Moh's smart gun is here.
Scotty don't need to beam me up to the future, it's here.
“Gaia, it’s hot,” he muttered.
“Thirty-one Celsius,” said the gun.
He liked hearing the gun. It gave him a wired feeling. Only a screensight read-out, but he heard it with his eyes like Sign.
“What’ll it be tonight? Cranks or creeps?”
“Beginning search.”
“Stop.” He didn’t want it racking its memory for an educated guess; he wanted it looking.
Scotty don't need to beam me up to the future, it's here.
