Edited by John Joseph Adams, editor of Wastelands and The Living Dead.
From Star Trek to Star Wars, from Dune to Foundation, science fiction has a rich history of exploring the idea of vast intergalactic societies, and the challenges facing those living in or trying to manage such societies. The stories in Federations will continue that tradition, and herein you will find a mix of all-new, original fiction, alongside selected reprints from authors whose work exemplifies what interstellar SF is capable of, including Lois McMaster Bujold, Orson Scott Card, Anne McCaffrey, George R.R. Martin, L.E. Modesitt, Jr., Alastair Reynolds, Robert J. Sawyer, Robert Silverberg and Harry Turtledove. Additional authors: Alan Dean Foster, Kevin J. Anderson, Doug Beason, John C. Wright, Allen Steele, James Alan Gardner, Catherynne M. Valente
down at the tavern. She was quiet and reserved; I couldn’t keep my mouth shut, even when it was in my best interests to do so. But most important—and this was what really brought things to a head—she was content to live out the rest of her life on Coyote. Indeed, Jordan’s ambitions extended no farther than inheriting her family’s hemp plantation—where we’d met in the first place, much to her parents’ disapproval, since I was little more than a hired hand—while having a platoon of children. I was
has spawned many other words during its continuous, circuitous evolution. Originally it meant the hearth, or the place of the fire; a few thousand years and dozens of permutations later, changing spelling and meaning, it signifies a black mark on the skin, a sign of damage by burning. I have decided that this insignificant place—a nothing rock in the corner of nowhere—deserves a name designating both fire and scars. It will be named Eskhara, in remembrance of what happened there, the impact we
somewhat less magnificent antechamber), it raised a tremendous stink all over the planet. When robbers paralyzed the people—well, the highly evolved and sagacious kumquats—inside the palace on the grandest orchard of Alpharalpha B and made off with the precociously planted throne room (and the somewhat less precocious antechamber), it caused a sour taste in mouths all over the sector. And when brigands paralyzed the people—well, the French—inside the palace of Versailles in a third-rate country
Before climbing out of the airlock on Amana XI, Rufus Q. climbed into his coldsuit. Otherwise, all he would have needed was a stick shoved up the wazoo to become the Galaxy’s first Hamstersicle. But he would have been too damn frozen to shove a stick where it needed to go, so it’s just as well he remembered the suit. “Tell me,” he said to one of the ammonia/ice blobs awaiting his arrival at the spaceport, “are your females frigid?” Once local Galactic officials had secured his release from the
blinked. “I’m still writing music,” Swan assured him. “Just not the captain’s symphony. Because you were right: it’s impossible. At least, what I envisioned is impossible. If I dwell upon the impossible, I achieve nothing. But if I do what I can, where I can—I might get somewhere.” She wasn’t referring to freedom from the swanwatch. Dragon nodded. “I think I see. And Swan—” He hesitated. “Thank you.” “It’s been a long day,” she said. “You should rest.” “Like Tortoise?” He chuckled. “Perhaps