Ken Liu - Broken Stars

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 poof ed 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.”