My knowledge of both Vargas’ destination and the pilot’s own name seemed to convince the rigger that I was legit. "I scan that," he said. His cybereyes stared past me as he devoted his full attention to piloting his plane. The engines roared into a full-throttle whine and the rotors whirled into a blur. With a jolt, we left the landing pad behind—just as the ork guard opened fire with her rifle. Then the VTOL banked steeply left and I was thrown against the door. My knees trembled with the strain of standing as the floor of the plane seemed to rush up at me, and by the time I had recovered enough to look out the porthole again, the Temple of the Sun and ollamaliztli ball court lay far below us. The lights of Tenochtitlán disappeared into the reddish-brown smudge of its smog.