The TARDIS door creaks as the Doctor pushes it open slowly, and Donna follows him out into the dimness outside.
"Alright spaceman, what have you done this time?" Donna asks as she takes in their surroundings. The room is small, cramped, with a low ceiling. The walls are smooth metal, curving around them. A ship, she thinks, but what kind? The floor dips under them slightly and she has her answer. The air smells damp and a bit like mildew. "How did you land us on a ship?"
He shakes his head. "Must have transposed a calculation or something," he says as he steps out into the room.
Donna looks up at the pipes and cables running overhead, and at the boxes stacked up haphazardly around them. "Are we in a storage cupboard?"
"Could be," he replies as he raps experimentally on one of the crates. Donna moves to stand next to him as he reads from the crate. "City of Exeter. Hmmm." He furrows his brow, and Donna can feel him trying to recall the name.
"Is that the ship's name?"
"Probably. There's been more than one by that name, so it's not terribly helpful I'm afraid, but it's a start." He continues moving around the cramped room, studying the labels on the crates. "The question is which one, and when," he says absently.
Donna shivers in the chilly air and wraps her arms around herself. The ship creaks around them, and the floor dips again slightly, just enough to remind her they are on the water somewhere. Somewhen, she adds to herself. She wrinkles her nose at the musty smell.
"City of Exeter," he mumbles to himself again, and he finally stops and looks up at her. "Perhaps we should just go out and see who's here, what do you think?"
She nods, suppressing a feeling of foreboding. It was never good when they landed somewhere they hadn't planned. They were supposed to be meeting Amelia Earhart, and instead they were here, in this dank ship, who knew where. He looks at her, concerned, and she smiles at him, but even she can tell how false the smile must look. "At least it's not the Titanic, right?"
He laughs shortly. "It's a start." He opens the hatch and steps out into the narrow corridor, gesturing for her to follow after he looks up and down. She steps through after him, taking his offered hand. "Which way, d'you think?" he asks.
She shrugs, and looks up and down the corridor. Both directions look equally mysterious to her, so she points to the right. "That way?"
They've taken only a few steps when one of the other hatches opens, revealing a sailor. He looks distracted, and does a double-take when he sees them. "Who are you?" he asks, then he quickly corrects himself, straightening his back. "Identify yourselves," he says, his tone commanding although Donna can hear his voice is tired.
She looks up at the Doctor, wondering how on earth he would explain their sudden appearance on a ship, by all appearances in the middle of an ocean. His grip tightens on her hand, revealing his tension, but his voice is light. "Oh, I'm the Doctor, and this is Donna." He fumbles in his pockets with his free hand, finally extracting the psychic paper, to Donna's relief. "Special assignment." He holds out the paper toward the sailor, who approaches slowly, suspicion evident on his face. He studies the paper for a moment, then quickly snaps to attention, saluting the Doctor.
"My apologies, sir, I did not know you were aboard."
The Doctor shakes his head. "No salutes, please," he says tiredly. "Now, why don't you tell me your name."
"Midshipman Wilson, sir. The Captain did not tell us you were aboard," he repeats, looking from the Doctor to Donna apologetically.
"Well, it was a secret, wasn't it?" the Doctor replies breezily. "But now it's not, so let's start simple, shall we? You can call me the Doctor, and this is my...assistant, Donna."
She squeezes his hand when he calls her his assistant, but she smiles at Wilson, wondering what the psychic paper had told him about them.
"Yes sir, can't be too careful these days. If you'll allow me, I'll take you to the Captain."
"Very well," the Doctor says, as the young sailor turns on his heels and goes back the way he came. Donna glances up at the Doctor as they follow.
"Who does he think we are?" she asks in a low voice.
"I'm not exactly sure."
"Brilliant."
They follow Wilson on a twisty path through the ship, climbing through hatches and ducking through corridors until they finally stop in front of another hatch, which Wilson raps on sharply, the sound ringing out, sharp and metallic. A muffled voice from inside calls out "Enter!" and Wilson opens the door, stepping aside for the Doctor and Donna to step through first. Wilson follows and snaps to attention again, saluting the man behind the small desk, who stands when he sees the Doctor and Donna.
"The Doctor and Donna, sir. The civilians on special assignment."
The Doctor quickly pulls out the psychic paper again, holding it out for the captain to inspect. He studies the paper then nods. "Very well. I'm glad to have you aboard. As you know, we have an emergency, and we could certainly use a doctor."
"Oh, well, I'm not—" the Doctor begins, then stops himself. "Emergency?"
"Yes, that's why command sent you, isn't it? Your papers—"
"Oh yes, yes of course. I just wanted to hear directly from you what the situation is. You know how reports get garbled."
The captain sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose tiredly. "Of course." He sits back down in his chair. "Half the crew is down with –I don't know what. You're the expert, you'll have to tell me for sure. It's like nothing else I've seen, I'll tell you that."
"I see," the Doctor says, his tone carefully neutral. "Might I ask – in the journey, I've lost track of the days. What is the date?"
The captain looks up at him, surprised. "June 10."
But what year? Donna wonders desperately, knowing she can't ask that without giving the game away. "Do you have a calendar?" she asks, on impulse.
The captain looks at her, as if seeing her for the first time. She feels his eyes travel over her, and she knows the Doctor notices too because he steps closer to her. The captain sees this, and nods slightly. "I see. Yes, I have a calendar, ma'am." He flips through the papers on his desk, extracting a small book and handing it to her.
She opens it to June, tilting it slightly toward the Doctor so he can also see the year at the top of the page. She hears his sharp intake of breath as he reads "1918" with her.
"We're due into the port of Philadelphia any day now, to transport troops as you know. Now there's talk of quarantining us, to prevent the spread of the illness. These men need a hospital, and we need to finish our mission."
Donna hands the calendar back to him, and the Doctor nods. "I see. Yes, well, why don't you take me to the patients then? And then we can see what we shall see."
"Very well," the captain says. "Wilson, show them the patients. Start with the sickest ones."
"Aye sir," Wilson responds with a salute, before turning smartly toward the door again.
"I'll await your report, Doctor," the captain says, before returning to the papers on his desk.
Donna looks at the Doctor, her eyebrows raised. He just shakes his head slightly at her, before following Wilson from the room. As they leave, she sees a plaque above the door, reading "Semper Fidelis."
***
Wilson leads them through the maze of corridors, finally stopping before yet another hatch that looks identical to all the others. "We have all of the worst cases in here. We ran out of room in the sickbay, so we're just using the regular quarters, but we've kept the worst cases together. You'll see why," he adds darkly, as he works the hatch and steps aside to let them walk in.
Donna flinches at the smell that comes from the room: sweat and sickness overpowering the musty smell that she had already become accustomed to. The Doctor steps in front of her as he moves to one of the hammocks and bends over the crewman lying in it. She steps to his side, peering over his shoulder, afraid of what she'll see.
The man's eyes are closed, and his lips are tinged a dusky blue. If he weren't moving restlessly, fingers grasping at the edges of the hammock, she would have thought he was already dead. His breath is rattling in his chest, and a bloody froth is seeping from his nose and the corners of his mouth. He coughs weakly, the sound a terrible rasping sound. Before Donna can take in more, the Doctor's hands are on her, shoving her back out into the corridor.
"What—" Donna says as he moves her further down the corridor, out of Wilson's earshot.
"We have to leave, right now," he says, his hands propelling her forward. She resists, turning toward him.
"Why? What is it?"
"It's influenza. The Spanish Flu. They all have it, and we have to leave before—"
"I'm not leaving them like this." She shakes her head, crosses her arms over her chest. "Not without a better reason that because they're ill with the flu."
"It's not just the flu, it's one of the worst pandemics in human history. The pneumonia is filling their lungs with blood and they're suffocating. There's nothing we can do to stop it. And we need to leave, now."
"Hang on, slow down, spaceman. You heard the captain - they need to get to hospital. Whatever the psychic paper told him about us, maybe we have the power to make that happen sooner."
The Doctor shakes his head and glances back at Wilson, who is watching them curiously. "No, that's the thing. They need to go into quarantine, or we risk the whole city of Philadelphia."
"But you saw them – they're dying in there. They need a proper hospital, not this dank old ship. We can help them—"
"That's the thing, Donna, we can't. The City of Exeter, this ship, is supposed to be in quarantine, then will pull into port with most of the crew ill or dying. They're taken to hospital then, but it'll be too late for most of them. However, it will also be too late for them to spread the illness any more than they have already. If we have them in port sooner, the illness could spread throughout the city, much sooner than it should. It would be devastating."
Donna's stomach turns over. Just like Pompeii, she thinks. Another fixed point. She looks back down toward the room, then back at the Doctor. "How long are they in quarantine?"
"I'm not sure. A few days at least, maybe longer."
"What about the TARDIS – you must have a cure—" She knows his answer, but she has to ask anyway.
"Donna, you know—"
She cuts him off. "I know, I know. We can't. We can make them comfortable, can't we? If most of them become ill, they must need someone to look after them. We could do that at least, until the quarantine is over."
"It's too dangerous. You won't have any immunity."
She shrugs. "I never get sick."
"Donna." He takes hold of her shoulders, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Please."
"You know me by now. We're staying."
He tightens his grip, but doesn't argue with her. "Alright. But wear a mask, all the time. I'll find some for you. And wash your hands as often as you can."
"I suppose Time Lords are immune to the common flu?"
He lets his hands drop from her shoulders. "Different biology, so yes. So let me take care of the sickest patients, alright?"
"You worry too much," she says lightly, taking hold of his hand and giving it a squeeze. "I'll be fine. Now, let's start with some cleaning, yeah? This place smells like a sewer."