Broken Stars

by Ken Liu

The robot waited. As we all know, the robot was very patient.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  Finally, the poet returned. He was covered in bruises and wounds, and twigs and leaves lay tangled in his beard and hair. His whole body trembled as he held up a single branch to show the robot.

  The mechanical soldier wanted to ask whether the poet had climbed to the top of the tree and what he had seen there. Had he managed to lift the veil over the face of the world? Had he found eternity? It managed to hold its metal tongue, though, because it didn’t want to sadden the poet.

  “Take this branch as a keepsake,” said the poet. Then he helped the robot mount the clockwork horse and began to wind up the mainspring. Creak, creak, the coils of the spring grew tighter; clack, clack, the horse pawed the ground. “Farewell, my friend! It’s time for you to go. We’ll see each other again when everything starts over. I shall now construct my own tomb, so remember to never look back, no matter what.”

  The poet let go of the reins, and the clockwork horse galloped away, joy punctuating every step. The robot respected the poet’s wishes and didn’t look back. From behind came the fading sound of an ax biting into wood. Eventually, all it could hear was the sound of the howling wind.

  The mechanical pair traversed the wilderness until they came to a ruined city. In a square surrounded by broken walls and fallen beams, a faithful crowd was in the process of crucifying an apostate. The robot dismounted from the horse and joined the watching throng.

  The victim was tied to the crucifix, a familiar pipe dangling from the corner of his mouth. His gaze was tender, without pride or anger. As his eyes swept through the onlookers, they stopped on the robot. “Ah, there you are. Do you have anything to say to me?”

  “You’re always on the run, unable to tarry in any world. In your heart of hearts, do you not yearn to be embedded in a picture? Perhaps you’re waiting for a perfect masterpiece worthy of being your home. Or perhaps you seek through your escapes to become the focus of everyone’s attention because it’s the blank space in a painting that draws our eyes. However, you’re thus doomed to be a formless shadow.”

  “Aha, he is wise,” said the painter in an admiring tone. “He has pointed out the root of my unhappiness. I must repay him…. All right, it’s time. I shall carry out my duty. Please, take my pipe and give it to him as a token of my gratitude. This is my last wish.”

  A black-robed priest hesitated for a moment before approaching the man to take the pipe from his mouth. The priest then walked up to the robot, revealing his pale face. The robot accepted the pipe without a word.

  The mob agitated, demanding blood. The headless executioner swung his hammer and drove long nails into the bones of the man on the crucifix. The clangs reverberated; rose-colored flesh and blood scattered through the air; the crowd shouted and screamed in a festive frenzy. The black-robed priest took out a sketchpad and began to draw. His slender, nimble fingers roamed over the page precisely, and the sketch of the victim showed an expression of sorrow and peace. All his suffering had come to an end.

  The crowd approached the bleeding body to kiss it, and then scattered.

  “Once again, only you and I are left.” The black-robed man’s gaze seemed sad.

  “I’ve fulfilled my promises,” said the robot.

  “All right, I’ll send you to the end; only there can you find the beginning. The rest is up to you.” The black-robed man flipped the sketchpad over and began to draw on the black side.

  The robot had no doubt of Death’s honor. It waited patiently until its sight began to blur. The world faded, like a dying fire. All shapes and colors lost their reality, and then only silence remained.

  The feeling reminded it of drifting in space, though even more pure and peaceful. The robot tried to turn around. There was nothing in its way, though it seemed to have fallen against something soft and curved. The robot’s presence and movements seemed to have no result other than turning it into a deep depression in space. Or perhaps it was floating on a lake in which every slight movement resulted in endless ripples.

  “Stop struggling,” said a voice out of the darkness. Had it spoken out of sympathy or impatience?

  Always courteous, the robot stopped moving, pondering what to do next. The voice seemed familiar.

  “Your Majesty?” it asked. It couldn’t be sure whether the voice belonged to the honest old king, or the shameless new king.

  There was no answer.

  After its eyes had had some time to adjust, the robot noticed a faint pixel that seemed to glow just a bit brighter than the background some distance away. If the robot hadn’t been so steadfast of will, it would never have noticed it. Still, now that the robot had a target to aim for, courage returned. It swam toward the pixel, and the fabric of space itself neither permitted the motion nor forbade it.

  Slowly, the bright pixel got closer. It took an enormous amount of effort from the robot before the pixel got close enough to reveal itself as a bonfire that had almost gone out.

  “I suggest you leave it alone,” said the voice from the darkness.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to depart from here.” The robot never refused to converse with strangers. It believed that as long as it sincerely explained the situation, others would always show understanding and kindness.

  “I know about your mission,” said the voice in the darkness. “Fidelity is praiseworthy, and if possible, I would pin a medal on you myself. However, the last spark is about to go out, and there won’t be anything to worry about anymore….”

  After some thought, the robot retrieved the branch that was the poet’s last gift and carefully poked it into the embers of the fire. The final wisp of flame poofed back to life like a dancing cobra and illuminated a spherical region of space. An old man wearing a crown emerged from the darkness, looking both like the young old king and the aged new king.

  “Oh …” His eyes squinted against the bright firelight. “I guess you really are determined. Why do you want to go home so much? Nowhere else will give you the eternal peace that you can find here.”

  “I’ll never give up even if there’s only a single ray of hope.”

  “That’s touching,” said the old man. “You are not acting just for yourself, and that’s admirable. All right, let me ask you a few questions. If your answers delight me, I’ll help you.”

  “I shall answer truthfully!” The robot held a fist over its chest.

  “When I was a young ruler, I thought solemn honesty was the pinnacle of virtue. I rewarded those who worked hard and tried to reform those who deviated from the straight path. My subjects were thus preserved from petty sins, and their hearts untroubled. However, it would be wrong to declare my kingdom back then as a heaven on earth. As I matured, I began to understand the frivolous and irresponsible better, and grew more lenient with the ridiculous and disrespectful. The people’s lives grew more relaxed and joyful, but moral corruption followed. As an unbiased observer, tell me, between the solemn and the absurd, which is more worthy of encouragement? Between the hero and the clown, who is more lovable?”

  “Your Majesty, my view is that Fate has always loved to give birth to twins. Each person you named is their own twin.”

  “Ha! What an interesting answer. I see you are possessed of more than a bunch of etched circuits.” The old man smiled.

  “You’re right. Some water got into my electronic brain,” said the robot, who was determined to tell the truth. “Strange negative electrons thus made their way into my mixed-up thoughts.”

  “Now, for my second question. A human being is a bundle of contradictions. One can sacrifice oneself like an angel, but one can also devote one’s whole life to hurting others like a demon. Tell me, which is stronger: love or hate?”

  “I have observed that all finite beings crave to cleave to something more lasting. This is the only way for us to become fearless, though it doesn’t matter what we pledge allegiance to.”

  “Very good,�
�� said the old man as he stroked his white beard. “I like you even more now. One last question, which you must think over carefully before answering. It’s very important.”

  “I will make use of each and every calculation module in my body,” said the robot solemnly.

  “Excellent. Then let me ask you: do you believe you can carry out your duty? If you return home, will you truly qualify as the unprecedented, peerless, one-and-only, unparalleled, unsurpassed, irreplaceable, unreproducible, history-defying, future-mocking master of bullshit?”

  As the robot promised, it invoked 256 different verification routines and carried out 97,466,000,000,000,000 calculations. After exhausting nearly every ounce of energy, it answered, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  The old man nodded slowly. “We’re obviously in the middle of a very serious and solemn situation right here, so I won’t ask you to prove yourself with a few demonstration tales. Maybe you could tell me about your understanding of the art of bullshit, and I’ll then be able to assess whether your confidence is warranted.”

  Having devoted almost its entire life to this career, the robot launched into its answer without delay. “I believe tall tales please both the teller and the listener. This is partly because the sharp glare of the truth can injure mortal senses and strike fear into the hearts of the common people. It’s thus necessary to disguise the truth in the form of ridiculous stories so that they may then seep into fragile and suspicious nerves. Even if these dull minds cannot extract the beneficial truth hidden therein, at least the blunted instrument would not injure them too much….”

  The old man’s frown, which had relaxed just a fraction, tightened again. He was not entirely satisfied.

  The robot continued, “However, after many years of worldly experience, I think tall tales give pleasure simply from the imagination’s leap into the infinite. It’s no different from humanity’s desire to fly. The pleasure alone is reason enough; no other explanation is needed.”

  A relieved smile crinkled the old man’s face. “That is a good answer.” He retrieved a sword-shaped pencil from a sleeve. “When I was in the mortal realm, I once wielded this to conquer the world and build my kingdom. Here, in the country of Death, I used it to erase light and trap everything in darkness. Now I pass it on to you with the hope that you’ll find a good use for it. Ah, there, the fire is about to go out. Everything is going to sleep.”

  The branch added by the robot had turned to ash. Dull, thudding footsteps echoed not too far away.

  “You don’t have much time,” said the old man, whose smile faded as the light dimmed.

  “Would you come with me?” The robot held on to the pencil tightly.

  “I’m a slave who belongs here for eternity. Go now. Remember, I help you not out of some deep plot or scheme, but simply a desire to see the look of defeat on his face. Even once would be enough for me.”

  Only a few dying sparks remained among the ashes, just enough to illuminate the white beard, shaped like the curve of a smile. Then, nothing but darkness.

  Without wasting a moment, the robot pulled out the pipe. Earlier, when it had rummaged around for the branch from the poet, it had discovered that the pipe was made from an eraser. Now it swept the pipe through the darkness, and an arc of light tore apart the primeval chaos. The noise of footsteps halted momentarily before redoubling as the unseen hunter rushed forward.

  The robot erased with all its might until it managed to rub out a circle in the darkness, which was just big enough for it to crawl through—this had been computed earlier as the result of its 97,466,000,000,000,001st calculation. It fell through the hole onto muddy ground and immediately turned around to color in the hole with the pencil.

  By the faint light from the hole, the robot could see the pale hand of Death reaching out of the portal between the worlds. Fortunately, the robot had already drawn an X across the hole, which barred the hand from coming through. The robot worked hard to color in the four quadrants. At first, the pencil strokes were rushed and uneven, and it was possible to hear Death’s sighs on the other side. Later, after reassuring itself that everything was all right, the robot patiently, meticulously, and evenly filled out every millimeter of space, ensuring that not even a single pixel would be left untouched. It colored until the pencil was just a stub too small to hold. After checking over everything to be sure the seal was tight, the robot relaxed and fell asleep.

  By the time the boy woke up, he felt sore all over. All around him was muddy soil, and he found himself leaning against a thick tree root. The boy finally remembered that he had fallen into a deep pit in the ground. Overhead the shape of the sky was irregular, and a few people were leaning over the edge of the hole, looking down. The noise of more anxious people filled the air as they argued about how to rescue him.

  Some bug was crawling over the back of his neck. Carefully, the boy caught it and gazed at its wriggling, tiny legs in his palm. His stomach rumbled with hunger. Everything was so new, so interesting, and he wanted a big meal to reward himself for everything he had been through this afternoon.

  After filling his belly, the next order of business would be to regale his audience with his adventures. Even without any poetic license, he was sure that they had never heard such strange tales.

  The adults always think they’re so wise and they know everything. They’d never take a kid’s words seriously. They’ll say I made it all up…. But who cares! Someday they’ll know I’m telling the truth.

  Well, it doesn’t matter if they call me a liar. As long as they enjoy my tales and laugh heartily, I’ll help them.

  ZHANG RAN

  Zhang Ran graduated from Beijing Jiaotong University with a degree in Computer Science. After a stint in the IT industry, he became a reporter and news analyst with Economic Daily and China Economic Net, during which time his news commentary won a China News Award. In 2011, he quit his job and moved to southern China to become a full-time author. He began publishing science fiction in 2012, with his debut short story “Ether,” which won the Yinhe Award as well as the Xingyun Award. His novella, “Rising Wind City,” won the Silver Yinhe Award and the Silver Xingyun Award.

  He’s a fan of classic rock and for years ran a coffee shop in Shenzhen with his partner, where customers were encouraged to share their stories. He also enjoys taking unusual trips—to get to Worldcon in Helsinki in 2017, for example, he took the train all the way from Shenzhen, in southern China, up north to Beijing and then across Siberia, stopping at Moscow and St. Petersburg along the way.

  In translation, his fiction may be found in Clarkesworld and Watchlist: 32 Stories by Persons of Interest, among other places.

  “The Snow of Jinyang” straddles the line between chuanyue, a genre of time-travel fiction whose closest English analog would be something like Mark Twain’s A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, and traditional science fiction. The text is replete with playful references to popular tropes in chuanyue fiction, actual history, and contemporary life. It may be helpful to read the story twice, once without the footnotes, and once with.

  A special note of thanks to my cotranslator Carmen Yiling Yan, who also worked with me on Anna Wu’s “The Restaurant at the End of the Universe: Laba Porridge.” Our debates and experiments in the process of overcoming some of the trickiest translation problems I’ve ever encountered made this a really fun and memorable experience.

  THE SNOW OF

  JINYANG10

  10 Translated by Carmen Yiling Yan and Ken Liu.

  Jinyang (晋阳) was an ancient city located in modern-day Shanxi Province, China. This story takes place in the tenth century CE, during the late Five Dynasties and Ten Kingdoms period, when the land we think of as China today was divided among multiple independent states. Jinyang was the capital of a state that called itself Han—or “Great Han,” though we know it as the “Northern Han.” (Northern Han should not be confused with the original Han Dynasty, which fell in the second century, or the Han ethnic group. The ruling
family of the Northern Han was ethnically Shatuo, but had the same surname, Liu, as the rulers of the Han Dynasty. It was common for a regime to claim descent and take the name of a prior dynasty to add legitimacy.)

  Historically, in 979 CE, the Song Emperor Zhao Guangyi conquered Northern Han, capturing Jinyang after a long siege. Zhao then razed Jinyang to the ground to prevent future rebellions. Today, the city of Taiyuan stands near its ruins.

  This story starts out in 979 CE with Jinyang under siege by the Song army.

  1.

  When Zhao Da stormed into Xuanren Ward with his men, Zhu Dagun was in his room on the internet. Had he any experience dueling wits with the government, he’d surely have realized that something was wrong in time to put on a better show.

  It was three-quarters of the way into the hour of the sheep, after lunch but well before dinner, naturally a fine time for business in the brothels of Xuanren Ward. Powder and perfume steamed in the sun; gaudy kerchiefs dazzled the eyes of passersby. Snatches of music drifted through two sets of walls from Pingkang Ward, on the opposite side of West Street, where the licensed courtesans of the Imperial Academy11 entertained blue bloods and VIPs. But the sisters of Xuanren Ward held their neighboring colleagues in contempt. They thought all that training as unnecessary as pulling down your pants to fart—the end result, after all, was still the same creak-creak-creak of a bed frame. Drink and gamble to liven things up, certainly, but why bother with the singing and plinking and bowing and piping? Days in the Xuanren Ward never lacked for the din of price-haggling, bet-placing, and bed frames creak-creaking. The hubbub had become so much a part of the place that when residents happened to spend the night elsewhere in Jinyang, they found those quieter neighborhoods utterly lacking in vitality.

  The moment Zhao Da’s thin-soled boot touched the ward grounds, the warden in bowing attendance at the gate sensed that something was off. Zhao Da visited Xuanren Ward three or four times every month with his two skinny, sallow-faced soldier boys, and every time he walked in blustering and walked out bellowing, as if he felt he had to yell until his throat bled to really earn the monthly patrol salary. But this time, he slipped through the gates without a sound. He made a few hand gestures in the direction of the warden, as if anyone except himself understood them, and led his two soldier boys tip-toeing northward along the walls.