"Yes, and I have no problem admitting that. I know you're not Colonel Sumner, but, John, you are not in charge here. You don't have carte blanche to go wherever impulse takes you."

He stops walking, composing himself for second, then steps in closer, his hand gripping my arm lightly. "Elizabeth, I'm sorry. I know I hurt you and I undermined your authority. I swear I didn't mean to..." he looks away, suddenly soft spoken and meek. But I wonder if its just another act, like the hero or the bad boy in the principal's office, hanging on protocol but not respect. Or now, the secret agent, using his looks, his charisma, to gain information, his body language has suddenly shifted from standing at my side or with his back to me to close and intimate, shy and sensitive. But, I'm no stranger to this. I never slept with anyone specifically to get my way in politics, but I would be a fool not to use the possibility to win over those precious emotions.

He leans in close, the intensity of his eyes startling, even when he's daring me, playing a game of chicken. I'm sure that's something else John's used to, and I know he almost always wins. But not this time. "Promise me you won't let that happen again."

"Elizabeth..." He looks away, giving my arm a squeeze and letting his fingers just brush over the sensitive hairs on my forearm as his hand slides away. I try not to shiver, folding my arms around me and closing my eyes, composing myself. I don't want to say it, but I know I have to.

"John. Think about the thirty people in the mess. Think about them running from the room if the city hadn't initiated a lock down." I lower my voice in shame, but force myself to look at him, even as he's looking away, trembling. "Think about the people on every planet those sixty hive ships are culling right now." Some sociologist once said that it is impossible to comprehend mass suffering, but looking into John's eyes I'm not so sure.

"I think about it every day." His voice is rough as untamed wilderness, cresting and breaking in a crackle like the cold waters of the arctic, crashing against the ice.

I feel as though I want to shout, but my voice comes out small and desperate, a plea. "Then how can you keep ignoring good judgment? Sometimes sacrifices have to be made."

"And sometimes you have to take risks!" He shouts it, gesturing to the empty hallway, just to throw his hands in motion. "It worked today, Elizabeth. If I hadn't detonated the reactor we would have lost a third..."

"I know." I keep my gaze steady. "We were lucky. But one day your luck is going to run out."

He half smiles, though I can see the sheen of unshed tears coating his eyes. "Fortune favors the bold."

I raise my eyebrow, "By accident of fortune a man may rule the world for a time, but by virtue he may rule the world forever." I learned so much in my time in China, the wisdom of ages, empire millennia before our own infantile nation.

"I don't want forever. I'm just asking for now." He says almost confidentially, in a whisper, leaning even closer so I can feel the warmth of his breath, smelling like something spicy and rich. His eyes are piercing, hypnotic like a snake's... or maybe a snakecharmer.

It may be witty, but it's those that claim to live in the moment who feel the weight of the future the hardest. "That's your problem."

He shakes his head and begins to walk away. "Are we done here?" I can tell that I haven't gotten through to him at all - if not by the irreverence of his tone, then by the implicit threat. He's going to follow his own star, no matter what argument I use. The only thing I can call upon are his emotions.

My voice chases after him, gaining momentum as he increases the distance. "Smith, Bodznick, Kanuka, Ivanovich, Patterson, Lee, Johanneson, Parker, Marceau, Ramirez . . ."

He turns, bewildered and frustrated, flushing red. "What?"

"The people that could have easily died today because you were thinking with your ego and not your head." My voice is harsh, cold as steel when inside my heart is breaking. I know how much John cares for each and every member of this expedition. I know how seriously he takes his job. And I know that in doing this I may very well break him. But what do they say in politics? No one is untouched by the means.... In ethics they speak of one human soul - is it worth breaking to save the rest of the world? In my line of work, the answer always has to be 'yes.' We have long departed from Kant's categorical imperative.

"Promise me this won't happen again."

John turns and keeps walking, and I can almost feel his sorrow, notice the change immediately in the way he hangs his head... drags his feet, but he doesn't respond.

"Nguyen, Anderson, Odwadu, Banks, Meyer, Casco, Franks, Henderson..." The names come nearly automatically, my voice level as it echoes down the hall, even as faces flash through my mind. I chose each one of these people for this expedition. And today I know that for five of them, I signed their death certificates when I signed the personnel transfer forms.

As John's footsteps fade down the corridor like the sound of nails splitting the fresh pine of a coffin, I think about Washington, sitting in the thick summer rain with so much moisture in the air you think you might choke, staring at the statues of horses and fierce soldiers, marble blackened by the soot of so many automobiles, honking loudly in the background. I think about the monuments to forgotten wars, would-be heroes just names carved into stone, waiting for time to wear away the rock like a legend of a people long gone.