“Damn right, I am,” Skeeter growled, looking Kit square in the eye. “Mopping bathroom floors never did exactly challenge me. And I don’t want the kids on this station growing up where somebody with light fingers can walk off with everything they’ve worked hard to earn.” He added with a bitterness he couldn’t conceal, “I never did roll an ‘eighty-sixer, you know. Family’s family, whatever you think of me.”
Kit didn’t respond to that, not directly. “So you intend to keep up the vigilance? Continue making citizens’ arrests?”
“I do.”
The former scout nodded sharply, as though satisfied. “Good. It occurs to me that your, ah, unique talents could be useful, very useful around here. How much did that ridiculous maintenance job of yours pay?”
Skeeter blinked. “Five bucks an hour, why?”
“Five bucks? That’s not a salary, that’s slavery! Barely enough to pay station taxes, let alone rent. What were you eating, sawdust?”
Skeeter refrained from pointing out that a good many ‘eighty-sixers subsisted on less. “Well, I didn’t eat fancy, but I got by.”
The retired scout snorted. “I can just imagine what you were living on. Tell you what, young Jackson. You take yourself upstairs to my office, fill out the paperwork, I’ll put you on payroll for a month, trial basis. Special roving security consultant for the Neo Edo. Set your own hours as you see fit, minimum eight a day, starting at, say, twenty dollars an hour. At the end of a month, if your arrest record justifies it, we’ll see about making it permanent.”