Year's Best SF 9

8 Dec

Year's Best SF 9

Year's Best SF 9

Kathryn Cramer

Language: English

Pages: 512

ISBN: 006057559X

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


The Future Boldly Imagined From Breathtaking New Perspectives

The world as we will know it is far different from the future once predicted in simpler times. For this newest collection of the finest short form SF to appear in print over the preceding year, acclaimed editors and anthologists David G. Hartwell and Kathryn Cramer have gathered remarkable works that reflect a new sensibility. Courageous and diverse stories from some of the finest authors in the field grace this amazing volume -- adventures and discoveries, parables and warnings, carrying those eager to fly to far ends of a vast, ever-shifting universe of alien worlds, strange cultures, and mind-bending technologies. Tomorrow has never been as spellbinding, terrifying, or transforming as it is here, today, in these extraordinary pages. Hang on!

New tales from:
Kage Baker • Gregory Benford • Terry Bisson Rick Moody • Michael Swanwick • John Varley and many more

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

behind them. “You’re not hurt, are you?” An odd question, considering what his men had just done to the drunk. “You didn’t need to…” “Sorry, but I think I did.” He turned to his officers. “You guys continue patrol. I’ll walk her home.” They nodded and headed away. “And keep an eye on the creek,” he called after them. “If you see anything, let me know.” This piqued her curiosity; he obviously meant Sand Creek, the narrow river that bordered the two settlements to the east. Chris saw the puzzled

ripped free, turning on my suit’s Yukawa-force gravity nullifier. That first shock can be hurtful, but to me, after maybe fifty drops in anger, it came as a relief. I looked up and to my right. I saw a neat line of marines falling starfished through the air. One was a lot closer to me than the rest—Lian, I guessed. Past them I made out our Spline vessel, its hull charred from its hurried entry into the atmosphere. Even now it looked immense, its pocked hull like an inverted landscape above me.

about how he was going to get funding for his digital video project, and then, right in front of a bunch of dog walkers, the guy disappeared. This is the story, from the point of view of those who were not in on the cascading of memories. It’s one of the really great examples of public delusion, when you read it on the on-line police records, like I did. Witnesses insist that the victim, first referred to as Caucasian John Doe, later identified as Irving Paley of 433 East 9th St., was present on

was blown, and I guess that was sort of right. Only he used to open up to me sometimes in the break area, and that’s what I want to tell about. Then maybe I can stop thinking about him. “There were only three of us,” he said, “and Obert died the first year and Yarmouth the second year. I thought we were dying off one by one, and I’d go next year if nobody came. But I didn’t. We’d hung up the distress buoy. It didn’t do a bit of good, but I stayed tough.” He looked at me then like I wanted to

her expression. “I know it’s late, I wondered….” She stood numbly, then made herself brush past him, into the shadowed room. “What’s wrong?” He wore a white robe and wrapped it self-consciously around his middle. “I don’t think I can handle all this.” He smiled sympathetically. “You’re the toast of the Library, what’s to handle?” “I—come here.” Words, linear sequences of blocky words—all useless. She reached inside the robe and found what she wanted. Her hands slid over muscled skin and it

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