• Published 8th Dec 2020
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If Wishes Were Ponies, Book II - tkepner



Harry Potter and the CMC are ready for their second year at Hogwarts. Tom Riddle is not pleased.

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Ch. 11. Exceeding Expectations

It was the biggest shock of his new life, earlier in the week, when he had walked into the corridor that led to what he had been told were Myrtle Warren’s toilets. Instead of a “Closed for Repairs” sign on the toilets’ door, as he had been told to expect, he had discovered his Chamber of Secrets had been turned into a tourist attraction! With sign-up sheets posted. The sign affixed to the wall beside the door explained the schedule for student tours, which he had made sure to note. He was fortunate that more students were taken with the . . . Equestrians . . . than with the novelty of the Chamber of Secrets. Thus, his name had been at the top of the list. The first tour would be that Friday afternoon.

For the past three days since that discovery on Tuesday, he could think of nothing else as he waited, hidden. How had they found it? How had they accessed it? And it was only last year that they did it, too! It must have been the doings of those Equestrians.

Why hadn’t that oaf Malfoy informed him of this terrible deed? What his older-self had seen in the incompetent idiot was beyond him.

It was clear the oversight had been on purpose. Bad Faith was living up to his name. He obviously had no idea what the diary was, what that meant, and what it could do. He probably thought it was a pale imitation of a wizarding portrait. Voldemort would apprise him of his error at a later date. With a suitable punishment. Perhaps, forcing him to use his son for curse target-practice for a few hours every day until the boy cowered in fear at the very sight of his father?

Yes. That might be adequate. The screaming would be soothing to his pride, at least.

But for now, it changed his plans completely. He couldn’t savour the terror and despair of his enemies, and the muggle-borns, as he threw Hogwarts into disarray for the rest of the year, distracting them while he gained strength. He would have to search out another hidden spot to complete the final transformation and his triumphant return.

Perhaps the Forbidden Forest? That had its own problems regarding safety, though. The last thing he needed was a Centaur or other animal stumbling upon him before the ritual was completed. An attack when he was vulnerable would be disastrous. Anywhere in the castle proper was right out, the new detection spells they had been told about would pick that up immediately. Not to mention their usage of the Room of Requirement for Astronomy classes and indoor recreation the rest of the time!

With its near-constant use, he couldn’t even check to see if his horcrux was there. The lack of any rumours about a room of lost things gave him hope it hadn’t been found.

The warm-water swimming pool was nice, though.

He needed a location that wasn’t under direct surveillance, and couldn’t be quickly accessed by his enemies if they discovered what he was doing.

He needed a way to get Fumbledork out of the castle, too. His plan of slowly escalating the situation until the headmaster was removed for incompetence just became incredibly difficult, if not impossible.

Especially with those bloody Equestrians everywhere! He had spotted no fewer than a dozen adult spies. At least half of them were their equivalent of aurors, just from the way they moved and kept watch, despite everyone else calling them “Professorial Aides.”

As it was, learning that the Dark Artefact Detection spells had been upgraded had complicated things severely. Still, nothing he hadn’t been able to trick with the right spells — a drop of blood sealed the deal. As far as the spells were concerned, he wasn’t separate from his victim, he was a part of them. As a result, while he might have a severely dark aura, bordering on black, he wasn’t “separate” from his host person anymore. He wasn’t a Dark Artefact, merely a dark aspect of the host, a smaller part, truly. Regrettably, while his soul was hidden behind strong magics, the spells leaked enough to set off the detectors under normal circumstances. However, with the blood connection, the leaks were small enough to be diluted in his victim’s soul aura, and unnoticeable unless one looked directly into the mind of the victim for signs of possession. As a result, his host had only a slight darkening of their aura, nothing that would set off the detector spells.

Fumbledork’s passive and mild mind-grazing would see nothing untoward.

Later, as he drained more and more of his victim’s life-force, that would change and he ran the risk of detection. He needed to stay low and unnoticeable. However, as long as he didn’t cast any non-school Dark spells, he could reduce his risk to the minimum. If he held back the possession, kept as much of his renewed soul in the diary behind the masking spells, he should be safe. The spells looked for a strong dark aura overshadowing a lighter aura, not a lighter aura that continuously became smaller and weaker over the months.

It was a pity to sacrifice a pure-blood . . . no, no it wasn’t. He smirked. How delicious that he would finally have a true pure-blood body! They had look down on him for being a half-blood, at first. Treated him as something barely above a mud-blood — until he had learned enough magic to show them the error of their ways! He’d get his revenge on them, oh, yes, he would. He’d have to start over, again, but that was merely an inconvenience. Soon enough, he would be back in power, and ready to take over wizarding England, just as he had been when he had encountered the impossible.

Defeated by a baby, they said.

A baby? Defeat him? Impossible!

But that’s what everyone claimed.

He would find the truth.

Once the “tour” began, he was very upset to hear the story of how the Professors had determined the location of the hidden entrance, then routed his pet, the basilisk. They had been very thorough in exploring the chamber, and nothing remained undiscovered. The entire Chamber had been meticulously examined, and cleaned. Salazar’s office had been found, and now everyone was allowed a moment to peer inside at the ancient refuge of the great wizard. The original scrolls had been removed, he could tell, and now fakes filled the diamond-shaped cubby-holes that lined one wall.

He smirked. Fortunately, he had removed and studied the truly important ancient documents fifty years ago. They were safely stored in one of his hidden safe-houses under appropriate charms. Those plebians hadn’t discovered Salazar Slytherin’s true secrets!

The ones he had left behind had been either duplicates or not worth the effort. It was interesting to see that the old fools had padded out the cubbies with far more scrolls than he had left behind.

Disappointingly, the one hidden cubby-hole he was able to access had been discovered and cleaned out, as well. He assumed the rest had been found. He was unable to check the others because the Prefect guiding the tour might notice his “unauthorized” exploring. In any event, he wouldn’t be able to search for the remaining secret places until much later. Doing so anytime soon might reveal him to the detection spells set all over the vast Chamber if he came when there weren’t any tours.

He had to admit Fumbledork had done a comprehensive job of making sure no one made an unauthorized entry.

It was disgusting.

Something so impressive and magnificent, brought down to a mere diversion. He pretended to be awed at what he saw, but inside he boiled with rage that non-Slytherins were trampling all over his heritage. Half-bloods, blood-traitors, and muggle-born, despoiling it with their uncomprehending eyes. His hand kept twitching towards his wand, but he knew he dared not do anything just yet.

He would make them pay for such disrespect! Dearly.

^·_·^

Harry had been looking forward to the weekend. Unfortunately, today, it wasn’t his herd-mates waking him up. It was Oliver Wood, the Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Grumbling at Oliver’s enthusiasm for the sport that prompted waking up literally at the break of dawn, six in the morning on a Saturday, Harry dressed in his Quidditch robes.

Normally, this wouldn’t happen until after try-outs later this month. However, last year, the first years had been given the unprecedented option to try out. Thus, the normal second-year try-outs were unnecessary — the qualified second-years were already either on the team as players or reserves! Hence, why delay starting the practices — at least that was Oliver’s reasoning.

Yawning widely, Ron, the reserve Keeper, joined him. When he made it to the common room, it was to see his herd-mates, also yawning and rubbing the sleep from their eyes, coming down the stairs, too. After a few moments commiserating their loss of a lay-in, they started out for the pitch.

Colin suddenly came barrelling down the stairs and across the room, waving a piece of paper. It was the photograph of him and Colin, and it was moving. Colin alternated between looking at the picture and looking at Harry. Harry in the picture smiled, nodded, and waved out at them. “I heard you coming down the stairs . . . I just printed it last night!” he exclaimed proudly. “Do you think you could sign it now?”

Harry considered. “I don’t have a quill on me, at the moment. Why don’t you develop and print the rest, and then I can sign them all in one batch?”

At Colin’s indecisive look, Harry added, “Besides, I’m off to Quidditch practice, right now.”

“Oh! Oh! I’ve never seen a Quidditch game!” He barely paused before saying, “You’re the youngest Quidditch player in a hundred years, aren’t you?” He trotted alongside the group as they made their way out the portrait hole. “What’s it like?”

“No,” Harry said, “I’m not the youngest Quidditch player, that’s Ginny Weasley.” He nodded at the girl to one side behind Scootaloo. “She was on the team as a reserve last year, and she was only ten at the time.”

Colin gave the girl a wide-eyed look. “Ten?”

“Yes, she was given special permission to start Hogwarts early on account of her mastering the animagus transformation so early.”

Colin’s eyes grew wider. “Really?” he said incredulously, his voice going up a full octave.

He tagged along with them as Harry gave a brief explanation of her being “shown” how to access her animagus form by a powerful wizard, and then how she had learned to do it herself. Then the discussion turned to Quidditch, and how it had seven players. One Keeper to guard the goals, two Beaters who hit balls called bludgers at the opposing team members, three Chasers who took a ball called a quaffle and tried to score points, and a Seeker who looked for a tiny, winged, golden ball, called a snitch, that ended the game.

Colin went to sit on the stands overhead as the rest went into their Quidditch changing room.

Disappointingly, Wood spent almost a full hour explaining the plays he had designed over the summer. He had just finished when George Weasley, one of the beaters, said tiredly, “Oliver. Why couldn’t you have told us all this last night when we were awake?” He gave a big, jaw-cracking yawn.

Oliver was not amused. He grabbed his broomstick and headed outside for the field. Stiff-legged and still yawning, his team followed. The brisk morning air finally finished waking Harry up as the rest were doing their drills, and he began looking around more alertly. He saw Colin sitting in one of the highest seats in the stadium, his camera raised. The sound of the shutter clicking was clear in the still morning air.

Colin waved a hand and called out shrilly, “Look this way, Harry!”

Harry waved genially. He saw Oliver glancing quizzically between Harry and Colin, and not looking very happy. Harry shot across the stadium at speed, and pulled up beside Wood at the goal posts.

“What’s going on?” said Wood, frowning. “Who’s that taking pictures?” He turned and glared at the little firstie. “He could be a Slytherin spy, trying to find out about our new training program,” he said loudly.

“Nah,” Harry said dismissively, “He’s just taking pictures for his family. So, they can see the awesomeness that is Quidditch. He’s a Gryffindor.”

Oliver grumbled, and kept casting suspicious eyes on the little wizard for the next two hours as they ran through his new plays.

Harry idly noticed that the stands were slowly accumulating students from all four houses. So much for keeping Oliver’s “new” plays a secret. Students with brightly coloured hair predominated. Several had transformed into ponies and were hovering over the stands, pacing the broomstick riders. This was likely the winged ponies’ first exposure to Quidditch.

While it was slowly gaining popularity among the pegasi in Canterlot, Cloudsdale, and Ponyville, the rest of Equestria had never had the opportunity to see a game. From the excited arm-waving of the students with more normal colours to their hair, he knew the pegasi would be occupying the stadium whenever the teams weren’t.

The reserves had completed one such run-through on a new play and the Gryffindor team was moving to group up to critique their performance. Harry saw a movement out of the corner of his eyes. When he looked, he saw seven people in green robes walk onto the field. They were carrying their broomsticks

Wood noticed almost immediately. “WHAT!” he yelled coming to halt and floating in place. “We have the field today!” He shot toward the interlopers. Harry and the rest followed a bit more slowly.

“Flint!” Wood bellowed at the Slytherin Captain, staggering a bit from jumping off his broom a bit sooner than he should have. “Clear off! We booked the field two weeks ago! For the entire day!”

Harry glanced at Wood. The entire day? He looked at the castle. Breakfast was almost over, and he was starving. He turned and looked at Wood with narrowed eyes. Had he planned to work them through breakfast and lunch?

Marcus Flint was bigger than Wood by several inches, and more heavily built. “Plenty of room for us all, Wood.” He didn’t sneer, but it looked like he wanted to.

“But I booked the field for the day!” said Wood, positively spitting with rage. “I booked it!”

Flint gave Wood a surprised look. “You did? I didn’t know that,” he said in a way that implied he did, indeed, know that. “Doesn’t matter, though,” he said airily “Professor Snape gave us a specially signed note that gives us permission to use the field to train our new Seeker.” He held up a piece of parchment.

“A new Seeker? A new Seeker?” Wood said, distracted. “Where?” he said suspiciously.

That was when they saw Draco Malfoy. He had been hiding behind the larger and older team members. An easy job, as he was only a second-year, like Harry and the Gryffindor reserve players.

“Aren’t you Lucius Malfoy’s son?” said Wood, staring at Malfoy, puzzled.

Flint, and the rest of the Slytherin team smiled more broadly. “Funny that,” he said. “He’s quite the Quidditch fan, it turns out. Look at the generous gift he’s made.”

All seven of them presented their broomsticks. Seven highly polished, brand-new handles, with fine gold lettering spelling the words Nimbus Two Thousand and One, gleamed under the Gryffindors’ noses in the early morning sun.

“The latest model, don’t you know? Only came out last month,” said Flint casually, flicking an imaginary speck of dust from the end of his own. “Quite an improvement over all other brooms, I’m told.”

“Oh, cool!” said Scootaloo, stepping closer to inspect one of the brooms. “Now we can have a real game. Last year, with these Nimbus 2000’s, it sorta felt unfair against the other school brooms.” She gestured with her broomstick.

Sweetie Belle nodded. “Yeah.” She frowned a moment, then a smile lit up her face. “I know, let’s get Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff new brooms! That way, it won’t matter which brooms you’ve got, only your skill!”

“Oooh, that’s a great idea!” Apple Bloom said enthusiastically.

“We can make the order out over breakfast, and get it in their hooves by Monday!” said Sweetie Belle happily.

The Slytherins lost their smiles, as did Wood. For different reasons.

Ron’s stomach growled loudly, echoed a moment late by Harry’s. They both blushed as the girls sniggered.

“Wait,” said Wood, “we’ve got practice! I booked the whole day!”

Harry turned and stared at Wood with narrowed eyes. “You were planning on stopping for breakfast, right?”

All he got was a blank look.

“You wanted us to practice all day without a break?” he said incredulously.

Even the Slytherins looked surprised at the thought.

Wood just glared back at him. “We need the practice if we want to win games,” he stated. “Especially,” he glared at the Slytherins, “if they aren’t using their regular broomsticks.”

“You did make arrangements with the elves to bring us breakfast and lunch, right?” Harry said accusingly.

Again, his answer was a blank look. He growled in the back of his throat.

He turned back to the Slytherins. “How about this, Flint,” he said, “We’re going to head in for breakfast. You have the field from now,” he glanced at his watch, “nine until noon, since we had it from six ’til now. Then you can go in for lunch and we’ll take the field from noon ’til three while you eat and recover. Then we’ll swap and you have the field from three ’til dinner. Does that sound fair?”

“Or, maybe,” Scootaloo said, “We could have a pickup game after lunch?” She looked at Flint with an encouraging and hopeful smile.

Flint looked at the others on his team, then shrugged.

Wood was looking back and forth between them. “Hey,” he said, “Wait a minute.”

Harry nodded at Flint, then started off the field. The reserves and Ron quickly followed him.

“But I booked the field for the entire day!” wailed Wood.

The twins were giving him disgusted looks. “If you think we’re going to practice all day without eating, . . .” said one.

“. . . or a break, then you’re barmy!” finished the other. They both started after Harry’s group, the three chasers followed them, leaving Wood gaping, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water.

The Slytherins were giving the chasers leering looks as they passed each other. Harry glancing back, saw this. “I’ll be just a second,” he said out loud, and trotted back to the Slytherins, who curiously watched him approach. As soon as he got close enough, he said, in a quiet voice that they could barely hear, “You know, if you think the fillies are good looking in the Quidditch uniforms, you should see them in the changing rooms. You should get a few fillies on your reserve team.” He looked at them with raised eyebrows, “Right?”

He didn’t wait for a response, he turned and trotted back to his friends. He looked back just as he left the stadium. Wood stood abandoned on the field and was watching the Slytherins flying overhead on their brooms. Shaking his head, he slowly started for the exit and Hogwarts.

Harry shook his head, too, but for a different reason. While Oliver might think Quidditch was the be-all and end-all of the purpose of being at Hogwarts, everyone else didn’t. If the quidditch captain wasn’t careful, he’d lose the support of the reserve players and they’d quit. That would mean losing the Quidditch Cup for the year if anyone got hurt during a game and they had to play one person down. Their opponent would steamroller them into the ground before the snitch could be caught. Wood might think that a tragedy in that situation, but very few others would.

^·_·^

Unlike previous meetings, this one was “in the field” as it were. They were at the Otterburn Army Training Estate, a live-fire military training estate in northern England. The group composed of John Major, the Prime Minister, the Foreign Secretary, The Rt Hon. Hurd, the Home Secretary, The Rt Hon. Kenneth Wilfred Baker, Field Marshal Sir John Chapple, and himself, Second Lieutenant Searle.

The rest of the aides and security detail had been left in the command bunker.

The Prime Minister cast a critical eye on Searle, “I hope this trip is as important as your note said.” He took a glance around at the vacant target-practice range, and the empty fields around them. At thirty-four square miles, Otterburn was the largest such military range in the country. “It is Saturday, I had to cancel several very important meetings.”

Searle took a deep breath. “It is, sir, it is. Almost as important as the last time I told you of an important meeting.”

That got him a raised eyebrow. Their last such meeting had been the introduction to the cross-dimensional Equestrians — or maybe cross-space, they didn’t know which, yet — requesting an Embassy London.

Castor reached into his pocket and took a small cigarette case out. He opened and removed a small replica of the standard SA80 A2 rifle used by the military, then replaced the case in his pocket. He pressed a small button on the replica. The rest blinked as the tiny replica turned into a full-scale assault rifle with a large scope on top and a very short, barely visible, ammunition magazine. Most magazines were much larger, stretching the length of a person’s forearm.

He looked up at the others. “Princess Twilight was very happy to show me this. She said that this rifle would keep Equestria safe from its enemies for a very long time. She credited several of our ex-military Special Technology people with the ideas, and several Scottish graduates with the design and execution,” he said solemnly. “They’ve already adapted these techniques to the new rifles their Guard uses.”

He gave them a bleak look. “It is the single most terrifying weapon I have ever seen. The normal ‘es a eighty a two’ has a magazine of thirty rounds, and a maximum rate of fire of a magazine a second. Normal, in-the-field, rate of fire is limited to how fast a soldier can exchange magazines. This rifle has no such restriction.” He raised an eyebrow at the Prime Minister, and hefted the rifle. “May I demonstrate?”

The others exchanged looks and put on their ear-protectors.

He took the forward position and aimed at the targets down-range from them by a hundred meters. He took a deep breath, settled the rifle against his shoulder, slowly exhaled, and gently pulled the trigger. The rifle was set to full-automatic, and with such a tiny ammunition magazine it only should fire five shots — maybe.

At least, that’s what the others must think, he knew. How wrong they were.

He held the trigger down. The rifle fired a steady stream of bullets.

Sir John raised both his eyebrows. He knew the sound of that rifle on full-automatic, and this was not the same. It should have stopped after a second. It was more like a machine-gun.

At the two-minute mark, Castor stopped. There wasn’t much left of his chosen target. His voice shook a bit. “A thousand rounds a minute. Unlimited. The magazine has only one round in it. When you go to chamber the first round, the . . . Special Technology . . . duplicates the original and that is what goes into the chamber. The duplicated round requires only a small amount of energy to create as it will vanish after one minute. There’s a power unit in the magazine to help.” He grabbed the barrel of the rifle, which should have been far too hot to hold, and held it out to the minister. “There is a cooling technology on the barrel and chamber to prevent excessive heating.”

The Prime Minister gingerly accepted the weapon, then gave Castor a startled look as he almost tossed the rifle over his own shoulder.

“The rifle weighs approximately three ounces,” the Second Lieutenant continued. “Special Technology is used to reduce its weight, and absorb and stabilize any rifle recoil — chamber recoil is left alone — so there’s no recoil creep, sore shoulders, or vibrations to throw off your aim. Other Special Technology makes it almost impervious to damage — it could hold a Challenger Two tank from the trigger guard, if you had a cable small enough and strong enough to fit. It’s water-proof, and permanently oiled and greased. There is also a silencer component, which I did not turn on.”

He took another shuddering breath. “The scope crosshairs show exactly where the rounds will hit, you can carve your name into a target at four hundred metres. While only a soldier trained in Special Technology can fire it. It can be personalized to the soldier so that if it falls into enemy hands, they can’t use it. Neither can it be disassembled and reverse engineered without it violently exploding.”

The other four were staring at him in shock.

“Oh, no,” he shook his head, “there’s more.” He held out his hand for the rifle.

He popped out the magazine, which was green, and plugged in another that was yellow.

“This magazine uses the same duplication technology,” he said lifting the rifle to firing position. The others hurriedly replaced their ear-protectors.

He didn’t hold the trigger for more than ten seconds, but it was long enough to obliterate, in large explosions, most of the targets down range from them. He popped out the magazine and turned to look at his superiors. “Those were 40mm grenades. The original has been shrunk, an action that is applied to the duplicate as it is generated. The shrinking is cancelled as the round leaves the barrel. The muzzle velocity is the same as the regular five-point-five-six-millimetre rounds, nine-hundred-forty meters-per-second, one thousand rounds per minute.”

They were openly gaping at him.

He pulled a red magazine out of his pocket and held it up for them to see. He did not place it in the rifle. “This magazine is loaded with a 155mm High-Energy tank round, same conditions as the other two magazines.”

He put the magazine back in his pocket as he said, “There’s a fourth magazine for fifty-calibre rounds and a fifth that is a flame-thrower.” He turned a recessed knob on the stock, then pressed it in, and was holding a tiny version of the rifle again. The knob was now the button he had pressed earlier. He put it back in his cigarette case and took out a miniature pistol, a Glock 17.

He held it up. “This does everything the ‘es a eighty a two’ does, except the accuracy is only a hundred metres, not four-hundred, and there is no scope, currently.” He put it back in the cigarette case. “The Princess promised they would have those defects fixed, shortly.”

He looked at them bleakly. “Imagine an assassin with a pistol or rifle like this. What security agent would think a charm bracelet or earring was a deadly weapon? And with the bullets, shells, and gunpowder residue disappearing after a minute when the duplication technology dissipates, what evidence would be left for investigators?”

He sighed. “Plus, there is no reason why this can’t be adapted to the other branches. Imagine an undetectable impregnable supersonic fighter jet not much bigger than a Mini Cooper, with unlimited fuel, a dozen different built-in gun magazines with unlimited ammunition, and unlimited bombs of every type. The pilot could have unlimited food and drink, too.

“Or an undetectable impregnable Navy Scimitar with unlimited range that can outmanoeuvre and outshoot a battleship and cruise at two hundred kilometres per hour. Or an undetectable, impregnable submarine that can stay underwater forever and sink anything that floats. Put a floo on the ships and the crew can spend their nights at home! Use a portkey for the airplanes, and you could change crews without the plane ever having to land.”

He shook his head.

“We need to rethink our entire approach to the military — and security. We have to keep these things out of the hands of our enemies and terrorists. We also need a way to detect them.

“Plus, convincing the Equestrians not to make any mention of this to anyone else.”

^·_·^

Major Tom studied the chart carefully. It listed the various times that their four “experimental” portkeys had activated as their Bristol Bloodhound had shot into space and past the moon. The first had been at thirteen thousand kilometres, the maximum distance a portkey on Earth had ever been used. The second portkey had successfully activated at a distance of two hundred thousand kilometres — halfway to the moon. The third portkey had been set for the Moon’s orbit, four hundred thousand kilometres, another success. Twelve days later, the fourth portkey had safely arrived from fifty-six million kilometres, the distance at which Mars is closest to Earth.

He was still waiting for the fifth portkey. It was not due for another fifty-five days, when the rocket reached four hundred and two million kilometres. That was the maximum range between Earth and Mars. If the sixth portkey worked, as he hoped, four months and twenty-two days from now, it would pass Jupiter’s orbit, leaving almost the entire asteroid ring between Earth and Mars open to exploration and exploitation.

The problem was time. How long did such a portkey take? The usage on Earth was well-known, a few seconds, at most. Portkeying to the shuttle, still parked in orbit, was easy. At perigee it was barely more than the distance from London to Frankfurt, Germany, or Galway, Ireland.

The second and third portkeys delivered definite numbers, to the hundredth of a second: Nine and eleven seconds. Almost exactly. The fourth had arrived twenty-five-point-three seconds after activation. If his calculations were right, that meant the fifth portkey should take between thirty-point-nine-four and thirty-point-nine-five seconds.

So, the farther you went, the faster the trip.

Now, then, the only other variable was if you could survive the trip. Portkeys were well-known to get more dangerous as their distance increased.

^-~-^

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