The pair of soldiers who had been directed toward us clambered over the barrier and reached our bike as the poultry truck rumbled to a halt behind us, enveloping us in a cloud of dust. They wore heavy armor and helmets that reminded me of the Star’s riot gear—but with built-in cooling units, I noticed enviously—and carried high-velocity assault rifles. One moved with the unnatural smoothness of someone whose motor control has been overridden by a move-by-wire implant and the other was targeting us with a needle-thin red laser sight that beamed out of his cybereye. I wondered if all Aztlaner soldiers were augmented and cybered. This pair seemed as cold and professional as their merc officer. And they were just as slotted off at our clumsy intrusion into their checkpoint. I knew we couldn’t expect any sympathy.