Carrington Award

c. 2255

"They what?" Christopher Pike sat bolt upright on the narrow bed in his quarters.

Doctor Boyce shrugged. "The Federation wants to award you the Carrington Award for your distinguished contributions to medical science."

"Like the blazes they do." Pike threw his legs over the side. Exhaustion drew the lines of his mouth downward and the lines of his forehead upward. "Starfleet's buttering me up for some suicide mission, I can feel it. I told them it was the sheer grace of God we got back in one piece last time."

The doctor set a vial of some vile-looking concoction on the table with a firm clank. Less than a month ago, Chris Pike had been draped across death's doorstep, laid out with a virulent case of Rigellian fever. At his own insistence, he'd been allowed to return to light duty, but Boyce wasn't about to let him set foot on the bridge—not till he looked a little less like death warmed over.

"Look, don't shoot the messenger." Boyce began methodically to fill a hypo, avoiding Chris's eyes all the while. "If you want to turn down the highest honor in all medical science, that's your choice. I'm sure the other nominees won't mind."

Chris rubbed weary hands over his face. "You had a hand in this, Phil. You put them up to it."

"Oh, like the blazes I did!" growled Boyce in a fine imitation of his captain. "You can't imagine you'd be considered for such an honor, even though you've earned more medals in the last five years than most men do in a lifetime and you've done more for the Federation than any living being with the possible exception of Jonathan Archer. Go get a psychiatrist."

"I've got one. He's a primary source of mental and emotional distress in my life."

"Very funny." Boyce emptied the hypo into his captain's shoulder, and Pike winced—more in annoyance than discomfort, the doctor guessed.

"What am I supposed to have done that's remotely contributed to the science of medicine anyway? Isn't the Carrington supposed to be some kind of lifetime achievement award?"

Boyce tossed the vial back into his bag. "Apparently you've done quite a lot, Chris. There was that venom sample we extracted from your veins after your little brush with the Ngultor—"

"Good grief, they're digging that up. Hasn't Starfleet heard of PTSD?"

"As we all know, there's no such thing anymore." The sarcasm in the doctor's voice was strong, even for him.

Chris stretched his arm stiffly and laid back on the bed with a sigh. "Well, if I had to go through all that," he said philosophically, gazing at the ceiling, "I'm glad it's doing someone some good."

A smile tugged at the corner of Boyce's mouth. Idealism of the Christopher Pike brand could be hard to live with, and he was glad when, from time to time, it seemed to bring his captain comfort instead of a crushing sense of responsibility.

"Out of curiosity," said Chris, "do you know what they're doing with it?"

Cue the crushing sense of responsibility.

Boyce fixed his eyes intently upon the low table and began to prepare a vitamin compound. He cleared his throat. "How, ehrm—how did you think Starfleet's special ops division made that quantum leap in the development of their truth serum?"

"What?" Chris raised himself on one elbow, a look of vague horror overtaking his face. "Truth serum?"

For a man with so much experience, Boyce thought, Christopher Pike was sometimes charmingly naïve.

"And they call that medical research?"

Boyce stabbed his captain tranquilly in the arm. "Calm down, Chris. No one's used it in interrogations. It's still in development."

"But it's totally unethical!" Chris sat up and swung his legs off the side of the bed again. "Do you have any idea what that stuff did to me?"

"It's from a non-carbon based life form, Chris. It's hardly a surprise it got chemists drooling in their labs—"

"Not to mention our friends in undercover intelligence who don't see the need to follow regulations!"

"—and if it hadn't been for your mission logs, they'd never have known about its neurally coercive properties."

"Neurally coercive." Chris gave a dry, hollow laugh. "It's a death serum, Phil. It rips you apart from the inside."

"You bounced back."

"Yeah, well, I was raised on rattlesnake juice and cactus spines."

Boyce snorted. "In any case, you've inadvertently opened up a new branch of organic chemistry and discovered a potential cure for every mental illness known to man. And that's about five times what most researchers contribute to medical science over the course of a whole career."

"Well, when they formulate their magic cure-all, let me know. My PTSD and I will be first in line."

Boyce lowered himself into the lone chair with a grunt and scrutinized his captain. Chris leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, his brow lowering forbiddingly. "I feel perfectly normal, Doc. When can I go back to work?"

"Well, seeing how normal for you is on the edge of a physical and mental breakdown, I'd say another week and a half."

"Phil."

"These numbers are still low where they should be high and high where they should be low. Or have you forgotten that you almost died?"

Chris shrugged. "Business as usual. It comes with the territory."

"It comes oftener than it should where you're concerned." Boyce grabbed his bag and snapped it shut emphatically. "They're also citing you as a contributor to the new antidote for Rigellian fever, not that you'd be interested."

"Me? But that was your work."

"Oh," scoffed Boyce. "A trial-and-error, slapdash attempt to adapt an old alien recipe to human biology. Any space doctor's concocted something like that. That's business as usual. It comes with the territory."

Pike laughed, then shook his head ruefully.

"A captain who assists in the—peculiar—way you did is another matter."

"Come on. They can't recognize me for that, Phil. It would be . . ."

"Totally unethical?"

"Well, yes!"

"Take it up with the board. They seem to think a captain who heroically decides to have a potentially lethal drug tested on himself instead of on some hapless ensign is worthy of recognition. And I happen to agree with them."

"Don't say that."

Boyce waggled his finger. "If you hadn't been there to nearly die of a seizure when I injected you with the stuff, I'd never have thought of making that final adjustment!"

"That's not worth a medal. A science medal."

"Are you telling me you know more about what science is appropriate for scientists to award science awards for than the scientists awarding the science awards do?"

Chris looked slightly bewildered and utterly reproachful.

Boyce put his hands on his hips. "Are you a doctor?"

"No."

"Are you a scientist?"

"Not exactly."

"What are you?"

He was flummoxed. "I'm . . ."

"You're a Starfleet captain, and you're gonna start acting like one if I have to drag you to the ceremony kicking and screaming. Did you ever catch Robert April mooning about in his quarters because he didn't want to accept an award? No. Does Matt Decker moon about in his quarters because he doesn't want to accept an award? No. When was the last time Captain Garth was reported to be mooning about in his quarters because he didn't want to accept an award?"

Pike glared.

"Never! Sometimes people want to do nice things for you, Chris. You don't have to brood over whether or not you deserve the honor and try to determine whether accepting it without deserving it is a venial or a mortal sin. You just take the blasted thing and say thank you."

Boyce could see from the uncomfortable set of the shoulders that he'd gotten through at last. "You don't have to earn every last thing anyone gives you, Chris. You learn to take grace graciously." Then, more gently: "Did you ever consider that maybe they're not tryingto say you're the finest medical scientist in the quadrant? That maybe what they're really trying to say is that they appreciate you?"

He saw Chris swallow, the corners of his mouth twitch a little. "I get it, Phil," he said at last, ducking his head. "You don't have to preach."

"Don't I?" Boyce narrowed his eyes keenly but affectionately.

Chris grimaced and stretched his stiff limbs out lengthwise on the bed. "I know. I'm a pain."

"I won't argue with that," said Boyce, creaking to his feet and gathering up the bag. "Get some rest, Captain."

Chris opened one eye. "Is that an order?"

Boyce fixed Pike with his fiercest doctor scowl, but the twinkling eyes betrayed him. "Yes."