Argent’s facing straight forward, his cyber-modified eyes shut against the wind and the intermittent spray. But he seems to feel my gaze on him. The eyes open, and he turns to me. He’s got a Panther assault cannon held vertically between his knees, his matte-black hands lightly gripping the cooling vanes on the massive barrel. His expression’s totally calm, almost detached, more like he’s on a day-cruise to a fragging picnic spot instead of headed for a bloody firefight. But of course he’s done this drek before, I remind myself. He’s military—corp military, that’s what Desert Wars is, but military just the same—so this is just old home week for him, a return to his fragging roots. Suddenly I feel very much alone. I’m no merc, I’m no soldier, and no new optical chip in my slot is going to change that.