Book II - Kolchab


08 January 2065
Marine Corps Barracks, Eighth and I
Washington DC, USA
0700 AM

Even given seven days' notice, it had been an exercise in frustration for McQueen to arrive on time, appropriately attired. Traveling from Massachusetts to Maine - from Maine to Alabama - from Alabama to DC - he had been left to wonder again about just where his belongings from the Saratoga were. Just where were they floating around? On which transport? Where in the galaxy? His medals and sword were no problem. They really had no place in space - he had left them in storage at Loxley. It was his "party clothes" that presented the difficulty. There was an older set of his dress blues that would serve. They were in decent shape and they fit. His Evening Dress did not - not well - not the way he liked it to fit. McQueen had last worn it - what was it now? Three years ago? Surprisingly, the trousers needed to be taken in. It was just something else that had taken time and energy, and that seemed to serve no real purpose. It had been a pain in the rear end, but at least McQueen was on time and squared away.

The Marine Barracks at Eighth and I had always been the Headquarters of The Marine Corps. Depending on who you talk to, Quantico may or may not be the brains of the outfit, but it is generally agreed that Eighth and I has always been its heart and soul.

McQueen had not been told why he was to report to DC. A smart Marine did not question legal orders - and he was a smart Marine. He presented himself at the appropriate time, in the appropriate uniform, and with the appropriate gear: 0700 - Dress A with medals - sword.

It wasn't as if he was clueless. McQueen had a good idea now of why he was to report, between what Kylen had told him about her invitation and what, as a very smart Marine, he could put together on his own. He just didn't know the particulars.

After he had presented himself and his orders at the appointed time and place, McQueen met with a captain from human resources.

It was not, as he had hoped, a meeting to pass along his new assignment. Captain Angela Armstrong gave him a cup of coffee and a copy of his one-page official bio, which he was to read and correct. "In red ink, please, Colonel," she said, handing him the pen. The captain was from the protocol office. She was a rather officious little geek, obviously present only to run him through a review of paperwork and protocol. She loved her job just a little too much for McQueen's taste. Armstrong left him alone and returned after precisely fifteen minutes.

"Is Ms. Celina with you, Sir?"

"I didn't know that Ms. Celina was considered part of my 'gear.' If the Corps had issued me a survivor I would have shown up with one," he snapped.

McQueen's sarcasm floated over the Captain's head. She had too many things on her mind - too many things to put together in too little time. Two major events to stage manage. Two events that each generally took a month to plan and she was trying to put them together in less than two weeks. She was a busy woman.

"I had hoped to have a chance to review some of tomorrow's activities and protocol with her," the captain almost blurted. But she was efficient, able to think on her feet and to handle rapidly shifting priorities. An important skill for the person charged with protocol - it was how she had achieved her billet. Armstrong turned her thoughts back to the Colonel, who she found rather abrupt, but who looked the perfect picture of a decorated Marine officer. That's a relief.

"This ceremony was all laid on pretty quickly. I'm trying to tie up all the loose ends," she muttered rather distracted.

"And I'm a loose end" he asked wryly.

"You, Sir? No. But there are a few surrounding you." The captain finally stopped shuffling her paperwork and actually made eye contact. She paused and then smiled. "Colonel, do you understand why you are here?"

McQueen returned her look with what could best be called his 'command gaze,' giving her the once over. *"Look, little Captain, I don't have time to play games with boot licking Command Staff REMFs. I'm a busy man,"* he thought, but was immediately forced to reconsider. *"Unfortunately, I'm NOT a busy man. I have nothing to do and nothing BUT time."*

"Not precisely. No," he answered.

"Well, Sir, the President of the United States and the Senate are tired of Her Excellency, Secretary General Diane Hayden, and the rest of the powers that be at the United Nations dragging their feet on this issue. We are due over at the Big House at ten-hundred hours and I'm to review the agenda with you."

Members of the military were strictly forbidden to express political opinions when on duty or in uniform: Such had been the case for almost three hundred years. The captain's tone of voice when referring to Diane Hayden skirted the boundaries of neutrality. McQueen found himself beginning to like this little protocol ramrod. In the back of his mind he wondered how she had made the height and weight requirements necessary for entry into the Corps. He turned his full attention to what the she had to say.


08 January, 2065
The White House
Washington, DC, USA

The president of The United States takes pride in presenting the Medal of Honor posthumously to Lieutenant Paul Wang United States Marine Corps for service set forth in the following


For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty as First Lieutenant serving with the Fifty-eighth Squadron, Fifth Marine Expeditionary Unit, in action against the enemy alien forces in the Ceres Region, 27 October 2064. Ordered to retrieve civilian hostages from the hands of the enemy after the failed Saratoga Peace Talks, Lieutenant Paul Wang shrewdly gauged the tactical situation when the enemy attacked and disabled the InterSolarSystem Armored Personnel Carrier carrying the hostages. After laying down ferocious cover-fire Lieutenant Wang voluntarily detached his carrier from the flight wing of the ISSAPC, freeing said wing to dock with the free floating hostage carrier. Alone and drifting without power, he unhesitatingly braved the increasing fusillades of enemy fighter cannon, returning fire and drawing off large numbers of enemy craft, allowing the hostage carrier to dock with the flight wing. Coolly disregarding his personal peril he continued to fire upon the enemy while the remaining members of his squadron achieved the objective of removing the hostages to safety. Stouthearted and indomitable, Lieutenant Wang shot down two enemy aircraft before being killed when shrapnel careened into his vessel. By his great personal valor, daring tactics and tenacious perseverance in the face of extreme peril, he had contributed materially to the fulfillment of his squadron's mission. His outstanding heroism, unwavering devotion to duty, and gallant conduct throughout reflect the highest credit to himself and enhance and sustain the highest traditions of the United States Naval Service.


O8 January 2065
The White House
Washington, DC, USA.
1000 hours

The Big House was not the Commandant's home - it was the President's. The reception and ceremony took place in the East Room. It had all the trappings one would imagine of The White House, but the event would be described in the press as a personal gathering: The President, First Lady, selected members of Congress and involved members of the diplomatic community hosted a small reception for the multinational Vesta and Tellus survivors. Twenty-seven of the group had accepted the invitation, each bringing up to four family members. Kylen had accepted and was accompanied by her father, Allston and Bridee. Eithne had declined to attend.

Senators and Congressmen had jockeyed for position, and foreign ambassadors had responded with RSVPs in almost unseeming haste. The French Ambassador had gone so far as to accept by making a personal phone call. It was too delicious an insult to 'Dear Diane.' The President of the United States had performed a dangerous political highwire act and had succeeded brilliantly.

Public opinion - the polls - had pointed to the fact that the public felt strongly that 'something' should be done for the survivors. The United Nations - specifically the Secretary General of the United Nations - had been remarkably closedmouthed about the issue. A single three-sentence press release a week after the return of the hostages was all that the UN had offered. The White House affair was a virtual slap in the face to Diane Hayden, but couched as it was under the guise of "personal reception" there was little she could do. Any retaliation, public or private, would call into focus both her lack of action and her ties to Aerotech, which she wished to avoid at all cost. She hated being finessed - hated being outmaneuvered. But Diane Hayden was nothing if not practical. While revenge might be a dish best served cold, it was a meal she would have to forego. It was in her own best interests to ignore the whole thing.

A healthy cadre of high ranking Marine Corps officers had been invited. As far as the spin-doctors had been concerned, this event could serve a variety of purposes, one of which was to pour more oil on the troubled InVitro Rights waters. This InVitro, Colonel McQueen, was now on Earth. He had been the C.O. of the Fifty-eighth Squadron, which had saved the hostages. There was good press in that, and it tied things together quite nicely. Within the Fifty-eighth Squadron there was an MOH winner - unfortunately a posthumous award. It would have made even better press if the guy had lived, but there you have it. Evidently this 'Tank' Colonel had managed to cover himself with glory in the last year, and the Board of Awards had recommended said officer for at least two new decorations plus a fourth Purple Heart and additions to his flight medal.

This personal reception - for approximately one hundred and eighty people all told - would be a perfect venue. The President could recognize the achievements of an individual InVitro and not address the issue directly. Everybody could read what they wanted into this Colonel's award ceremony. The InVitro Rights people would feel vindicated that one of their own had been received with honor by the head of state, and the Anti-InVitro Rights people could feel equally vindicated that, while this one InVitro might be in The White House, he was the exception, proving the rule that the majority of Tanks didn't have what it takes to get the job done. It was rare that such an ambiguous, and therefore satisfying, opportunity presented itself.

A clutch of three spin-doctors stood to the side ready to step in. Ready to move things along in the direction of their choosing. The White House photographers were busy. It had been decided that pictures should be taken in the receiving line before the event. The President was a busy man. Shutters snapped and people were shown to their seats. A dicey moment occurred when the French Ambassador, Claire Montresant, greeted the InVitro Colonel. A lackey was immediately dispatched to show the Ambassador to her place in the front row.

"What happened?" he was quizzed upon his return to the 'clutch' of his three bosses.

"Nothing really. Just a how-do-you-do evidently. Until we were walking away, and then good old Claire made some comment about how he carried himself well for a tank."

"Oh great. Trust Claire."

"Did he hear her?"

"She said it in French."

"He speaks French."

"You're kidding. No way."

"I don't think he heard. The Ambassador did give him a note from Chaput, though."

"From Chaput? Good Lord, I hope he doesn't open it 'til after the ceremony."

"Chaput? Now what is THAT all about?"

"I would love to know."

"Nothing we can do about it now."

"Do you think the InVitro understands the politics of all of this?" the lackey asked his betters.

"No way. Do YOU even understand the politics of all of this?"

"But I think that he knows quicksand when he sees it," chimed in another one of the bosses.

"You think?"

"Oh yes."

"In any case, he has better manners than our 'dear' French Ambassador."

"He does, doesn't he?"

When everyone was seated, the Ambassador from Finland, as a guest of the country, was introduced first, and presented Colonel T.C. McQueen with the Order of the White Rose of Finland. "For valor during action against the enemy while serving with a joint task force with members of the Finnish Defense Forces." McQueen spoke a few words of appreciation to the Ambassador - in Finnish - and the spin-doctors beamed at their impossible good fortune. The lackey immediately peeled off to find a translator. The press would want it in English.

The Colonel then received the Purple Heart, Naval Commendation Medal (his second) and additions to his flight medal (both individual and group flights) from the hand of The Commandant of The Marine Corps.

The President of the United States then awarded the Presidential Unit Citation to the Fifty-eighth Squadron, Marine Corps Cavalry, for actions against the enemy, culminating on the planet Kazbek. Colonel T.C. McQueen received the Distinguished Flying Cross and the Silver Star from the hands of the President himself. The citations for these medals - as read publicly - said only: " For unspecified action against enemy forces." Only the dullest knife in the drawer wouldn't realize that this signified actions still considered to be classified, but the Anti IV Rights people could, if put in the position of debate, use this against the Pro IV Rights faction. Politically it neutered the public debate over the medals, and effectively it also removed the Colonel as a rallying point. And finally, as the piece de resistance, the parents of the late First Lieutenant Paul Wang received his Medal of Honor.

The lackey returned with news. "The scary guy with the blue eyes quoted something from some big deal Finnish epic poem."

"What did he say?"

"What does it mean?"

"Don't know yet," the lackey responded.

"Who cares. Epic poem is good enough." The spin-doctors were beside themselves and felt flush with success.

It was truly fitting that Paul Wang's family should receive his medal in this company. A number of the hostages, immediately upon arrival at the Greenbrier, had begun to lobby their congressman to honor Paul's self-sacrifice. The event itself was more emotional than most had anticipated, and all of the survivors were moved to tears during the reading of the citation. Kylen was unable to bring herself to look at McQueen, afraid that seeing his reaction would rob her of her tenuous self-control. She now felt that she knew Paul, knew him through Nathan's and McQueen's eyes. Kylen was afraid she would lose it completely.

After the ceremony photographs were again taken: McQueen standing with the Ambassador and the President, with just the Ambassador, with just the President. A few congressmen got into the act, but it was over fairly quickly. McQueen moved to the side of the room, unaware that the lackey had been given orders: "Don't take your eyes off of him. And don't let Montresant near him."

Kylen was somewhat distressed to see that the political hot-dogs were surrounding the Wang family. They were all eager to have their pictures taken to demonstrate to their constituency just how involved they were in the War effort. The Wangs looked increasingly bewildered. Kylen was relieved to see, and to join in with, a group of survivors who moved forward and effectively blocked some of the political bootlickers from reaching the Wangs. This was, after all, supposed to be a reception for the survivors and to honor the man who had died to bring them home. The former hostages all instinctively dealt with the Wangs on a quiet and personal level - comforting and accepting them now as part of the group of survivors. The atmosphere of the event changed and became more soothing and intimate. Paul's parents and little brother had a chance to see the gratitude and feel the affection of the group. Their son's bravery was given a human face - in fact, the faces of the twenty-seven humans present that day and the others who did not or could not attend. They could touch the life within these people. Forty people, eighty, one hundred and sixty - generations on and on ... All of these people would be a testament to their son.

McQueen observed the interaction for several minutes. A young Marine wearing the braid and badge of White House service appeared at his side.

"Excuse me, Colonel," she said softly. "The First Lady is ready to host the luncheon. I'm sorry to break this up, but if you will assist, Sir, and escort Mrs. Wang into the State Dining Room. You will be seated to her right. I'll make the announcement and escort Mr. Wang. I believe, Sir, that with you taking the lead, we can accomplish the move without insulting the moment and the memory of Lieutenant Wang."

McQueen paused for a few seconds. It was a shame to break up the moment, but this was the White House. People here had jobs to do. The aide had offered a good solution.

"I would be honored," he said, and moved out with the aide de camp, crossing the width of the East Room to the Wangs. The lackey relaxed. The tank was somebody else's problem now.


O8 January 2065
The White House
Washington, DC, USA.
1130 hours

While he waited to take his seat, McQueen noted the fact that, the President having returned to the Oval Office, most of the diplomats and the political bigwigs had disappeared. They had chosen to decline an invitation to lunch and a private tour of the White House. The moment has passed - there is no more political currency to be gained by eating lunch. They obviously have things they need to do, he thought. Or perhaps they weren't invited. Aerotech certainly wasn't. That gave him a certain amount of personal satisfaction. Or maybe this all really was a gesture of kindness on the part of the First Lady.

McQueen watched with a certain level of understanding as a number of the former hostages surreptitiously moved their placecards so that they could be seated facing exits. Where is she? He looked for Kylen's table, but was too late to see if she had moved her card. He would not have been in the least surprised if she had done so. If the fact that people had switched seats upset any of the valets or waiters, then they didn't show it.

The Colonel was seated between The First Lady and Mrs. Wang. Classes taken during Officer's Candidate School had taught him the appropriate nuts and bolts for such an occasion, and during their time together Amy had imparted a good deal of knowledge and a subsequent level of polish. Unfortunately, small talk had never been and probably would never be his forte.

It didn't take long for the President's wife to realized that no one at her table had a hidden agenda. No one wanted anything from her or had an ax to grind. It was rare and it was refreshing, but she found that she had to use a different part of her brain. The guests at her table were not particularly comfortable with each other, and she had to cast around to find a method of easing the tension. Thankfully, the First Lady was a skilled conversationalist and had received a good briefing from her staff. The people at her table were rather charming, each in his or her own way, even the taciturn Marine. It would take some work, but she was confident that she could find a way to relax the atmosphere.

Kylen had indeed moved her placecard. She still never liked to sit with her back to a door, still feeling the need to gauge potential escape routes. Kylen was surprised when she looked up from her little bit of slight-of-hand. McQueen was watching her. I wonder if he saw? she thought. He was all 'Door Number Two' at this point - the military commander. She therefore found it more difficult to read his reaction. He finally gave her the briefest of half smiles.

Kylen was delighted to see that Martin was seated with her family. Martin Aalto Guilio was the lone surviving InVitro Colonist. With the receiving line and photographs earlier, Kylen had not been able to really speak with him. The otherworldly young man who could make the Sewell fuel - The Pink - vibrate by singing was accompanied by a middle-aged Native American woman. Six weeks ago Martin had been offered the hospitality of a Navajo reservation in Arizona, courtesy of General Radford. Kylen had only spoken with Martin long enough to learn that he was doing fairly well and that the woman was Radford's sister.

During lunch Kylen's family became increasingly involved in a conversation with Martin and Dawn Radford Chee. Though Martin was biologically almost six years older than Allston, they were a good fit. Each had found a needed buddy in this formal atmosphere. Martin said something about Colonel McQueen, and Kylen half heard Allston telling the young InVitro that Colonel McQueen was a 'friend of the family.' Kylen shook her head indulgently. She knew that Allston, Sky King, was a bit intimidated by McQueen, and now he spoke of him as if they were old buddies.

General Radford's sister's full name, it turned out, was Dawntreader, and Bridee was fascinated with her squash-blossom jewelry. Frank was interested in life and conditions on the reservation. It seemed to Kylen that they all were having a pleasant time. The First Lady had finally decided to try to get her guests to talk about Paul Wang. A bit risky - true - and it could result in tears, but Mr. and Mrs. Wang seemed to light up when their son was mentioned. They quickly opened up. The Colonel was obviously interested, but still did not take an active role in the conversation.

They talk about him as if he was still a little kid. I don't know who they are talking about. ... And I don't imagine that they want to hear my stories - not really. McQueen thought. This was something new to him - new since meeting West's parents. West's mother had clutched a picture of Neil - at about the age of ten - to her chest while she had blasted him with her grievances against the war and the Marine Corps. The picture of Neil wearing the Marine uniform was high up on the shelf - ignored - as if the fighting man had never existed. Not for the first time McQueen wondered: Is this how all natural-borns see their children? As always being children?

McQueen unexpectedly knew that he had just been given an insight into the workings of 'Naturals' - something he may have thought that he had understood, but really hadn't until that moment. Twenty-three years out of the tank and there were still some subtleties of natural-born behaviors that McQueen couldn't quite get his mind around. The first funeral he had ever attended was when he was eight years out of the tank. There were no services for the dead on Omicron Draconis. There had been no memorials - no rituals - unless you wanted to consider taking boots off of dead bodies a ritual. Boots were hard to come by. The overseers had, for the most part, kept each 'crop' of InVitros separate. Older tanks were known to breed discontent in the younger ones. Best to keep them apart. Keep them isolated. Get a new batch when about half of the old one had died off. Consequently McQueen had spent the first five years of his life with only his own history and what habits his group came up with. He really hadn't spent any time with older tanks until the InVitro platoons - it was here that he had gotten his first real taste of the broader InVitro subculture. And, despite the discrimination, it was here that he had gotten his first taste of tradition: He had fallen on it like a starving man.

The only religion in the mines had been to avoid pain, eat as much as you could and sleep whenever possible. Hell, I didn't know anything about organized religions 'til basic training. Sitting in the State Dining Room of the White House, surround by the crystal and china - the servants and the ceremony - McQueen had an uncanny experience. A vision of the formidable Sergeant Menendez appeared in his mind - voice like a gravel crusher. You had best get your pagan ass to chapel every Sunday without fail, Maggot. McQueen hadn't been sure what the word 'pagan' meant at the time, but he had dragged his butt to chapel every Sunday morning. To hear the singing alone was worth it - especially if the southern guys got rolling - swaying, clapping their hands, and giving the 'call and return' of gospel music. McQueen had watched in silent amazement. That was when he had started to study the life and death rituals of Natural-borns. He had studied them, but he knew that he was still learning to understand them.

His first several years in the service, the funerals and the memorial services that McQueen had attended were all for people his own age, or there about, and he had hung with the Marines and avoided the families at all cost. He had carried caskets and folded flags, and had tried with varying degrees of success to maintain his emotional distance. But McQueen had known these young Marines as just that - Marines - and Marines died. During the last decade, McQueen had written his share of letters to grieving parents, but had never dealt with them face to face - until recently. There had been five years of peace. Only since the start of this war had he officiated over the ceremonies for someone noticeably younger than himself. McQueen realized that part of him would always remember his Kids at the age they were when he first saw them. Not children perhaps, but almost unbelievably young.

The Wangs continued to tell stories about this guy named Paul. It did not make McQueen particularly uncomfortable, although he felt unable to join the conversation. He was not involved - McQueen had never met the guy they were talking about. As long as he didn't recognize the person they were speaking about, McQueen didn't have to worry about his feelings. Their conversation did not affect him. He could remained detached.

McQueen tuned back into the conversation. Mrs. Wang was speaking. The mothers. Is it always the mothers? McQueen asked himself.

"Remember the Halloween when Paul was about ten? He went out trick or treating and brought home a full bag. But he wanted more, so he changed his costume - dressing up like a bum - and went out again to the same houses. People must have known, but he came home with a second bag chock full of candy."

McQueen felt his heart catch. This was the young marine that he knew. The kid who loved to gossip, the wiseacre - The Joker.

"Now that sounds like Wang," he said before he could censor himself.

"It does, doesn't it? It sort of says it all," Mr. Wang said, and then chuckled.

"The sod from Wrigley field was still growing when I left the Saratoga," McQueen offered. "Wang watered it and trimmed it with scissors." The entire Wang family put down their forks and stared at the Colonel. The quiet was ominous. He had touched a nerve. Oh, hell.

The First Lady sensed that the mood had shifted dangerously. "You actually sent Paul sod from Wrigley Field? How did you ever get it? Oh, tell me this story." The moment was broken. The tears so close to the surface retreated, and the Wang's told the tale.

While Kylen's family was opening up and becoming more sociable, she was withdrawing further and further into herself. She found that she was watching people and listening to their conversations as if she was not involved - as if she was watching a movie. Detached. Separated.

Dessert and coffee were now finished and people were beginning to mill about, waiting to be led off in small groups for private guided tours of the White House. A large number of people drifted over to Kylen's table - they wanted to see Martin again. Kylen and Martin stood together making small talk and introductions, but she was still distracted.

It was so strange seeing these people again. They shared a bond. A bond that should not be broken - they needed each other on an elemental level. But as Kylen mouthed words that she couldn't remember as soon as she said them, she realized something else on an elemental level. She knew these people. Knew them too well. Their strengths and weaknesses. Their foibles. Their pettiness. Things that they did when they thought no one was watching. The survivors knew each other too well. Knew each other in ways that no one should be able to know anyone else. Totally stripped of any and all pretense or protection. That's who you really are. What you do in the dark when you think no one is watching, she thought. And these people know the same about me.

Kylen knew a truth. I never wanted to see any of these people ever again. Ever. She shuddered.

"What's the matter?" Martin whispered.

Kylen spoke her new truth before she thought better of it.

"I never want to see these people again in my life," she whispered through her teeth, still smiling a 'receiving line' smile.

"I was thinking the same thing, ... Well, sort of," he whispered.

They looked at each other. Each mildly shocked.

Martin spoke tentatively. "If one of them called and needed to talk to me ... Well, I'd talk to that person - any one of them. I wouldn't turn any of them away. But you and I are different somehow. We are friends somehow. At least I thought we were. You were there ... with me. You felt it, Kylen. You felt the stone singing back."

"Oh yes, Martin. I did feel it." Kylen threw her arms around the young InVitro's neck and hugged him tightly. She remembered the almost painful beauty of the moment Martin had discovered that The Pink could vibrate. "And yes, we are friends," she whispered in his ear. It was another truth. She wanted to keep track of Martin.

He returned her hug. "Do you think that other people feel the same way? That they never want to see us again?" he asked.

"I'd be surprised if a lot of them didn't feel that way," she said. "But it isn't personal. It's just ... what it is."

"But it is sort of frightening. Like being cast adrift," Martin whispered.

"I know, Martin. I feel it too," Kylen admitted.

Martin squeezed her hand. One of the guides came to their table and they moved off to begin their tour. Martin and Kylen were still holding hands. They were like little children on a school outing - holding hands so no one gets lost.

08 January 2065
BOQ, Henderson Hall
Arlington, Virginia

The afternoon McQueen had spent with General Wierick and his staff. He was to see them again tomorrow. Captain Armstrong had stopped by briefly in the evening. McQueen was beat. It is amazing how a mental workout can be as tiring as a physical workout. Curiosity finally got to Ty and he opened the note that the French Ambassador had passed into his hand almost twelve hours earlier. "From Chaput," she had said.

My Dear Colonel,
      I understand that you now know the heavy burden of the truth that I have carried for months. Things better left unsaid - at least for now.
      I was truly glad that you managed to keep your head. Watch out for Madam le Guillotine - you confound her again and she will not look kindly upon you.
      Congratulations. I will continue to follow your career with interest. I will always know where to look for the winds of change. They swirl around you.

Bonne Chance, Mon ami

Colonel McQueen tore the United Nations stationery into little pieces and flushed the bits down the toilet. He pushed the lever a second time in disgust before hitting the rack.

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