Book III - Polaris
9 April 2065
Quantico, Virginia,

1630 hours

Kylen entered the indoor firing range, a long cement block building at the far end of the base. She flexed her neck from side to side and rolled her shoulders, attempting to relax muscles still tense from a long session with the cartographers. Up until ten minutes ago she had been supposed to report to the driving course to take her 'final' in the sedan: Kylen had been learning defensive driving and escape techniques in a number of different vehicles.

Not that it made a whole lot of difference in her life. She didn't have a car of her own to drive, and with her daily assignments, she hadn't set foot off the base in almost two weeks. Kylen supposed that there really wasn't all that much to do off base that she couldn't do behind its walls - not in the day to day - but it was the idea that they didn't allow her any real free time that was beginning to frustrate her. What she had only recently learned was that her entire schedule and any changes in it - her entire day - had to be approved through Major Howard. She determined to call him tonight and ask for three hours to herself to get her hair done, take a bubble bath, and watch a three-hankie movie. I'll bargain down to ninety minutes, she thought. But I'll start high.

This was not the first time that Kylen had been called to the firing range. She usually never knew the reason until she arrived.

"Whatcha got for me, Gunnery Sergeant?" she asked.

"Well, Ma'am, that's why we called you. We were hoping you could tell us," was the reply. Gunnery Sergeant Valenzuela was an obvious career Marine - not an ounce of fat and ramrod straight. Kylen speculated that his hair was probably graying at the temples, but there was no way to be sure because he wore it cut high and tight. She had worked with him before. In fact, he had instructed her in small arms, coaching her through the rugged process of 'snapping in'. He had spent days teaching Kylen how to assume the correct posture to fire her weapon. Balance, breathing, and concentration - all with her arms held out in front of her body. It had been grueling and downright painful. She clearly remembered the Gunny's low growl in her ear: "If you think your shoulders burn now, just wait 'til I sit on them."

Kylen might only be a participant in the High Risk Personnel Program, but damn if Gunny Valenzuela was going to let any person onto his range without them knowing and following proper firearm safety. And damn if any of his students were getting off of his range without making the grade. Gunny would make damn good and sure of that. His charges would snap in until _ he_ got tired of watching them.

Kylen had risen to his challenge, qualified as a 'Marksman', and was now certified to carry a concealed sidearm when given courier duties between Quantico, DC, and DamNeck. Well, that was the plan - only she had not yet been asked to deliver anything.

"Follow me, Ma'am. The technical staff are already on the range," Valenzuela said, turning on his heel and entering the fire line proper. Kylen had invited him weeks ago to call her by her first name. And he did so on the rarest occasions. On equally rare occasions he had referred to the Technical Engineers as 'propeller heads.' This evening he was obviously all business.

No fun tonight, she thought.

"Hiya, Kylen Alexa Celina." It was a familiar voice.

"Hiya, Martin Aalto Guilio," she replied in kind, following the young InVitro's custom of using every name that a person had been given. Martin stepped forward to give her a hug. Even though they were both training and working at Quantico, she seldom saw him, and wasn't really sure what the powers that be had him doing. This was not the first time that she had seen Martin at the range. The propeller heads had a method to their madness, and only called Kylen and Martin in as a team for a specific reason.

The Tellus and Vesta survivors had been forced to use Chig technology in the mines. The Silicates had not been able to use the equipment, which functioned on principles of bio-electronics. AI's had no "bio" to go with their electronics - and therefore Chig weapons, tools, and instruments were useless in their hands. Only so much scrap. When they hired me three months ago, I had no idea that my specialty would become Chig power tools, Kylen thought. In fact, the Corps hadn't considered it in the beginning either. But one day when the propeller heads ran into some problems, someone had gotten the bright idea to call in someone who had actually used the stuff. Kylen and Martin had the right clearances. They had been able to identify the purpose of at least two previously unknown instruments, and even though neither one had actually used the tools before, they were able to give a fair demonstration of their function. Almost a year of using Chig technology had given them a finesse and a level of confidence that the engineers had yet to achieve.

You don't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that being able to use the enemy's equipment could be a real asset on the battlefield. Soldiers have done it on Earth since the beginning of time. Kylen had been able to figure that out all by herself.

When Earth Force had discovered that human beings could 'trigger' the gel, word had gone out to start collecting samples of weaponry - and anything else the Chigs used - for analysis and testing.

One of the biggest problems was the bio-conducting gel. It didn't seem to have a very long shelf-life and seemed to denigrate over time and exposure to oxygen. The weaker the gel, the weaker the power of the weapon or implement. So far the attempts to replicate this gel on Earth had been only partially successful. The results were positive, but yielded only a weak response. The mass spectrometer showed at least one trace element in the gel that was not found in the Earth solar system. The Techies had been trying to track it down for months..

"Try out the drills," the Captain ordered. He belatedly remembered that he was dealing with civilians. "If you please," he amended. "The ones on the right first, please."

Martin and Kylen stepped up to the line and picked up the drills as requested. They checked the distance setting automatically. They had no idea what the markings meant literally, but had learned through use how they corresponded with results.

"You may drill at will," Valenzuela instructed.

Kylen gave the Gunny a 'you've-got-to-be-kidding-me' look, and could swear that - even though not a muscle in his stern expression changed - he winked at her. Kylen and Martin fired up the drills. The one-meter end setpoint was not achieved. The beam was pale and petered out at about eighteen inches. "These ain't gonna cut through Jack," Kylen called up to the Techies, who were now upstairs in the observation room.

"Try the drills on your left," the Captain ordered over the intercom.

Kylen and Martin scraped the gel left on their hands and arms into a container and closed the lid. It was almost useless, but still not to be wasted. Picking up the next drills, they checked the distance setting and then placed their hands and arms into the sleeves. They felt for the grip inside and slid their middle and ring fingers into place. That was one of the tricks to using the equipment: It was never designed to be triggered with the index finger and didn't work well - if at all - if you tried to use it that way. There evidently wasn't enough myo-electric activity to activate the mechanism. It took time and practice for a person to build up coordination and reaction times using the other fingers.

Martin stepped back and looked into Kylen's partition. Kylen turned to look at him wide-eyed. The difference was remarkable. They both felt it - even without firing up the drills. She threw back her head and looked up to the observation area. "Where did you get this?" she demanded. "Where did you get this gel?"

"We hoped that you might like it," Valenzuela said, smiling ever so slightly to his charges. "Fire up the drills, please."

Kylen pointed the tool downrange. A brilliant blue beam snapped out of it. Hot, precise, lethal, and exactly one meter in length.

Valenzuela's reaction was self-satisfied: "Oh, my, my, children. Ain't we all just cookin' with gas now?"

Kylen laughed outright.


11 April 2065
(Position classified)

0900 hours

As she looked out through the porthole, Captain Shane Vansen took a moment to count the vessels that surrounded the Saratoga. The carrier had been on the move for a week and the task force ships seemed to be somehow breeding and multiplying before her eyes. Commodore Ross had been making even more frequent walkarounds. Maintenance crews were busy everywhere. Flightdecks twelve and fifteen had been cleaned down to the rivets and then Boss Ross had inspected them himself. Loading bays three, seven and eleven had also gotten the once-over. The Saratoga was expecting company. Something was up. One by one, Lieutenants West, Damphousse, and Hawkes joined her at the window.

"Do you see?" Nathan West asked softly, pointing surreptitiously out into the sky at a ship on the edge of visual range.


"What?" Cooper Hawkes asked.

"The Gator Navy," Shane whispered out of the side of her mouth. It was an old Marine term. The Gator Navy was the name for those ships that years ago had been specifically designed for - and used exclusively by - the Marine Corps for amphibious landings. The concept had evolved from earth warfare into space, but the name remained unchanged. Onboard those vessels there were elements of a Marine Expeditionary Unit - maybe even a complete MEU if the ships kept multiplying out there.

"What's going on, Shane?" Vanessa probed.

"I know as much as you do - our orders. That's all I know," she responded. Not for the first time she was forced to admit that she heard McQueen's words coming out of her mouth.

"Our orders are the same as they've been for damn near five weeks," Nathan groused. "Perimeter duty. Filling in the blanks. Dammit, Shane, how long are they going to keep us out here like this? New pilots - nuggets - could do this job. We fill in open slots for other squadrons, handle dust-offs and supply duty, and pick up scut. Reinforce us or break us up, for god's sake."

"Shane, we were awarded the Presidential Unit Citation - even after the peace talks - and they still treat us like scut-dogs. No, this is all too weird." Damphousse voiced something that had obviously been bothering her, and when Phousse said something was weird, the Cards listened to her.

West tried to shake the chills that Phousse had given them all. "Hell, they don't even send us a new CO," he complained.

He looked over at Shane, who had been the acting CO since her rescue from 2063 Yankee. Well, except for a month when one Lieutenant Colonel McNamara had shown up - and promptly got her tail waxed by a Chig scout with a chip on its shoulder. Phousse had been able to return the favor. Scratch another Chig, and McNamara was on a transport to The Nightingale before you could sing a chorus of Auld Lang Syne. "You know what I mean," he said, hoping to cover any unintended insult.

"Man, I'm glad I don't have to live on one of those," Coop whispered, looking now at two "Gator" ships visible in the distance. Compared to those ships, the Saratoga was a hotel.

"Let's hope it stays that way," Shane mumbled. She then turned her attention to West. "You forget the third and forth options, West. They haven't busted us, and they haven't court-martialed us yet either. Lay low and keep your mouth shut," Shane said. Now, how many times have I heard that? she thought.

"Man, oh, man. You sound like the Colonel more every day," Cooper bitched.

The Captain gave the Lieutenant a pretty fair version of Colonel McQueen's famous "Look." It was totally unconscious, but it was there nonetheless.

Vanessa Damphousse laughed softly. Coop was right. Shane had taken on more of McQueen's mannerisms since he had been gone. Instead of fading away with the distance of time and space, the familiar gestures and expressions were appearing with increasing frequency. Plus the fact that Cooper Hawkes, who had had the rather dangerous habit of referring to the Colonel as "McQueen" - even in the man's presence - now only used the term "The Colonel." The Wildcards could always tell just which colonel Cooper was referring to by his tone of voice. Cooper has a special tone of voice for Colonel McQueen, she thought.

Cooper, unfortunately, misinterpreted Vanessa's light laugh. He thought it was directed solely at him, and he had no idea what she would find so funny. Such things still drove him crazy.

"Oh, come off it, Phousse. And you too, Shane. It's been months, and besides, Broden is dead anyhow," Coop said irritably. Admiral Broden had wanted to bring the 58th up on charges following the screw-up on Anvil. He had really wanted their hides. Cooper had mentioned the unmentionable - a subject they h ad studiously avoiding discussing for almost six months.

"Jeez, Cooper. Shut up," Vanessa snapped.

"What? What did I say?" he complained, throwing his hands in the air. "Like it's a secret or something? It's the truth, anyhow."

Vansen looked meaningfully at West and cocked her head towards Hawkes. The message was clear: Handle this, Nathan.

"Come on, Cooper. Let me 'splain something to you." With that Nathan unceremoniously steered Cooper away from the group, whispering intensely into the young InVitro's ear.


12 April 2065

Henderson Field

0530 hours

The sun was fully over the horizon when McQueen crested the hill to the east of Henderson Field. Morning or evening - whenever he worked it into his schedule - the Marine Corps standard 3.5-mile run was once again easy for him. He had been stretching the distance, and was now up to 5 miles. Standard gravity and decent air were not things to be wasted.

After zigzagging around space for three weeks, sending hokey communications and laying down trails that even an AI would find hard to track, the 'Hue City' had met up with her three sister ships. McQueen's MEU, the Twenty-third, had been in synchronous orbit over Demios - over the airfield, in fact - for nine days. McQueen had spent eight of those days on planet. He had the officers of his command drilling elements of the MAGFT in rapid deployment and vertical envelopment. It was called "kicking in the door." The Colonel had sweetened the pot: Units that performed well were given forty-eight hours liberty - such as it was - on the planet.

The insertion trajectory brought most of ISSCVs within visual range of the Eisenhower salvage operation. The Marines hit their LZs fired-up and ready for payback. All units had performed well - had earned their meager liberty - and there had been very little bitching about going through the motions one more time.

Demios had changed a lot since McQueen had last been there. It was a completely operational base again, and rapidly becoming larger than it had been before the Chigs had captured it almost eighteen months earlier. There was construction on planet, and there were salvage operations out in orbit. A lot was going on. Graves Registration had set up four cemeteries, and two more were mapped out. During his trips around the planet, McQueen had noted that these were strategically located: If human dead spooked the Chigs, well, some of the tactical "sweet spots" on the planet would give them the creeps for decades to come.

One thing that he had noted with interest and curiosity: While cleaned up and serving customers again, the X-1 Diner was remarkably unchanged. McQueen wondered how - in the face of two major planetary bombardments and the absolutely vicious combat that had twice surrounded the airfield - the building had remained standing. Even more extraordinary, the sign on top of the building had survived intact. They hadn't even had to repaint it. It was the oddest thing.

The Colonel slowed his pace to begin to cool down. The Hue was to leave orbit at 1900 hours. There would be time for one last 'all-the-water-that-you-want' shower. Then Captain Chan would have coffee waiting, and work would begin. The last of his Marines would have to be shuttled back to the ship. The final details of the embarkation would need the once-over. There would be last minute communications to review, and he had his own gear to get together. There might just be time to run over to the X-1. Time to grab one more burger and some french fries with gravy. McQueen positively relished walking into that place and ordering all the food he wanted. It was hot, and it was served on heavy white plates that clanged when the waitress slapped them down on the counter. Almost nine months earlier in this diner, he had found the 5-8 bent but unbeaten. They had been close to starvation and ready to face death. It gave him a feeling of pride in their incredible accomplishment to sit at the counter and eat all he wanted. It was always the same. The feelings never left him.

McQueen finished his exercise, the sun warm on his back and casting his shadow out long in from of him as he ran.

12 April 2065
Enroute from Demios to the Hue

1600 hours

Passengers on the run between the airfield and the orbiting vessels exhibited one of two standard reactions: Figuratively, they kept their eyes open or closed. Marshall Chan was with the 'eyes open' crowd and joined several members of the headquarters' staff at the starboard portholes. The Eisenhower. There were other ships in the salvage area as well, but the "Ike" overpowered everything else in sheer bulk and emotional impact. She looked like hell. Thrusters now kept her massive hulk in stable orbit, and the salvage crews were disassembling what the Chigs hadn't blown apart. The grand old gal was being picked apart, and her pieces were being hauled off.

Chan was aware that McQueen was not at the portholes - that he was not watching the ants eat away at the carcass. It was part of Marshall's job after all: to know where the Colonel was at all times. But the fact that McQueen was not glued to the windows didn't mean that Chan would classify the Colonel as being in the 'eyes closed' camp (those who did everything they could not to have to look at the wreckage). McQueen had taken a look at the scene on the way down to the planet eight days ago, and that had been enough. No, McQueen had just seen everything that he had needed to see the first time around, and was now seated comfortably (as comfortably as one could get) in a seat by the airlock, reading something in his personal handheld. The man read a lot - a whole lot (and reading on a 'personal' was a pain in the rear) - but Marshall had never had the nerve to ask him what it was that he read. Colonel McQueen did not invite that sort of familiarity.

Captain Marshall Chan had been assigned to McQueen's command in January and had worked along side the man almost 24/7, and what he did not know about the man - let alone understand - could fill Chan's own personal handheld. Not that the Colonel was difficult - far from it. Colonel McQueen laid out his expectations in a clear manner, concise and to the point. He was prepared. McQueen did not bluster, BS, or shift blame. He wasn't given to raising his voice, and only bitched when bitching was deserved. McQueen didn't expect Marshall to read his mind and had, once or twice, even gone so far as to say "Thank you" or "Well done" when Chan had anticipated him. Chan felt that he should be more than satisfied with this assignment - he had worked for far worse - but he still had a vague feeling of being somehow out of step.

When he had gotten the assignment, Chan had discreetly asked around, trying to find out some more information. He had tried to better learn how to deal with the man - just to find a way of making contact. No one had been very helpful. Everyone knew who McQueen was, and his reputation for getting things done, but nobody seemed to really know anything about him - nothing solid or meaningful. Colonel McQueen remained a closed book. In three months, Marshall couldn't remember ever having seen the man smile, but the Colonel could be quick with a one-liner, and Chan had heard him laughing out loud in the desert late at night. The Captain had never seen the Colonel send any mail, but he had received several items - even boxes - from some place in Massachusetts. Chan had observed that McQueen would eat whatever was served without complaint, but that, when given a choice, he showed a preference for vegetarian dishes and packed carbos. But on Demios the man had eaten at least one meal a day at the greasy spoon. And had paid out of his own pocket to eat red meat, fried food, and heavy desserts loaded with sugar and fat. Chan had been mystified.

Captain Chan returned to his seat next to Colonel McQueen, who nodded his acknowledgment. The Colonel had looked up from his reading, so Marshall decided to risk it. After all, they worked well together - they both knew it.

"What are you reading, Sir? Is it study or pleasure?"

McQueen considered for a moment before answering: "Pleasure." He did appreciate that Chan was part of his staff. He could have done worse. The Captain was good. Maybe a touch too conservative - but then the man is infantry and not an aviator.

After the second day, he had never had to tell Marshall Chan anything twice. The younger man ran excellent interference, was a fine liaison, and the paperwork was done on time. In short, Captain Chan played well with others and never ran with the scissors.

Ross would make the effort, McQueen thought. General Wierek and General Green would. McQueen hadn't thought about it before, but now realized that he had kept Chan at a distance. He did not choose to share his selection of reading material, finding it difficult to open up to that extent, but he decided that it just wouldn't be fair or helpful to continue to ignore the Captain's overtures.

"Are they making any progress?" McQueen asked quietly, jerking his head toward the remains of the Eisenhower.

"A little... They must be... Its been over a week ... Its just so damn big," Chan responded. He had never served on a carrier, and the size amazed him. The wreck of the Eisenhower was a sobering sight. Demios had been a very near thing, and the ruin only served to remind anyone who saw it how close Earth forces had come to complete annihilation. Chan shook his head unconsciously. "I've spent all of my time in the infantry, Sir - not all that much time in space - and I've never seen anything like it before," he admitted quietly. "It certainly gets your attention."

"Nothing except a battle lost can be half so melancholy as a battle won," McQueen said.

"They'll use all of it they can." Marshall stated the obvious. For decades all Earth spacecraft had been designed utilizing the modular concept. Not only did Hammerheads have interchangeable parts, but also all ships were interchangeable with any ship in their class. Parts, electronics, tools, and instruments - whole sections of the Ike would find their way into the remainder of the Earth Force carrier fleet. The resources were just too valuable.

"No matter how reality based ... you'd think it would give some people the willies. Having parts of that ship bolted into your own," Chan admitted. He was torn about this. As an adult, and a military man, part of him considered the idea of haunted ships childish. Frivolous. But he also had to admit that if, in the future, he was traveling in a module that had been part of that broken dead beast; he would rather not know it.

"You believe in ghosts, Captain?" McQueen asked wryly.

"Two and a half years ago I didn't believe there was life on other planets. I'm not so quick to discount things that I haven't seen," Chan responded honestly.

McQueen gave a rather curt nod of assent. I don't suppose any of us are, McQueen speculated to himself.

He is right, thought McQueen. If people find out that they carry parts of the Ike, there will be stories and 'sightings.' People are going to claim to see and hear members of the Eisenhower crew - to hear the sounds of the battle. Forgetting totally that their ship used to always make strange noises - forgetting that they are tired, wired, and have a gallon of adrenaline shooting through their systems.

"On the other hand," Chan continued. "Maybe the purpose of the lingering spirits... If one believes in such things... Maybe the spirits will be protective. They might be helpful and do everything they can to keep the crew safe, and to warn them to prevent this from happening again." As he looked into McQueen's impassive face, the Captain felt suddenly exposed and more than a little foolish.

McQueen did not immediately respond. The Eisenhower represented a mistake - a bush-league mistake. McQueen, unfortunately, was not baffled as to how such a mistake could have been made. People became overconfident, forgetting the details and neglecting the basics. The wreck and her pieces spread out throughout the fleet would give everyone a hard object lesson. But he did recognize that if people were going to entertain such fantasies as haunted flightdecks then he preferred Chan's take on things. It certainly wasn't the strangest thing he had heard in his career.

"If ghosts want to hang around, then at least let them be useful," he said ironically. The Colonel was letting the Captain off of the hook. McQueen almost smiled.

"Aye, aye, Sir," Chan said, relaxing a bit. He paused briefly before continuing in a more self-contained vein. " The ideas - the images - have power. Memories have power. Maybe it is just the way we feel about these things - how we deal with things from our past."

"Hmmm," was all McQueen said. The Colonel felt like he had memories enough for several lifetimes.

Now we have it. Time. The past, present, and future, McQueen thought. This is a major difference between InVitros and Naturals. He had noted this difference before, and was just beginning to grasp the meaning and significance: The two races dealt differently with time.

Naturals chewed on their past, their childhoods, old slights and remembered triumphs. Like dogs with their bones, Natural-borns not only hid their past away, they guarded it and dug it up just to look at it. They worried over it. They had to make sure it was still there - to make sure that the past hadn't disappeared in the night. They would rebury it - only to look for it again. They loved their past even when they hated it.

InVitros, on the other hand, never forgot where their pasts were kept, because the past was never buried, and generally was not something treasured or even considered with any fondness. There never really was a past, because most InVitros seemed to carry everything with them, refusing to let it go. It was all they had, so it was never released: It was always there. The staggering weight of the past bogged everything down. InVitros didn't worry about the past because they never allowed it to become the past. Consequently it was difficult to move forward. InVitros stood in the perpetual heat of a silent sun - 360 degrees of light in an emotional desert. They never stepped away from their pasts because their own shadows surrounded them on all sides.

McQueen sensed that the issue of the past - and to some extent memories - would always be different for InVitros. All genetic humans had to learn a handful of universal lessons. InVitros learned a lot of the same lessons, but there were differences that might never be surmounted due to the physical age at which things were learned and the responsibilities that were carried at the time - the expectation people had of life. Most Naturals still learned at a parent's knee: Life came is small doses, a bit at a time. His life - and the lives - of the majority of InVitros had been different. InVitros did not learn life lessons from fairytales inside a protected place. The cattleprod was not a childhood memory for the majority of Natural-borns and it was certainly not a universal race memory.

And Natural-borns worried about the future incessantly. They talked about it enough, but years ago in the mines, people hadn't even been able to dream about a future. McQueen had been almost seven years out of the tank before he had heard InVitros talking about anything farther out than twenty-four hours. Goals and plans were something dreamed of, perhaps, but the tools to formulate them weren't accessible - InVitros had never been taught. McQueen understood that had changed for the last generation of InVitros: They hadn't been decanted under the shadow of death - hadn't been born over their open graves. He had seen that even for someone Hawkes' age it was different. Cooper seemed to be beginning to believe in a future.

It seemed to McQueen that the biggest difference between the races was that whatever Natural-borns were doing, part of their minds seemed to be elsewhere - except during the heat of combat. They did not seem to be looking for something else exactly, but rather some other "time." It appeared that Natural-borns were always moving - or wanting to move. They were looking for some time behind them or out in front of them somewhere. He had seen them do it even during sex. What was here - what was now - was never enough. They always seemed to want somewhen else. They counted on the future. They bet against it. Natural-borns seemed to McQueen to spend a whole lot of energy concentrating on phantoms ... times and events that were other than now . Times that, in a sense, didn't really exist. It was all ghosts. InVitros believed in what they held in their hands.

Most older InVitros never integrated the past, and the concept of a real future was usually shaky - if not beyond comprehension. They almost always lived in the moment. What should be behind was still inside of them, and what was out front did not and would never exist. Life itself was always a trial: InVitros somehow stood still. Most still did not own their future anymore than they owned their past. It all belonged to someone else.

McQueen realized that both views of life might be - and probably were - equal lies and therefore equally dangerous. Maybe there was no one simple truth in being human. It was all about ownership and attachments, both literal and metaphysical.

There was a something 'zenlike' to be said for living in the now. Aspects of it appealed to McQueen. But during his assignments in Japan, McQueen had noted that even Buddhist monks planted gardens and harvested for the future - at the same time they were quoting passages from texts written thousands of years earlier. They dealt with the past, present, and the future, but owned none of them - and all of them - at the same time. Balance wasn't simple.

There had been a time in his life when McQueen hadn't thought about such things. He suddenly missed that time.

He turned back to his reading. Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. "The first rule is to keep an untroubled spirit." McQueen gave a snort of self-derision. An untroubled spirit was something he had obviously yet to accomplish. He did, however, feel secure in his belief that he did very well in respect to Aurelius' second rule: "To look things in the face and know them for what they are."

McQueen had looked at the Eisenhower once - that was enough.

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