The Mammoth Book of the Best of Best New SF
Hugo Award-winning editor Gardner Dozois' annual anthology has long been considered the standard by which other best-of-the-year SF collections are judged. After two decades worth of superlative science fiction, Dozois now presents a retrospective compilation culling from the last 20 years.Here under one banner is some of the finest work by the genre's leading authors, with a star-studded list of contributors that features among others: Stephen Baxter, Greg Bear, William Gibson, Terry Bisson, Greg Egan, Ursula K. Le Guin, Robert Reed, Robert Silverberg, Bruce Sterling , Charles Stross, Michael Swanwick, Gene Wolfe.A number of the selections are now considered classics.
Some notable stories include:"Blood Music", Greg Bear's Hugo-winning exploration of nanotechnology, "Bears Discover Fire", Terry Bisson's tongue-in-cheek consideration of future ursine evolution, Ursula K. Le Guin's "Coming of Age in Karhide" , "The Winter Market", in which William Gibson returns to the subject that made him a cultural icon, cyberpunk.With work spanning two decades, this is the most significant science fiction short story anthology published in years.
herself and kept all these years. Shutting her eyes, she saw Tyson’s face smiling at her. Even through the thick faceplate and the shimmering glow of the force field, she could make out the mischievous expression, eyes glinting, the large mouth saying, “Go on back, Pico. In and up and a safe trip to you, pretty lady.” She had been too stunned to respond, gawking at him. “Remember? I’ve still got to leave my footprints somewhere – ” “What are you planning?” she interrupted. He laughed and
age. You could shrivel up like a Struldbrugg, and I don’t have to worry about that, at least. That skin color, though. Is it a fashion?” “I was Othello, once. Don’t you like it?” Under the red lights his skin gleamed with an ebony luster. “I always thought you’d make a good Iago, if only you had been clever enough. I asked for someone I knew, and they sent you. It almost makes me want to distrust them.” “We were young, then.” He was trying to remember, searching her face. Well, it was two
then realized was a whole thing, not broken, and she quit looking for the rest of the wreckage. She squatted down and looked at it. Yellow dust settled slowly out of the sky, pollinating her hair, her shoulders, the toes of her boots, faintly dulling the oily black shine of the wing, the thing shaped like a wing. While she was squatting there looking down at it, something came out from the sloped underside of it, a coyote she thought at first, and then it wasn’t a coyote but a dog built like a
the attractive parts of the memory of that afternoon and suppress the less pleasant parts: the fly that kept buzzing in your face, your anxiety about catching the boat home, and the birthday present you knew you had to buy in the morning. All you’d remember was that golden glow of well-being. The next time, you might well choose white, and the time after. An entire pattern of behaviour would have been altered by one instance of deviation. The AM would never tolerate that. You’d have to go against
painstakingly milled from hand-watered wheat, lovingly buttered and sugared, and artistically studded with raisins, dates, and almonds. “We eat djouzinkat nutcakes during droughts,” the poet said, “because the angels weep with envy when we taste them.” Manimenesh belched heroically and readjusted his skullcap. “Now,” he said, “we will enjoy a little bit of grape wine. Just a small tot, mind you, so that the sin of drinking is a minor one, and we can do penance with the minimum of alms. After