Part Three: Ten and Twenty:
The hand of cards was dealt around the table, each one sliding across the glass surface like a leaf in the breeze. Some of them proceeded until they were gripped by their receiver, while others reflected off stainless crystal cups as a result of a poor throw. All around the seats the fast runner soldiers assembled their cards and sorted out their hands. Grisson sighed as he assembled his into unsurprisingly a dud. A Two and Fourteen of Crowns, an Alpha of Glades, a Ten of Berries, and a Twelve of Havens… highly unimpressive. Submissively, the faintly blue skinned fast runner threw his hand to the table.
“I’m out… gotta piss anyway.”
As Grisson hopped off the stool specifically designed for runners, one of the lance sergeants couldn’t resist a gibe.
“Getting sick of taking your money Corporal… one day you’re going to be running without pay like those Claw bastards.”
The other runners at the table laughed, taking amusement from his lack of fortune. Ignoring the taunts of his fellow officers, Ruby’s only son made his way towards the venting room. Casually, he grabbed a toothpick from the serving desk and stuck it in his mouth. It wasn’t like Grisson actually had any teeth to speak of, but the protruding shaft of wood made him look calmer and more collected to anyone who happened to be looking his way, or any lesser troops who saluted him on his path.
The bar, and indeed the entire complex was designed for a single purpose – to house and attend to the Valley Defence Forces Runner Division, or as some liked to call it the ëFresh Meat Corps’. As laid down by standard military practise, the place was staffed and run by runners just like the normal soldiery since it was frowned upon to allow members of other races to fraternize with one another. Sure sometimes the occasional spiketail crew would come in to fix the equipment or a longneck inspector would tour to see that everything was running properly, but most of the time it was runners and runners only. The building was known as Runner Command, and there were separate levels for the common enlisted runners and the appointed officers that led them. In the past officers were chosen purely on experience – that is how many battles they had fought in and lived through – but now that the VDF and Claw were officially at peace, the only real engagements were either peacekeeping or rooting out dens of Dirge monsters lurking within the wilderness making that system very inflexible. Now officers were appointed commonly by family line, where the ones that got too old were simply replaced by their offspring upon retirement. Grisson got his title of Corporal by this means ten years ago, though it was in a way he never wanted.
Thirty years ago, when he was still barely a hatchling his mother Ruby and his unnamed father enlisted in the VDF when the Dirge attacked. His father was killed before they were even officially mated, while Ruby died heroically during Death Storm – the final battle against the Dirge. He had of course been orphaned, but thanks to his mother being something the scientists called a ëPrimogenitor’ (that is a dinosaur who will grow to full size and is immune to the Dirge disease) he was cared for by the government in hopes he would pass the immunity genes onto one of his children.
Growing up the Twilight War was a big part of his life, but it was mostly the aftermath that he remembered. There was destruction everywhere – burning rubble and poisoned lands where nobody dared go. Suffering and mourning was common, and at the time he had trouble understanding what everyone was so miserable about… sure he missed his mommy and his daddy but his foster parents were nice and they took good care of him.
Around his twelfth starday his caretakers finally deemed him old enough to know about what really happened to his parents and how important their duty was to leaf-eaters everywhere. He was given a book called Death Storm: The End of Friends written by a swimmer named Ducky, and he read it for nearly a week straight from front to back. It blossomed a new fire within him, a passion for military strategy he didn’t know he had that drove him to understand and plan. He worked for an entire summer to get a hold of a tactical planner program from a group of broke longnecks attending Commander College, and used it day and night to learn the ins and outs of marshalling a force in battle. At the end of primary school, he was given the option of either going for a military path or a civilian one and given a duty as befitting of his race. He chose a military one, and his high test scores prompted the threehorn principle to recommend him for Commander College.
“Ow… son of a spiketail!” swore Grisson as he tripped over a gun leaning against the wall and landed on the floor.
The runner looked venomously at an entire armoury’s worth of shotguns propped on the wall like common brooms – such carelessness was borderline idiocy. Snarling, he picked up the one he had tripped over off the ground and clicked the hammer into position. Reasoning it was time to instil some discipline; he pushed though the officers’ door and strutted into the common solders’ mess hall with the gun resting across the back of his neck. The massive room was packed with runners noisily feeding and chatting amongst themselves, with the occasional fit of laughter or shouting match.
Jumping up onto a table, Grisson pointed the gun in the air and fired. The sound of the gunshot echoed throughout the room, causing the two hundred plus runners to stop what they were doing and stare in the direction of the shocking disturbance. Assured that he had got everyone’s attention, the runner corporal slid the gun down until it smacked the table (smashing a plate full of food in the process) and readjusted his grip.
“Now, which one of you sharpteeth bait did this? Huh?” Grisson boomed.
“A whole units worth of these, just lying outside the mess hall waiting to be stolen by a snivelling turncoat!”
Angrily, he plucked the toothpick out of his mouth and tossed it aside.
“Alright… so which one of you is it? You have four seconds before I lose it, and if I do you’re going to wish for a dishonourable discharge.”
A field sergeant three tables down stood up immediately.
“They belong to my unit sir,” admitted the runner courageously, “we came in late from a patrol and were eager to eat… it won’t happen again sir.”
Grisson jumped down off the table, and walked over to the field sergeant.
“Patrol?” he asked, before looking down the entire line of runner soldiers whom were clearly exhausted, “… and everyone made it back?”
“Yes sir,” nodded the sergeant, “we brought down some Raveners nesting in one of the greenhouses… cleaned it all up.”
Grisson looked impressed, and handed over the Auto-shotgun to the leader confidently.
“Good. I trust then that you will take care of this before it becomes an issue.”
“Absolutely sir,” replied the runner with a salute.
With the matter resolved, the hall went back to its usual dinner time routine. A minute later, it was like the event had never occurred. Grisson turned to head away from the eating soldiers and back to what he was originally planning to do… that is paying the venting room a visit.
About five minutes later he returned to the table where his fellows had been playing Flatcard, only to find that the game was already over.
“Hey Corporal, I hear the head honcho is looking all over for you,” called out the female barkeeper.
“Tell me something I want to know Ren,” responded Grisson as he slipped onto a seat.
“No really male, I think its serious business this time,” she countered, placing a tray of used glasses into the automatic purifier and washer.
Grisson sighed, and slipped back onto his feet again. In a bit of a mood, he left the officer’s hall for the second time that night. Whatever the Runner General wanted, it had better be good enough to keep him from enjoying his few hours of off-duty time.
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Unfortunately the principle’s recommendation didn’t go too much farther then that. The board of longnecks running Commander College refused him entry, stating that ërunners were not mentally fit for overall command’ and reaffirming the VDA racial doctrine. Grisson was disappointed, but even before he finished primary school he knew it was a longshot – the CC only took longnecks and longnecks only. It had been that way for nearly five generations, and it wasn’t about to change for him. Disheartened, he signed up for a position in Runner Command and was taken on almost instantly and given an officer’s title. It turned out that his mom Ruby had held his same title, and they were just waiting for him to age appropriately to pass it onto him. Ever since that day, Grisson has coordinated patrols, organized defences, and in general done his best to keep the population safe from vicious aliens and sharpteeth.
One thing he learned right away was that fast runners, no matter their position or duties, were always subordinated to other races for anything deemed to be important. Be it a Spiketail Foreman looking to defend his mining interests, a Threehorn Armoured Herd Leader demanding infantry support, or in the case of large operations a Longneck Commander. It infuriated him sometimes that those he worked under assumed that the runners’ job was simply to die for the VDF, and considered them all expendable and inferior.
A short ride through a supersonic elevator followed by an annoyingly long journey through various hallways and stations eventually led Grisson to the door of the Runner General. There was quite a bit of security ranging from rotating Ion turrets to powered force fields to Chrono-locked blast doors proving that while the normal foot soldier was expendable, the VIDs (Very Important Dinosaurs) were well taken care of.
Grisson cleared security easily as the meeting he was about to attend was scheduled well beforehand. A brief scan of his body and a DNA check initiated by the HQ’s ALI unit ensured he was who he looked like he was, and he was permitted entry into the head runners office.
“Ah… Grisson Rubyson,” greeted the Runner General warmly as he entered the room, “today is a great day to be a runner let me tell you… this one’s gonna make history.”
Closing the door behind him, Grisson took a long look around the room. The suite was near the top floor of Runner Command, so the broad and all-encompassing windows gave a great view of both the base, and the city of Great Haven beyond. The positioning of the office was such that there was no vantage point for a potential sniper, though there was never any reason for the VID working here to go near the windows anyway.
The Runner General was standing in front of him, with his hand held out in welcome. It was highly unusual considering how heavily the dino outranked him, but soon the reason why was revealed. A row of four longnecks, all dressed in full white and silver Chrono-suit exoskeletons, stood sternly along one side of the room with their noses pointed directly into the air and their bodies unmoving and vigilant.
Bodyguards.
And by the quality of the equipment they were wearing – the absolute latest – they would have to be Honor Guards for someone very high up in VDF Command. Who else was here waiting for him?
“I wouldn’t get too far ahead of myself Varen,” chided somebody Grisson couldn’t see, hidden behind the large chair that was currently turned away from them. Faintly, he could smell cigar smoke emanating from the area.
“Grisson,” continued the Runner General, “I’d like introduce you to the dino who needs to introduction… the Commander in Chief… General Longtail.”
The chair turned, and Grisson could see the visage of an old, sour longneck that he recognized right away. General Longtail had been serving the in the VDF for over forty six years, and commanded the army for over thirty two. He was in charge as far back as when first Claw attacked and the Twilight War began. After Claw’s defeat, he also planned the counterattack against the Dirge and personally oversaw the Death Storm Operation. His face had been plastered on the news ever since Grisson was a hatchling, either winning an award for that or a commendation for this. It was clear why there were such high-tech Honor Guards here now. The only question now was why he warranted such attention from the highest longneck commander out of all the runners in the place. Was he in trouble?
Longtail removed the cigar from his mouth, and deposited it in the ash plant (anyone who smoked would return the burned plants to the ground either through a potted plant or a soil container).
“I’ll be honest with you Runner Grisson, I did not expect to have to drag my ass over here today… especially so late. I’ll keep this short and to the point.”
The old longneck got up, and hobbled over to join the two runners in the middle of the floor. One short nod and the ALI unit in the wall brought up a hologram right between them. Inside the false blue image, Grisson could see what looked like a letter of some kind.
“This morning I got a letter from the Head Counsellor. Apparently the almighty Littlefoot thinks it was wrong of the Commander College to refuse your application, and he has requested that we overturn the ruling provided you still want the position.”
Grisson could hardly believe it. Why would the leader of the entire leaf-eater world care if he got into Commander School? His first thought was that of his mom. Maybe Ruby had known the longneck when they were still in service? Regardless, the fact that this was happening was almost beyond his belief. Three years into the Runner Division he had assumed that becoming a Commander was only a distant dream.
“I emphasize the ëif you want the position’ part,” continued Longtail distastefully, “I’m pretty sure you would have no more desire to attend a school full of… longnecks am I right?”
The Runner General started to look a bit nervous, and silently turned to Grisson with a pleading expression on his face. Clearly the runner wanted him to take the position as much as he did.
“Of course I do,” insisted Grisson excitedly, “I’ve been studying and practising the art of war ever since I was a hatchling… this is a dream come true.”
Longtail didn’t share his conviction. On the contrary the Commander General actually looked annoyed as if he was an insect that had just flown into the longneck’s face.
“Let me tell you something boy,” started Longtail in a serious tone, “there is a little something we higher ups call the order of things…”
The hologram changed to suit Longtail’s speech, morphing into models of dinosaurs of various races within the VDF as he spoke.
“At the top we have the longnecks… intelligent and kind hearted. We design tomorrow and make the world a better place for everyone by using our intellectual gifts to guide the way…”
The hologram changed into a threehorn.
“Next we have the threehorns… stubborn but dependable, their traditions and loyalty guide us through the darkest hours and keep us fighting even when all others have given up hope. For them, the honour of steel and war is one of the highest and many of us owe them our lives.”
The hologram changed to a swimmer.
“Then we have the swimmers… small but skilled they are the experts of our society, doctoring the wounded and supporting their dinos in arms however they can. Without them, we would be hungry, sick, and sorry… are you following me?”
Grisson nodded. As he did so, the shimmering image changed yet again into a flyer.
“The flyers are our wings. They pilot our flyer-craft and strike with pin point accuracy and conviction. The air-wings are our best, and it is there where they belong.”
The image shifted into a spiketail.
“We dream it up, and the spiketails make it happen. Cities are built on their strength, and the VDA expands under their construction and resource gathering skills. They also man our heavy equipment, and put firepower where we need it most.”
The hologram changed at last into a fastrunner.
“And now we come to the last end in the chain… the bottom of the pile.”
The Runner General snorted in offense, but hid it well.
“… runners are not quite leaf-eater, and yet not sharptooth either. Your speed is your biggest asset, and in fighting for the VDF you all seek to prove that your worthy of the right to live in our cities among us, eat our food, and breed your young. We keep you at distance, Grisson, because we know that you’re all one step away from becoming Claw killers like the rest of them.”
The Runner General was incited by the comments, and was being pushed to the limits of his restraint. Grisson felt the same way. What right did this longneck have to put them down like this? More runners died in the Twilight War then any other race… they had paid for their right to live here in blood.
“…Now, at last, we come to you Grisson. Littlefoot’s word is the law, so as powerful as I am I can’t stop you from joining the Commander School. Just know that if you do, the order of our society will be upset in a way that it never has been before. There will be others like you who seek to break down the walls between our castes, and you really don’t want to be the one to open the floodgates do you?”
There was about a minute of silence as Grisson made up his mind. Suddenly, the Runner General wasn’t so sure what he wanted anymore. Maybe one of their own going right to the top was bad for the VDF as a whole.
“I’m going,” declared Grisson defiantly, “and nothing you say or do will stop me. I will be the first runner to do it, not just for me but for my mom. She’s the reason I’m even here at all, so I’m not going to insult her memory by stepping down to your threats!”
General Longtail sneered, and reached over to take a few puffs from his cigar. It was a tense moment as the longneck took two long breaths, and filled the room briefly with smoke before it was filtered away.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, he smiled.
“Good. I knew I could count on you.”
Grisson was confused.
“What?”
Longtail continued to smile.
“I had to know that some of your mother was in you, and you didn’t let me down. You’ll make a fine commander I’m sure, but you will be tested to your limits. Don’t get me wrong kid, but I believe in you… but others want to see you fail. If I am to sign my approval to this application, I want you to be behind it 100%, all the way.”
Grisson nodded. He wasn’t backing down now.
“Alright then,” commented Longtail, and he pulled a pen out of his elaborate cocoon like uniform. Since longnecks had evolved opposable thumbs in the process of their degradation at the hands of the Dirge disease, it was a simple task for Longtail to sign the letter.
“You are dismissed.”
Without another word, Grisson turned and left. On his shoulders, he carried the weight of the responsibility that was now being thrust upon him. He would show those stuffy longnecks that he could do what they did too… and even be better then them at it.
“Pardon,” peeped the Runner General as the blast doors closed behind Grisson, “Mr. Longtail what do you honestly think his chance of success is… just for my personal records.”
Longtail took another puff out of his cigar.
“In all honesty,” commented the Longneck, “between ten and twenty percent.”
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