Dixon likes to keep a young crew, no one over thirty. Starmapping
can take its toll on a body, long, lonely hours out in uncharted
space, you need fast reflexes and most riggers don’t like to hire
anyone handicapped or sick or old, not if they can help it. Dixon
stays out of the union and doesn’t have to follow EOE guidelines,
keeps his station the way he likes it and changes crews each trip,
almost. I already sense he’s not going to offer me a position on
the next run, even though I know he wants Dylan to pilot again.
We’ll see how thatworks out.
“No union,” Conlan echoes, as if
repeating it for someone else. Then he asks, “What’s your
armament?”
When Dylan reaches for the transmit,
Milano’s voice fills the cabin. “Don’t you dare tell him that,
Teague. The fucker doesn’t needto know.”
He looks at me and I nod. “She’s right,” I
say. It’s an odd question—does this guy seriously think we’re going
to tell him what we’re packing here? We’re assuming he’s friendly