Mars. Dr. Evil RoboCreep tells Trip that he's been monitoring him, so he knows exactly what he did to sabotage the targeting system. He orders him to fix it. Trip's not inclined to acquiesce to his request. "In two hours, I'm going to fire a Frickin' Laser Beam directly at Starfleet Command. Now, with this targeting system the way it is, I will hit Starfleet but I'll also take out half of San Francisco along with it. I need a scalpel, not a bludgeon," Dr. Evil RoboCreep says, pulling at things in the box thing that Trip fiddled with. "I don't care what you need," Trip snaps. At Dr. Evil RoboCreep's nod, Random Task drags Trip to his feet. Dr. Evil RoboCreep explains, "Starfleet's been warned, if that's what concerns you. Now, you can either help me and a few empty buildings will be destroyed, or you refuse me and meeeellions may die." I swear to god that's how Peter Weller said "millions." It stands to reason, really. I mean, his mother was a fifteen-year-old prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. His father would womanize, he would drink, he would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy -- the sort of general malaise that the genius possess and the insane lament. "You told Starfleet when you're planning on firing the array and you don't think they're going to blast this facility off the face of the planet?" Trip boggles. Dr. Evil RoboCreep promises a bloodbath and then orders Trip carted off to a cell, telling Random Task to make sure he's got a TV set: "I want him to see the bodies when they start to pull them from the rubble." Okay, that's a flashback to 9/11 that really could have been avoided.
Nursery of the Half Breed. T'Pol holds Baby Tri'Pol in front of her. "Hello," she states, "I'm your mother. You're going to need a name. We should discuss that with your father." Blalock's delivery here is great. T'Pol's not quite sure how to talk to a baby and she clearly feels a bit stupid doing it. It's pretty much how I talk to babies. T'Pol blinds the baby with a bright blue scan and then looks a bit concerned at the readings.
Convenient Comet of Contrivance. May-Au-Revoir notes that Mars' gravity is starting to tear the CCC apart. Reed closes up the air sickness bag, makes a face, and hands it back to Phlox, who takes it with a delightedly interested look on his face. He's probably going to feed it to his bat. Or make a tincture out of it. Or use it as a face masque. Suddenly, May-Au-Revoir freaks that the engines have suddenly shut down and the console is locked up. Quantum reports additional signs that they are screwed as they hurtle toward Mars and into the commercial break.