The Fredösphere

Dr. Chekhov showed the girl the ancient handblaster displayed on the mantelpiece.

"2145.  From the start of the era of exploration.  In perfect working condition."

Chekhov hoped that didn't sound too smug.  This girl was special.  Smart enough that his invitation for individual tutoring was plausible; beautiful enough that his real interest could be guessed.  Or so he hoped.

As she looked at the handblaster, Chekhov looked over his student.  He had never seen her in person before.  The imagery did not deceive; she was beautiful, and beautifully dressed.  He delighted in the way her modest wrap simultaneously concealed, and drew attention to, her body.  He gave her high marks for her good taste.  And himself, for his.

The girl (so young!  Only 200!) turned around.  Chekhov hoped she didn't think he was ogling her.  There is a difference between an art gallery and a peep show, after all.

She was frowning.  Uh-oh.

"Is it loaded?"

"Blasters continually recharge themselves, drawing energy from whichever sun is nearby.  So, yes.  By definition."

"It gives me the creeps.  I can't help but think it's going to go off before this day is over."

Labels: FictionOpeners