Robert A. Heinlein Fanteria Dello Spazio -

He hit the ground at terminal velocity, his retro-rockets firing a micro-second before impact. The pod shattered. Johnny leaped out, his flamethrower clearing a circle of scorched earth before his boots even settled.

Johnny didn't look up. "Maintenance is the difference between a jump and a burial, Sarge." ROBERT A. HEINLEIN FANTERIA DELLO SPAZIO

The sirens began to wail, a dissonant screech that signaled the "Drop." He hit the ground at terminal velocity, his

"Don't know why you bother, Rico," Sergeant Zim’s voice boomed from the doorway. "The bugs’ll just cover it in ichor the minute you hit the dirt." Johnny didn't look up

The humid air of the base camp smelled like ozone and recycled sweat—the permanent perfume of the Mobile Infantry. Johnny Rico sat on his bunk, methodically cleaning the hydraulic joints of his powered suit. Around him, the barracks of the Rodger Young hummed with the nervous energy of soldiers who knew they’d be dropping onto a hostile rock in less than six hours.

Johnny stepped into the suit, the neuro-mechanical interface stinging as it synced with his nervous system. Suddenly, he wasn't just a man; he was a steel-clad titan, capable of leaping buildings and leveling hills. He felt the familiar weight of the Y-rack on his back, loaded with tactical nukes and jump-jets. "To the capsules!" Zim roared.

The floor dropped out. For a second, there was the stomach-flipping void of space, then the violent shudder of the atmosphere hitting the heat shield. Outside, the sky of Klendathu was a bruised purple, filled with the streaks of a thousand falling stars—each one a soldier.