This time I give it some throttle more cautiously. The small hull surges forward, kicking up onto the step almost immediately. Small waves slap against the hull, and I raise myself a little off the seat, taking the shocks in my thighs rather than in my hoop. I glance down at the speedo. Already we’re doing forty klicks—pretty fragging near top speed for my old WaveRunner—and the throttle’s only half-open. Either the tech’s advanced drastically since I was a kid, or this is a specially jazzed mil-spec model I’m riding—or maybe a combination of both. Whatever, it doesn’t really matter. I crack the throttle wider open. The wind lashes at me and the spray mists my face-shield. Suddenly I realize I’m grinning like a fragging bandit. "Yeeeaah!" I howl into the wind of our passage.