Year's Best SF 7
Once again, the year's finest flights of speculative imagination are gathered in one extraordinary volume, compiled by acclaimed editor and anthologist David G. Hartwell. From some of the most renowned visionaries of contemporary SF -- as well as new writers who are already making an indelible mark -- comes an all-new compendium of unparalleled tales of the possible that will enthrall, astonish, terrify, and elate. Stories of strange worlds and mind-boggling futures, of awesome discoveries and apocalyptic disasters, of universes light years distant and deep within the human consciousness, are collected here as SF's brightest lights shine more radiantly than ever before.
rocked with the blast of an anti-tank shell. Enormé spun one last time—then shattered, and fell to the concrete floor in pieces. “No!” I yelled, stumbling, falling to my knees. It was all over. Prang and Ward edged closer and closer to the shapeless pile of pseudo stone. Boudin helped me up, and I joined them. “What the hell…”Ward muttered. The pieces were starting to smoke, like dry ice. The Enormé was fading: all that is solid melts into air. We watched in astonished silence until the
waters,” she says. “Like here,” he says. “Like here,” she agrees, “but the waters aren’t rivers, and the bank that parts them from the sea is much bigger, and made all of stones.” She tells him: “You could spend your whole day among the dunes and never see the sea. Yet you hear its constant stirring, endlessly, and soon in your mind comes the image of this bank, this barrow-mound, put before you like a dike, to keep the sea from roaring in upon you. The land behind you is melted and steep,
e-mail. “I’d like to know why you contacted TSC.” “It was a personal matter, Arlen. There’s no cause for security to be concerned.” “But they are concerned.” Anger mounting, Justin wondered if his face was flushed. “How does it happen that the company sees my private e-mail, composed at home using my personal digital assistant, and sent over the public network?” At a loss for words, Arlen glanced off-camera. An unhappy, dark-haired man whom Justin didn’t recognize stepped into view behind
Blake, they killed Serge. They killed Karl.” “I know. Vickie got away, and Maxwell too, and Juliana.” “I was a sane scientist,” said Pollifex. “Of course,” I said. “There are some things that expediency was not meant to tamper with.” “I agree.” “Pullo for Mayor!” he shouted. “Taurus for Planning Commission!” I replied. “Milkovich for Borough Council!” he shouted. “Sowers for School Board!” he screamed, and then he died. There’s not much more to tell. Although Vickie, Juliana, Maxwell,
short story, and has published twenty or more of them in each of the last three years. The other reason is that he is unquestionably one of the finest writers currently working in SF and fantasy, and each year publishes at least one story that is among the year’s best, sometimes two. Every four or five years he publishes a new novel, and 2002 is the year of Bones of the Earth . “The Dog Said Bow-Wow” was published in Asimov’s , and is set in a fantastic Cordwainer Smithian future in which the