Into the Storm by Larry Correia Page B

Stryker wants those walls down by late Rowen. That gives us less than two months to turn this rabble into a proper fighting unit.” Madigan and most of his “foundation” were watching the troops drill with wooden swords, which weighed slightly more than their still-to-be-issued galvanic blades.
    “We’ve only been issued four storm glaives, six voltaic halberds, and eight suits of insulated armor for the entire platoon,” Cleasby said. “Not a single storm rod, either. So even if we don’t mind a couple of men risking electrocution, less than a quarter of us are actually combat effective.”
    “From how hard Wilkins is pushing these men, I wouldn’t be surprised if we could kill a few Menites with just those planks at this point, but that won’t do. Pull eight men at a time and run them through the weapons in shifts. I want everyone to have a chance to practice on what issue equipment we have. Thorny?”
    The aristocrat was leaning on the fence, eating a cupcake decorated with pink frosting. Cleasby had no idea where he’d found such a frivolous thing. “Yes, Lieutenant?” Thornbury asked, with his mouth still full.
    “I’m tired of waiting for logistics. I think Schafer’s reaming us on principle. Get me the rest of my gear.”
    “Challenge accepted!” He pondered a moment. “I may need to raid our operating budget, though. There’s a lass in the quartermaster’s office who is rather fond of the opera. It’s sold out, but I know the Ordic ambassador cancelled, so his box is open. I bet if I seduce the quartermaster’s assistant, I can get a few lightning swords out of the deal. I’m willing to take one for the platoon.”
    Cleasby raised an eyebrow. He’d continued keeping meticulous notes about the many regulatory violations of the Sixth, but he didn’t even know what this would be categorized under. “That hardly seems like a sacrifice, Corporal.”
    “You haven’t seen her!” Thornbury laughed. “She’s got a face like a Tharn. Don’t ever say I don’t give my all for this platoon.”
    “Enjoy your opera,” Madigan said. “Then go see MacKay at the mechanik’s yard. If you can get him parts or broken weapons he can make us new ones. And I want my Stormclad! I don’t care if you have to back a wagon up to one, shove it in, and gallop off.”
    Their scrounger saluted. “I’m on it.” Thornbury vaulted the fence and took off at a jog.
    “He’s motivated,” Madigan said.
    “You have that effect on people,” Cleasby said, and he meant it.
    “I bet . . . Rains! Come here.”
    The former Menite broke out of formation and ran over. “Yes, Lieutenant?”
    “I’ve been watching you with the soldiers. Are you having any problems with them?”
    “A few,” he answered truthfully. There had been some talk of the apostate Menite being a traitor, but Rains worked twice as hard as everyone else to make up for it. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
    “I’ve seen your swordplay. Bevy and Hellogand tried to spar you. They’re good, but you smacked them about easily. Some of these men, especially the ones sent from the long gunners, can’t fight worth a damn with a sword, but you’ve killed Khadorans using a glaive. You’ve been through real Storm Knight training at Fort Falk and know how to run storm equipment. I need another squad leader. Congratulations—you’ve just been field promoted.”
    Rains looked shocked. “Thank you, sir, but I can’t accept this honor. I’m not a leader.”
    “You are whatever I say you are, Sergeant . Next up, how much do you know about Protectorate troops and tactics?”
    “Truthfully, not much.”
    “Nobody here has faced them, so that’s more than the rest of us. Put together a briefing. Everything you know. What they field. How they fight. How they think.”
    “I never served in the Protectorate military, sir,” he protested. “I fled when I was a teenager—” He stopped, as if realizing that was the most he’d ever said about his