Nebula Awards Showcase 2003
Here is the ssential index of one year in SF and fantasy, full of winners and nominees of the prestigious Nebula Award. For groundbreaking works in the genre, the Nebula is perhaps the highest honor in the field-and a beacon for readers looking for the best quality science fiction and fantasy around.
steered into the Sun.” “So?” Casey’s dark chin had a defiant jut. “Why did you want to dig us up?” “For history.” Uncle Pen looked away from us, up at the huge, far-off Earth. “I hope you try to understand what that means. The resurfaced Earth had lost nearly every trace of our beginning. Historians were trying to prove that we had evolved on some other planet and migrated here. Tycho Station is proof that Earth is the actual mother world. I’ve found our roots here under the rubble.” “I guess
graceful and trim, and nearly as sexless as Sandor, she had the same cream-colored skin, already darkening where the sun struck it, but she had a thick crown of bright red-brown curls instead of Sandor’s cap of sleek fur. “Dr. Yare.” Tling spoke carefully to let us hear. “Mr. Navarro. Mr. Kell, who is also called El Chino. They were cloned at Tycho Station from prehistoric tissue specimens.” “You were cloned for duty there.” Lo eyed us severely. “How did you get here?” “We lied to the ship.”
“And you’re men,” said the elephants nervously. “That’s right,” said the men. “We claim this planet in the name of the United Federation of Earth.” “You’re united now?” asked the elephants, feeling much relieved. “Well, the survivors are,” said the men. “Those are ominous-looking weapons you’re carrying,” said the elephants, shifting their feet uncomfortably. “They go with the uniforms,” said the men. “Not to worry. Why would we want to harm you? There’s always been a deep bond between men
diamonds that split the light into rainbows, opals as brilliant as greenglass scales, rose-rubies the size of fists, sapphires, topazes, amethysts, star-eyes, jade, turquoise. She walked forward, and her foot kicked an emerald the size of a polestork egg. It rolled across the floor and hit a bar of metal. Metal. Bars lay in tumbled piles: gold, silver, copper, bronze. Sheets of rolled platinum sat on cornucopias filled with fruits, flowers, and grains. Glazed pots brimmed with vegetables and
in drapes of rose-scale satin. Lace bordered the neckline and sleeves, and her hair fell in glossy black curls to her waist. The Argali Jewels glittered at her throat, wrists, and ankles, gold chains designed like vines and inset with ruby roses. With tugs and taps, the aged threadwoman tightened the dress at the waist and tried to make it stretch over Kamoj’s breasts. She cackled at her reluctant model, her eyes almost lost in their nest of lines. “You’ve no boy’s shape, Gov’ner. You be making