Title: Somebody Always Dies
Author: klmeri
Fandom: Star Trek TOS
Characters: Kirk, Spock, McCoy
Warnings: Character death
Disclaimer: This is the result of a dream, not the sole intention to make money – which would be a ridiculous intention anyway because nobody pays me to write.
Summary: There is none except the title. A full description would only make you run away.
A/N: This started out as one night’s ten-minute dream and developed into three days of headache-inducing story. Once I was halfway through I thought I couldn’t finish it. I thought I shouldn’t finish it but I am a firm believer of seeing a project to its end. So here it is. I wouldn’t blame you if you stop reading after… certain things occur. :\

Spock enters the area of the medical bay where the Captain is being examined by the CMO. A death has upset the balance of the ship. The landing party returned from an expedition of a newly discovered planet only a few hours ago; they were routinely inspected by the medical staff, and yet one of them still died not long after with no warning and, apparently, very little to connect his death to a satisfactory explanation. Spock hopes that Doctor McCoy has a better theory than he did when Lieutenant Danvers was first found dead, which was no theory at all.

Kirk acknowledges the presence of the First Officer with a short nod but the CMO ignores Spock altogether.

“Jim, put your hands under the light.”

Kirk extends both of his hands, holding them carefully beneath a device.

“Lights off,” calls the doctor.

The examination room goes dark. Jim’s hands begin to glow.

Kirk says, almost fascinated, “What is that?”

“Interesting,” murmurs the Vulcan from his corner. “Is not the use of UV light an old technique, Doctor?” Though technically they had used light-testing during the Deneva incident—not a fond memory Spock wishes to recall.

“Yeah, well,” grunts McCoy, “I’m running out of ideas. Tricorder picks up something on his hands but the labwork comes back negative.” Then, almost as fascinated as Kirk, “Would you look at that? It’s moving.”

Spock steps closer to inspect the phenomenon. “Bacteria is capable of movement.”

“Palms up, Jim. Yes, by definition it is alive, Spock, but since when does it run away?”

Several of the glowing patches on Kirk’s hands began to slither back in the opposite direction now that Jim has exposed his palms to the UV light. Apparently they don’t like to be seen.

McCoy orders the lights on again and switches off the lamp. The Captain slowly retracts his hands, still staring at them with curiosity—and no small amount of repulsion. “Bones,” he asks again, “what is it?”

“I’m not sure yet, Jim, but I think we may have found the cause of Lieutenant Danvers’ death.”

Jim looks up sharply. “What do you mean?” he almost demands. “Was Danvers infected with this bacteria, too?”

McCoy is silent for a moment before he answers with real regret. “I had to open him up. What the tricorder says is living on your skin, Jim, is what it found traces of choking his vital organs.” He says slowly, “This may sound strange but Danvers was in perfect health up until the moment he died. Then… something killed him.”

“Something,” repeats the Captain. “Not someone?”

“Maybe someone.” McCoy looks at Jim’s hands. “Can a micro-organism be a someone?”

Spock unclasps his hands from behind his back, somewhat disturbed by the doctor’s expression, and addresses the most relevant question: “Is the Captain’s life in danger?”

McCoy studies his tricorder. “I don’t know, Spock. But I would guess… if it hasn’t killed him already—and Jim is the only one of the landing party showing signs of this bacteria—then it must be using him for a reason.”

Spock doesn’t like the doctor’s phraseology.

Neither does Captain Kirk. “Explain.”

The CMO’s blue eyes are deadly serious, like his tone. “I think you’re a host, Jim.”

They review again, detail by detail, the expedition on the surface of the planet. Kirk is less calm than before when he reaches the end of his recollection. “We packed up and gathered together. I commed Scotty for a beam-out. There was no interference, no problems. Afterward, I thanked everyone for a job well done and dismissed them.” He pauses a moment, his voice dropping into a deeper cadence. “I wanted Danvers to know he had done well his first time off-ship. His first time, Bones.”

“Captain,” Spock says, not knowing what he can offer to assuage Jim’s grief.

A grim McCoy prompts, relentless, “Jim, what else?”

“There is nothing else!” Kirk is frustrated. He snaps when he is frustrated, when his control is in conflict with too much emotion, but as always the Captain quickly regains his composure. “Sorry, Bones. I’m… tired.”

McCoy is equally frustrated. “Danvers stood guard while the botanist and geologist took samples. He touched nothing, Jim. I’ve been over this a dozen times with the scientists, security, you, the transporter tech—” His slouch straightens, his eyes widen a fraction. “Jim! That’s it—the transporter tech!”

Spock does not follow. “His involvement was limited, Doctor, and had no correlation with the planet-side activity.”

“But he said, and I quote, ‘the Captain told everybody they did a good job and shook their hands and then they left the transporter room.’ Whose hands did you shake, Jim?”

“Just—Danvers,” Jim says, catching on.

The doctor is relieved. “Well, thank God for that or we might have had more dead crewmen.”

Spock stiffens as Jim pales. “Doctor,” the Vulcan warns.

McCoy, realizing his error, apologies to the Captain. “Jim, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. Ah hell, I’ve got to stop putting my foot in my mouth.” He sounds earnest. “Look, even if his death is linked with the handshake—and we don’t know for certain yet that’s the cause—you aren’t to blame. How could you be?”

Jim is looking at his hands again. “I know, Bones,” he says, though there is no real conviction in his voice.

McCoy moves away to a near-by table, his scientific mind no doubt already spinning through the possibilities of a new theory. He muses aloud, back turned to Spock and Kirk, “If it’s transferred by touch…” But the doctor’s clear drawl falters suddenly. He spins around in one jerk of a movement. Something strange, almost panicked, flashes through Doctor McCoy’s eyes when he looks at Jim.

Kirk is on his feet. “Bones?”

McCoy shakes his head slowly. His eyes flick over to Spock. Then, after a deep breath, “Never mind. What was I sayin’?”

Spock supplies, again disturbed by this unclassifiable behavior, “You were, I believe, about to conjecture on possible methods of transfer of the bacteria.”

“Thanks.” McCoy’s tone of voice is dry but still slightly odd. To Jim, “I don’t suppose you remember who else you’ve come in contact with since the surface of the planet.”

The Captain shakes his head. “Unless I make a pointed decision to touch someone, I don’t think about it. It just… happens.” His shoulders tighten with guilt. “Bones, he died because I shook his hand,” Jim says, and his voice is strained. “If I have spread the infection far enough through the ship…” He can’t finish.

McCoy says gently, “We’ll figure this out, Jim.” He lifts up his tricorder, studies it for a moment, and rubs a finger against his mouth, a sign of deep thought. The doctor scans something on a tray and hmphs. Then he approaches Jim, who draws back on instinct and with a warning of “Don’t touch me.”

“I’m not going to touch you,” he answers mildly. “Hold out your hand.” After first scanning Kirk’s hand and then the man’s sleeve and back again, he powers off his tricorder. “I thought so.”

“What have you determined, Doctor?” Spock inquiries.

“When I first escorted Jim in here, he fiddled with one of those hyposprays.”

Jim looks sheepish. “I was wondering what was in it.”

Jim means he was wondering if McCoy was going to give him a shot.

“The bacteria is on his skin, and normally bacteria spreads by touch… except the hypospray he touched seems clean. That is, the tricorder isn’t picking up the substance on the metal like it does on Jim’s skin. Same goes for his clothes.”

“Interesting. A bacteria which lives solely on the skin.”

“And can only be transferred by skin-to-skin contact,” finishes McCoy. “We do know that he shook Danvers’ hand.”

The tension in Jim’s body eases somewhat. “I haven’t shaken anyone else’s hand since then.”

“It would only have to be a brief touch,” the doctor remarks offhandedly. “That’s not what scares me, though. Danvers didn’t show any symptoms. Poor fella didn’t even know he was infected. Just keeled over dead.”

Spock says, “It is imperative we can identity who is at risk.”

“Even then, Spock,” replies the doctor in a heavy tone, “it’ll be too late. This—whatever this is—it’s fast. The best we can guess: death within hours of exposure. But,” McCoy adds, looking at Jim, “now that you know, you’ll be careful.”

“I’ll be more than careful, Bones. I’ll be in quarantine.”

Doctor McCoy nods in agreement. “Yeah you will. Sorry, Jim.”

Kirk contemplates his hands one last time before tucking them under his arms. The three senior officers leave the examination room and cross the bay towards the units used for the isolation of infectious and/or critically ill patients. McCoy veers away from them when he spots Nurse Chapel and pulls her aside.

They converse in lowered voices but Spock can hear the conversation, and today he is not opposed to eavesdropping.

“Christine, did you oversee the Captain’s exam yourself?”

“Yes, Doctor McCoy.”

“Just you?”

“Well, yes, the other staff on duty—”

“No it’s fine, but I have to know… did you come into contact with his hands at any time during the examination?”

If Chapel is now uneasy, her voice doesn’t show it. “No, sir.”

“Are you sure?“

Spock turns his head slightly to look, to see her confirmation for himself.

The woman is nodding. “I am certain, Doctor.”

McCoy dismisses her, his shoulders sagging with relief when he rejoins Kirk and Spock.

Jim looks at McCoy. Though the human could not have heard the quiet conversation, he no doubt understands what it was about. “Bones?” There is a quiet fear in that one word.

“She’s safe.”

Jim nods, voiceless, and resumes their heading to the quarantine unit. The man’s stride is unusually quick.

The CMO shoves another PADD away with temper. “Damn it!”

Spock hasn’t left the medical bay since Jim went into quarantine. He has called in some of his best science officers and both on-board microbiologists.

The Vulcan turns to the CMO. “Doctor, please minimize your outbursts. The Captain is watching.”

Indeed, Kirk can see the activity through the windowed-wall of his unit, and Spock knows the man has an excellent skill at reading body language. Not that McCoy’s body language is ever subtle; now, in particular, the man is fairly vibrating with a strong anger.

McCoy runs a hand through his hair (this is a human gesture Spock has never understood). “We haven’t had one break-through yet. It’s like the damned bacteria is being elusive on purpose, and there isn’t time—”

“Time?” Spock questions in a sharp tone.

The doctor steps back, hands dropping to hang loosely at his sides. After a moment he says, “It isn’t making Jim sick, Spock, or affecting his body’s functions. It hasn’t multiplied or spread from his hands. Now why would that be?”

“You are suggesting it is sentient.”

“Let’s just say it is. We know it’s killed one person and we know it’s using Jim to make contact with its victims. How long do you think something like that will enjoy being quarantined?” McCoy asks more quietly, “What happens to Jim then?”

“This is assuming it has the capacity to think, Doctor, which would be difficult to prove… unless I attempted to employ my ability to sense its thought patterns.” Meaning, of course, he would have to become infected first.

“Not gonna happen,” snaps McCoy. “And I’d just like to see you try to pass that idea by Jim.”

“Indeed. Then let us focus on what we can do rather than what we shall not. Doctor?”

McCoy plants his hand against the nearest solid object to steady his sudden swaying. “It’s nothing. Just had a flash of vertigo for a second. I probably drank too much coffee.”

Spock has not seen the doctor consume a beverage within the last hour. He knows it would be fruitless to pursue the matter. That doesn’t stop him from scrutinizing the human.

McCoy sighs under his stare. “We have to find a way to neutralize it. I’m going back to the lab—have to get something useful done before it’s all over.” He has returned to an unnatural (for McCoy, Spock thinks) state of calm.

Spock watches the human walk away. He is inexplicably disturbed again.

“Ensign,” Commander Spock calls as he approaches a young man standing off to the side of the activity in main medical bay. The ensign is looking around curiously but doing nothing. “Is your current duty not to aid the laboratory staff?”

Eyes wide, the young man is quick to explain. “Doctor McCoy kicked us out. I mean—he politely requested that we leave the lab, sir.” The ensigns adds, when Spock doesn’t twitch a muscle in response to this news, “He said he couldn’t think with us wandering about.”

Spock gives the ensign a short nod of dismissal and pivots on the ball of his foot, heading for the laboratory. That the CMO would act so illogically, so erratically, right now… Doctor McCoy and Spock have researched together side-by-side more than once in the past when a situation necessitated their joint efforts. If Doctor McCoy refuses to work with others, then Spock will personally volunteer for the position—and remind the doctor that now is not the time to be obstinate.

He enters the area designated for the research and experiments required to cure the Captain’s condition.

“Doctor McCoy?”

The human is quite alone in the large room, seated at and slumped over a long work table with his head resting on his folded arms and his back to Spock. He appears to be asleep.

Spock is surprised; he hadn’t considered that the doctor would be exhausted so early on. Perhaps he has taken to overworking again? The Commander makes a mental note to check the CMO’s rotation schedule.

It is only when he steps closer and inspects the man carefully that Spock realizes McCoy is dead.

When Spock comes back to himself, shock having loosed its hold on his senses, he discovers his arm is stretched out, fingers resting against the man’s neck where a pulse should be felt. (But there is none, how could this have happened?) He withdraws his hand.

Though Spock assimilates this new knowledge—comprehends the meaning of death, and Leonard, and that the two are now synonymous—he needs a moment longer to accept it as truth.

Poor fella didn’t even know he was infected. Just keeled over dead.

McCoy must have touched Jim’s hands prior to the discovery of the bacteria. Had the doctor known?

How could he not have known?

Standing next to the man with whom the Vulcan officer has served for almost four years, Spock lets his head tilt forward slightly, as a person might to do in order to say a prayer for the deceased. The Vulcan thinks of nothing.

Somewhere off to the left, a centrifuge finishes its final spin. Laboratory equipment is scattered about; some of it used, some instruments waiting to be used. All of it with a purpose.

And the Captain of the ship is still locked away in quarantine, in desperate need of help.

The Commander reasons that he is unable to feel grief now because logically he knows time cannot be spared to grieve.

He makes a quick visual assessment of McCoy’s work then notices beneath the doctor’s pale hand is a PADD. Its screen emits a white glow—the processor tab, activated. Spock picks up the device, remembering that McCoy has carried with him since they began experimentation to make notes and log observations.

A short message occupies the top of the screen. A fine tremor runs through Spock’s hand when he reads it.

Tell Jim it isn’t his fault.

“Doctor Mc—Oh, Mr. Spock!” Nurse Chapel stops short in the entrance to the lab. “Is something wrong?” She looks questioningly from McCoy to Spock, already reaching for the tricorder hooked into her triage belt with a troubled frown.

Spock does not know how to soften the truth. “Doctor McCoy is dead.”

He need not be a touch-telepath to identify her reaction as horror. Her tricorder cracks when it hits the ground.

The body is removed to the morgue. M’Benga quietly assumes the duties of Acting CMO. Within minutes, everyone working in the bay hears of Doctor McCoy’s death and is stunned, upset, or both. Mr. Spock issues the direct order that no one is to repeat this news outside the confines of Sickbay. The personnel are urged to resume their duties without delay.

A second death, no matter who it is, is one death too many.

When Spock approaches the window of the isolation room to report to the Captain, Kirk looks past him expectantly then puzzled. The two-way speaker built into the wall panel buzzes to life. Jim wants to know, “Where’s Doctor McCoy?”

Spock does not hesitate. “In the laboratory, Captain. Dr. M’Benga and I will join him there shortly to commence a new direction of research on your condition.” Beside Spock, M’Benga is stiff and silent.

“Good,” Kirk says into the speaker and leans against the window. He must detest the small room, Spock thinks, as a prisoner detests his prison.

“Tell Bones if he fixes this… problem before the next shift, I’ll apply for an extra week’s shore leave for the crew.” Jim smiles as he says this but the Vulcan can tell the man’s effort to speak lightly goes only surface-deep.

Something crashes behind Spock and he turns around at the sound. A blue-uniformed woman kneels on the floor in front of an upside-down tray of medical instruments. She makes a feeble attempt at gathering the dispersed items then puts her hands to her face. Nurse Chapel kneels next to her, effectively shielding the distressed woman from view of the Captain, and speaks softly. After a moment, together they begin to collect all the equipment again. Tear tracks are drying on the woman’s face.

Spock turns back to Kirk. He promises, “We will find a solution, Captain.”

On the other side of the glass, Jim expresses his faith in his crew’s ability with a simple nod and, this time, a small but genuine smile.

Thus begins an almost desperate volleying of ideas between Spock and his team of scientists and M’Benga. They jump from a discussion of different methods of sterilization (but regular decontamination initially did nothing to remove the obstinate bacteria) to amputation (which everyone is unanimously against) and back again.

The break-through comes when a young medical lab technician jumps out of her seat and exclaims, “Salt water! Oh my God it’s salt water!” In an instant, people are crowding into her work space. She continues on, “I’ve been trying everything I could think of that helps fight an infection.” She presents a petri dish to M’Benga with a hopeful expression.

M’Benga re-runs her analysis on it and confirms that the bacteria is not only inactive but appears to be decomposing.

At Spock’s elbow, the geologist who had been a part of the away team and thus kept in Sickbay for observation, remarks excitedly, “That makes so much sense! Mr. Spock, we beamed in about twenty kilometers from a freshwater marsh—it could be a natural habitat for the organism. Generally a freshwater fish will die if left in saltwater.”

The tech adds, “Earlier, we were going to start the usual tests but Doctor McCoy said it wouldn’t make sense to use antibiotics or medications that affect the immune system because the bacteria wasn’t inside the body. So I mentioned skin cleansers and he told me any idea could help. Doctor McCoy encourages—encouraged—” she corrects with a hitch in her voice, “—us to think creatively. I thought… I wanted to keep doing that.” She says with more confidence, “Back home, when we grandkids scraped our knees, my grandmother made us wash the wounds with saltwater to get rid of ‘bad germs’—which is actually a proven remedy to draw out poison if the proper amount of salt is used.”

Spock looks over the results and then has the computer enhance its microscopic view of the bacteria. He calculates a decomposition rate in his head.

M’Benga offers, “It would have to be a full-body submersion, Mr. Spock. Otherwise we run the risk of the bacteria infecting the Captain like Danvers and McCoy—and then it would surely kill him.”

“Agreed.”

But Spock is still at a loss to explain why Jim is a host. McCoy had asked why. Why would bacteria need a host? What is it seeking? Spock can think of only one answer: a suitable living environment. Yet it moves to another body and kills it.

Or… is dying itself and thereby kills its victim in the process of dying.

A significant fraction of a human’s body is made up of water which is, in fact, not pure water but is a salt solution; the body’s cells must have salt to live and function.

And it’s too much salt for the bacteria to survive inside the body.

Spock thinks that McCoy, a scientist at heart like the Vulcan, would have shared his fascination of this revelation. Spock immediately turns his thoughts from McCoy. “I will inform the Captain of the plan.”

M’Benga’s sad look tells Spock he had been thinking of McCoy too.

The idea works.

The Captain returns from his impromptu bath complaining good-naturedly that he hopes he never has to have a similar experience again. Spock can only imagine what it must have been like; the mere thought is averse to him. The tank in which Kirk had been placed is hardly bigger than a standard-sized bathtub. Kirk had been sealed in with only an air mask to breath and left to float in the barely tepid water. They repeated the process three times, each time gradually increasing the salinity of the water.

Once Kirk is returned to his quarantine room and re-dressed, M’Benga, suited against contamination per protocol, runs the tricorder over the Captain and reports the results to Spock. They scrape another sample of skin cells (hopefully void of the bacteria) from Kirk’s hands and go back to the lab to confirm what the tricorder predicts: that Jim is safe.

When Spock relays the good news to his Captain, the relief in Jim’s face mirrors an internal release of pressure he senses within himself. But he watches as that relief slowly fades. Kirk’s sharp eyes run across the outer room full of people, all those have worked diligently on his behalf, and dismisses them one-by-one, searching for someone who isn’t there.

The Captain wants to know, looking to Spock, “How soon can the quarantine be lifted?”

It is M’Benga who answers, his voice heavy, “Give us time to duplicate the results, sir. We need to be absolutely certain the risk of—” He falters. “—the risk to others is gone. Then we need to run you through a round of decontamination. Another hour at most.”

Kirk nods but he is still looking at Spock. Spock tightens the hold of his locked hands behind his back.

“Where is McCoy, Spock?”

That hard voice is a warning not to lie.

Spock doesn’t. “He died two hours ago, Jim.”

Kirk’s hand falls away from the speaker control panel. His throat works once, twice, but he articulates nothing, only turns his back to the window and, effectively, from his First Officer.

No one says a word. No words can be said.

At last—seventy-three seconds, calculates the Vulcan, too long—the Captain of the Enterprise reaches out without turning around and presses the comm button. His voice is flat. “In two hours, Commander,” he says, “have all senior officers assemble on the Bridge.”

Protocol. They do this each time death takes one of their own: assemble, present the face of authority, of respect and of compassion, and listen to the Captain list out the men lost for the sake of the Enterprise’s mission, commend them for faithful service, bravery, and sacrifice. McCoy has stood on the Bridge with them for the duration of every similar ceremony. Except today.

In that moment, the reality of death is so strikingly clear to Spock that he cannot speak. He bows his head in true prayer this time, in silence, and grieves.

-Fini

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