Year's Best SF 8

Year's Best SF 8

Language: English

Pages: 358


Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

Retail ePub of this yearly Science Fiction short story collection edited by David G. Hartwell

The best science fiction short stories of 2002 and 2003, selected by David G. Hartwell, one of the most respected editors in the field.

The short story is one of the most vibrant and exciting areas in science fiction today. It is where the hot new authors emerge and where the beloved giants of the field continue to publish.

Now, building on the success of the first seven volumes, Eos will once again present a collection of the best stories of the year in mass market format. Here, gathered by David G. Hartwell, one of the most respected editors in the field, are stories with visions of tomorrow and yesterday, of the strange and the familiar, of the unknown and the unknowable.

With stories from some of the best and brightest names in science fiction, the Year's Best SF 8 and SF9 is an indispensable guide for every science fiction fan.

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The Year's Best Horror Stories, Series II

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temerity to be dissatisfied with the kind of fate that everyone else happily inflicted on their own. I said, “You saw Zelda today, spread across the branches. You know, deep down now, that the same thing happens to all of us.” “Yes.” Something tore inside me as Francine uttered that admission. I’d never really wanted her to feel it, the way I did. I persisted. “Would you willingly sentence your own child to that condition? And your grandchildren? And your great-grandchildren?” “No,” Francine

many useless monuments. Some had marshaled their families and set off across the new-formed deserts in search of a mythical ocean which welled up from the planet’s core. It had taken less than a generation, Captain John MacShard knew, for a small but navigable ocean to evaporate rapidly until it was no more than a haze in the morning sunlight. Where it had been were slowly collapsing hulls, the remains of wharfs and jetties, endless dunes and rippling deserts, abandoned cities of poignant

Aghroniagh Crater, which lay at the center of the Aghroniagh Hills, where the weed did not grow and the streams did not flow. They raided for pleasure, the Thennet. Mostly, when they craved a delicacy. Human flesh was almost an addiction to them, they desired it so much. They were a cruel people and took pleasure in their captives, keeping them alive for many weeks sometimes, especially if they were young women. But they savored this killing. Schomberg had put it graphically enough once: The

and deserts of the South, the Year Priests give the word and great crowds gather to see the sun pause at the peak of a Tower or stab through a Target with an arrow of light at dawn: the moment of solstice. Now increasing heat will parch the southern grasslands and prairies of wild grain, and in the long dry season the rivers will run low and the wells of the city will go dry. Spring follows the sun northward, melting snow from those far hills, brightening valleys with green… And the Ansarac will

whom we would see as people of seventy and over. Some of them don’t make it all the way. Worn out by privation and hard going, they drop behind. If people pass an old man or woman sitting by the road, they may speak a word or two, help to put up a little shelter, leave a gift of food, but they do not urge the elder to come with them. If the elder is very weak or ill they may wait a night or two, until perhaps another migrant takes their place. If they find an old person dead by the roadside, they

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