ENEMY WITHIN
Chapter 7 Inside the Cozy Cuppa Cafe on the Islington Street, Ed Marshbender was sat with a paper cup of coffee on the table in front of him. He was nibbling on a croissant with one hand, and setting up his laptop mouse with the other. Recently laid off from his job at the television studio, he'd just spent half the morning in what proved to be an unpromising job interview. In fact, if the interviewer's attitude was anything to go on, all of his efforts had been an utter waste of his time. The small film studio's human resources manager, in less than thirty minutes, had effectively flushed all of Ed's hopes for a job down the loo of life. Now, he was trying to put some of the frustration and anger behind him, by taking a time out. He having breakfast and catching up on the latest news. He saw a story in The Guardian about the London flu and clicked on it. GOVERNMENT ORDERS MANDATORY VACCINATIONS. The headline said. Alarmed, Ed scrolled down and read more: "The Ministry of Health issued today an edict stating that all people residing in every major city in Great Britain, regardless of whether or not they are citizens of the United Kingdom, are to receive mandatory vaccinations for the recent deadly outbreak of what many are calling the 'London flu.' Mobile injection units will be set up in schools, hospitals, community centres, and at selected government buildings, beginning as early as Friday morning. Sources say that this will also apply to all passengers disembarking from planes at Heathrow and other major airports, as well as all ferry and train passengers coming into the country from overseas. Anyone refusing to get the injection, besides facing a stiff fine, will be forced to stay in special isolation centres until the crisis has passed. Even though the injections are free, many are already worried about missing hours at work, as it is expected that the public may end up spending an entire day in long queues. Some workers are already threatening strike action, if they are not paid for their time off the job. Speaking off the record, an unnamed official within the NHS says that the mandatory injections will put a huge strain on the health service's already overtaxed human resources and fiscal budget, and expressed concerns that patient care in its hospitals may suffer as a result..." Donna woke with a start. Something was very wrong. She sat upright on her bed in her room in the TARDIS, shaking her head in denial. Everything seemed perfectly normal—well, normal as defined by travel inside a space-time ship. Why did she feel a strange foreboding? It must have been a bad dream or something. But, if it was a dream, why didn't she remember it? Yawning and stretching, she decided to ignore it. Donna made a quick appraisal of her hair and clothes in a full-length mirror in a corner of the room, before she went to check on the Doctor. She was curious to see how the he was progressing with his research. The console room seemed deserted. That's what Donna thought, at first. Then she spied the Doctor's trainers sprawled out on the floor on the opposite side of the console. "I knew it, you alien slacker," She joked, "lying down on the job again..." Yet, as she rounded the console and glimpsed his prone figure, Donna's voice trailed off. "Doctor!" She cried out, rushing to his side. "Doctor! Please wake up! Let me help you!" Kneeling by his side, Donna bent down over the Doctor. Taking off her cardigan, she wadded it up and put it beneath his head. The Doctor's face was pale and sweaty, and his breathing laboured. She continued to speak to him, but all he did was mutter some strange language she couldn't understand. "Apmedonal," he said, "apmeard." "What?" Donna said, "I'm sorry. I can't understand you." She leaned close to his ear and shouted, "You. Need. To. Speak. English!" "Slap me, Donna" He finally croaked in a weak voice, gasping for breath. "I—I can't do that!" She protested. "You're sick, you don't know what you're saying." Weak though he was, the Doctor managed to raise his head to look at Donna. Though it was a huge effort, he spoke louder. "Since I may die at any moment, there's something I have to tell you." "What is it, Doctor? I'm listening." Donna said, tears in her eyes. "Would you mind if I called you 'sexy knickers?' He said, leering up at her. "Have I told you, you have a very nicely shaped bottom?" "Wha—? Of all the cheek!" Before she realized she was doing it, Donna hauled off and slapped him. "Wharrrr—!" The Doctor roared, sitting up suddenly. Donna's mouth dropped open and she pulled back. Wincing, he held his sore cheek in his hand. "Blimey! You hit harder than your mum! Harder than all the mum's put together." The Doctor exclaimed, his voice already returning to normal. "Just what the Doctor ordered! Nothing like a good hard slap to clear the ol' sinuses!" He grinned at her. Then instinctively ducked, as a very upset and confused Donna looked ready to slap him again. "Sexy what?" She shouted, shocked. "Have you been looking at my arse?" The Doctor's face became more sober. "Sorry, Donna. Didn't mean a word of it, I swear. My race left that sort of thing behind years ago. Well, except for the Corsair. Let me tell you, he invented the dirty weekend. But I give you my promise as a Time Lord. It didn't mean anything, trust me. Really. I'm very, very sorry. When I drew the infection out of you, I absorbed it all. My sinuses were going haywire. I needed you to give me a good, hard slap so that they could mend themselves. That flu virus gave me one helluva' nasty sinus infection." Pulling a tissue out of his pocket, he blew his nose noisily. His colour was quickly returning and his breathing seemed almost normal. "See?" He smiled hopefully, worried that he may have lost her as a friend, "All better, thanks to you!" Donna helped him to his feet. She wasn't at all happy about the kiss and the flirting, but she was glad that the Doctor seemed to be alright. "One more cheesy alien pick up line, mister, and I'm going home." She huffed. Then, smiled. He smiled back and she hugged him. "Thank you, Donna." He whispered warmly, "I couldn't ask for a better friend than you." All of the sudden, an urgent warning hooter came from the console. The Doctor ran over and stabbed a few buttons. The noise abruptly stopped. Turning on the monitor, the Doctor's eyes went wide with alarm. "It's an incoming ship, coming out of warp. It's headed straight for—!" Before the Doctor could say more, he and Donna were flung down on to the floor, as the incoming ship clipped the TARDIS and sent it spinning out of control towards Earth. Sparks flew from the console and flames erupted from down below the decking somewhere. Gripping the console by his fingers, the Doctor clawed his way up to look at the monitor screen. He didn't like what he saw. "Hang on, Donna! We're gonna' crash!" He shouted. The meeting room in Number Ten had gone utterly silent. The Deputy Prime Minister was hunched over in one corner, gasping for air after spending several minutes retching into a potted plant. The other members of the meeting had nothing to say. At Huxley's urging, the Deputy Prime Minister convinced the others in the room to try the injection, to determine that it was safe. Some twenty-five minutes passed after Huxley had administered the injections to everyone but the Deputy Prime Minister. Of those people, there remained nothing but some flesh coloured goo puddled on their chairs, slowly dripping onto the plush carpet below. The quiet was broken when the Deputy Prime Minister heard an odd sound. It was like the crackling of a stiff cellophane wrapper, only magnified ten times over. The man pulled out a red silk handkerchief from his suit pocket and wiped his face. He didn't want to look. Unfortunately, human curiosity got the better of him. What he saw, made him wish he hadn't. He screamed, boggling, horror-stricken, putting an arm to his face, as if that would make the terrible thing he saw go away. "What are you?" He gasped, when he could finally find the words. "I am the official procurer for the planet of Toxil-Maacht. I am here to re-supply our army's ships with a year's worth of nutrients. Our enemies found our supply convoy and destroyed it utterly. We must have more food soon, or we shall all perish." The creature who stood where Huxley had once been, said. It's cultured voice was still much like Huxley's had been, except that now it was higher pitched, and, it had a very slight buzzing whine, like the drone of a distant insect. "I have been sent here to obtain what we need for our soldiers, so that we may continue our struggle against the evil Zygon forces." The man who was once was Huxley was now an insect, somewhat taller than man-sized. It was black, had two dark scaly wings, and six legs—but stood on only two of them. On its brown body, was an over-sized head bristling with fine hairy spikes, and huge black, unblinking oval eyes. Where its mouth should have been, was a long, thin, tube with a needle like point. The Deputy Prime Minister stared dumbly at a creature from beyond his worst nightmares. "But...but...you're a giant mosquito." "We are no relation to the primitive insects of your planet." It said. "In my culture, the politically correct term is 'arthropod'. Oh, and Huxley isn't my actual name, either. My real name is unpronounceable in your Earth language. But, if it makes you more comfortable, human, you may call me 'L'arry.'" "L-Larry?" The shaken and confused Deputy Prime Minister asked "That is what my name would translate to in Earth English. At least," the thing said, "that's what my internal verbal-aural translator pod tells me. But these things never are completely accurate, are they? When I went to Moscow on a business trip last month, I ordered a dry martini sent up to my room. The hotel staff sent me a dog and a girl named Martina instead. And I have to say, they were most delicious." "De-delicious?" the man whispered, giving an audible gulp of terror. He backed up against the wall fearfully. "No. Please. Please don't eat me!" He pleaded with L'arry the arthopod. "Oh, tosh!" L'arry said, giving a dismissive wave with of one of its legs. "You're not on the menu. Not yet, anyway. If you play your cards right. Besides, " It laughed, "I've got lunch already prepared." So saying, L'arry bent down and stuck his mouth-tube into the puddle of goo that had once been the MP from Flydell North. As the insect began slurping greedily, the Deputy Prime Minister swooned on to the carpet in a dead faint.
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