Patchwork

The hazard tech looked absurdly young, with a wide-eyed innocence at marked odds with his worn utility suit and battered equipment. There was a good chance, Dail thought, that his gear was older than he was.

“Name?”

“Cleron, sir. Technician First Class.”

“Well, Cleron, you’re coming with me. Any weapons?”

The boy swallowed nervously again. “Sidearm only, sir. I’m not really —“

“Keep it. But don’t use it unless I tell you.”