Food, the only item whose lack of is guaranteed to start riots in every civilization. The excess of which is the ultimate sign of wealth. Armies rise and fall due to their food supplies. King Louis XVI lost his crown and head because of food shortages. What worth is money if it can't buy you food?
Genesis knew how much food was worth. Six days of brutal work makes even cardboard taste wonderful. God made the world in six days, and on the seventh he rested. They were resting and hungry. Two meals had passed already, yet hunger remained.
Marcus was in the middle of a shepherd's pie listening and watching the bull. Marius, the shortest and stockiest of the pack, complaining about trying to climb a tree when the nearest branch was higher than two of him. Lucius heaping mockery on Marius. Octavia laughing more than necessary at his jokes. Livia salting Giaus's water while he was getting more food. Augustus trying to slam down more hot dogs than Galba in an eating contest. Octavia trading sniping secrets with Scipio. This was the only happy time The Genesis was allowed. An opportunity to relax, let their hair down, and, though they didn't know it, a chance to be real kids.
Once, a young corporal had looked in at the activity. Juno found him later, crying in a corner. Whimpering about a family. The next mealtime they debated what a family was and what it meant. None had heard it before. One of the most popular bull subjects was what they were there for.
Once, Marcus had asked one of the instructors about the purpose of their training. The woman did not respond and continued showing them how to clean a rifle. The next day however, he was issued instructions to report to another part of the facility where they did not normally go. He wound up spending twelve hours in a pitch-black room with no sounds. he had to fight down the claustrophobia, determined not to let the instructors punish him.
Marcus had realized while he was in that cell that all of this was calculated. The Genesis was supposed to be self-sufficient in all situations, and not expecting help from anyone other than their pack. After two years of training, they knew they were better than anyone else. None of the instructors could hope to compete with them in any physical exercise, and they soon were soon developing new strategies and techniques that were far superior. They were never allowed past the thirty square-miles of compound that they were in, and they always wondered what was past the wall and stone ceiling far above them. All their training was how to lead, survive, and kill. No mention of using it in real combat however.
"Excuse me, sir..."
Colonel Steiner, officer in charge of the contact facility, looked over at the technician manning a console. "What is it corporal, any news on that caravan?"
"No sir, but we got a report that Shelter Concord reported that a class 7 pack has realized their presence. No confirmation that they have been located, but the last attack they suffered almost wiped them out, and that was a class 3 pack."
"What did they request? They know we can't send enough men."
The corporal hesitated, "Well... they know it would be hard, but they want evacuation, and are willing to provide information on the Camino Verde seed vaults."
"Didn't think that was important to mention before now eh? These shelter rats are always angling, damn shelter director thought it could work as a bargaining chip, smart. Get on the horn and tell them to maintain current status. The initiative has a new asset that needs field testing."
The antics in the cafeteria died when Brutus walked into the room. He planted his boots at the door, full combat fatigues, bucket in hand.
Buckets were the term fur the full-spectrum optics enhanced helmets they used for full combat training. Equipped with mikes, tracking system, and a rage-finder, it provided the user with all available battle intelligence. They had only used them once, and It had been in a demonstration for a number of officers. they looked like the face of a skull extruded from a matte-black form-fitting helmet that hugged the user's head before sweeping out slightly under the ears. The supply room had replied when asked about the appearance that the design was for propaganda purposes, whatever that meant.
"Whats up Brutus?" Cato asked, mouth full of chicken.
"Business, we got thrown a new bone. Armory for battle-rattle and pop guns, we may get some real action. Get that slop down or out and slap steel."
Everyone broke for the door, dishes and plates scattered as some hurtled the tables. They all sprinted down the halls, a race to arrive. Short powerful strides whispering over the steel floor. Arms pumping and setting the pace for the legs. Muscles, altered to resist the affects of lactic acid, released the energy stored in them, letting the children fly through the halls. Any one of them giving an Olympic sprinter competition. The difference was that they continued the pace for one mile, Brutus in front, and everyone jockeying for position behind. They arrived at the armory and filed into the supply room. Each had a chest with their name on it. Inside Marcus found a bucket, an assault rifle, pistol, survival gear, and an armor system he had never seen.
They had trained in everything from combat fatigues, to ceramic plates that would stop most every personnel-round. This looked like a bullet compared to a rubber band. The bucket sealed into the neck, and a small tank was embedded into the left shoulder with a ridge concealing a hose snaking across the back into a port where the back of the helmet met the collar. The fabric and armor left their joints exposed, lending a mechanical aspect. A small dart extended from a pack on the left forearm.
Giaus found out the use for it when he flexed the muscles under the pack and the dart, trailing a carbon-fiber string, embedded itself into an oxygen tank, spewing vapor out. They soon found out that they could control the grapple, toppling or pulling even large objects at their command.
Marcus went back to suiting up. A short antenna poked up from the right shoulder, providing communications. The armor sported plenty of pockets and webbing for easy storage. A foot long grenade rack dangled like a scabbard on the right hip. A combat knife was sheathed diagonally on their sternum with a push knife concealed in the back of the collar. Attachments for magazines were plenty, the armor amazed him at how much it protected without hampering movement or dragging the user down. Camouflage similar to their combat fatigues mottled all of the suit. Whatever was coming, Red Pack needed all the bells and whistles.
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