The Year's Best Science Fiction: Twenty-Ninth Annual Collection
In the new millennium, what secrets lay beyond the far reaches of the universe? What mysteries belie the truths we once held to be self evident? The world of science fiction has long been a porthole into the realities of tomorrow, blurring the line between life and art. Now, in The Year's Best Science Fiction: Twenty-Ninth Annual Collection the very best SF authors explore ideas of a new world. This venerable collection brings together short stories from award winning authors and masters of the field such as Robert Reed, Alastair Reynolds, Damien Broderick, Elizabeth Bear, Paul McAuley and John Barnes. And with an extensive recommended reading guide and a summation of the year in science fiction, this annual compilation has become the definitive must-read anthology for all science fiction fans and readers interested in breaking into the genre.
enemy about our technical capabilities. It would also give away the very fact that we know they are here.” She scoffed. “‘Tactical considerations.’ Paranoid bullshit! And besides, I bet every kid with a CB radio is beaming out her heart to ET right now. The whole planet’s alight.” “Well, that’s true. You can’t stop it. But still, sending some kind of signal authorised by government or an inter-government agency is another step entirely.” “Oh, come on. You can’t really believe anybody is going
“You’ll be halfway to Jupiter before anything happens.” They both looked at me steadily. “Forget it,” I said. “I’m not killing any innocent people for you.” “Not people. Aliens.” “They’re still innocent.” “They wouldn’t be here if they hadn’t seized the planet. So they’re not innocent.” “You’re a nation of fucking werewolves!” I cried. Thinking that would put an end to the conversation. But Mary wasn’t fazed. “That we are,” she agreed. “Day by day, we present our harmless, domestic selves
computer and sends the money. After a pause the voice says, “Twenty-four hours,” and the connection light goes off. INT. PINEWOOD STUDIOS—VIEWING THEATRE—NIGHT Three writers are locked up with Jack, Rachel, two other directors, four line producers, and a creative consultant. Things are not going well. Every pitch the writers make gets shot down by somebody. The creative consultant is obsessed with demographics. Each of the directors is having a severe fit of the auteur syndrome and worrying
orders, telling his clones to sweep the street, get survivors under cover, and start putting out the fires. I knew when I was going to die, if I didn’t do anything stupid with my life. First trick Da taught me, when he figured out I had the sight. You look forward and you see your death, and you know that’s how it’ll end if you don’t mess up destiny too bad in the meantime. The dragon knew it too, and so did my Da. It ain’t writ in stone, but it’s good enough. It takes some real stupidity to
toy. Something terrible had happened. Linnéa did not know what it was. But her father had looked pale and worried, and her mother had told her, very fiercely, “Be brave!” and now she had to leave, and it was all the result of that terrible thing. The three of them lived in a red wooden house with steep black roofs by the edge of the forest. From the window of her attic room, Linnéa could see a small lake silver with ice very far away. The design of the house was unchanged from all the way back