A/N: Welcome back! I'm fond of this chapter because Malcolm is the last person you want to ask for love advice, but Jon does it anyway. Poor guy - he's got it bad.

As this story winds down, I wanted to let yall know that I'm planning for a Troshi piece next. It's about time they got their own feature length work! After that, we're getting to the massive, series-spanning ATP epic I've always wanted to do.

See first chapter for content disclaimers. Next time, T'Pol takes fate into her own hands.

Let Me Take You Out

Chapter Eight

As the metaphorical clock wound down, Jonathan was more and more sure that they were about to walk into an ambush.

It was a skill he had picked up from T'Pol - a sixth sense, so to speak, that had kept them alive in recent months as they ventured into the unknown. When they initially shipped off to Qo'noS, he had been ridiculously green, and though he was still every inch the adventure-seeking soul he'd always been, now his every move was marked by a considerable degree of caution. Hell, he had even had second thoughts when they entered the palace and discovered that the lobby was full of protestors, but knew that if they faltered, it would be a major moral failing on their part.

That took a bit of adjustment. Benevolence, equality, and discovery, the hallmark values of Starfleet and United Earth, weren't necessarily shared by a majority of the species they came across. And so he had taken a cue from his first officer and learned discernment, cutting his teeth in conflicts with Klingons, Andorians, and Suliban, though he wasn't evolving fast enough for her or Ambassador Soval's liking. That was one thing he always admired about T'Pol; not only did she see past initial appearances, she was a strategist, and she always, always had a plan.

And despite his best attempts to foresee even the most outlandish contingencies, he never saw himself searching for a headless woman in the opulent corridors at the center of B'Saari government, having made out with his science officer before abandoning her in the basement with a dead man.

The writing was practically on the wall. To convince the ruling elite that Nallim was still alive just so that his wife and baby could escape, they would need to stage the biggest comeback since Lazarus. He and T'Pol's relationship would need to rebound similarly.

He and Malcolm's journey back to civilization was conducted in complete silence. Jon was sure this was how he preferred it - his tactical officer was a man of few words, and they had tacitly agreed to keep their heads down, wanting to conceal their lack of a second head behind the hoods of their robes. They moved in a slow, measured manner, doubling back through the corridors and peering into every nook and cranny, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. It was a momentous task, given that the building was teeming with B'Saari biosigns, and they really had no idea what the hell they were getting themselves into.

"One thing's bothering me about this entire thing," he said finally, once they had crossed over from the residential quarter into rows and rows of darkened offices belonging to the aides of the prime ministers. They were directly above the party now, and it was comforting to hear voices mingling with the music at a distance. Perhaps there were only a handful of rooms they had left to check, and their chances of resolving this were diminishing by the second. It was all too much to hold in.

Malcolm's reply was hushed and characteristically bewildered: "Sir?"

"Nallim and Veela had been in power for over a decade. If the public opinion is swinging back towards isolationism, why did we get such a warm welcome from everyone?" A man and a woman passed by them, and he trained his gaze on the ground, listening as the UT faintly picked up on their conversation before it faded into nothingness. "The B'Saari made first contact with the Denobulans. They've also been trading with the Vulcans for decades, and both of them have full embassies here. Surely they would have picked up on this before now."

This time, he very nearly stopped cold, swiftly redirecting into a side corridor to peer into a series of plush conference rooms. The captain was right - something wasn't adding up, and goosebumps rippled up his arms as a deep sense of primordial dread settled over him. Perhaps they had been wrong to take Nallim's words at face value, and if that was the case, they were sure to face the consequences sooner rather than later.

He would naturally fight through fire and brimstone to save his captain and his crew, but he wasn't a miracle worker. Not that he would ever admit to that out loud.

"History is full of the citizenry turning on their leaders at a whim." Malcolm paused, listening for approaching footsteps, and once he was satisfied he was alone, forged deeper into the shadows. "My father, loyal navy man that he is, always says that politicians are like dirty nappies."

They should be changed often, and for the same reason. Henry Archer was fond of a similar saying, but his disdain was more focused on Starfleet brass that stood in the way of his research during the early days of development on the warp five engine.

"I guess you're right. Even if the dynamic has been steady for a while, unknown factors get thrown into the mix. Circumstances change."

Malcolm dealt a wary look over his shoulder, starting to see where this was going but lacking the expertise, desire, and wherewithal to advise him in his increasingly complex relationship with Sub-Commander T'Pol. Even Hoshi had expressed discomfort with the whole situation; while she was eager for them to finally break the tension which had been building between them for months, he couldn't imagine that they would set aside protocol long enough for a quick romp during a mission, love potion or not.

Besides, it was almost like imagining his own parents having a snog.

Keen on pushing that thought out of his mind, Malcolm surged towards the nearest door, testing the handle only to find that it was secured. The significance of this was not lost on them, as they had traversed many a hallway in the past few minutes, and this was the only room to be shut tight. Examining the latch, he discovered that the frame was blast proof, and that he wouldn't be able to get through it with his phase pistol if he tried. The only other option was picking the lock, which seemed almost unbearably time consuming.

Where was Hoshi and her bobby pins when he needed them?

Muffling a curse, Malcolm stooped over and peered into the keyhole, reaching backward for a light. Jonathan obliged, passing him his own, but didn't seem to be content enough to let the matter alone.

"I mean, even if they wanted to go back to how things were, they've probably passed the point of no return, right?"

"I would say that's very much up for debate."

"They're in a very vulnerable position. People watch their every move constantly, put the weight of the world on their shoulders, conspire to tear them apart…"

"Sir," Malcolm admonished, working his way past the first and second pin. Part of him didn't even want to go there, but they needed to stay focused, or else they were as good as dead. "Are you sure we're talking about the B'Saari?"

Behind him, Jon chuckled ruefully and passed a hand through his hair, which was already sticking up at odd angles due to T'Pol's ministrations. Their initial conversation hadn't gone as well as he'd hoped, and given the curious mixture of anxiety, dread, and mortal terror they were both experiencing, he knew he was fixating on something that couldn't be helped until they were safe again on the ship.

"Sorry, Lieutenant. I've still got a bunch of hormones rolling around in my system."

"No need to explain," he replied hastily, and meant it. Please, if there's a higher power out there, don't make me discuss this today, or ever. Especially not with him.

Right on cue, his pen knife hit the interior of the lock just so, and the latch sprung open, swinging lazily into an otherwise darkened room. Malcolm hesitated, lingering in the doorway for a fraction of a second, before spinning around the jamb and scanning the interior, weapon held at the ready.

Nallim and Veela's office was quiet and blessedly empty, and he exhaled raggedly, allowing his shoulders to slump by a fraction of a centimeter. The ceilings were low and flat here, the room encircled on two sides by tall windows, mostly obscured by heavy velvet curtains. Still, the hustle and bustle of the city reached them here, casting long shafts of silvery light on the marble underfoot. There were two desks in the corner and a handful of toys for the baby, but far and above, the most eye-catching aspect of the chamber was the wall which was completely covered with blinking and flashing view screens. He took one step forward, and the captain followed, securing the hatch behind them.

Both men moved towards the display as if in a trance, squinting up into the gridlines and borders between this system and the next. Though they could only decipher a few symbols of the B'Saari language, the photographic evidence of their plight was hard to ignore. Joblessness, food insecurity, destitution - such protests were erupting worldwide, and if the downtrending approval ratings of the prime ministers were any indication, their chances of holding on to power were next to nothing.

Further still, they discovered detailed blueprints of several High Command battlecruisers, and even a schematic of the Enterprise, every last detail of their armaments spelled out to the letter. Someone had gone to great lengths to plot a course back to Vulcan and United Earth, and all of a sudden, everything they'd seen and heard started to paint an entirely different picture.

Nallim had told them he was on the verge of losing the election because of his desire to build bridges, forsaking the cloistered tendencies of his rivals. Now, they understood he still meant to cling to power, even upon pain of death.

The first few seconds after the soldiers burst into the basement in search of the ruling pair were absolutely agonizing, but at the same time, seemed to last an eternity.

Liz was unable to focus on anything but the roar of blood in her ears and the sensation of Veela's severed head tucked in the crook of her elbow. It was heavy, almost oppressively so, that she wasn't sure she could stand. Her legs felt wobbly and deboned, and instinct told her to crawl another few meters deeper into the maze of cargo containers, evading the line of sight of a particular intrepid marauder, who passed her and retreated to the far wall, sinking his fist into the concrete.

"I told them it was foolish to make our move while the humans were here," he ground out, baring his teeth menacingly and shaking out his hand. One gaze was trained on his assistants, while the other continued to scan the room, none too pleased with what he was seeing. "They probably already have what they need. Our last hope is that the fleet admiral refuses to obey their marching orders."

He received no response, which apparently amused him more than anything. "Of course. Why would I bother? It's like talking to this wall."

Something clicked in her mind, and she pulled her knees up to her chest, holding her breath as she observed several pairs of boots stride right past her hiding spot. Their gait was suspiciously even and identical, and she was almost mesmerized by it, so much so that she didn't realize that someone had crept up behind her before it was too late.

As soon as she felt that solid grip on her collar, she shrieked, desperately scrambling for purchase. But the holographic servants were stronger than any one human, and she found herself lifted off the ground before she could even call out for help.

Not that anyone would come to her rescue, nor should they. Liz never considered herself a fighter, but she was scrappy and determined, with a lightning quick talent for misdirection which hadn't done her wrong just yet. Reeling back, she hurled Veela's head as hard as she possibly could, causing a cascade of movement as the only living, breathing creature among them ducked and leant away.

Several of the holograms immediately leapt to defend him, and the one closest at hand roughly pushed her forward, causing her to lose her balance. There wasn't even time to use her hands to break the fall, and when her head struck the ground, it was with a deafening crack, the kind which stole her breath and left her stunned, limbs buzzing with static.

The B'Saari said something that wasn't in the UT and advanced on her; before she knew it, she was reaching for the phase pistol strapped to her waistband, clicking off the safety and leveling the weapon just as the barrel of the blaster made contact with her temple.

But she didn't fire at him. By some magnificent stroke of luck, she hit the holo-projector in the ceiling with a single shot, and the soldiers around them vanished in a shimmer of light. Finally, they locked eyes, and there was enough surprise there for her to act, quickly and decisively, emptying a round into his chest at close range.

Fortunately, there wasn't a splatter of blood, nor was there a cry of pain. It was then she knew the stun setting was on, and watched as he rapidly lost consciousness and fell forward, all but pinning her to the ground. Rolling to one side, Liz reached for the nearest cargo container, pulling herself up to a standing position and begging her legs not to fail her now.

She waited for returned fire, or a pair of hands latching around her ankles, both of which never came. Her head was pounding, positively screaming in pain, but she managed one step and then two before collapsing to her knees, fighting back shocked, cathartic tears.

It was a battle she lost all too soon, and by the time her companions braved the world outside their closet, Liz wasn't sure she could face a single one of them. Never before in her life had she experienced such a fright, and she was ashamed that she wasn't able to maintain her composure in a crisis, that she had let her emotions get in the way of a life or death situation.

That was when she felt a broad, reassuring hand on her back between the shoulders, and she reflexively pressed against it, seeking whatever refuge she could find. Slowly, someone joined her on the ground, and when he spoke, his voice was fraught, positively strained with emotion: "Don't you ever scare me like that again."

A different voice cut through the silence then, decidedly less affected, and she looked up, finding the Sub-Commander standing there with a wide-eyed, curious little boy balanced on her hip.

"On your feet, Crewman."

She nodded, finally locating her balance, leaning heavily on the doctor for support. It was in that moment that Hoshi emerged from around the corner pushing a wheelchair, serving as the unofficial escort for a very pale and expressionless Nallim, who looked very much like he'd been dug fresh out of the grave.

"Showtime," she said simply, and made a break for the door.

(to be continued)