Into the Storm by Larry Correia Read Free Book Online

hands of those godforsaken Cryxians. Anything for you, my boy.”
    “Sixth of the 47th needs a warjack. That’s my new command.”
    MacKay went to a very full chalkboard on the wall and scowled. “Orders from a Captain Schafer, no warjacks for that platoon. Says here your boys are ‘low priority.’”
    “Get me a warjack.”
    The mechanik scratched at his grizzled chin. “That’ll take some doing.”
    “Do it, then.”
    “Can’t promise nothing new or fancy.”
    Madigan folded his arms. “I want a Stormclad.”
    “And I want to bed Ayn Vanar, but neither one is likely to happen.” MacKay paused, thinking it over. “The Stormclad’s the top of the line. Every Stormblade unit wants a Stormclad. Getting one would be hard, but not impossible . . . You’ll still need a ’jack marshal to run it, though. Get me on your platoon and I’ll get you your ’jack.”
    Cleasby couldn’t believe his ears. “That’s against regulations. You can’t work outside of regular procurement, and you can’t just go moving assigned personnel around!”
    MacKay looked like he was thinking about hitting Cleasby with a wrench, but Madigan just ignored the protests. “You know how to work a storm glaive?”
    “Better than you do, I’d wager, since I was there when Sebastian Nemo unveiled them. Hell, I know how to build them.”
    The knight rubbed his scar thoughtfully. “You’ve let yourself get fat, MacKay . . .”
    He patted his gut. “My Evie can cook.”
    “You’ve got two months to squeeze yourself into a suit of storm armor. It won’t do me any good to have a warjack if its controller is too fat and slow to run along behind it.”
    “Deal.” MacKay’s toothy grin could barely be seen beneath his huge mustache. He used his thumb to wipe the word low from the chalkboard. “Now Sixth Platoon is priority. ”

    “I’ve heard they call him the Ascendant,” Madigan said as they made their way through the streets just outside of the walls of the Sancteum. “Supposedly he’s a remarkable fighter.”
    “We probably shouldn’t call him the Ascendant. He’d probably consider himself unworthy and take offense.” Cleasby was master of the clipboard. “It says here that Sergeant Wilkins is quite possibly delusional. His last commanding officer found him to be insufferable, obnoxious, and a detriment to morale.”
    “Then you two should get along splendidly.”
    The Sancteum within Caspia was the home of the Church of Morrow. Thousands of faithful pilgrims flocked to this place every day. The Sancteum itself was a walled city within a city. A holy, contemplative place, filled with the offices and headquarters of various orders of the church. The neighborhood around the Sancteum’s main gates was anything but quiet, though. It was filled with businesses catering to the needs of countless pilgrims, visitors, clergy, and scholars. Vendors sold totems, statues, trinkets, and even supposedly holy relics. Street preachers shared their particular messages at nearly every corner. As Cleasby and Madigan passed the open gates and the sergeant caught sight of the legendary Archcourt Cathedral, he couldn’t help but gawk at its magnificence.
    “You appear moved, Cleasby.”
    Of course Cleasby believed in the ascendency of the Twins and the rightness of the Morrowan faith, and he attended services occasionally, but beyond that he didn’t pay such matters much heed. His appreciation was more scholarly; so many important historical decisions had been made and miracles manifested within the walls of that cathedral it was staggering. The Menite faith was about blind obedience to the Creator, whereas the Morrowans believed in nuanced morality, ethics, and intellectual achievements. The world would still be in darkness if it wasn’t for the Church. “Not really, sir. I appreciate the clergy very much, but I’m afraid I’m not particularly devout.”
    “Well, our Sergeant Wilkins is, so let me do the talking.”
    “Are