Star Trek Deep Space 9 03 Bloodletter

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the

author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,

living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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To Chris and Lynn Hoth,

with thanks

Historian’s Note

This adventure takes place before the STAR TREK: DEEP SPACE NINE episode “Battle Lines.”

PART

ONE

CHAPTER

ACRY RANGthrough the engineering bay.

“Lousy piece of Cardassiancrap!”

More words followed, in a vocabulary colorful enough to draw expressions of distaste from a Bajoran

work crew nearby. Dressed in the drab gray of one of their planet’s more puritanical sects, they hadn’t

yet become used to the rougher edges of station life.

Chief Engineer Miles O’Brien, still cursing, emerged from a thrust-device compartment’s access port.

Blood threaded from the corner of his brow, gashed on one of the gantry chains running taut to the

vessel’s exposed innards. It was only slightly redder than his sweating face.

“Is there some difficulty you have encountered?” O’Brien’s Cardassian counterpart inquired with mock

solicitude. Behind him, curved panels of ship’s armor hung in the bay’s depths like brutalist stage scenery.

“If you will recall, I warned you that working on our equipment was a matter best left to experts—”

“No difficulty; nothing that I can’t handle, that is.” He looked at the blood smeared on the rag he’d taken

from his pocket. The wound was minor enough; a typical machine-shop accident that he could safely

ignore for the time being. It was much harder to ignore the thin smile on the Cardassian engineer’s face.If

lizards couldgrin —a major effort of self-control was required to keep from decking this one. “I just

need the right tools.” He turned and headed toward the bay’s heavy equipment locker, ducking beneath

the power cables looping overhead.

A satisfying expression of alarm showed in the Cardassian engineer’s eyes when O’Brien came back.

“What . . . what do you think you’re doing . . . ”

It was his turn to smile. He pressed the joystick on the control box in his hands; behind him, the

ponderous articulated device that had followed him out of the locker clumped forward, the steel deck

clanging at each step. “I’ve been here long enough to be plenty familiar with the quality of Cardassian

construction.” He deliberately steered the jacksledge so that the uplifted striking weight clipped one of

the bay’s structural girders; the resulting shock wave came close to knocking the Cardassian off his feet.

“And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that your stuff responds to an old Earthly engineering

principle—If it doesn’t fit, use a biggerhammer.”

“You’ve gone mad—” The Cardassian scrambled out of the way as the device swung toward the

drydocked vessel. “This . . . this is impossible. . . .”

Hammers didn’t come any bigger than the jacksledge. O’Brien and the rest of the DS9 tech crew had

cobbled it together for smashing through whatever interior sections of the station had collapsed so badly

that only brute force could clear a path. The striking weight was loaded with enough depleted fission

material to punch a humanoid-sized hole between one deck and the next. Now, it followed O’Brien like

a puppy on a leash as he clambered inside the open thrust-device compartment. The jacksledge’s

servo-mechs allowed it to delicately pick its way into the space, the massive legs settling between the

thrust chamber and the surrounding bulkhead.

The Cardassian engineer’s face appeared at the rim of the access port. He had recovered enough to

begin blustering. “The use of this device is totally uncalled-for—” His voice echoed off the chamber’s

wall towering above O’Brien’s head. “This is a complete violation of the operational protocols agreed to

by the administration of this station . . . it cannot be done—”

“Bet me.” O’Brien thumbed the trigger button on the control box, and the striking weight swung through

an arc close enough that he heard the rush through the air. The last he heard was the jacksledge hitting

the bulkhead like the clapper of a monstrous bell. When the diaphragms inside his protective ear inserts

opened up again, he could hear the ringing of the dented metal, and cutting through that, the ululating wail

of the vessel’s security alarms going off.

He eyeballed the effect the hammer blow had made upon the bulkhead. If anything, the freight hauler

wasn’t crap, but rather, overengineered for the research purposes to which it had been converted. It

would take another dozen blows, at least, to bend the metal for enough clearance; then the buffer shields

could finally be lowered into place.

The alarms didn’t shut off, but grew louder instead, shrieking from the violated core of the vessel. Before

readying the jacksledge for another swing, O’Brien glanced out the access port and saw the Cardassian

engineer running for the loading doors—whether from terror or to summon help, he couldn’t tell. The

Bajorans looked up from the eyepieces of the assembly bench. They weren’t so puritanical, he noted, as

to be able to resist smiling at the Cardassian’s discomfiture.

“Let’s get a few more in.” He patted the closest of the jacksledge’s legs. “Before anybody comes to

stop us.”

After the DS9 security team had taken away the chief engineer—the head of security himself had

snapped the hand restraints on—the Bajorans glanced around at each other. Events did not usually get so

dramatic in the engineering bay.

“He seems a decent enough man.” One laid down the delicate tools and flexed his cramped fingers.

“This O’Brien—he has not been ungracious toward us.”

A few of the others nodded in agreement. They had all expected the chief engineer to have greeted them

with hostility, to have impeded their being made part of the station’s construction and retrofitting

operations; O’Brien had been forced to take them on as part of an agreement hammered out between

the station’s commander and the government authorities down on the surface of Bajor. But if O’Brien

had not been exactly overjoyed by their arrival, he had at least been fair to them since.

Another of the crew pushed aside his magnifying optic. “I will admit that, when the great time comes, I

may even miss him. A bit . . . ”

The sympathetic comments were more than the group’s leader could take. None but the other Bajorans

knew that he was in charge of their spiritual and moral welfare, charged with shielding them from the

temptations to be found among the heathens. He bore no mark that would have indicated his hidden rank

to the Starfleet officers. It was just one more thing of which they were unenlightened.

“Perhaps,” he said coldly, “in your devotions you could strive to remember why we’re here; the purpose

behind our coming to this place.” The leader cast a stern gaze around the assembly bench.

The others, suitably chastened, looked down at the glittering components of their labors.

“I only meant—” The first who had spoken, the youngest of the group, now made an attempt to defend

himself. “Just that there’s surely no harm in being on good terms with the man. That’s all.”

“Ah . . .harm .” The leader nodded, making a show of mulling over the word. “As if our people hadn’t

suffered enough of that, already. From just such creatures as this chief engineer of whom you seem so

fond.” His own words lashed out, before the other could protest. “It doesn’t matter that he’s not a

Cardassian. He, as well as all the rest of them, is still an outsider. They are not Bajoran.”

Silence wrapped itself around the group. None of them could raise his eyes to meet the harsh gaze of the

leader.

“From now on—” He spoke softly, having vanquished all opposition. “Keep company only with your

brethren, and you will be shielded from falling into error.”

No one spoke. One by one, they picked up their delicate tools and resumed their work.

He could hear them coming up the corridor outside his office—even with the door closed. For Benjamin

Sisko, that was one of the unforeseen advantages of the Deep Space Nine station’s ramshackle state of

construction. Aboard theEnterprise, or any of the other Starfleet vessels, acoustic isolation between one

sector and another, between the public spaces and the private compartments, was total; you didn’t know

who might be at your door until they announced their presence. Here, however, the ringing of footsteps

on bare metal, the echoing of raised voices against the walls—all came clearly to him. Which gave him

time, if only a few seconds, to put on his game face, the mask of calm authority that everyone expected

from the station’s commander.

“ . . . sabotage . . . blatant sabotage. On my world, that is a capital offense. . . .” One voice had the

grating tones of a Cardassian officer, the combination of overweening arrogance and innate hostility,

without which all of them seemed unable to even order a drink in one of the station’s lounges. From the

sound of it, this one seemed to have been pushed from mere annoyance to vibrating rage. “We shall see

what kind of justice can be expected from your Federation superiors. . . .”

Another voice muttered something in reply, too low for Sisko to make out the words, though he

recognized his chief engineer’s accent. He had a vague idea of what this was all about; the station’s head

of security had been able to give him a rushed comm call, with an indication of the mess that was about to

land on his desk.

The desk . . . that was the other advantage of a bit of warning. These days, any interruption seemed to

come while he was chin-deep in the intricacies of Bajoran diplomacy. Spread before him were things not

meant for the prying, advantage-seeking eyes of a Cardassian officer. As the voices and footsteps

approached, Sisko blanked the computer screen.

“Enter.” He settled back in his chair, expression composed so as not to show that he’d just painfully

nicked his shin on the drawer’s corner. Every damned thing the Cardassians had built seemed to have

sharp edges sticking out of it, waiting to draw blood; that seemed the way they liked things to be.

Worse luck—there weretwo Cardassian officers. One he recognized as the chief engineer for the vessel

currently being retrofitted in the drydock bay; the other—he suppressed a sigh of aggrieved

annoyance—was Gul Tahgla, the vessel’s captain. Tahgla, in his brief time aboard DS9, had already

proved himself to be an apt pupil in the arts of obstruction and connivance practiced by his crony and

superior, Gul Dukat. Sisko sometimes wondered if Dukat had sharpened the metal edges before vacating

the desk at which he now sat; he wouldn’t put it past him.

“For the love of—” Behind the Cardassians, Chief Engineer O’Brien whispered to Odo, loud enough for

Sisko to hear, then grimaced as he held up the restraints binding his wrists. “Did you have to put ‘em on

so tight? If you’re just trying to show these jokers you’re serious—”

The security chief glared back at him. “I do nothing for show.”

The Cardassian captain nodded stiffly toward Sisko. “I believe we have a small . . .problem,

Commander.” A relishing smile lurked on his face as he spoke the word. “Or perhaps not so small. A

certain matter of deliberate and unprovoked sabotage on the part of one of your senior crew

members—”

“Bull.” O’Brien snorted in disgust. “I’ve been plenty provoked, thank you.”

Sisko listened to the Cardassian engineer’s account of what had happened in drydock. Now, he had to

work to suppress his own smile; he would have liked to have been there when O’Brien had fired off the

jacksledge, just to have seen the Cardassian scurry for the bay’s exit.

“I’m sure the commander will appreciate the ramifications of this incident.” Gul Tahgla’s voice grew

more icily formal. “The agreement with the Federation, by which your technicians are given access to

some of the most crucial areas of our ships, was accepted by our council under duress. In your guise of

protectors of the hapless Bajorans, you have obtained control of the stable wormhole, access to which is

permitted only to those who meetyour conditions.” The formal tone was displaced by a sneer. “Odd,

isn’t it, how such deep altruism justhappens to give the Federation the keys to the entire Gamma

Quadrant.”

“Please. There’s no call to—”

“Hear me out, Commander.” The Cardassian leaned threateningly over the desk. “It has been long

suspected by our council that the Federation’s requirements for travel through the wormhole are a pretext

by which spies could be given free run of our vessels, in the guise of workmen installing these ridiculous,

nonfunctioning devices—”

“Believe me, if they were nonfunctioning, they wouldn’t be so expensive.” The Cardassian had hit a sore

point with Sisko. A major portion of the station’s budget, the Federation resources devoted to keeping

DS9 up and running, had gone into the on-site construction of the impulse energy buffers. Although no

vessel, Federation or Cardassian or any other, would be allowed into the wormhole without the buffers in

place, the reimbursement schedule that Starfleet had mandated covered only a fraction of their actual

cost—at least until the next appropriations review.

In the meantime, DS9’s operations were being squeezed tight by the need to get craft such as the

Cardassian research vessel ready forintra wormhole travel. It had been less than twenty-four hours ago

that Major Kira had stormed into this office with the figures of the expected shortfall, rows of numbers on

the screen of her data padd, as much as demanding that he immediately order a halt to any further retrofit

work.Why should we go in the hole for the sake of Cardassians? —those had been her words. Kira

had little experience with the subtleties of the Federation bureaucracy; he’d had a difficult time convincing

her that running a deficit was the best way of persuading Starfleet to increase their budget.

As for doing things for the sake of Cardassians . . . he had his reasons for that, as well. And, for the time

being, he was telling no one. “—andyou’d better get it straight, nothing leaves that drydock tillI say so!

You can be a friggin’ admiral for all I care—”

The sound of his chief engineer’s shouting brought Sisko up from the deep workings of his thoughts.

“Please, gentlemen.” He held up a hand for quiet, then gestured to Odo. “You can go ahead and take the

restraints off. I hardly think they’re necessary.”

Tahgla’s expression soured even further. “Sabotage is treated so lightly by you?”

“I very much doubt that there was any criminal intent here; perhaps just a simple misunderstanding, that’s

all. Mister O’Brien, if you could give us your interpretation?”

The engineer left off glaring at Odo and rubbing his chafed wrists. “It’s simple enough, Commander.

We’ve gone back and forth with this bunch. We must’ve had twentycommuniques, at least—I could call

up the archive from the data bank and show you—concerning the dimensions of the impulse energy

buffers that were going to be installed on their vessel.” Teeth-gritting frustration showed in O’Brien’s

face. “It’s just a matter of how much clearance they’d have to leave us so we could fit the damn things in

around their engines. We finally get it worked out—or so I thought—and then they show up in our

drydock, and their engine compartments are almost a meter too narrow.” He shrugged. “So I fired up the

jacksledge and went to make myself a little working room.”

“The dimensions of those chambers areexactly as you stipulated.” Tahgla jabbed a finger at O’Brien.

“Our technicians are not given to the sort of errors you seem to expect from your own—”

Sisko angled the computer panel toward his chief engineer. “Let’s just take a look, shall we?”

An interlocking display of construction diagrams appeared, with the wordsSECURITY—ACCESS

RESTRICTED blinking in red at the top of the screen. O’Brien lifted his hands from the keyboard and

pointed to the specifications. “There—that’s what they’re supposed to be.”

His counterpart leaned past him, the sharp ridge of his finger tapping the Cardassian numerals. “And

that’s what theyare .” He glared as fiercely as Gul Tahgla, like an attack dog straining against its leash.

“Just as you specified!”

Before Sisko could say anything, his security chief interrupted. “Excuse me; I don’t wish to parade my

own expertise here—” Standing behind the quarreling engineers, Odo had craned his neck to see what

was on the computer panel. “But I think I may be able to clear this up for everyone.” He glanced toward

Sisko. “You see, Commander, I’ve lived among the Cardassians; so I’m a little more conscious of the

stratifications in their society. The various sectors have different systems of mathematical notation—the

numbers are the same, but the bases used for dividing and multiplying into units of measurement are not.”

His fingertip drew a line across the numerals as he turned his level gaze toward the Cardassian engineer.

“I believe that if you recalculate and usedamur , the mercantile base, the results will come closer to what

our chief engineer wanted.”

Sisko leaned back in his chair, watching the others assembled around his desk. He could see a smile

tugging at the comers of O’Brien’s mouth as the Cardassian engineer squinted at the panel, a furious

computation almost visible behind his scaly brow.

Though less emotion showed on the other Cardassian’s face, Sisko kept a closer eye on him. Gul Tahgla

had watched Odo the whole time the security chief had been giving his short lecture, as though waiting for

some particular word or phrase to come out of Odo’s mouth. Evidently, it hadn’t; Tahgla had kept his

own silence, the suspicion that had narrowed his gaze finally dissipating.

“Well, yes . . . ” The Cardassian engineer straightened up, his voice stiff with sullen anger and

embarrassment. He managed a nod toward Odo. “Your point is well taken. Perhaps . . . perhaps the

confusion arose during your chief engineer’s initial communications with us. . . .”

A snort of disgust came from O’Brien.

Sisko went on observing. Especially Odo; the shapeshifter’s usual expressionless mask had betrayed no

inner emotions. But he had picked up an unintended sign, anyway: a slight curling of Odo’s fingers, as

though he were grasping, seizing hold of something. A clue, something that explained or revealed . . .

“It is not important to assign blame now.” Tahgla knew when he had been beaten. “Our own technicians

will make the necessary adjustments, and then the installation of the impulse buffers can proceed as

originally agreed upon.” The tone of insinuating politeness colored his words again. “I trust our scheduled

departure date will still be met?”

“I’m sure Mister O’Brien will make every effort. In fact, that’s an order.”

“Glad to.” The wordssooner the better didn’t need to be spoken. As O’Brien turned away, he leaned

close to Odo’s ear. “And next time, not so damn tight!”

Odo stayed behind when all the rest had left. “I wouldn’t like to be in the shoes of Tahgla’s chief

engineer right now.” He gazed down the corridor before palming the office’s door closed. “A Cardassian

gul doesn’t enjoy being caught out in an underling’s mistake.”

“Rather an interesting mistake, actually.” The diagram and specs were still on Sisko’s computer panel. “I

remember learning at the Academy that the Cardassians had these differing math systems. But—” He

smiled. “I don’t recall much more than that. Was there something else you wanted to tell me about

them?”

“Just this, Commander.” Odo looked behind himself, a show of habitual, if needless, caution. “The

Cardassian numerical bases have their origin in the various economic classes; thedamur that’s used for

scientific computations comes from the base devised by their ancient merchants and traders; the unit of

linear measurement is based upon the size of a seed grain common on their home planet, I understand.

Theumur notation—” He pointed to the numbers on the screen. “That’s the numbering base that

originated with the warrior caste.”

“Ah.” Sisko knew what Odo was about to tell him.

“Somewhere along the line, the Cardassians translated the specifications sent by O’Brien, but intoumur

rather thandamur.” Odo’s hand clenched tight. “That’s not an unarmed research vessel sitting in

drydock. It’s a Cardassian military ship in disguise.”

CHAPTER

HE WALKEDright into the ambush. He should have known that she would be looking for him.Gunning

for me, thought Sisko, ruefully.That’d be the right expression .

“I’ve been doing some more thinking.” Major Kira swung into stride next to him, almost as soon as he

had entered the station’s main corridor. “About our previous conversation.”

She had come straight toward him, the crowd parting before her, as much due to her well-known

temper as her rank. Plowing through them with a head-lowered determination, she was like an icebreaker

navigating the frozen seas of some intemperate planet.

What he needed right now—after a long shift of studying classified Federation position papers and

transcripts of the bickering provisional government down on the surface of Bajor—was dinner and a talk

with his son Jake about the boy’s schoolwork. Followed by a hot bath and a spinal adjustment, and a

seat along Wrigley Field’s first-base line, where he could contemplate the holosuite’s re-creation of a

solid home run going in a perfect heart-lifting arc over the left-field wall. He didn’t need Major Kira

bending his ear any further than it already had been.

Sisko kept on walking, not even looking around at her. “I don’t suppose it would make any difference,”

he said, “if I told you the matter was closed.” He kept his voice low, to avoid being overheard too easily.

Faces, familiar and unrecognized, permanent and transient, humanoid and otherwise, thronged the

corridor.

“You know me better than that.” Kira made a joke of it—or nonjoke, similar to the thin nonsmile that

marked her grudging tolerance of all fools that she hadn’t been empowered to toss out of the station’s

airlock. At least, not yet. “I don’t give up very easily.”

“Indeed.” At the mouth to one of the corridor’s unused branches, a Gameran peddler had set up his

quick-folding table, and was doing a brisk business in what appeared to be mildly stimulative transdermal

patches. Though it would have been faster to take a turbolift from his office to his living quarters, he’d

made it his habit to physically walk some sector of the station every shift, to see for himself what might be

going on in this strange, small world he supposedly commanded. He made a mental note to have Odo

move the patch peddler on, then just as quickly canceled it; for all he knew, the Gameran was part of the

security chief’s network of snoops and petty informants.

“I feel it’s imperative to remind you that—”

“Major Kira.” He stopped and turned toward her. The soft bulk of a Buhlmeri cargo-tech bumped

against his shoulder, muttered an apology, then went on. The standing population had increased markedly

over the last several shifts; when he’d first been posted here, the station’s public areas had been sparsely

occupied ruins. “I’ll be frank with you: I’m tired. I’ve been working hard the last few shifts, and I’m not

in the mood to rehash a subject that I’ve made abundantly clear to you is no longer open for discussion.

Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“But that’s exactly mypoint .” Kira spoke through gritted teeth, her eyes flashing twin laser-points of

anger. “And you’re only fooling yourself if you think it’s something recent. You’re swamped up to your

eyeballs in diplomatic affairs, enough to fill every second ofevery watch, and you’re still trying to manage

all the particulars of DS Nine’s operations—”

“You forget, Major, that’s my duty. My first duty.”

“Wrong. Your duty is to see that itgets done.” She made no attempt to keep her voice down; faces

along the corridor turned their way. “It’s not going to do you or the station any good for you to keel over

in your tracks from exhaustion. As long as the Federation expects you to oversee negotiations with the

planetside government, you’re going to have to learn to delegate some of these things.”

Sisko felt a blood vessel at the corner of his brow begin to throb. Kira was far out of line. It would have

been difficult enough for him to check his own temper, on receiving a warning like that from a superior

officer, to hear it from his nominal second-in-command was aggravating beyond endurance.

“I’ve delegated quite enough, Major.” He started walking again, to burn off the adrenaline that had

welled up inside him. “Especially to you.” He swung a narrowed glance at her. “Perhaps more than I

would have, if your position here had been a matter of choice for me.”

She ignored the last comment, as she matched his stride. “Oh, you’ve certainly delegated.” Sarcasm

seeped between her words. “Minutiae, the smallest things, those you think anyone else is capable of

handling.” She grabbed his arm to halt him. “I’m talking about policy decisions, Commander. This station

is Bajoran property—in actuality, not just as some technical legalism. The time is coming when all of DS

Nine’s operations are to be turned over to my people. That’s by your own Federation’s edict. And your

commission here includes preparing for that time. As the senior Bajoran officer aboard, I should be given

the greatest possible authority to—”

“My commission, Major, is tosuitably prepare for the transfer of DS Nine’s control. To Bajorans who

are ready to assume the responsibilities for it.”

Kira’s lowered voice spoke of anger hotter than any shouting could express. “And what exactly do you

mean by that?”

He glanced along the corridor. The other pedestrians had slowed down, trying as subtly as possible to

stay within earshot. “Come with me.”

They were only steps away from Quark’s number-one lounge. Inside, Sisko signaled over the heads of

the patrons stacked up at the bar. “Give us a private booth. And if you switch on any of your bugs, you’ll

wind up eating them.”

The Ferengi displayed his sharp-toothed smile. “Commander, I wouldnever . . . ” In fact, he probably

wouldn’t; such discretion was part of the understanding by which Quark was allowed to keep his various

enterprises running.

With the booth sealed shut, Sisko and Major Kira were encased in a soundproof bubble. He leaned

across the narrow table. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear before. Or perhaps you think I’ve forgotten

about some of the decisions you have been allowed to make—and their consequences.”

“If this is about that group of Redemptorists I let come aboard—”

He cut her off. “What else would it be about? Correction: it’s not just about whether you showed a lack

of judgment in granting them entry to the station. It’s a question of the underlying sympathies that might

have prompted that decision.”

The Redemptorists, a team of six microassembly specialists currently assigned to O’Brien’s drydock

bay, had been brought up from Bajor enough shifts ago that the issues raised by the group’s presence

should have begun to lose some of their sharp edges. Major Kira had been in charge of their security

clearance—she still was, for any other Bajorans that might come aboard in the future; he hadn’t relieved

her of the assignment—and she had personally signed their entry and residence chits. All of which Sisko

had been able to verify for himself when Odo had first told him of the irregularities in the new workers’

backgrounds.

Odo’s worries were justified, given the reputation of the Redemptorists as one of the most intractable

elements in the overheated stew of Bajoran politics. They were more of a religious movement, a

fundamentalist group opposed to the conciliatory mainstream faith headed by Kai Opaka. Fanaticism had

inevitably progressed, as it seemed to on any world, to violence; several Redemptorists had been

involved in terrorist activities directed against other Bajorans who didn’t follow their particular annihilating

creed. In the murderous infighting that characterized the Bajoran splinter groups—the ever-shifting

coalitions and temporary alliances and eventual drawing of daggers—the Redemptorists were notable for

the ruthlessness by which they dealt with long-standing enemies and onetime friends alike.

“Those men are not murderers, Commander. They’re all followers of the Redemptorists’ political

defense wing. Their group even has members sitting in the Bajoran parliament—”

“I’m well aware of the fine shadings that afflict Bajoran politics. As you noted, I seem to spend a great

deal of my time lately on precisely that. I’m also aware—perhaps more than you are, Major—of the

difficulties that the Redemptorist movement has presented to the provisional government. In fact, your

government has contacted me directly, to see if there’s anything that can be done from aboard the station

to jam the pirate broadcasts by which the Redemptorists recruit other Bajorans to their cause.”

“That doesn’t alter the status of the ones I allowed on board. They’relegal —”

He and Kira had gone over this before. “ ’Legal’ seems to be a very flexible concept with you, Major. I

don’t make quite the same distinction that you do between those who murder and those whocondone

murder. And what the Bajoran government needs to do—the elements it has to bring inside itself to stay

alive—is not going to be the guideline for how this station is operated.”

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Thisbookisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,placesandincidentsareeitherproductsoftheauthor’simaginationorareusedfictitiously.Anyresemblancetoactualeventsorlocalesorpersons,livingordead,isentirelycoincidental.POCKETBOOKS,adivisionofSimon&SchusterInc.1230AvenueoftheAmericasNewYork,NY10020VisitusontheWor...

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