Into the Storm by Larry Correia

those rogues off like that and impressed her so.”
    “Good man,” Madigan said. “Captain Schafer hasn’t had you arrested, so I’m assuming all went well.”
    “I wouldn’t go that far, but at least my new friend at the quartermaster’s will make sure Captain Schafer won’t see this requisition paperwork cross his desk for a few days. It’s funny how his signature and seal wound up on this logistics order. He must have been distracted. Imagine him signing off on a shipment of munitions for Sixth Platoon instead of ordering himself that new horse.” Thornbury shrugged. “But such are the dangers of bureaucracy.”
    Cleasby sighed. He’d left the clipboard inside the Barn.
    A few minutes later Wilkins came back. “The men are settled inside. I told them the first one unable to resist the temptation to charge up a storm chamber gets to do pushups until his arms fall off. That should buy me ten minutes.”
    Madigan lowered the shutters on the lantern, leaving them in relative shadow. Cleasby found he was extremely excited. Warjacks had always impressed him—there was something simply incredible about the huge steel war machines. He felt like a child about to unwrap a present. From the looks the NCOs were sharing, he wasn’t alone in the feeling.
    “Just remember, I warned you . . .” MacKay pulled away the tarp to reveal the warjack.
    They crowded in close to see. The warjack was in a sitting position, the soles of its giant feet pointing toward them. It was hunched over, but even in the dark it was obvious something was wrong. “Why is it painted red?” Cleasby asked, shocked at seeing Khadoran colors on a Cygnaran ’jack.
    “That’s not paint. That’s rust,” MacKay answered. “Nothing a little tender love and care can’t fix up good as new.”
    There were holes in it. Bullet holes from the look of it. The once-mighty Stormclad was dented, battered, scratched, and even burned. The furnace door was missing, and the boiler was cracked. Powered down, the ’jack looked like it had crawled onto the wagon and died.
    “It’s all broken,” Pangborn said. “We had an old laborjack on the farm in better shape than this.”
    MacKay was indignant. “This isn’t no laborjack, you big moron. This is a top-of-the-line warjack.”
    Pangborn didn’t take insults well, but apparently he had enough respect for the old mechanik to let the comment slide. “Then how come its arm fell off?”
    “Give me some strong lads and a small crane, and I’ll have that back on in no time.”
    “If this machine were a horse, I would put it out of its misery,” Acosta stated flatly.
    “He isn’t a horse!” MacKay was getting offended. “This is a fine ’jack who has just had a spot of bad luck!”
    There was a long hesitation while everyone waited for Madigan’s response.
    “You weren’t lying about hurting morale. What happened to it?”
    “He took some damage from a Khadoran barrage in Llael, then got loaded onto a train car that was rerouted and got lost. He’s been sitting in a train yard forgotten and neglected, and the train car had a leaky roof. They found him and were going to scrap him for parts.” MacKay climbed up into the wagon. “That’s how come I was able to get him for you.”
    “Honest answer, MacKay. Can you fix this thing in time for the invasion?”
    “I swear on my righteous mother that this here Stormclad will do you proud, sir. The cortex is undamaged. Everything else I can repair or bodge together. By the time the invasion rolls around he’ll be blasting thunder and calling down the lightning, stomping Menites underfoot like rats.”
    Madigan nodded. “That’ll do. The rest of you are dismissed. MacKay, I want to talk to you for a minute.”
    The foundation of the Sixth walked away. Their ’jack might be busted up, but at least they now had their individual load outs, so they were in good spirits. Cleasby was pleasantly surprised to find he was feeling optimistic. Sixth Platoon