One, two, buckle my shoe.
The suit seals itself. I feel the pricks of dozens of needles as it merges with my circulatory system, prepared to fill me with whatever cocktail of chemicals will keep me on my feet and fighting.
Three, four, shut the door.
The airlock hisses shut. On the other side of the bulkhead, an alien planet looms like a harvest moon in the dark.
Five, six, pick up sticks.
Multi-phasic high-intensity plasma-throwers. Seven million dollars apiece, adjusted, not including R&D.
Seven, eight, lay them straight.
Rifles shouldered. Ready for freefall.
Nine, ten, do it all again...
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