I’m hurled against my straps again as Raven snaps us into another steep bank. Out the side of the cockpit, it looks like the left wing tip’s only centimeters above the water. If the rigger misjudges and plants the wing tip, it’s game fragging over. My imagination’s easily vivid enough to visualize the Merlin cartwheeling across the river, tearing itself apart before it vanishes in a red-black fireball.