by Ken Liu
Reporter: … I see something that looks like a dumpling.
Li: I mean, if you want to be technical about it, we’re really creating local lines of fastest descent, and then we string these local curves together—
Reporter: Let’s set the math aside for now. Can you tell us more about the missing passengers? Where is the lost train?
Li: It’s at another point in the space-time continuum.
Reporter: Are you … are you talking about a parallel universe?
Li: No! Just another point in the space-time continuum. It’s contemporaneous with us, but at another location. It’s colocated in the same site as the people who’re already there, but in a different time.
Reporter: … I think it’s best we stop talking about theories. Let me ask you a different question: prior to this accident, Homeward Bound was not licensed by the relevant authorities. You were selling tickets illegally, weren’t you?
Li: The transportation market is dominated by inefficient monopolies. We had no choice but to push the regulatory framework to Uberize space-time to better serve the people.
Reporter: What do you think will happen to Homeward Bound after this incident? Will you be shut down?
Li: Let’s wait and find out the fate of the train first.
Reporter: Do you think the passengers will return safely?
Li: I’m sure they’ll be fine. All they need to do [taking out another sheet of paper and drawing again] … is to find a new space-time curve. They’ll end up reuniting with us at our coordinates in the continuum.
Reporter: … I see a poorly made dumpling that hasn’t been sealed properly.
[The director, who is behind the camera, interrupts the interview by informing the reporter that the missing train has been found and all passengers are safe.
Both the reporter—a bit stunned—and Li Dapang stare at the breaking news on the wall-mounted TV. The TV shows passengers getting off Homeward Bound. Their expressions are serene—actually, maybe even delighted.
A reporter on the platform stops a passenger to ask about her experience.
“It was great! We traveled for so many days, and when we got out, we found out it’s not even New Year’s yet!”
The reporter stops another passenger to ask if he had been scared.
“Not at all! We just had an unexpected vacation on the train.”
The shocked reporter grabs the conductor and asks for details.
“The train had some mechanical difficulties, which didn’t take long to fix. But the passengers demanded that we take the scenic route so that they could enjoy more time on the train before arriving at the final destination.”
The reporter doesn’t know what to do.
Back to the office.]
Li: This is easily explained. Although the train has traversed only a single day in the space-time continuum, the total length of the route it traveled in the continuum was much longer, and the biological clocks of the passengers ticked along at the usual rate. Thus, despite the fact that from our perspective it seems the train has been missing for only six hours, the passengers feel they’ve spent many days on the train.
[The rest of the segment consists of talking heads debating government transportation policy, legal issues, and train technology. No clear consensus emerges on any topic.
The camera is shut off, and the reporter packs up. Before leaving Li Dapang’s office, however, he turns to the entrepreneur with a few more questions.]
Reporter: Why did those passengers want to stay on the train? It doesn’t make sense to me. Don’t people who visit family for Chinese New Year want to get there as quickly as possible?
Li: I can’t answer that. You’ll have to ask the passengers themselves. But think about this: if the starting point and the destination are already set, and if no matter how many days it takes to get there, you’ll arrive on time, then wouldn’t you want to prolong the trip as much as possible to enjoy it?
Reporter: I guess so. It’s like free time.
Li: It’s simple when you put it like that, right? What doesn’t make sense to me is this: lots of times, when the starting point and the destination are fixed—say, birth and death—why do most people rush toward the end?
FEI DAO
Fei Dao (the name should be treated as a single indivisible unit) is the pen name of Mr. Jia Liyuan. Born in 1983 in Chifeng, Inner Mongolia, China, Fei Dao received his Ph.D. in Literature from Tsinghua University. Later, he pursued research at Beijing Normal University before returning to Tsinghua to teach. In 2017, he began to offer a new course in Tsinghua on writing science fiction. Currently, he also serves as the executive director for Tsinghua’s Center for Literary Writing and Research.
He is the author of short story collections Innocence and Its Fabrications, The Storytelling Robot, Chinese Sci-fi Blockbusters, and The Long Journey to Death. Previous publications in translation include Italian and English editions of “A Story of the End of the World” and “The Demon’s Head.” He has also been published academically in journals such as Science Fiction Studies, Literary Review, Contemporary Writers Review, Dushu, and Comparative Literature in China.
Many of Fei Dao’s stories straddle the line between fantasy and science fiction, and play with history as well as futurism. “The Robot Who Liked to Tell Tall Tales” is a Calvinoesque fable that explores the sense of wonder beating in the chest of every fictioneer.
THE ROBOT WHO LIKED
TO TELL TALL TALES
Once upon a time there was a king. He was brave and clever and blessed with good luck. As you might expect, he ended up unifying the world, and even made plans to conquer the sun. Most remarkably, he did everything aboveboard and never lied. The people loved him and wanted to emulate his example. Let’s put it this way: there had never been a realm in the history of the universe so pure and good as his.
Unfortunately, he had a son who enjoyed lying. From childhood, the prince exaggerated and bragged, and his shameless whoppers made his parents blush with shame. The courtiers and ladies-in-waiting were so tickled by his tall tales that they wanted nothing more than to roll on the floor and howl with laughter, though courtly etiquette forced them to hold it in, and they all ended up with stomachaches. Unavoidably, his colorful yarns spread throughout the kingdom. At first, the common people tried to remain silent out of politeness, but eventually their bellies hurt so much that they had to laugh out loud. Everyone agreed that they had not heard such fantastic stories in ages.
The boy always said, “I’ve never fibbed in my life! You’ll know after you’re dead.”
The king gathered the most skilled doctors, the wisest philosophers, the most reputable priests, and the most elegant musicians, and charged them to cure, enlighten, redeem, and reform the little rapscallion. All these efforts came to naught.
The prince was the king’s only heir. Only a kingdom of liars would deserve such a braggart for their sovereign—the thought kept the king up at night. Eventually, he became bedridden from worry.
It was said that as the king lay dying, the young man, bless his heart, did not say anything outrageous. Tenderly, as he gazed at the old man, he declared, “Dear Father, don’t worry. In your stead, I will conquer something even more terrifying than the sun.”
And so the “Bullshit King” ascended to the throne, and the people’s lives descended into depravity.
To be sure, the kingdom didn’t fall into ruin, though the prevailing mood of order and trust was corrupted by a new sense of dissolution. Like snakes emerging after a long winter, frauds, cheats, rogues, and petty criminals—long absent from the realm—reappeared. Honest people could no longer sleep soundly at night. Fortunately, the old king had laid a solid foundation, and loyal ministers continued to do their best to help their new sovereign. Despite the changes, the Bullshit King managed to rule in peace for many years. Although things weren’t as stable as before, the kingdom didn’t collapse, either.
The young king continued to tell wild, unbeliev
able stories day after day. After more than a decade of this, even those who despised him had to admire his consistency. The people settled on a new consensus: our king is the greatest fibber in the world.
With the passage of time, the king gradually approached wisdom—let’s not exaggerate here; his progress was about a centimeter. The judgment of the people worried him.
“This is unacceptable,” he mused. “I can’t go to my grave with such a reputation.”
He decided that the solution was to find someone else who was even more of a liar than he was. Nobody ever remembered number two in any category.
The old king had built an army of robots. These machine soldiers, fearless and dependable, had done great service for the throne and pledged perpetual fealty to each successive king. After careful screening by scientists, one particular robot soldier was brought to the palace.
“Listen carefully,” the king ordered.
The robot strained to capture every buzz and hum in the air. It was unable to decode any useful information.
“The silence is terrifying, isn’t it?” The king shook his head helplessly. “I dare say that at this moment, all ears around the globe are perked up, waiting for me to amuse them with some tall tale. I bet you that my stories have done such a good job of curing indigestion that an extra ten thousand sacks of rice are being consumed each year. Sigh … What is the point of a life like mine? No one takes me seriously. I’d rather discuss the history of the patches of rust staining your torso, my most honored pile of scrap metal.”
The robot saluted him. “I am at your service, Your Majesty.”
“You know, I wasn’t born like this. One time, I remember going into the royal garden to play and dig for ants under an ancient tree. I dug deeper and deeper until I fell into a bottomless pit. It turned out to be an actual black hole! The black hole was filled with secrets: more than five moles of secrets gathered from members of nine trillion species spread over a million galaxies, secrets that the tellers felt compelled to share but were also terrified of sharing. Wow! What an experience! I climbed back out and wanted to discuss these secrets seriously, but everyone treated my stories as made-up tales. Once people made up their minds, it was simply impossible to convince them otherwise….
“Anyway, this is why I need you. I want you to leave behind the honesty that you obtained from my father. I want you to lie shamelessly, to exaggerate unabashedly, to fabricate castles in the air without remorse. You must become the teller of the tallest tales, an unprecedented master of bullshit. This is how I will be saved, and how you will achieve absolute freedom.”
And that was how the robot got its mission.
*
Fictioneering was a skill that could not be taught in a classroom, and the mechanical soldier had to go seek knowledge in the world. It left the palace and wandered the earth, gathering wisdom, gaining experience, associating itself with a variety of absurd acts, nurturing its soul in the company of delirious souls, feeding on the diseased ravings of lunatics, learning to tell breathtaking lies, spreading the seeds of chaos—until it also gained a measure of notoriety.
One day, the robot was trekking alone on a trail through the wilderness when the sky suddenly turned dark, and a thunderstorm drove it into a run-down rest stop. In the cramped and dark stone hut, three men were drinking around a small stove. In a corner, another drunken man lay asleep, his pale face hidden under the hood of a black cloak full of holes.
The drinking companions were glad to have a newcomer. They shifted around the stove to make room for the robot. After pouring a cup of strong liquor for the soldier, they continued their conversation.
“The two of you have indeed had some exciting adventures,” said a tall, slender man with eagle-like eyes. “However, I have to say that Death is the most terrifying opponent of them all.” The other nodded in agreement. “I’ve had multiple run-ins with Death, but I’ve always managed to escape. As a painter, I’m known for intricate, dazzling portraits of imaginary cities. Each time, Death was fascinated by my pictures. He would step into the scene, stroll through the streets and avenues, traverse the squares and alleyways, brush shoulders with inhabitants with blurred faces—before realizing that he had been trapped by my carefully designed mazes and had been wandering up and down infinite staircases whose tops circled around to their bottoms.
“As Death isn’t without a sense of humor, he would tolerate my little jokes. We also have to admire his sense of duty. Since he’s more powerful than anything else in the world, ultimately he would find the exits to the mazes, though the delay would afford me the time to escape.”
He brandished a paintbrush. “This is how I’ve been able to get out of each invitation from Death, and now let’s drink to it.”
Everyone lifted their cup and toasted the brush. Even the black-cloaked drunkard asleep in the corner snored especially loudly in tribute.
The man dangling a pipe in his mouth spoke up next. “I’ve had the good fortune of observing some of your paintings. They’re truly admirable for their lofty taste and rigorous execution. I, on the other hand, do not take myself seriously at all. It’s true that people call me an author, and I’ve derived plenty of benefits and honors from the title, but I’ve never thought that anything I’ve written has any value. I don’t mean to offend, but I’ve always been of the opinion that the universe itself is worthless. We ourselves are insignificant, and all our actions mere absurdities. Art is no different.
“Instead of the pursuit of excellence that you engage in, because I don’t value what I do, I’m more interested in pure speed. When I write, the words simply spill out of me, a nice metaphor for the unrestrained outpouring of time that makes up a meaningless life. Despite this, others praise me as a giant of thought. Funny, isn’t it?
“In the race against Death, I think speed trumps everything else. All discussions about a soulful exchange between the writer and the reader are mere nonsense. The only goal for my writing is keeping up the pace.”
The pipe-smoking author took out a thick, beautifully bound hardcover book. “This object is as hard and strong as marble. I use it and other volumes like it to construct a staircase to heaven. As I finish each book, I lay it at the top, and another step is added. I build as I climb, and Death is always right behind me. As you well know, the aged gentleman has been running around for eons, and his legs are no longer as limber as before. Climbing a spiral staircase is hardly an easy task for him. So long as my pen-wielding wrist moves faster than his creaky legs, I can keep him at bay. It doesn’t require a lot of brainpower.”
“Do you intend to build your staircase all the way to the front door of the Creator then?” asked the painter.
“If such a door really exists, I’d love to kick it open to see what’s behind!” The writer laughed as everyone clinked cups and drained them. A sudden gust of wind swept large raindrops through the window. The drunkard in the corner turned over and pulled the black cape tighter about his body.
The third man who spoke was plump and smooth-chinned. Years of rich drink had filled out his belly like an overstuffed pillow. “Although your technique isn’t bad, I daresay that my response to Death is more thorough. Since everything is meaningless, I have decided to do nothing but drink. My considerable inheritance has all been transmuted into piss as I sought out the best vintages in the world. I can’t say for sure whether there’s a door behind which sits the Creator, but I can guarantee you that there is indeed an entrance to heaven located in this sublunary world.”
He raised his cup. “It’s right here! When Death comes for me, I never act shocked or unhappy. Instead, I invite him to have a drink. In vino amicitia, and there is no bond stronger between two beings than the duty of drinking companions. Despite his considerable powers, he cannot match my years of practice, and a few drinks later he is flat out on the table, snoring. By the time he wakes, I’m long gone from the scene. What do you think, my friends? Isn’t my method of escape so much easier and more fun to carry
out?”
“Doesn’t he ever learn his lesson?” the painter asked. He took a sip and savored the wine.
“He has never turned me down when I asked. Sometimes I suspect that his visits aren’t timed to when I’m supposed to die, but just because he has a craving for my fine wine.”
“I imagine you must be able to outdrink anyone in the world. Otherwise your approach is far too risky.” The writer drained his cup.
“I don’t worry about that. So long as I’m drunk, why would I care even if he takes me away?” The connoisseur refilled everyone’s cup from a drinking gourd.
“Most honorable sirs, I’ve never heard such amazing tales,” said the robot soldier, who had been quietly listening this whole time. It was now the robot’s turn to tell a story. “Permit me to make an observation, however. Although each of you possesses a unique skill that has allowed you so far to thwart the greatest power in the universe, I think each of you remains driven by fear. You’re obsessed with how to overcome Death in your next match. This means that you can never be truly relaxed, and that’s no real freedom.”
The others, who had always had rather high opinions of themselves, simply smiled politely at this, though there was now a chill in the air. The storm outside the window had abated to a drizzle, and even the snores of the drunkard had lightened.
The robot continued. “Each time Death invites me, I go to the appointment happily. That’s right. I’m telling you that the fear of Death is completely unnecessary. He wants nothing more than to bring us to another country, where the scenery is beautiful in its own way. The living think that it’s impossible to return from that country; though that statement is not entirely wrong, it’s not the full truth either. I’ve been there many times already. Although the rules forbid me from returning, I’ve always managed to come back by dint of my wits.”
The other three sat stunned for a moment until they had fully processed the robot’s fantasy and burst into uproarious laughter. The painter guffawed so hard that he could hardly sit upright; the author shrieked and slapped the table; the wine connoisseur’s face was so contorted with mirth that his eyes had disappeared under folds of flesh. The drunkard in the corner impatiently turned over. The robot joined in the merriment until the laughter gradually died down from exhaustion.
