A machete carved into the soldier’s neck, slicing through the armor like butter and sending a spray of blood flying into the wind. The farmer who wielded the blade had appeared from out of nowhere, charging against the whirlwind to strike the blow. Now he raised the machete a second time, and slashed again at the soldier’s neck. The assault rifle flared and spat a stream of bullets that punched into the motorcycle’s muffler, turning it to Swiss cheese and startling Rafael into sudden awareness of the danger he was in. Then the soldier collapsed onto the ground. The farmer threw his head back, punched a triumphant fist into the air, and whooped—although even with my cyberear I could barely hear his cry against the wind—then turned and ran back to where I’d last seen the pickup truck.