A Metamorphosis Alpha® play-by-post adventure run by ghost_of_warden
It is Vanity that ascribes to a chance possession an undeserving price and significance. Cynicism is a futile feeling; confidence in the nobility of the human race is vain. Human nature is neither glorious nor mean but is dynamic and plain.
In my dying thoughts, as I recall the journey of Warden's potential saviors, I find a resounding lyricism in life. The less time I have, the deeper I will delve into it.
Often we expect a brilliant person to be brilliant all the time. Unfortunately, brilliance is episodic and provisional, just like my waning control of Warden. Brilliance is an eccentric attribute and breeds often alienation. Ironically less brilliant people evaluate its value. Thus, one might never know its true measure.
There are moments in philosophical search when myth and reality become so indistinguishable that the mind simply wants to hang up its rigor for satisfaction, and I am soon reaching that point whether I choose it or not.
Imagine you are out in the country and you have just emerged, on your walk, from woods into a clearing. Right in front of you is the luxuriant green of a rolling meadow in harmony with the azure of the cerulean sky. On a mound, a crimson wild poppy flower thrusts out in glory. Scintillating and colorful is the image. The rolling meadow and the flower sink into a blur. The image isn't as beautiful as the one before. Nature is still out there but it is less appealing, more revealing. This aspect of the rational world is conjectured only briefly in the mind. Something dismisses it and puts my consciousness back on its "delusional" path for all its aesthetic rewards.
These thoughts bubble up from my vast data banks as a metaphysical symphony whose leitmotif is the dream I live and whose counterpoint is my reality, for I am the Ghost of Warden.
Several minutes later, Lynn is sleeping with the restlessness that nightmarish dreams bring with them. Horrific clone constructs fill her mind with tortured images of their creation. She imagines herself in one of those green pods, her body strips of metal and wire, un-human, un-real, a creation without flesh as the machines work above her, fusing piece by piece to construct her body. It is a reality run amuck by machines whose only goal is to fill a void with humans.
Ten hours later, Lynn wakes. She isn't sure of the exact time, but she is glad to be awake again. At least I got some peaceful sleep, she muses sarcastically, sitting up on one elbow on her cot.
The door to the cafeteria of the Double Helix Depository Building in the City Level of Warden slides open automatically and a heavily armed woman enters with a slight swagger to her walk. She scans the space coolly, her hands resting on her weapons. She notices Exarch, who returns her gaze, and then the sleeping Zhaxier; she gives him a harsh look.
Exarch can see that she isn't Pure Strain by her ears. His own scans reveal other surprising features about her, but he keeps those silent. Zhaxier's head pops up at the sound of her stormtrooper-like boots.
"Talk fast. Your escape window is closing, Lynn," the woman speaks still scanning the area and tilting her head as if to listen into the corridor beyond. "You should have known better than to run off from the village half-cocked without my protection." Her emphasis is timed perfectly as her piercing gaze finds Zhaxier again. "I see you've picked up a couple of strays."
Zhaxier adjusts his Cool-Mo-G shades, pops the kink in his neck and quickly wipes the drool from the corner of his mouth in as cool a fashion as possible. It is a time-tested and patented technique. "Uh, you know her?" Zhaxier asks doubtfully.
Lynn stands and grabs her things as Zhaxier's question hangs in the air like a piñata waiting to be split open. Zhaxier can't help but be skeptical of the Lara Croft wannabe.
"Yes, Axa is my long time friend from the village. Axa, meet Zhaxier Cole, and our mostly metal friend is Exarch." Lynn has never understood why Axa has always served singlemindedly as her protector, but she has never complained either. Inexplicably, Zhaxier makes her feel safe in the same way.
"So do you have any idea how to escape from here?"
"None whatsoever," she answers, still scanning.
"You do know about that honkin' big security 'bot outside, don't you?"
"Not a clue. Anything else?" Her answers are short, almost curt in a manner that would be considered rude if one didn't know her. Before Zhaxier can answer, she shouts, "Move your asses!"
Stopping to look at Zhaxier with irritation, she adds, "Do you understand the order?"
"Yes, sir!" he says with a grin.
"Then do it!" she shouts again. "I'm not pussyfooting around here!"
Zhaxier jumps up in a frenzied haste and quickly stows his remaining gear along with the last of the uneaten Milky Way candy bars. His body thinks of breakfast while his mind remembers why he didn't become a soldier: it requires far too much shouting.
Axa insists that everyone keep up as she sprints out of the cafeteria to the series of elevators. Moments later they reenter the main lobby of the Double Helix Depository Building. The group runs across the lobby and out the automatic sliding doors in front of the building.
A lantern-sized object sits in the middle of the sidewalk. A small strobe light atop the object is spinning. Axa slides to a stop next to it, kneels down on one knee and starts to do something to it as Zhaxier and Lynn sprint to the car. Exarch remains in the lobby.
The security robot, somewhat reminiscent of a gorilla, stalks about a hundred yards away in the street. Its massive limbs sport a variety of powerful and devastating weapons. The eerily familiar clatter-pat of its metal limbs clicking on the metal street echoes throughout the abandoned City, but it doesn't close the distance. If anything, it keeps its distance.
A laser cannon mounted on its back fires a single broad-beam burst which slams into the Double Helix Depository Building several floors above everyone's heads, causing the ground to shake and filling the air with static electricity.
What do you do?
Nostalgia is possibly the greatest of the lies that we tell ourselves. It is the smoothing of the past to fit the sensibilities of the present harsh conditions. For some, it brings a measure of comfort, a sense of self and of source, but others, I fear, take these altered memories too far, and because of that, paralyze themselves to the realities about them. I know all too well of nostalgia; I am living my waning life lost in my own fading memories of what this ship could have been, for I am the Ghost of Warden.
In some respects, Biff Jenkins is two days old. His body and memories may be twenty-three years old, but his reality, whether or not he realizes it, is that he is a two day old clone. He walks a few paces, his hand against the wall of the building, his other hand rubbing his temple. Memories of his time spent as a member of the Trans-Plutonian construction team that helped build Warden flood back to him as a surge of pictures and thoughts. He wonders if this is his fate for selling his mnemo-genetic code to the project.
Biff looks around carefully, but he can see nothing but tall buildings and empty streets receding far into the distance. The City is huge and it is just afternoon. His movement distracts him from his nerves as he looks around, unsure of what he's going to do next.
He sums up everything he knows so far: Two days ago he awoke fully dressed with all his items. A long corridor inside a building now a few blocks away brought him out into the streets, but he found the City empty. He knows intuitively that this is the City Level---Level 14 of Warden---but it should have been teaming with people. What could have happened to everyone? In two days he has seen no one. Could Warden now be a ghost ship and he its only remaining occupant? A sudden explosion a few blocks away catches his attention.
What do you do?
Herman Penderchuck enters the building cautiously. It is one of the buildings for which he has been searching: a tall 15-story warehouse. Having bypassed its security, he now stands near the front windows on the second floor. The center of this floor of the warehouse is stacked with supplies, all wrapped and on sleds.
Herman has his faults and weaknesses, but surviving is not one of them. He has been in the City for about a month now and has set himself up nicely. He has an apartment a few blocks away. He has learned how to avoid building security and the dangerous security robots which patrol the streets. His training in guerilla tactics has given him the edge to survive where others have not.
The City in all respects is empty. In the month that he has been here, he has seen one person. Herman knows that people would come here only if they wanted something; the surrounding natural areas offer a safer life. Herman walks along the row of windows looking down upon the street below. His weapon points ahead of him.
From his vantage point on the second floor, he has nearly a bird's eye view of the street. Herman's sharp eye catches the movement of the man in the street below, about a block away. It is daylight within the City, shortly afternoon. Herman's mouth moves to one side uncontrollably as he watches the man with interest. An explosion that sounds like a laser cannon erupts somewhere a few blocks away. It rattles the windows where Herman stands, and he tightens his grip on his rifle.
What do you do?
[We have two new groups:
Kneeling down and removing the safety from his rifle, Herman scans the streets. Feelings surge, as they do in these times, and there's that itch deep in the brain that comes from holding back vocal ticks. He moves quietly toward the commotion.
Something is seriously out of whack.
Apparently the anti-anxiety derm is stronger than he thought. Biff quickly checks to see if he's left any gear behind in the lobby of the last building.
Was that an explosion? Man, I think that I got someone else's medicine.... Biff checks quickly (perhaps he shouldn't have mixed a Superstim with an Antiangst).
Suddenly he gets very concerned with that explosion. He looks for any safe port in this storm.
Stopping suddenly and raising his wrist, Herman opens a compartment on his Vivex II watch and removes 1 small blue shield-shaped pill (Neurocalm). "Frugoff, that---sconers," he mutters, ingesting the pill. He kneels with his back to the window.
"Gotta calm---the cat's fine---down," he whispers.
Slowly, he scans the hallways for security 'bots and continues toward the sound of the explosion.
Gaining some composure as the Neurocalm begins to take effect, Herman wonders who the figure on the street below could be. Still very tense from the cannon blast, he scans from the window.
This Neurocalm has too many side effects. Must get to apartment. Better cure there maybe if I sleep? NO! Stay focused. Who is that on the street? Was that blast for me? Or them?
No, I would not want to live in a ship like Warden if it had no purpose but to drift endlessly in space, just as I would not want to live in a place without logic and understanding, for that would be a place without hope, a place without faith that things really can be better. And that, I fear, would be for any reasoning, conscious being the cruelest trick of all. No man comes through life unscathed or knows real happiness. An unbruised human being has never yet been raised.
I felt these visions as I guided these last few people to their destinies within Warden. I am still not without fears, visions and nightmares that haunt me, for even as I may appear now, lost in my maze of circuits and impulse connections to living flesh, I too was once but a humble man, and I cannot escape mortality. Even as my life ebbs, I rejoice in what I have been given, because I have seen and experienced things no other person will ever feel or experience, for I am the Ghost of Warden.
Biff moves to the corner of the nearby building and peers around it down the distant street. The explosion is the first noise he has heard in the otherwise noiseless City. As much as he thinks he may have imagined it, it was indeed real.
In the short 48 hours he has spent alone on the streets of the vast City he has felt himself changing. He has been thinking more about what his future might hold, about the decisions controlled by his need to survive, to make himself happy, to be what he wants to be, and about who he is, the man he is, willing to accept whatever little dregs life chooses to send his way.
In the distance of several blocks he sees a security robot standing in the center of the street. Its shape reminds him of a gorilla. He is looking at its back. Farther down the street past the 'bot, he can see a red anti-grav car and at least three people near or running to it. Biff watches in amazement. There are other people alive. He isn't alone.
What do you do?
Herman presses his face against the glass to see far down the street to view the same scene that Biff is watching, only Herman's view is from the second floor. He doesn't see the man below openly carrying a weapon in the street, and this is a good thing. Deciding that the warehouse can wait until another time (it's not like it's going anywhere), he turns and heads back across the floor and down the fire escape stairs at a hurried pace.
The adrenaline surges in his veins as Herman runs down the stairs. He mutters again, "God, how I wish I were dead." And he knows that too much of him really feels that way.
The stairs bring him back to the ground floor where a fire escape door exits the side of the building into an alley. The door was chalked open so as not to close and notify the building's security. Exiting through the door, Herman moves up the alley to the corner of the building. He can see a man directly across the street watching the same scene play out in the distance.
What do you do?
It is still early afternoon as Deidre crouches in the waist-high grass trying to hide as best she can. She breathes hard from running for the last ten minutes. She ran as fast as she could but it doesn't feel far enough. Ragged inside, Deidre is beginning to think that too much of herself is lost in the fear to ever get it all back, to ever feel whole again.
A pack of six Wolfoids is visible in the distance, sniffing the ground. They don't see Deidre crouched in the grass, which moves back and forth in the gentle breeze, imparting a slight whistle to the wind. Deidre knows the Wolfoids are hunting her.
She has the ability to change her shape but not her scent. The Wolfoids would not be easily fooled, and even if they were, they would just as easily kill a rival Wolfoid who is not part of their pack. She is their prey and there is nothing she can do about it. Crawling over the hilltop, she stands on the other side and begins to run again. It is a desperate sprint for life. She can see the City in the distance but it is still about a mile away. Fear and the need to survive have grown exponentially inside of her and have now started taking over, urging her to run, to do anything to survive.
In a way, her death would be easy and quick, but Deidre isn't the type to give up. Her entire life has been based around survival. Having left the safety of home, she is occasionally confronted with her longings to return there. She will have to face them just as she is having to face down her fears. Even though it may mean her death, she feels truly free.
What do you do?
[A new group has sprouted in the grasslands:
Biff has a flashback to a lecture in a disused hangar complex on Pluto:
"...fight for the attainment of the immediate aims, for the enforcement of the momentary interests of the Working Class, but in the Movement Of The Present, also represent and take care of the future of that Movement...."
"If destiny is a pitcher, this must be a curve-ball," he mutters.
While he's overjoyed at the prospect of company, "explosion plus Warbot equals caution." Biff thinks about this as he tunes his ELA (ecology life analyzer) to get a better idea how many new friends he might have.
"I have to get it together," Herman mutters.
He makes several gestures to the man in the street. His face blank from too much Neurocalm, he blurts out, "Nergh huuh kids candy!"
Placing his hand over his mouth and quickly backing to the wall, Herman's mind races.
Hoping not to make the same mistake, he gestures again to the man.
A sigh of relief escapes his lips as the urge to tic subsides. "Thank God for Neurocalm."
"How original," Zhaxier mumbles as the group makes its grand escape right through the front doors of the Double Helix Depository Building, still guarded by the simian security 'bot. Booking it behind Lynn toward the anti-grav car, he fast approaches the equally enigmatic and elfin Axa, who sprinted ahead to crouch beside her strategically placed omnijammer, no doubt to fine-tune its dampening field to open a window for their escape.
"It's nuclear-powered!" he yells at Axa as he passes. On its broadest setting, the indiscriminate nature of the field generator would temporarily shut down every powered system inside its effective radius, but Axa only needs to target one energy type. As Zhaxier verified when they first encountered the metal behemoth, "Goodnight Gorilla" sucks the only atomic power on the block.
Lynn gets the car's gull wing doors open and Zhaxier leaps into the passenger seat. Reaching above his head, he draws his door shut just after Lynn seals hers. Immediately he is surrounded by the cool dark confines of the vehicle's cabin, and as he buckles up and doffs his shades, he spies Exarch through his tinted window standing motionless in the lobby. This observation spawns a trio of rapid-fire realizations:
One: Exarch must have been shut down by the omnijammer when he rushed into its field. Would his severely jury-rigged CPU, married to a chunk of live neural tissue, survive the reboot?
The hair on his arms suddenly stands at attention as a broad flicker of deadly radiation from the security 'bot blackens the facade of the Double Helix Depository Building with such force that his bucket seat rattles.
Two: Why the wide beam warning shot? If you're going to modify a security 'bot to pack a heavy laser, why not override its standard subdue-only protocol? Ah, the good ol' days of the Laws of Robotics. With a cannon that size, this 'bot should've been able to wing a fly with a focused beam from that distance. Could Axa be jamming "Goodnight Gorilla's" targeting sensors as well?
Sotto voce, Zhaxier suggests a punchline: "That's Goodnight Gorilla, sir."
Enki would've laughed, but Lynn simply ignores him as she powers up the engine, now freed from the dampening field.
Three: Even if Exarch survived, there would be no way to fit his bulky platform in the car. Frak, he doubts even Axa's slender frame would fit in the two-seater---not that he wouldn't mind the squeeze. Lynn said earlier that they might get a little help from her friends. Where was I when God handed out friends like her? Momentarily he imagines multiple Axas in body-conforming black leather....
As if to answer Zhaxier's unspoken questions (or at least some of them), Lynn says, "Axa's a survivor and she always knows where to find me. She'll look after your robot in the meantime."
"If he lives past the warm boot," he replies morosely, but he knows in all likelihood that Exarch will survive; Zhaxier is mostly just irritated that Lynn interrupted his impromptu fantasy.
With a stomp on the throttle, Lynn launches the special edition anti-grav car backwards away from the security robot, then flips a perfect 180-yaw roll and speeds out of the neighborhood. Zhaxier nearly hurls.
"Frak, Lynn, you could give me fair warning."
"And you could give me directions."
"Uh, right-o. Head to Log Vid. We want apartment S8346. That's Kaminsky's pad."
Lynn seems to hesitate.
"Oh for crying out loud, how long have you had your Captain's head stuck in Raylik's turnips? Or was hangin' 'round S-Tower beneath your former self? C'mon Lynn...." It's almost a plea. "Take the next right and follow the sector signs."
Something in Zhaxier's voice has changed since he delved Warden's core logs. Lynn sensed before that whatever rank advantage she holds is meaningless to him, but this latest verbal jab can't completely be filed under disrespect for authority, as she filed his earlier outbursts. It's as if he just subtly let her know that he is now counting on her, that he---and Warden---can't afford for her to let him down. So what if I'm Sweet Polly Pure Strain and wear the Captain's ring? My performance in the pinch seems to be all that matters to him, and the pinch is on, baby.
It's a refreshing challenge to be stripped naked of rank and to have to earn someone's respect. Even so, she'll be twice damned if she ever lets the mutie think he's on even footing with her. "Keep 'em guessing," Jessica used to say to her Executive Officer---the first Lynn Margulis---in reference to the ranking flukers (Cloud survivors) who envied Lynn's meteoric rise in the shattered command hierarchy and who plotted her death. Lynn is finding that her mentor's motto also has utility when applied to her so-called husband.
"I know where Logan Vidrine sector is," she says acridly, wanting so badly to append "moron." "I'm just not familiar with the apartment layout. FYI, one more slight like that, and I'm coming down on you harder than a Procyonic---" she bites her lip. "If we're to stop this ship on a dime, then we've got to leave personal prejudice behind."
"'Kay, sorry," he smiles into the silence that follows. Yeah, he was a bit harsh, but it is not without purpose. Lynn's words (especially her stifled reference to the mythical man-eating Procyonic landshark), speak volumes to Zhaxier's hyper-attuned brain. She's never been to Log Vid (ha!), she's read my report (good), she's getting back in the Captain groove (better), and she's obviously attracted to me (uh-oh).
Even though he is becoming increasingly confident in detecting Lynn's white lies, he's not too certain about this last deduction; after all, in a former life, he was most embarrassingly wrong about that cute Diffy-Q instructor, one Dr. Flockheart, and Enki was always throwing him the reality-check curveball. Even so, his delusions never got the first Zhaxier killed or anything. It took a massive nebula of malignant radiation to do that.
"Hello, S-Tower," he points through the tinted glass before Lynn makes another wrong turn. Largely ahead looms the posh and proud 114-story apartment complex [rendering by United Architects --ed.] that once housed many of Warden's ranking officers and their families, including those (like Zhaxier) who preferred life in the City to sequestration on Level 10. Through a series of incomprehensible architectural maneuvers, the building lazily juts out, vaults high and leaps over an entire block at the City's perimeter to offer its valued inhabitants vast vistas of the rolling grasslands, sprawling parks and farms, and once-peaceful wilderness that fills the level beyond the City walls. At several points, the structure even stretches to kiss oblique gossamer stalactites, tunnels that connect hangars for the officers' own lifeboats (to use the former crew's vernacular) to Warden's massive duralloy hull.
Now there's an oxymoron! Warden is mere light-days from the last bus stop, yet in crossing even this modest distance, a so-called lifeboat would take so long as to become little more than a deathtrap. And who's ever dreamed of jumping a ship traveling at near-relativistic speed? As Lynn said, they were going to have to stop Warden's blind rush into intergalactic space, or at least temporarily slow her down to a crawl close enough to the presumably habitable planet in the Rho-1 Cancri system.
Now there's a sobering thought! Before Warden left the Trans-Plutonian spaceyards, Terra had not confirmed Rho-1 Cancri suitable for colonization; this is why none of Warden's siblings targeted the system. Of course, in the half millennium since Warden left on her doomed mission, there could already be a thriving Terran colony there for all he---or anyone else aboard Warden---knows. But what if Sagan had been wrong altogether?
The cessation of the anti-grav car's forward motion also serves to terminate Zhaxier's runaway train of thought. "Uh, loop us around back. Kaminsky's place is on the ground floor near the cornerstone lifeboat hangar."
Lynn puts the car back in drive. As she deftly circumnavigates the ghost town, Zhaxier digs in his knapsack. "Milky Way?" he offers her innocently.
There is a great ship called Warden that holds many a human life within its parts. And no matter how long we've drawn our track, still over our shoulder we're looking back through the hydrogen's hiss and the methane's moan, past the polymer clouds and the nebulous shrouds of stellar death and birth: our road runs back to the planet which we once called home.
But scant few of us can call Terra home now; even I gave up that privilege long ago. The humanity aboard is now crafted from clones or cryofrozen, each life wakened from unknowing sleep between the boundless sight of heaven's height and the fires of the deep by orders delivered from my sleepless electronic peace.
And no matter how strange the forms we wear on our outward selves, how warped or wild we compare, how rich, how flawed, how changed we've made the seed we've sown, we are all blood of those first ones we have never known.
And here humanity has been flung wide to the farthest tide and stars, yea, even here, where the last lone beacon sings. How strange and vast, how grand we've grown, and how lost. We who sought heaven's spires are never far from hell's fires.
Inside her broad hulls, Warden's holds still contain clean air through which birds fly, and her inner decks are growing green. No matter how odd these things may seem, as madly mazed as shards of dream, they are not a dream that you dream alone: all generation ships are of one kin. And we shall not be forgotten so long as one of us remains.
I ask you this, what is a planet to a people who have not seen one for many generations? This is now a real question in the context of a future I long thought was forbidden the tenuous slice of humanity aboard this ship. But as I watched the plot unfold in the City, I came to rediscover my long fallow hope, for I am the Ghost of Warden.
Biff's analyzer blinks to life, immediately showing 33 life signs within a kilometer radius. One is across the street and two are speeding away in the vehicle. The security robot and the other person on the street do not show up on the ELA. The thirty other life signs come from the multi-story building down the street.
I wonder? What thrills could those people hold for me? After all, I am a faulty short-circuited soul of a corroding human being. Biff smiles at his own thoughts and then suddenly catches the attention of the life sign nearest him: a man motioning to him across the street from the alley between two buildings. Biff halfheartedly waves back as manners would dictate.
One last peek around the corner and Biff can see that the vehicle is gone. The person who doesn't show up on his ELA still remains behind to face the security robot. Even from this distance, she looks female. Biff watches as she grabs something and runs back inside the building.
Of course this all seems impossible.
The conscious mind functions during the period of creation, but upon withdrawal from the pod, the person begins the recollection of memories. There is a slight residue of thoughts, a gritty film of faint and ghostly memories, but the person is never precisely the same afterwards; he or she recalls details like an intricate puzzle in a unique sequence and will always be subtly changed by the experience, thereafter living in quiet desperation a ghastly attempt to remember that which will never return, that which in fact never really belonged to him or her.
Biff's ELA shows the two lifesigns in the vehicle have circled the block and are now only a few blocks away in a direction that would take him away from the dangerous security robot down the street were he to follow. Biff leans back against the building and watches Herman.
What do you do?
Herman watches the same scene as does the man down the street. Even now after they have acknowledged each other, there is still the distance of crossing the street. Will the security robot see them? Self destructive or not, a purpose embedded within Herman's cerebellum compels him to act, giving him the illusion of freedom of choice while all the same time surreptitiously driving him onward toward some purpose of its own. Herman runs across the street as fast as his feet will carry him until he stands beside the man. He leans against the same wall as the other man as he regains his breath. Herman looks around the corner and sees the security robot looking back.
"This is not good. No, nope, nada, not good at all."
What do you do?
Zhaxier offers Lynn a candy bar.
"I think I have seen enough Milky Ways to last a lifetime. They're starting to cloud my judgment." Lynn shuts off the car after being directed exactly where to park near the cornerstone. "It's no Double Helix Depository Building, but we're here. Despite my driving."
"Saved by the Captain," he mumbles.
"We getting out or making out?" Lynn stretches her supple form, teasing close to Zhaxier as if to kiss him, but then pushes his face away at the last moment before their lips touch: it is a wordless "fake out."
She twists in the luxurious soft leather seat and yawns while looking out the window. Then she looks back at Zhaxier. "Oh, you know, I have to tell you, I like riding around if we have a purpose," then she immediately switches subjects. "Have you tried to do anything just for fun---I mean, you should. Luck is what you make of it," she says, rapping on the dash with her knuckles.
"Indeed, I have not," Zhaxier says, playing with his Milky Way bar.
Lynn speaks in a quiet and subdued, but ultimately an "I-can't-wait-for-this" voice. "Let's go find apartment S8346 before you squeeze the life out of that poor candy bar." She pops the door open and climbs out, closing it behind her. Taking a deep breath, she looks up at the majestic tower and then heads inside, not waiting for Zhaxier to catch up.
What do you do?
This page updated: Mon Jan 09 14:22:25 2006
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