Into the Storm by Larry Correia Page A

was actually starting to look like a real unit, on paper at least. Then he realized he needed to ask the lieutenant a question about issuing the equipment, so he returned to the wagons.
    “All right, Madigan. You got me. I’ll come clean,” MacKay was saying. Cleasby stopped just outside the muted ring of lantern light and waited, not wanting to interrupt. “There’s more to it.”
    “No matter how inefficient the army can be at times, they don’t lose Stormclads. This is too new and too advanced.”
    “Maybe not lost, exactly. It would be more accurate to say he was willfully forgotten . Nobody really wanted to mess with him after his run of bad luck. Cortexes can get quirks, even high-quality ones from the Fraternal Order of Wizardry like this one. Warjacks are smart and dumb at the same time, and sometimes their cortexes get a little wonky on you, pick up bad habits, and need to get wiped clean, to start fresh.”
    “And why didn’t they do that?”
    “Oh, they did. They wiped it before they shipped it home. It’s ready for a fresh start, but we mechaniks can be a superstitious lot. The boys in Llael said this Stormclad was bad luck, and that sort of stuck.”
    “What’s the problem with it?”
    “Well . . . Keeping in mind this was before we wiped his cortex, he was kinda . . . homicidal.”
    Madigan chuckled. “That’s not necessarily a bad thing in a war machine.”
    MacKay took a deep breath. “Maybe a better term would be bloodthirsty. He was aggressive. Angry even, though I don’t know if that’s really possible. He has a hard time exercising restraint. He . . . well . . . how to put this gently? He got uppity and electrocuted his last controller for telling him to hold back. Just fried the poor ’jack marshal on the spot. They said there was nothing left but a black scorch mark and a pair of boots with feet still in them.”
    “I see.”
    “So you can understand why even though he’s got a clean cortex, the boys have been hesitant to fix him up and take him out for a spin. So that’s why I said ‘willfully forgotten.’”
    Madigan seemed to think about it for a long time. “You’re the ’jack marshal. If this thing is going to obliterate anyone, it’ll be you. So if you’re fine with it, so am I.” MacKay’s shoulders relaxed as relief tinged his expression. “One more thing, though. I want you to leave this Stormclad ugly on the outside for now. Make sure it runs and is reliable, but don’t pretty up the exterior until I give you the go-ahead.”
    The old mechanik’s eyes bugged. “You want me to what? That’s an insult to my skills as a mechanik. People will talk, me not keeping up a ’jack proper! A man can have an ugly wife and nobody will disrespect him to his face, but an ugly ’jack? Inconceivable.” Even in the dim light, Cleasby could see the mechanik’s argument wasn’t gaining any sympathy from the commander. MacKay tried another tack. “Fine, then. Let them talk bad about Old Neel’s skills. But what about the soldiers’ morale when they think the platoon’s heavy hitter is a walking pile of scrap?”
    “I’m taking the long view on that. You’ll see.” Madigan turned and walked away. “And you still need to lose some weight if you plan on keeping up. Good night, Neel.”
    MacKay kicked the wagon wheel. “The things I’m willing do to get back to the action,” he muttered.
    Madigan saw Cleasby standing there and frowned. “Spying?”
    “Of course not, sir. I’m rather overt in keeping records of our many indiscretions. I’d call this more eavesdropping. So I take it our new ’jack is a murderer with a bad reputation? It’ll fit right in.”

    Madigan picked up the unfamiliar weapon from the rack. The storm glaive seemed slightly unbalanced compared to a proper Caspian blade, but its arcane capabilities would more than make up for that. Conductive elements ran through the center of the blade and connected to the large special