A Daughter's Judgement

Posted on Fri Jun 18th, 2021 @ 11:37pm by Cailus Griffin

Mission: The Gauntlet
Location: USS Pandora: Brennan-Griffin Quarters
Timeline: Current

It was a rather ordinary day. Shae was on duty on the Bridge, likely absorbed in her work, while Eva was in the care of first Emilie and then Rebekah for the afternoon. Cailus, as a result, had nothing to do. He still had Eoin to watch over, but it was hardly a taxing job. The boy was (for now) a quiet baby, happily living his life, although Cailus and Shae were acutely aware that it wouldn’t last for long. Babies were rarely merciful on their parents. Nevertheless, for now, Eoin dozed happily in his crib.

Which, on the whole, left Cailus thoroughly bored. No longer an officer, he didn’t have the distraction of paperwork to pass the time, and there was a limit to how much entertainment one man could find in his own quarters. He had worked for some time on a paper on the criminal investigative process, drawing on his recent experiences hunting for a bomber on the USS Tornado and later investigating a spree of murders on Paradise. Still, even then, there was a limit to how much Cailus could do.

Beyond it all the spectre of his discharge from Starfleet lingered, and though he didn’t like to dwell, he knew that that was the true reason he was so ill at ease. Cailus had been prepared to get kicked out of Starfleet, and while Shae’s lesser punishment was a kick in the teeth, he could’ve handled it. What really stung, however, was why Cailus had been discharged.

It wasn’t because he had committed a terrible deed when rescuing Eva, but because he was no longer fit to wear the uniform. Starfleet considered him violent, a ruthless killer; the bloodsoaked operation to save Eva had been the last straw. Cailus wasn’t good enough anymore. He had tried to ignore the feeling that the accusation arose in him, had tried to move past it, talked it out with his wife, but the thought lingered like a stain on his soul.

I failed. I’m not good enough anymore.

With nothing else to do but linger in malaise, Callus ended up in the bedroom where Eoin still slept, standing over the crib and watching the tiny child. A baby had been unplanned, unexpected, and his arrival into the world had been completely terrifying, but nevertheless, Cailus wouldn’t trade Eoin for anything. He mused with melancholy that Eoin would never truly know his half-sister except in pictures, holoprograms and history books. He had his older sister Eva, but he would never know Victoire.

It was strange, really. Shae liked to remark that Eoin looked like his father, besides the obvious ears, tail and outrageous cuteness that he inherited from his mother. Cailus on the other hand, although he wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, saw Victoire when she had been the same age. It was completely illogical; they were different species, had different mothers, were different genders. All they shared was a father. Nevertheless, Cailus saw it; that way Eoin cuddled in tight, that light in his eyes, that laugh.

Possessed of a sudden urge, Cailus headed back to the main living area, sat down at the desk and brought up Victoire’s files, which had all been sent to him after he’d been recovered. There were a lot of files, all the way from Victoire’s birth in 2292 to her death at Wolf 359 in 2367. The average person amassed a huge volume of data in their lifetime, and Victoire was no ordinary person. Cailus had been astonished to learn after being recovered from the escape pod that his baby girl had become a famed starship captain and diplomat, a hero, even. According to Sophia, there was even a portrait of her at Starfleet Command in San Francisco, alongside various other fallen captains.

Not even knowing what he was searching for, Callus just scrolled through the files, idly scanning the titles and thumbnails. He simply wanted to see Victoire, her life, the life she had led after her father was lost in space. Callus flicked through, grateful that he could now see Victoire’s face without that habitual heart-wrenching pang of guilt and pain. Eva’s recovery, Eoin’s birth...they had changed something in him.

Scrolling through rapidly, Callus almost missed it, and he had to scroll back up to make sure he had read the title properly. He stared at the video title, dumbstruck.

Starfleet Academy Lecture: The Butcher of Menelax, presented by Captain Victoire Griffin, stardate 43977.

It wasn’t just the title that caused Cailus’s stomach to lurch. Even though he knew it automatically, Cailus still looked up the stardate and saw that he was right. 43977. A month before the first Borg invasion. A month before Victoire died.

Callus shook, nerves seizing him tight. He took an unsteady breath, glancing at the bedroom, but Eoin still slept soundly. Slowly, hesitantly, Callus raised a finger towards the screen before pulling it back. What if he didn’t like what Victoire was going to say? What if she, by then an experienced captain in her own right, was disgusted with her father’s actions at Menelax? Callus could hardly blame her; nobody could hate him for Menelax more than he hated himself.

Nevertheless, Callus simply had to know. He took another deep breath, more controlled this time, then reached out to tap the screen. The large screen built into one of the bulkheads snapped on, first showing the symbol of Starfleet Academy, then a title screen with the name of the lecture. More nervous than he’d been in years, Callus got up, moved to the center of the room and stood there, transfixed. The video changed to show an auditorium full of bright-eyed cadets before focusing in on a podium on a stage and Cailus left hand fidgeted, his right hand remaining perfectly still.

Despite his expectations, it wasn’t Victoire who appeared first, but instead a somewhat older man in an admiral’s uniform. He strolled up the podium, looking out at the cadets with a serious demeanour.

“Good morning,” he said in a strong voice, a man clearly accustomed to command. “I am Vice Admiral J.P Hanson of Starfleet Tactical. Today, you will be discussing a subject that might seem outdated. The war in question ended seventy years ago, and the man being discussed died three years later. Nevertheless, I want you all to pay close attention to what our guest speaker has to talk about today.”

The admiral paused, looking around the auditorium quite deliberately. “Today, the Federation is in more danger than it has been since the Khitomer Accords were signed. The return of the Romulan Star Empire and the emergence of the Borg threat has forced Starfleet to concentrate more on defence than at any other point since the 23rd century. One of the ways we prepare to cope with these new threats is by examining how we have coped with old threats. The past is a guide to the future, both in strategy and in life. Remember that well. Open your minds, use your brains and ask questions, not just of the subject, but of yourself.”

The admiral stopped then, allowing his point to sink in. “Now, our guest speaker today is well known to most of you. She has commanded five starships, made first contact with eleven new species, is an acclaimed anthropologist and an accomplished diplomat. She is, in part, responsible for securing peace with the Cardassians. It is my honour to present Captain Victoire Griffin.”

With that, a tide of applause rang out as a woman walked out onto the stage. Even though he had been expecting it, Callus could barely believe the lines of grey in Victoire’s hair, the age in her face. Something felt profoundly wrong about Vic being twice her father’s age. Nevertheless there were strength and purpose about her, her red-and-black uniform hugging her figure. Even at 74, Victoire still looked to be in the prime of her life, smiling warmly out at Admiral Hanson as she shook the old man’s hand before he stepped aside.

Again Callus’s stomach lurched. Hanson was the man who commanded the fleet at Wolf 359. He was the man who would, very soon after that lecture, lead Victoire and eleven thousand others to their deaths.

Taking the podium, Victoire looked out at the cadets as the applause tapered off, beaming out at everyone. Odd. She didn’t have the terseness of her father or the pugnacious ferocity of her mother. Victoire had outgrown them both.

“Hello,” Victoire said, still smiling. “I am going to start this by cutting directly to the point.” (Okay, Callus mused with a smile; she had inherited one thing from her parents.) “The subject of today’s lecture is Lieutenant Cailus Griffin and his actions at Menelax in 2297. He was my father. Got it, everyone? Yes? Good. Let’s move on.”

With that, Victoire tapped something on her podium and a large screen behind her snapped on. Callus was confronted with an image of himself, somewhat younger and still bearded. He shifted uncomfortably. “By now, everyone here has studied the Menelax War. I’m sure you all have your own opinions. First, though, let’s see some hands. Who here had heard of the Menelax War before they were given that assignment?” The screen flicked away to the auditorium view, only a smattering of cadets raising their hands amidst the audience. “Exactly. This is a forgotten war, which is precisely why you were all given this assignment. History should never be forgotten, particularly by those who make it.”

Victoire then glanced behind her. “You all know Cailus Griffin’s service record. He saw more combat in ten years than the average officer saw in thirty. He had a background in law enforcemen before enlisting, later seeking additional training by the Starfleet Investigative Service, the forerunner to the current SCIS, in both Federation law and investigative practice. He saw service on only two starships, the Churchill and the Independence. He had some of the highest aptitude scores of any security officer in the fleet and his department was consistently assessed as exemplary.”

Victoire grinned. “He also made a great chicken stew and was really ticklish.”

Callus scowled as the cadets laughed. “Damn, girl, I told you to keep that a secret,” he grumbled, although he couldn't help a reluctant smile. Callus glanced into the bedroom to confirm he hadn’t awoken Eoin before returning his attention to the screen as Victoire spoke again, her tone more serious.

“You all know what happened on Menelax,” Victoire said. Behind her a montage of images began cycling through, showing the carnage at Menelax. The space battle, the destruction of the Miranda-class USS Alsace. The destruction of the Excelsior-class USS Everest, ramming a Tholian battleship. The first stage of the ground battle, a hundred people bravely charging into the canyon into waves of disruptor fire. The bodies laid out in the aftermath of the first suicidal charge. The second assault. The jerky helmet-cams of that last desperate fight in the Tholian base, dark, claustrophobic and chaotic.

Callus’s hands clenched into fists but he forced himself to keep watching. The cadets were completely silent, watching the pictures with a mix of horror, shock and grim observance. None of the brutality of the battle had been censored or removed; the deaths were visceral and real. The cameras focused on a few cadets, capturing their reactions, before returning to Victoire.

“For his actions that day, Lieutenant Cailus Griffin became known by some in the Federation media and later by the Tholian government as the Butcher of Menelax,” Victoire said, her voice tense. “The ground fighting saw one of the highest casualty percentages of any battle that Starfleet has fought before or since. 85% dead or wounded in the first wave. 21% dead or wounded in the second. 91% dead or wounded in the final assault on the Tholian base. I won’t waste time debating whether Cailus was responsible for that, because he clearly was. It was his battle plan. He convinced his superiors to carry it out despite their own reservations. He was in command during the final assault.”

The camera shifted, showing some cadets shifting uneasily in their seats. Cailus looked pale as he stood before the screen, closing his eyes briefly. It was one thing to know it, another to hear it from his own child...

“Part of command,” Victoire said, her voice turning hard in a manner very reminiscent of her father, “is taking responsibility for your decisions, good and bad. You accept the plaudits when given and you accept the blame when it is placed, whether fairly or not. Every senior officer who survived Menelax, Cailus included, understood that. You must as well. Take responsibility for your actions and actions taken by those under your command when reasonable, even if you have little to no involvement. No senior officer at Menelax ever tried to defend their actions or place blame on others. Learn from their example.”

Cailus sat down in one of the comfy armchairs, his knees suddenly weak, but he was in for it now. He might as well hear what else his baby girl had to say. Eoin still dozed away in the bedroom, blissfully unaware of what was happening.

“Now,” Victoire continued briskly, “I know that a lot of you here have played the ‘what I would have done’ game. I read some of the more distinctive papers. Some of you get quite inventive, but both I and your teachers saw a clear theme: most of you believe that Callus should never have fought that battle in the first place. The Genesis superweapon was incomplete and the Tholian commander never planned on finishing it, never mind activating it. The seven million people living on Menelax that day were perfectly safe. All Cailus had to do was examine the Tholian colonel’s intelligence file more closely, realise that she was honourable, that she would never resort to mass murder despite the concern of Starfleet Intelligence. And you know what? You all have a point. He should have read that file more closely.”

Callus sank back in his chair, deflated, before Victoire added with resolve, “But that does not mean that the battle shouldn’t have been fought. You’re all playing the game with hindsight, but Starfleet officers don’t have the advantage of hindsight. All we can do is make decisions with the information in front of us and live with the consequences.”

She leaned forward, looking intently out at the cadets, and though she didn’t know it, directly at her father. “The hard truth is that when you’re responsible for the lives of seven million people, you do not gamble. You do not make assumptions. I never got to talk to my father about this, but I know he felt that way. My mother knew he felt that way. Every single veteran of Menelax agreed with him. You make the hard call and you make absolutely certain that you save those lives. You do not throw the dice.”

Victoire sighed. “Here at the Academy, you’ve had all sorts of interpretations thrown at you about what it means to be Starfleet. We all have our own version. For me, being Starfleet is being entrusted with making the hard calls. Making the hard decisions. I learned that from my father, and I follow his example every single day I wear this uniform, every single time I give an order.”

Victoire looked round. “Some of you have questioned whether Cailus’s tactics were wrong, whether there was another way, a way to win with less casualties. I know the instructors have disabused you of that notion. Some of you have asked whether this is a Kobayashi Maru scenario, but that is wrong. This isn’t a no-win scenario because at Menelax, Cailus did win. The true lesson of Menelax is not to revile someone for making a hard decision, but to assess how and why they made that decision, to learn from their experience. Callus needed the courage to make that hard decision, even knowing that it was contrary to Federation values, to Starfleet values. He gave the order because it was the right decision. He then picked up a rifle and fought with his people, right in the thick of the fighting, protecting them as best he could. He took responsibility for his actions and nearly died doing it, defeating Colonel Xalcrene in personal combat."

Victoire stood back, placing her hands behind her back. “After the battle, the Klingons regarded Cailus as a hero. Their war colleges hold up his tactics to this day as brutal but honourable, worthy of admiration. The Tholians, understandably, hate him. Federation media was more dividied. Some called him a hero. Some called him a butcher. Some called him a victim. Over the least few weeks, you have all seen the conflicted way Starfleet views his legacy. As an officer myself, as a captain, even I can't say that I'm comfortable with what he did that day, with the brutal tactics he employed, how he sacrificed so many of his own people. I don't know anyone in uniform who is.”

Victoire’s voice then rang out clear and strong. “When I first saw my father after he came home, he was in pain. I’d never seen him so hurt. I was only five back then, so all I could do was hug him very tight and tell him that I love him lots and lots. Now? Now, if I had the chance to talk to my father again...well, I’d still hug him and tell him that I love him lots and lots.” Laughter rang out around the auditorium. “Now, though, I would tell him that I understand and accept why he did what he did. I would tell him that a Starfleet officer is defined not by the easy decisions, but the hard ones. Most of all, I would tell him that he is a gold standard for what a Starfleet officer should be not because he was a good man, but because he was a brave man, willing to go against everything he knew, everything he had been taught, every fiber of his being, to do what he felt was the right thing."

Victoire took a breath, looking out at them all. "When you go out there into the final frontier, you go not because it is easy, but because it is hard. Some of you will face moments when it seems that doing the right thing, making the right choice, contravenes everything you have learned at this Academy, everything you were taught when growing up. You will face the decision of whether you should compromise who you are. I can't tell you what to do when that moment comes, what choice you should make. The universe isn't binary and comfortable like that. All I can do is hope that when you make that critical decision, and all the decisions that come after it, you do so with the same moral courage that Cailus Griffin had that day.”

With that, Victorie bowed his head. “Thank you.” Applause rang out, first a trickling rise then a bold surge, and Victoire smiled self-consciously as the audience of cadets gave her a standing ovation. Callus didn’t however, remaining his chair, smiling proudly at his baby girl.

Unfortunately, the applause had an unintended reaction as a cry of protest came from the bedroom. “Computer, pause!” Callus said, wincing as he got up and hurried to Eoin, who sure enough, looked quite perturbed at having been woken up, his little fox ears twitching.

“I’m sorry, my boy, come here,” Callus said, reaching down and picking Eoin up, rocking him gently, the baby calming down quickly. “It’s alright, your fool of a father won’t make any more loud noises. Rest easy, son, rest easy.” Holding Eoin carefully, Callus returned to the living room, sitting back down in the chair. He looked up at the screen, which had paused with a close-up on Victoire, smiling out at the crowd.

“See her, Eoin?” Callus said softly, looking down at the baby and shifting Eoin so that he could see the screen. “That’s your sister, Eoin. That’s Victoire.” Eoin looked at the screen blankly, his barely-formed tail wagging slowly. Victoire smiled back at him.


END