Shot of alien shuttlecraft speeding through space. Cut to the shuttlecraft interior. We see Door Repair Guy slumped sideways in the navigator's seat. A hand extends into the shot and presses a hypospray to his neck. He jumps awake. "Whoa! What was that?" The spokeswoman of the Founders: "Caffeine." He twitches. "It works." He blinks at the viewscreen. "Where are we?" "We are in the Gamma Quadrant now." "GQ. All right." The shapeshifter studies him. DRG: "What." "We Founders have expended considerable effort to bring order to our quadrant of the galaxy. Ancient empires and powerful warring states have been subordinated and reorganized according to rational and systematic principles. Order now prevails across a significant fraction of the galaxy. The appearance of the Bajoran Wormhole has offered us an opportunity to continue our work in the Alpha Quadrant. But I sometimes wonder whether the seed of entropy, by which it all shall be undone, has not already been sown." It takes him a moment to catch her drift. "You're talking about me?" "Your species exhibits a disturbing amalgam of invention and insouciance. You make things up. You routinely disregard the consequences of your actions. You guess. You do things to see what will happen next. You initiate projects, then give up for lack of interest. Or else you devote your lives to utterly worthless pursuits, hoping for the praises of posterity. The success of your species is one of the great problems occupying the Great Link. By all rights the Klingons should have overrun you years ago. You yourself, door repairman -- and we have been watching you -- are an extreme example of this tendency to disorder, but there is something of you in every human." "And your point is . . . ." "In order to prepare the ground for a Dominion pacification of the Alpha Quadrant, it is first necessary to rearrange certain systems that are already present. It is a large task. Bajor presents a convenient test case. We find the Bajorans rather deeper and more centred that humans. If we can turn them to our cause we shall be well on our way. You occupy a position of some importance within the Bajoran world view, strange as it may seem. Your discovery of one of the sacred Orbs has led the Bajorans to designate you a very minor saint. If you chose you would command considerable influence." "And what makes you think I'll choose? I have a contractual agreement with Starfleet not to go in for stuff like this." The Founder nods to the rear of the cabin. Two Jem'Hadar warriors decloak and dash at DRG like hungry mastiffs. They park themselves behind either shoulder and shout and snarl into his ears while pointing weapons at different targets on his head. "Hm. Threatened by violence. That unties my hands. But what's in it for me?" "We are going to make you Kai." Camera closes in on surprised Door Repair Guy realizing it could come true. An icy asteroid rolls by, spewing cometary material. "Crawlspace. The final frontier. These are the voyages of The Door Repair Guy. His mission: to install and maintain proximity-activated entranceways, to stake out new rooms and new service conduits -- to boldly go where no one with a pass key has gone before." Deep Space Nine space station drifts into view. A runabout shoots past, revealing the words: Star Trek: Door Repair Guy Starring Door Repair Guy as Himself Avery Brooks as Commander Sisko Rene Auberjonois as Odo Siddig El Fadil as Doctor Bashir Terry Farrell as Lieutenant Dax Colm Meany as Chief O'Brien Armin Shimerman as Quark Cirroc Lofton as Jake Sisko Nana Visitor as Major Kira Salome Jens as the Shapeshifter Camille Saviola as Kai Opaka [Commercial: Windows 95 / "Start Me Up"] View of the alien shuttlecraft at rest on a jagged planetary surface. The Founder steps watchfully from the space vessel, followed by Door Repair Guy. Founder: "It should go without saying, but let me remind you to remember not to be killed. The consequences are unpleasant." DRG: "You're telling me. One time I got killed, and I had the worst hangover afterwards." She regards him. "You there!" They turn and find themselves in the sights of a homemade disruptor wielded by a ferocious, scarified ruffian dressed in leather armour. "Hands up!" The thug comes forward and frisks them. He retrieves a portable eight track player and several cassettes from the pockets on DRG's overalls. He glances at the labels as he backs off. "YMCA? Is that some sort of code? What does it stand for?" DRG: "Your mother can't act." The thug sticks the disruptor in DRG's face. "You leave my mother out of it!" The Founder: "The Kai will be displeased if you harm her protege." "Protege?" "Has she not taught you the Prophecies?" "Prophecies? Well. Yeah." "Please recite the seventeenth prophecy of Vedek Yalult." "Um. 'And there shall be nobody at the door, but the doorkeeper himself will bear a message.'" "Here is the doorkeeper of which the prophecy speaks." DRG looks at her, surprised. The thug, out of his depth theologically, tries to figure out their game, and can't. "The Kai will decide that! This way!" The two head off under the leather man's suspicious gaze. [Commercial: Ringo Starr for cheese in the pizza crust] View of Deep Space Nine. Cut to a corridor in the Habitat Ring. Commander Sisko, Lieutenant Dax, and Chief O'Brien advance down the corridor and halt before the police-tape-criss-crossed and security-guard-guarded door of Door Repair Guy. Two security guards come to attention. Sisko: "I have the authorization of Admiral Nechayev to enter these premises and conduct a search." He hands the order to one of the security guards who reads it and nods to the other, who keys in the security lockout override and then carefully begins to unstick the police tape. Sisko: "Just tear it, crewman." The guard hesitates, then follows Sisko's advice, and Sisko enters, followed by Dax and O'Brien. O'Brien and the other guard give the frugal cop a look. Frugal cop: "Waste not, want not." Other cop: "I think the United Federation of Planets can afford another ten feet of tape." "Hey, we didn't get into space by throwing money around." "As a matter of fact, that's just how we did it. Build 'em and burn 'em. Look at Project Apollo." "Ha. Recycle and reuse. Look at Skylab." "Ha. Constitution-class starship." "Ha. Martian Colony." "Martian Colony?" "The whole thing was financed by people saving the money they would've ordinarily spent on pizza. They got the idea from a _Life_ magazine article. Took a hundred and twelve years." "What is pizza?" "That's exactly my point." "Yeah, but what is it?" "I saw it in the food museum once. It's ooey-gooey." "Ooey-gooey?" "Yeah, cheese everywhere." "Man." "Even in the crust." "Cheese in the crust?" "Gross, eh?" "I dunno." "You mean you'd eat that?" "I wouldn't close my mind to that." "Man oh man." Cut to the interior of the suite. Sisko, O'Brien and Dax are roaming around the room taking tricorder readings. O'Brien: "Just what is it we're looking for, Commander?" "Answers, Chief. What do the Founders want with a door repairman? For that matter, what did the House of Duras and the Borg before them see in him? And how did he get from the Gamma Quadrant to the Mulch Dimension? And how did I wind up with this character on my station in the first place?" O'Brien: "Dumb luck?" "I've been trying to transfer him for six months but I can't find a commander in Starfleet who'll agree to a trade. Now, if we ever get the man back, the Judge Advocate General is going to take him without compensation. If we can only find something Starfleet Security has missed maybe we can salvage something from this situation. So let's approach this methodically, people. I want any clue that sheds some light on this man's past or frame of mind." Dax: "I'll check the record collection." O'Brien rolls his eyes. Sisko: "With all due respect to your former host, Dax, I question the importance of this man's taste in music." Cut to Kai Opaka with the eight track headphones on her ears, bobbing her head with the disco beat, a smile spreading across her face. [Commercial: Pentium Intel Chip / "Satisfaction" (Devo version)] A cave. Door Repair Guy wanders into the shot, hands in his pockets, shuffling his feet with boredom. He comes to a rock, looks around, and sits on it. It turns all soft. He yelps and stands up. The rock morphs into the shapeshifter looking embarrassed and slightly discomposed. DRG: "Sorry!" Shapeshifter: "A natural consequence of our differing physical natures." "It was unintentional." "I believe you." "I don't go around sitting on . . ." "It is better forgotten." We see an idea cross his mind. "Besides . . . it would never work." She turns. "No. No, it wouldn't." The leatherman enters. "Come. You are wanted." He escorts them through passages toward a large darkened cavern. They are suddenly startled by a bank of lights, then a second, then the first, then the second. The lights swivel upward and catch the rotating facets of a mirrored globe, filling the chamber with fragments of light. Kai Opaka glides up in front of them, shouts, "Disco-o-o-o-o-o-o!!!!!!" and the music begins to pound. [Bob: "It's Bob! Quick, screen capture!" Shot of two kids in front of a Compaq Presario. CHRO inhabits a small window in the corner of the screen. We see Bob open his mouth to speak, then give a look of surprise as he's lifted out of the shot and pasted into Dungeon of Torment. He jumps up on the computer-animated couch, sees Grendel, leaps into a rolling ball as three energy bolts shoot by, kicks the Ninja in the head, grabs the axe, swings at Grendel once, twice, three times, scores a hit causing Grendel to vapourize, sees the machine-gun toting transsexual, leaps upward and grabs the passing albatross by the feet . . .] [Commercial: America On Line / "Pictures of Lily"] The discotheque. Shot of DRG looking around in some consternation. Members of the Ennis and Nol-Ennis, former blood enemies, are competing on the dance floor. He looks around. The shapeshifter seems to have blended into the crowd. He raises his voice to be heard. "Kai Oprah." "Opaka." "Kai Opaka. We need to talk." "Not really! Your friend has told me all about you. I really think you're just the man for this job." "I don't know what you know about the Founders, but they're not what they seem." "How many of us are what we seem?" "I don't know. A small number? The point is they're out to trick you." "Or could it be I'm out to trick them." "Oh." He thinks about this. Music: "I believe in miracles. Where ya been, you sexy thing?" "I can't be Kai. It's crazy." She points to him with two disco fingers. "The prophecies all point to you." "How?" "'There will be one in the cloth of a Vedek.'" "Orange? That's Maintainance Division." "'He will oversee their coming in and their going out.'" He scratches his head. "'They shall dance to the sound of trumpets and drums.'" He looks around the room. They are definitely doing that. "Well, hm, if you put it that way. It could be me. But I gotta tell ya, I haven't trained for this." "Really? Tell me, what is the Third Law of Door Repair?" "Huh? 'The key is under the mat.'" "Please explain it in your own words." "Well. People forget where they put the key, and then they call a repairman for no good reason. If they'd stop worrying about what they want to do on the other side they might remember how to let themselves in." "How would you apply that to the Celestial Temple?" "The Wormhole? . . . Wel-l-l-l-l, I guess everybody's so concerned about the Dominion that they forget that the Wormhole isn't just a place to go through but . . ." "But?" ". . . a place to go." "Exactly! The Bajorans are in peril, repairman. They need to be reminded that the dwelling place of the Prophets is the Celestial Temple. The Founders, the Federation, the Cardassians may come and go, but the Prophets are eternal. The Gates to the Celestial Temple must remain open." "Nearly everyone has tried to destroy the Wormhole at one time or another." "They must not succeed. You must prevent it. Remember, you have the eleventh rank." "Yeah. That's right. But what's stopping you from going back and handling this yourself?" She gets a faraway look. "Once, before I entered the monastery, I was the religious leader of a small farming village. This is my village now. And these are my people." "This is what the Founders brought me here for, you know. I'd be doing their dirty work. They flattened New Bajor, and now they want to take over Bajor itself." "They are shapeshifters. We would turn them into us." A statutesque blonde Swedish woman approaches them. She takes DRG by the arm. "You want to hustle, no?" He turns to Opaka as he's drawn out onto the dance floor. "I believe you." [Commercial: Commodore 64/ "Put Another Nickel in the Nickleodeon"] DRG's quarters. Sisko, O'Brien and Dax continue to search the premises. We see O'Brien flip through his two-hundred-and- fifty-ninth _Field and Stream_, finding nothing but the advertising insert, which falls out like all the rest before it. He bends, stiffens, and straightens with a groan. Sisko: "What is it, Chief?" O'Brien: "Nothing, just me flamin' back." "Report to Doctor Bashir as soon as we get done here." "If we ever get done here. Have you ever seen such an dog's breakfast of useless and antiquated odds and sods? I mean, look at this." He gestures toward a jackhammer. Dax is scanning the walls carefully. We see her pause, examine a dovetail joint in a pattern of interlocking metal Cardassian tiles, and push against the opposite sides of two adjacent tiles. They fold apart like a Chinese puzzle. Behind them is a cubby-hole. She retrieves an isolinear rod and waggles it in the air triumphantly. Sisko: "Play it." She slips it into DRG's Sony Iso 5000. On the monitor the figure of a Cardassian in facepaint and flowing garb appears, performs several poses with an inflated bladder on a stick, and warbles in a headsplitting musical scale. O'Brien: "Jaysis Murphy! Cardassian folk-dancing! Cut the power!" Sisko: "Wait!" The folk-dance recording breaks up and is replaced by a head-and-shoulders shot of a single Cardassian. The scene is dark and the Cardassian is visible in little more detail than silhouette, but it is obvious that the man is very seriously ill. He speaks in a quiet, faltering voice: "This is the final disposition of Borot, assistant underquartermaster of the space station Terok Nor. I am making this recording in the hope that it may escape the attention of my enemies, as I have not, and someday fall into the hands of some disinterested party who may judge it for its true worth. For some months I have been growing increasingly ill from arsenic poisoning despite my efforts to counter the effects, and I now have only days of life remaining. I believe my murderer is my friend and messmate Nufrek to whose delicious yamok sauce I have long been addicted. Nufrek and I have both been engaged in treasonous and criminal activities against the state, the punishment for which is execution, so I consider myself not unjustly but unkindly served. What act have I committed to deserve execution, you wonder? I have used my position in the station quartermaster's office to smuggle a Bajoran Orb from the hands of the Cardassian government. I have done this at the behest of the religious leader of the Bajorans, one Kai Opaka. Why, you ask me? Because I recognize the affinity between the Cardassian and Bajoran peoples. I have been a student of Cardassian folk-music since my youth, and consider it the peak not only of Cardassian culture, but of all civilization everywhere. I know that all educated Cardassians will agree. One day on the planet I witnessed a child in a Bajoran work camp perform a dance I myself had learned at that age. When I asked the Bajorans what Cardassian had taught the child the dance they claimed (though reluctantly and only after the threat of punishment) that it was an ancient Bajoran dance. My researches later proved this to be true. Whether the Bajorans learned the dance from the Cardassians, or vice versa, I do not know, but the incident convinced me that the Occupation is misguided and destructive to both the Bajoran and Cardassian cultures. When I was approached by Kai Opaka to hide an Orb from the authorities, I agreed, though I knew the consequences. I took Nufrek into my confidence, but I now see it was a fatal mistake. Who has turned him against me I do not know, but fortunately I have kept the location of the Orb a secret, one that will die when I die. I am making this recording not knowing who will find it or when, but if the discoverer is Gul Ducat" -- a fit of coughing overtakes him -- "eat my shorts." Dax pumps a fist. "Yes!" O'Brien and Sisko, both of whom have been moved by the recording, stare at her in disbelief. Dax (regaining her professional poise): "I called it, you see. Borot acting alone. Major Kira and Doctor Bashir owe me dinner in the Klingon restaurant." O'Brien: "Bloody charming." Sisko: "Dax, please be so good as to alert Constable Odo of this new evidence in the Borot case." "Okay!" She's off, ponytail flying. O'Brien: "I hope I don't go that strange when I'm her age." [Commercial: Corel Draw / "Paint It Black"] A street scene in the Old Quarter of 24th-century Paris. Lovers stroll from newsstand to newsstand. A restored 21th- century Citroen roars past, honking at Parisians on grav- scooters. The camera moves toward an antique Volkswagen Beetle pulled up against the curb. A constable of the Surete is writing a ticket. Constable: "Stupid Boche auto. Do you not know it is one hour parking seulement? Can you not read the notification, you illiterate conveyance? This is France. You cannot park with impunity. Here we have regulations, you know. I will write you a ticket, and then you will understand, will you not? Haw haw, yes, then I think you will understand a little better. Your stopping will take on a new complexion, I warrant you. Perhaps then you will observe the posted regulation. Imbecilic voiture." He continues to write, then glances indignantly from pad to pen. He clicks the pen repeatedly, tries to continue writing with it, then holds it between his thumb and forefinger and addresses it: "Idiot pen. You are out of ink." He thrusts the pen between his ear and the brim of his pillbox hat. Then he puts his fists on his hips and glances angrily this way and that as he works on a solution to his dilemma. Through the rest of the scene a trickle of black ink grows down the side of his face toward his collar. Meanwhile, in the background, a man in a black cap and mask is robbing a passerby. The passerby puts his hands up and shouts for help as the robber frisks him and relieves him of wallet, watch, and computer pad. The victim begins to broadcast his appeal directly to the constable. The robber pulls out a blackjack, clubs his victim to the ground, and starts off past the constable. The constable grabs him by the arm. "One moment please, my good fellow." The robber glowers back sullenly. Constable: "Do you have a Bic?" "Pardonne?" "Avez-vous un Bic?!" "Un Bic?" "Oui! Un Bic! Un Bic!" "I do not even know what un Bic is." "Un pen! Stylo! Street ragamuffin that you are!" "Ah! Un Bic! D'accord!" He gives the constable a Bic and steals off. The cop writes the ticket and turns with a flourish toward the Volkswagen. The car is gone. He snaps around and searches the street for the departed robber. "That suspicious fellow has somehow absconded with the voiture." He hurries off in pursuit, pausing only to disentangle his legs from the leash of a supermodel's poodle. The camera lingers until the outraged supermodel has dragged the dog past the unconscious mugging victim, then pans toward the bank of the Seine. A woman in a beret is seated at an computer easle, adding touches pixel by pixel to a nearly completed view of the Left Bank. She sits back and lights up a Gallois, releasing blue smoke into the atmosphere. She studies the picture critically. The camera moves in on the matte painting. It is a charming scene, but lacks any reference to Star Trek whatsoever. She bends down, rolls the mouse around on the pavement, and with a double click replaces a chunk of greenery with the palatial squares of the Federation Unie des Mondes headquarters. Cut to a waiting-room outside the office of the President of the Federation Council. Admiral Natalie Bartlett, Head of Starfleet Security, and Captain Morgan Bateson of the USS Bozeman are seated on a Louis Quatorze chaise lounge. A large black and white long-haired feline darts here and there about their feet. Captain Bateson, fitted out in 23rd-century dress uniform, has a somewhat pallid look and is handling his leather portfolio as though it were in actuality an inflatable life preserver. Bartlett: "My, my, Captain, you're sweating like a piano deliveryman." Bateson: "Oh God. Forgive me, Admiral, but I've never been in such an important waiting-room before. Through that door there are decisions being made that affect the lives of trillions of people. You know, I must admit it, this Gamma Trianguli VI affair has me a little flustered. I've never encountered such wholesale mischief as that perpetrated by that Door Repair fellow. His movements have left a trail of misdeeds that would astonish, well, a President of the Federation Council! Just think of it. I've been collecting evidence on that wrongdoer for months now, travelling from sector to sector, and in a few moments I'll be briefing the President of the Federation Council. Of course you realize a favorable impression could be the key to a brilliant career. A faux pas on the other hand could spell disaster. Let me tell you it's not easy making up for eight decades caught in a temporal loop. A man in my position needs to leap at every opportunity he can get." Bartlett: "And you have." Bateson (blushing): "Oh, Admiral." His portfolio beeps. He looks at it in surprise. "I told them only to call me in the extremest emergency!" He takes out the computer pad. "Bateson here! What is it?" *Captain, this is Admiral Nechayev. I just thought I'd call to inform you that your suspect has been abducted by the Founders. Nechayev out.* Bateson sinks into his chair. "This is a catastrophe." The intercom buzzes on the Secretary's desk across the room. "Oui, allo? Oui? Tres bien." The Secretary addresses them. "Ze President will see you in cinq minutes." Bateson grabs the arm of the chaise lounge. "I can't go in there! It's suicide!" Bartlett: "Calm yourself, Captain." "Oh God. Oh God." He wrings his hands and looks for an avenue of escape. His eyes fall on the Secretary. He crosses the carpet on his knees. "Mademoiselle Secretary! Mademoiselle Secretary!" He grabs her nameplate off the desk. "Mademoiselle Nadon, I implore you, reschedule the briefing!" She makes an indignant snort. Admiral Bartlett drags him by the collar to the chaise lounge. He clutches the nameplate to his breast and weeps. He looks around desperately, suddenly displacing his anxiety. "Where's the cat gone? I knew this would happen! Felix! Felix!" Bartlett: "Don't worry, Captain. I have a subcutaneous transponder." Bateson (aghast): "My God! You put a transponder in your cat?" Bartlett (laughs): "No!" She holds out the back of her hand in a "kiss my hand" gesture. He stares uncomprehendingly at the hand, blinks, takes it in his, bends forward and stops short as he notices the slight bulge under the skin. His eyes widen. He notices the voyeuristic smile on the Secretary's face. He kisses the Admiral's transponder, sits back with an overabundance of false bonhommie, throwing his hand in the air and announcing: "Vive la difference!" The Secretary makes a Parisian sound and returns to her work. The intercom buzzes once more. "Ze President will see you now." Bateson's face takes on a look of renewed dread as Bartlett bundles him into the President's office, the cat following close behind. ------------ Written by Douglas McLeod, ai919@freenet.carleton.ca ------------