by Ken Liu
The writer, one-quarter serious, said, “I think there’s a logical hurdle standing in the way of your story: if anyone were to return from death to life, that person would have not truly died. The very definition of death is that there is no way back to life.”
“Do allow me to disagree,” said the robot. “It’s illogical to assume in the first place that no one and nothing can leave the realm of Death. Obviously, Death himself can leave.” Seeing that the writer was about to object, the robot hurried on with its explanation. “First, since Death is the sovereign of all brought to that country, he himself must perforce belong there. At the same time, he always leaves there to come here to take us away. Accepting the truth of these premises, why should we assume that no one else can do the same? For example, one time, I was wandering over there …”
It continued to spin outrageous tales that drove its audience mad. However, as the other three could not think of an effective rebuttal, they had to endure growing headaches as expressions of rage gradually replaced their smiles. Abruptly, the drunkard who had been lying in the corner under his black cape shuddered, and opened his eyes. The other three around the table jumped up in surprise.
“Damn you! Now look what you’ve done!”
Before the drunkard could get up, the three adventurers grabbed their bags and rushed out of the rest stop, disappearing over the muddy ground into the misty horizon.
The black-caped man got up and dusted himself off. As he straightened his clothes, his face took on a serious expression. The stare he directed at the robot was as cold as icicles.
The rain dissipated. Sunlight pierced what was left of the clouds, revealing three figures running toward the end of the rainbow.
“Now I know who you are,” said the man, “but I have more important business to take care of right this moment.” Just before he exited the room, he turned around. “If you’re hoping you’ll never see me again because you aren’t made from mortal flesh, you’d better think again. Seize the day. Seize everything you can get your hands on.”
And so the robot soldier finished every drop of wine that was left, even though it found the drink tasteless. It also took all the fish bones left on the plate with it and tossed them to a feral cat by the side of the road.
*
After that encounter, the robot lived an uneventful life for a while. By then, most people had heard that there was another bullshit artist who was almost as good as the king himself. To advance further in its career, the robot decided to seek adventures in new lands.
It joined a fleet led by a notorious explorer who wasn’t completely right in the head. The explorer believed that there was a massive black hole at the heart of the galaxy where magnificent lost treasures could be found. Even fragments of those treasures scattered at the edge of the black hole would be enough to make the expedition a success. But only halfway through the voyage, the fleet was destroyed by asteroid strikes. The shipwrecked robot was tossed into the infinite vacuum of space. Weightless, it nonetheless managed to sustain a good mood, and allowed itself to be pulled hither and yon by the chaotic gravity fields all around.
The universe was so grand that the robot had plenty of time to look around. Yet everything was so dark that other than the endless star field, it could see nothing. Only after drifting for hundreds or thousands of years would it encounter an occasional star system approaching through wisps of space dust. Some of the systems had three suns, and some suns had already shrunken into cold white dwarves. Sometimes it even encountered artificial entities like itself, drifting aimlessly like the wreckage of some space fleet. One time, a beautiful, rose-shaped nebula appeared straight ahead. The robot stared at it for about two million years, excited about the possibility of exploring that lovely sight. However, halfway there, the robot was seized by a momentary bout of greed and reached out for something that looked like a battery. The movement, unfortunately, shifted it course just enough that the rose nebula gradually disappeared from view. Only seventy million years later did the nebula reappear behind the robot.
And the “battery” turned out to be nothing more than an alien ashtray.
Drifting, drifting … was there no end to this aimless wandering? The robot grew sleepy. As it floated in and out of consciousness, it thought, “At least the ashtray will serve as proof. When I get back, I don’t need to make up anything. All I have to do is to tell the truth of what I experienced, and everyone will acknowledge me as the master of tall tales…. But then again, if we’re talking about tall tales, why do I need proof?” Even in its confused state, it still remembered the final words from that black-caped drunkard, and it tightened its fist around that bit of flotsam that served as the sole trophy of its long odyssey.
The robot fell asleep and dreamed that an electric sheep rushed at it, its horns made of crimson lasers. The robot’s own legs, however, refused to obey its commands to flee. Terror heated all the robot’s circuits until, with a loud bang, the sheep slammed into it. The robot opened its eyes and found itself mired in a dirty pool of water.
The edges of the pool were as smooth and slippery as the walls of a well, and the scrambling robot could not get any purchase. Just as it thought it was going to drown, it grabbed on to something and felt itself being hauled out of the water and tossed through the air. After a dizzying flight, it found itself on the shore of a black river.
The sky glowed with a rainbow sheen, and all around were tall mountains. A cat wearing a cape squatted next to the robot, expressionlessly casting a fishing line back into the river.
“I’m sorry to bother you.” The robot bowed to the cat. “Where am I?”
The rolls of fat on Mr. Cat’s face betrayed no trace of kindness. The robot noticed a dangling cigarette under the quivering whiskers. It was a remarkable cigarette too, longer than all the cat’s whiskers added together. Moreover, the cigarette had been lit for a long time, as almost seven-tenths of it had turned to ash. Nonetheless, the crooked column of ash stubbornly remained attached as the lit tip marched toward the cat’s whiskers.
“Aha, it just happens that I have an ashtray!” said the robot. “Don’t stand on ceremony if you need it.” The robot respectfully presented its sole treasure to the smoking cat.
Mr. Cat turned to it, and a green light shone from his vertical pupils. Joy gradually softened his face. “Meooowww—”
And that was how they became friends.
It turned out that Mr. Cat had lost his ashtray, and as he didn’t want to litter the river’s shore, he had no choice but to remain squatting, moving as little as possible. It was fortunate for the robot to rescue him from such an awkward predicament. To express his gratitude, Mr. Cat agreed to grant the robot one favor.
“I just want to return home,” said the robot.
Mr. Cat frowned, explaining that it was impossible for anyone fallen into the black hole to leave. Everyone was supposed to report to the Castle sooner or later, so it was best for the robot to accept its fate. But the robot insisted that it had not yet accomplished its mission, and it would never be satisfied with staying here. Regardless of how slight the ray of hope, it was determined to seize it. Mr. Cat, touched by the machine’s dedication, sighed.
“All right, I’ll help you. Why don’t you seek out a picture-dodger who’s always smoking a pipe? I heard that he has successfully escaped Death multiple times.”
Having thanked Mr. Cat for the advice, the robot continued its journey. All the sights it saw along the way were strange beyond description. Following the course of the river, the robot came to a wasteland where two massive armies were engaged in a heated battle. The field was covered with broken limbs and corpses.
A patrol of three-dimensional barcode soldiers caught the robot and asked, “Whose side are you on?”
“My allegiance will always belong to His Majesty, the Glorious Bullshit King.”
Unsatisfied with this answer, the patrol threw the robot in jail as a spy. In the next cell sat a man smoking a pipe.
The robot stood up and held a fist over its chest, promising the picture-dodger an answer no matter how much work it required.
“Excellent.” The picture-dodger slid next to the robot and nimbly revealed a hidden trapdoor at its feet. “Go! Hurry!”
The trapdoor led to a tunnel that was like a long slide, from which the robot finally emerged by falling onto a pile of straw. Getting up, it found itself in a valley at the feet of snowcapped mountains. A clear, placid lake shone like a mirror, and a bearded man with bared shoulders and arms was splitting wood under a towering, ancient tree. As the man swung his ax with full concentration, a wood chip covered by sentence fragments spun through the air and fell at the robot’s feet.
The robot explained its mission to the woodchopper, who asked, “Why do you have to go home?”
“I’ve got to go back and tell some tall tales,” the robot answered honestly.
“That’s a pretty good reason,” said the man, grinning from ear to ear. “All right, I’ll help you—provided you agree to help me. I’m a poet under a curse. The curse was probably the result of my theft of the seed of language, from which I wrote magnificent poetry. My plan is that as long as the tree keeps on growing, I’ll be able to climb up and leave Death behind forever.” They both glanced up at the ancient tree, whose lush canopy of branches disappeared into the clouds. The trunk of the tree, however, was full of knots and burrs. A passing gust of wind brought down a shower of withered leaves. “This tree was once full of life and glory, but now it has stopped growing due to some disease. I want to know: what has blighted its soul?”
The robot stood up and held a fist over its chest, promising the poet an answer no matter how much work it required.
Despite not trusting the robot fully, the poet stood up and recited:
“… est semblable au prince des nuées
Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l’archer …”
As though heeding a summons, a massive albatross descended from the heavens and seized the robot with its claws. In a moment, the great bird had ascended above the snowcapped mountains and plunged into the thunderbolt-riven sea of clouds. The robot was feeling a bit tired from its long journey, and a lightning bolt struck it just then directly in the chest and recharged it with vim and vigor. The surprised albatross let go, and the robot tumbled from the sky and landed on a ship. The undulating dark sea reflected the brilliant dawn, and a plump man sat at the bow, drinking.
The robot wished him good health and explained its mission.
“You’re indeed kind,” said the man. “I’ll help you—provided you agree to help me. Every time Death comes for me, I become fearless as soon as I gulp down a bottle of my drink. He can’t do a thing to me when I’m in that inebriated state. But after the alcoholic haze leaves me, I again grow weak and terrified. I want to know if there’s some way for me to never sober up.”
The robot stood up and held a fist over its chest, promising the drinking man an answer no matter how much work it required.
The man, overjoyed, invited the robot to join him. The wine was truly exceptional, as even the metal tongue could tell the taste was peerless—though it lacked the words to do the flavor justice. After a few rounds, even its always-sober electronic brain grew hazy. The wine was like a wonderful experience of annihilation itself. The robot seemed to see its drinking companion’s body puff up and expand … until he had turned into a giant. The robot saw itself sitting on the giant’s shoulder, and the once-boundless sea was nothing but a puddle at the giant’s feet. The giant grabbed the robot and tossed it with a long swing of his arm. The mechanical soldier tumbled through the air, zipping along at an incredible speed, until it fell into a volcanic crater.
Next to the boiling lava, a man sat deep in thought. The robot instantly sobered as it recognized the gloomy figure.
“A pleasure to meet again,” said the robot, bowing. “However, I still can’t go with you. In fact, I have to ask you to send me back, as I’m on a mission. I understand that you’re a gentleman who can be persuaded by reason. Would you hear me out?”
“What you ask for is impossible.”
“Let’s discuss it, at least. Maybe I can help you in some way—”
“There is no problem that I can’t solve. I have no need of anyone’s aid.”
“I do beg your pardon. However, I think there are a few questions that perhaps even you can’t answer.”
“Ask away.”
“I know a picture-dodger who has always been able to escape from your maze-paintings. Do you know how he’s been able to accomplish this?”
“Although I can’t tell you the answer right now, I’m sure I’ll figure it out.”
“I’m curious…. If he can always escape, why don’t you give up the hunt?”
“Without pictures, how can there be picture-dodgers?”
The robot, having experienced and seen so much of the world, was now able to think deeper. After churning the man’s words in and through and around its circuits, it decided that the logic was not unsound. So, it continued. “I have a friend who planted a language tree that has grown almost as tall as the sky itself. The tree has fallen prey to some infestation. Do you know the cause?”
“It’s possible that the tree is afraid of heights.”
It was so wonderful to speak with the truly wise! The robot’s mind had been opened even wider.
“One more question. I heard that inebriation causes people to feel brave and honest. Is there a drink that will intoxicate permanently? Why doesn’t the Creator allow the drunken to feel the same courage and confidence once they’re sober?”
“Aren’t the very things that intoxicate people also created by people?”
The answer basically confirmed the robot’s guess. It felt it had a good grasp of the situation.
“If you already know the answers to these questions,” said the robot, “why don’t you explain them to my friends?”
Death sighed. “Because they run away as soon as they see me, giving me no chance to explain … and also …”
“I’m going to be so bold as to suggest that you probably enjoy the interminable hunt,” said the robot gingerly. Death probably doesn’t have any friends.
“All right,” said Death wistfully. “If you’re willing to take my answers to them, I’ll help you. It’s time to end these games.”
“You can count on me,” said the robot, holding a fist over its chest.
Death walked up to the robot and placed a hand against its back. One hard shove sent the robot into the boiling lava. But instead of being harmed, the robot sank through the lava, fell through the clouds, and landed back on the ship. The giant had shrunken back to his usual, plump form, and he was sitting at the stern of the ship, drinking by himself.
“Have you found the answer to my question?”
“It is said that wine does not make a man drunk; the man makes himself drunk. My friend, have you tried to see this world for what it is when you’re sober? Gaze at yourself; gaze at Death.”
The man was silent. He had never, in all his life and death, done this. “You’re right….” He set down his cup and stared at the ship’s wake for a long while. His mind awakened as his gaze cleared. The roiling, savage black waves seemed to be a mirror f
or his soul. For a moment, his rotund body shivered, as though he wanted to take a step back, but he forced himself to stand his ground. Yes, he saw it all clearly; he understood all his duties and honors. He turned and went into the ship’s cabin. When he emerged, he was dressed in full armor.
“This is my gift to you,” the aged warrior said as he untied the drinking gourd from his belt and handed it to the robot. The wind howled and the waves rose higher. “He’s coming for me. I shall face him head-on this time.”
As the raging waves heaved and dropped the ship, the robot was thrown overboard into the sea. The drinking gourd grew until it lifted the robot out of the water like a lifeboat. The robot looked back and saw that the old warrior in his rusty armor was standing on the tempest-drenched deck like a bronze statue, his sword at the ready.
Riding the drinking gourd, the robot drifted over the ocean until, somehow, it found itself in the lake surrounded by snowcapped mountains. The poet’s beard was now much longer, and he was trying to feed some Möbius grass to a clockwork horse.
“Do you have an answer for me?”
The robot uncapped the drinking gourd and poured a shot for the poet. “Drink up! You’ll be inspired after this. But you must decide that this is what you want.”
The poet hesitated for a moment. Why not? Isn’t this what I want? He drained the cup. The sweet nectar, distilled from the food of the gods, poured into the parched soil of his heart, nurturing it with hope, life, and youth until the seed of love germinated and grew into a towering vine that thrust into the heavens, proudly sporting layers of lush leaves. The poet, delighted, climbed up like a swinging gibbon, and soon disappeared from view.
