Ken Liu - Broken Stars

“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.

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.