"Captain's log, stardate 49584.9. We are approaching the
Cuniculi Cluster deep in intergalactic space. I hope that the
wormhole which brought us here has also delivered the Battle
Section within sensor range of this stellar landmark. As these
are the only stars within millions of light years the possibility
of intercepting the Battle Section there is quite encouraging.
There is also the opportunity of discovering new lifeforms within
the cluster itself. In the meanwhile Dr Crusher and Counsellor
Troi are intensifying their efforts to shelter our Borg
confederates from the harsher effects of cultural perestroika."
The transporter room. Six crewmembers materialize on the
transporter pad and step off. One of them is Nurse Ogawa. Dr
Crusher and Counsellor Troi hurry in between the exiting
personnel. Crusher: "Ogawa, what did you find?"
"I ran through the checklist as you directed, Doctor. I
counted a total of two hundred and fourteen social ills down
there, including gangsterism, arson, graffiti, and some pretty
weird and compelling body-piercing."
"It's just as I feared. We've removed their social
structure, and put nothing in its place. Have you seen any signs
of beneficial Federation cultural influence?"
"They've started a barney.purple.dinosaur.die.die.die
"Well, that's a blessing. I fear, though, that they will
not develop a healthy post-collective way of life until they've
seen more examples of unique fully-functioning cultures."
Troi: "Tell me, Ogawa. There have been quite a few
Enterprise crewmembers down there for considerable stretches of
time now. Have you noticed anyone who has shown signs of
developing Borg ways?"
"No, Counsellor, but I've been busy on my own assignment."
The three leave the transporter room. As soon as they go
the transporter operator locks the console and leaves, probably
for a visit to the head. A moment later the transporter
activates and a figure in orange overalls materializes on the pad
with his back to us. The camera moves in. [Ominous music.] The
figure turns suddenly, with his face lit from below, and grins an
evil grin. He raises a bare forearm and presses a newly
implanted control with his finger. The transporter effect
surrounds him and he disappears. [Kettle drums.]
"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
Star Trek: Door Repair Guy
Whoosh! (the Saucer Section mounted on a Borg Cube)
Door Repair Guy
Whoosh! (the Battle Section)
as Captain Jean-Luc Picard
Whoosh! (Saucer Section/Borg Cube again)
as Cmdr. William Riker
as Lt. Worf
as Lt. Cmdr. Geordi LaForge
as Doctor Beverly Crusher
as Counsellor Deanna Troi
as Lt. Cmdr. Data
and Patti Yasutake
as Nurse Ogawa
The Battle Section looms into view, begins to elongate in
the warp effect, suddenly snaps back into shape, and sneaks off
the left side of the screen.
Shot of a tattoo parlour. The proprietor and his customer
are standing outside the door, grinning. Inside, we see the
proprietor applying his tools to the customer's bicep. The
customer shows off the finished tattoo: heart and dagger, and a
ribbon reading `Mom'. Voice-over: "There's something about a
craftsman's work that escapes mass-production. I've been
tattooing now for, oh, thirty years. My kids are following in my
footsteps. That makes me pretty happy." Second voice: "Molson's
Signature Beers are made entirely without preservatives by our
most experienced brewmasters. Make them part of your family
A level deep in the Borg ship. The transporter effect.
Door Repair Guy materializes, picks up his toolbox, and begins to
work his way along the narrow, cluttered corridor, peering into
dark recesses, obviously searching for someone or something.
There is a loud clatter as an empty bottle skitters away from his
foot. He cranes his neck toward a shadowy side passage. Two
Borg glare back defiantly, concealing lit cigarettes in their
cupped hands. He searches on. Eventually he comes to a hand-
lettered sign: NOT FRAGILE SURGICAL IMPLANTS. Light escapes from
the cracks around a closed door nearby. He pulls the door open
Inside is a small reception area with a desk and chairs. A
Borg sits behind the desk, flipping through a magazine. She
looks up. Whatever bare skin shows on her is covered with
iridescent tattoos that move and appear to play out stories. She
closes the magazine. Cinefantastique.
"Is Not Fragile in?"
"Yeah." She pops her gum.
"Is he with a client?"
"Nobody from the Earl Grey if that's what you mean."
(DRG thinks: `So that's what they're calling it.') "I'd
like to see him, if it's not too much trouble."
"I'll buzz him." She casually flips up a cherry red
fingernail and pushes a control underneath.
An inner door opens and another Borg appears.
DRG: "Not Fragile!"
Not Fragile: "Door Repair Guy, my buddy! Come in, come in.
Very good work on the doors, my friend. Borg from all over the
ship are coming in just to see them. You know, we always knew
about doors, but until recently they seemed somehow . . .
"Use them wisely and they will be your friends. Use them
foolishly and you will have to find something long and narrow to
push into the little hole in the middle of the knob."
"Wise words, wise words. Tell me, how is the tattoo
Door Repair Guy unzips the front of his coveralls, shrugs
his bare shoulders out and turns his upper back toward the Borg.
Across his shoulder blades are the words LABATT MAXIMUM ICE. The
letters have a shimmering quality as if beer is continually
pouring through them. He grins and does a thumbs-up.
"Excellent." The Borg admires his work, nodding.
DRG: "I have come for the procedure we talked about."
Not Fragile becomes serious. "It is delicate work. To
install the units is easy. To retain the natural feeling is a
"I can make it worth your while." DRG lifts his tool box
onto the table and opens the latches. The Borg shows obvious
interest. DRG opens the lid. Inside are stacks of Mickey
Spillane novels: "I, the Jury," "Kiss Me, Deadly," "My Gun is
Not Fragile calls through the door: "Madeline, cancel all my
[Commercial: Peter Gzowski for Literacy Week.]
Dr Crusher and Counsellor Troi materialize on a level inside
the Borg Cube. The Doctor lifts a tricorder from her pocket and
begins to take a sweep of the local area. Troi watches her
enviously and says: "Beverly, I'm so jealous of you."
"Jealous? Whatever for?"
"Your pockets! You're the only one I know in Starfleet who
Crusher smiles self-consciously. "They were eliminated in a
general campaign to protect computer systems from lint.
Starfleet Medical fought for them and was granted an exemption."
"On what grounds?"
"Oh, we just made something up. It's ridiculous not to have
pockets. They're so useful."
They start to make their way along the cluttered passage.
"Beverly, now that we're off the ship, I wanted to ask you:
what do you really think about this Borg/Enterprise
"I don't know, Deanna. It's such a grey area. Are they
part of the Federation or not? If I help one of them am I
breaking the Prime Directive or not? I so much want to help them
through their current difficulties, but to what end? If we lead
them toward our own lifestyle won't they just become second-class
crewmembers? I'd love to see them settle down on some moon
somewhere and devote themselves to growing prize-winning orchids,
but would they still be Borg?"
"I think that's for them to decide."
"But how? They seem to have descended into a complete state
"Perhaps they just have to try out their individuality for a
while. I'm sure that in time they'll evolve some sort of
government. We supplied them with our entire political
Doctor Crusher gazes off into the future. "I imagine them
turning out sort of like the Bynars. Computer-dominated, to be
sure, but . . . nice."
A match strikes in a nearby alley. It briefly illuminates
the faces of four Borg as one of them lights a cigarette.
Counsellor Troi suddenly gets a bad feeling. The spark of the
cigarette tip passes from side to side as they each take a drag.
"Beverly . . ."
"Hey, you four, don't you know smoking can stunt your
The four move out of the darkened alley. Each of them is a
female juvenile, and each one wears a sneer that would intimidate
"Why doncha post a notice, Doctor? `Smoking is a
contributing factor in the development of cancer and bronchitis.'
"If you girls are smart enough to know that then you're
smart enough to know it doesn't just happen to other people."
"Ooooo, she sounds like my mother."
"You don't have a mother."
"Maybe that's why I turned out wrong."
"Beverly, I'm ready to beam out. Are you?"
"Just a moment, Troi. I want to give these girls some
"Why doncha gimme one on head lice? I was thinkina growin
"Beverly, you don't know what I'm reading off them."
"Deanna, they're just going through a difficult stage. I've
dealt with teenagers before. All it takes is a firm hand and a
kind voice. Why, some of Wesley's little friends . . ."
"Transporter Chief! Two to beam up! Now!"
The transporter effect. Troi and Crusher are on the
On the Borg ship the four juveniles turn away, one by one.
"Stupid jerks," mutters Louise.
"Shoulda taken a broken beer bottle to 'em," says Marla.
"Did you see those pockets?" whispers Angelina.
A corridor in the Saucer Section. Door Repair Guy walks
into view. He slows, comes to a stop, pulls out a tricorder and
takes readings behind and in front of him. Satisfied that there
is no one around, he sits down, unlaces and removes his work
boots and pulls off his work socks (the grey kind with the white
and orange stripes at the top). He steps into the middle of the
corridor, takes his mark, stretches his arms and legs, draws a
deep breath, and bends forward at the waist. He waggles his arms
and rolls his head. He grips his toes, keeping his legs
straight. He gazes down at his feet, visualizing. Suddenly he
flips his right big toenail up and pushes the control imbedded
underneath. He straightens up carefully and, holding his arms
out for balance, begins to levitate. He wriggles his body,
smiling with delight. He assumes a number of Olympic postures.
He imitates a number of famous statues. He practices the 4x100
freestyle. Hanging upside down in the middle of the corridor he
overhears a conversation approaching. He stabs his forefinger at
his forearm and vanishes in a Borg transporter effect. Two
crewmembers approach along the corridor, talking. They slow and
stop, and stand in mute contemplation of the work boots and
"How about that Door Repair Guy? People have been sending
in postcards and letters, and faxes too, asking, `He looks so
familiar. What has he acted in before?' So our research guy did
some work, and . . . can you run that clip you found of the Door
Fast-motion clip of Six Million Dollar Man running along
beside a 1976 Chevette.
Bob makes his significant fact face.]
"Captain's Log, supplemental. We have entered the Cuniculi
Cluster. Soon we shall know whether the Battle Section has made
it to this natural rendezvous point."
"Captain, long-range sensors are picking up a vessel
approaching the Cluster, heading 315 mark 98."
"Is it the Battle Section, Ensign?"
A cheer goes up on the bridge.
"All right, everyone. We'll have time to celebrate once
we've successfully concluded docking procedures. Helm, set an
"Aye, aye, sir!"
Cut to the battle bridge.
"Commander, I'm picking up a vessel approaching at warp
"Do you have visual?"
Visual of approaching Borg Cube with Saucer Section mounted
on the leading corner.
"Oh my God! The Borg have assimilated the Saucer Section!
Cut to the main bridge.
"Captain, they're making a power turn. They're warping out.
Captain, they're heading straight into Alpha Cuniculi."
Dr Crusher: "They're going to hide in the star's corona and
attempt to destroy us with an induced solar flare."
"Helm, move us one astronomical unit away from the star.
That should give us plenty of time to avoid any solar flares.
Science Officer, are we able to extend metaphasic shielding
around the entire Borg/Saucer confederation?"
"Unknown, sir. It's a matter of entering the programme into
the Borg collective unconscious. With their present antisocial
frame of mind I don't think it would be possible."
Troi: "That's right. They're too alienated right now."
Everyone stops what they're doing. Heads shake all around
"Sir, we could disengage the Borg Cube and extend metaphasic
shields around the Saucer. But we would be without warp drive."
"That's no good. There must be some other option." Picard
taps his commbadge. "Transporter Chief, this is the Captain. Is
there any way to transport a person on to a ship which is using
metaphasic shielding inside a star's corona?"
*It is theoretically possible, sir. The metaphasic shields
are designed to exclude only the types of energy emitted by the
star in question. If we can modify the transporter beam so that
it is emitted in an energy form exotic to Alpha Cuniculi, and if
the corona's ambient energy profile remains fairly constant, we
should be able to beam someone on to that ship. But I would want
to do extensive testing first. Only a fool would step on to the
transporter pad without it*
"About how much time would you need?"
*Days, weeks. It's impossible to tell until we get some
"Thank you, Chief. Picard out." He turns to his staff.
Worf: "Captain, if we waste time experimenting we will lose
the element of surprise. As soon as they see what we're trying
they'll make a point of remaining beyond transporter range. I
suggest we go with the fool option."
"Agreed." Picard touches his commbadge. "Picard to Door
Repair Guy. Please report to my ready room."
The ready room. Picard is seated at his desk, Counsellor
Troi on the chesterfield. The door signal chimes.
Worf enters, followed by the Door Repair Guy.
"Technician, I've called you here today because we have a
very delicate situation that I believe requires your special
Door Repair Guy grins like a jackanapes, totally sucked in
by the flattery.
Picard continues. "We have made contact with the missing
Battle Section, but owing to the unusual appearance of our
vessel, whoever it is who is in charge over there has come to the
very reasonable conclusion that we have been assimilated by the
"I swear, Captain, it's totally reversible!"
"Ah . . . quite." Worf and Troi exchange worried looks.
The Captain continues. "Here is the situation. We are currently
one astronomical unit away from Alpha Cuniculi. The Battle
Section is hiding from us in the corona of the star. We believe
that if we come too close to them they will set off a series of
solar flares in an attempt to destroy us. Our plan is to warp in
on a stealth approach pattern and execute a near warp transport
of one of our personnel on to the Battle Section. That person
will then contact the commanding officer and demonstrate our good
intentions." He pauses, preparing his closing arguments.
"What's needed now is someone with an intimate knowledge of the
Battle Section, who is highly motivated and willing to take a
risk, and who is able to think on his feet if the unexpected
happens. Do you know such a person?"
"Yes, sir! Mr Worf!"
Picard takes a deep breath. "Unfortunately, Mr Worf is
needed on the bridge. Need I remind you that your quarters are
on board the Battle Section?"
"That's right! My stuff! I'll do it!"
"Excellent! Mr Worf, would you be so good as to brief Mr,
um, Guy on what he can expect over there?"
Worf and the Door Repair Guy leave.
"Any thoughts, Counsellor?"
"It's strange. On almost every level he's completely
moronic. And yet I can't help feeling he's got something up his
"We can only hope. I have a strong suspicion we will only
get one chance at this."
[Commercial-proximity camera angle and music.]
[Commercial: American Express Traveller's Cheques]
The transporter room. Door Repair Guy is on the transporter
pad, loaded down with every variety of emergency equipment. Worf
is concluding his briefing.
"And at all cost avoid the expression, `Resistance is
futile.' Do you have any questions?"
"Yeah. I've been thinking. What do I get out of this?"
"PetaQ! You quibble over remuneration when there is glory
to be attained?"
"Well don't get your shorts in a knot. I was only asking."
*Picard to Worf. We are ready to make our stealth run. Is
your team ready?*
"Transporter Chief is ready. Door Repair Guy is as ready as
he'll ever be."
*Acknowledged. Prepare to transport on my mark*
Shot of the Borgoprise elasticizing into warp. The stars of
the Cuniculi Cluster extend into white curves as the ship
corners. Suddenly the yellow shape of Alpha Cuniculi swells into
view, filling the bottom half of the shot. Abruptly, the stars
turn back into points.
*Transporter room, now!*
The transporter beam surrounds Door Repair Guy.
On the battle bridge Geordi shouts: "There it is! Initiate
photon torpedo spread!"
Shot of solar flares erupting from the star's mantle.
On the main bridge Picard shouts: "Warp drive now!"
The Borgoprise snaps out of the path of an unfurling solar
flare in the nick of time.
Picard: "Transporter room! Is he away?!"
Shot of the half-dematerialized Door Repair Guy on the
transporter pad. The Transporter Chief is playing the controls
like a piano.
"I'm losing the lock! I can't hold him much longer!"
Shot of the dematerializing/rematerializing Door Repair Guy.
We see him raise one arm and press into it with a forefinger.
The transporter beam changes intensity and colour and blinks out.
Worf steps up to the pad. He taps his commbadge and
reports: "Captain, the Door Repair Guy is away. Where he is,
though, is another matter."
A subsidiary corridor somewhere on the Battle Section. A
transporter beam appears, fades, strengthens, and suddenly
changes colour and emits a burst of light. The beam dissipates,
leaving Door Repair Guy looking around. He taps his commbadge
and yanks his hand away with a yelp.
The commbadge falls to the floor, a blob of molten metal.
"Hoowee! That was better than the Wild Mouse!"
He saunters over to a nearby turbolift. The doors swoosh
open and he enters.
He nearly jumps out of his skin at the first chords of
"Lessons of Love", but he's really getting into the riff by the
time the doors open, depositing him on the bottommost deck of the
Enterprise. He follows several narrow, winding corridors,
ducking his head periodically to avoid low-hanging pipes, and at
last he comes to a lone out-of-the-way door.
He enters his personal lock code and walks in.
He stops. On a chair in the midst of Door Repair Guy's
stuff, frozen by surprise in the act of lifting a forkful of
beans from a tin can to his mouth, sits the renegade fugitive,
Cmdr. William Riker.
"Wow! What a great place to say
CONTINUED NEXT WEEK
ST:DRG 004 "Last Exit to Borglyn"
Written by Douglas A. McLeod (ai...@freenet.carleton.ca)