Author: Hillary Lyon

Monte snatched the small chest from the airport where he worked as a baggage handler. He recognized the case; he’d seen it on stage at the fan convention. He jostled it, grinning. By the distribution of the weight inside, it definitely held the author’s animatronic head.

At home, Monte placed the animatronic head on the corner of his desk. With the push of a green button on the neck, he turned it on. “Okaaay,” Monte murmured with satisfaction.

Holding a pen poised over blank paper, he addressed the head: “Give me a story about intergalactic vixens, umm … battling robot Vikings, uh … on the Moon.”

The head closed its silicon lids over its glass eyes, humming as internal gears whirred. Bright flashes could be seen under the artificial skin, like tiny bolts of lightning through thick clouds.

Its eyes opened.

“No.”

“What?” Monte gasped. “I gave you a request!” If he couldn’t get this thing to work for him, then the theft was all for nothing, and he’d likely end up in prison, instead of in a career as a successful—and rich—author.

“The premise is garbage,” the head answered tersely. “Not worth the effort.”

“But the premise has everything! Sexy space women and fierce machine men, fighting on a desolate moon…” he argued. “The public will eat it up! Hollywood will make a movie out this!”

“Nope,” the head said as it closed its eyes.

“Metallic bikinis! Futuristic battle axes! Romance between foes!”

Monte’s arguments didn’t persuade the author’s animatronic head. “There are no short cuts to success,” the head chided, opening its eyes. “If your idea is so great,” the head continued, “write it yourself.”

Monte reached over and pushed the green button. The head shut down.

* * *

Commander Sila adjusted her chrome breast-plate, snarling at the image on the vid-screen. Seeing her ex-roboViking lover sent her off on a tear like a comet crashing into Jupiter.

“He’s a machine man,” her closest advisor, Armetta, pointed out. “He’s incapable of emotion. He doesn’t understand your anger.” She clicked off the vid-screen.

Commander Sila waved off her comment. “No matter. We have more important concerns, like getting off this grotty little moon.” She walked over to the huge convex window of the command deck. “Like conquering the only worthwhile planet in this pathetic solar system.”

* * *

Consecutive booms drew Monte to the window, where he saw one gleaming ship after another appear in the sky over the city.

The animatronic head clicked itself on. “Congratulations! The veracity of your prophecy has come to pass.”

“My story was pulp fiction, not prophecy,” Monte muttered. “And one that no publisher wanted.” He watched each ship expel hundreds of jet-packed robo-warriors.

“Too bad,” the head retorted. “Forewarned is forearmed, as they say.” The head clicked off.

“And I’m the only one who knows how this story ends,” Monte murmured. He closed the blinds.