Martin's Griffin, United Kingdom, Language: English. Brand new Book. Seller Inventory AAV Martin's Press , Brand new book, sourced directly from publisher.
- The Year S Best Science Fiction Ninth Annual Collection Dozois Gardner.
- John W. Knott, Jr., Bookseller, ABAA.
- The Year's Best Science Fiction: Ninth Annual Collection;
Dispatch time is working days from our warehouse. Book will be sent in robust, secure packaging to ensure it reaches you securely. Seller Inventory BZE Paperback or Softback.
The Year's Best Science Fiction: Ninth Annual Collection
The Year's Best Science Fiction. Seller Inventory BBS Shipped from US within 10 to 14 business days. Book Description Condition: New. Seller Inventory n. Martin's Griffin, Gardner Dozois. Publisher: St. Martin's Griffin , This specific ISBN edition is currently not available.
Epub The Years Best Science Fiction Twenty Ninth Annual Collection
View all copies of this ISBN edition:. Review : "Outstanding are Nancy Kress's story about children genetically altered to require no sleep and Connie Willis's chillingly restrained tale of an ancient evil haunting the rubble-strewn streets of World War II London. Buy New View Book. About AbeBooks. Other Popular Editions of the Same Title. St Mar Search for all books with this author and title. Customers who bought this item also bought.
- RIVER DRAGON;
- The Year’s Best Science Fiction Twenty-Ninth Annual Collection edited by Gardner Dozois.
- Scriptural Thoughts?
- The Kid’s Book About Death: Helping Children to Understand Death, Grief and Loss (Prime Books To Borrow For Free).
- Account Options!
- The Year's Best Science Fiction.
Stock Image. Published by St. He was a wiry boy not quite sixteen, bare-chested in baggy shorts, and wearing sandals he'd cut from an old car tyre. After I finish clearing this weed, water the vegetable patch, fix lunch for my mother I'd rather row there in that leaky old clunker of your mother's. Or walk. Damian smiled. He was just two months older than Lucas, tall and sturdy, his cropped blond hair bleached by salt and summer sun, his nose and the rims of his ears pink and peeling.
The two had been friends for as long as they could remember. It knocked out the town's broadband, and everything else. According to the guy who talked to Ritchy, nothing electronic works within a klick of it. Phones, slates, radios, nothing. The tide turns in a couple of hours, but I reckon we can get there if we start right away. I should tell my mother," Lucas said. But first, hand me your phone. Lucas took the phone, holding it with his fingertips — he didn't like the way it squirmed as it shaped itself to fit in his hand. When Lucas started to tell his mother that he'd be out for the rest of the day with Damian, she said, "Chasing after that so-called dragon I suppose.
No need to look surprised — it's all over the news. Not the official news, of course. No mention of it there. But it's leaking out everywhere that counts. His mother was propped against the headboard of the double bed under the caravan's big end window.
Julia Wittsruck, fifty-two, skinny as a refugee, dressed in a striped Berber robe and half-covered in a patchwork of quilts and thin orange blankets stamped with the Oxfam logo. The ropes of her dreadlocks tied back with a red bandana; her tablet resting in her lap. She gave Lucas her best inscrutable look and said, "I suppose this is Damian's idea.
You be careful. His ideas usually work out badly. To make sure he doesn't get into trouble. He's set on seeing it, one way or another. Lucas knew that his mother wouldn't take up his offer. She rarely left the caravan, hadn't been off the island for more than three years. A multilocus immunotoxic syndrome, basically an allergic reaction to the myriad products and pollutants of the anthropocene age, had left her more or less completely bedridden.
She'd refused all offers of treatment or help by the local social agencies, relying instead on the services of a local witchwoman who visited once a week, and spent her days in bed, working at her tablet. She trawled government sites and stealthnets, made podcasts, advised zero-impact communities, composed critiques and manifestos. She kept a public journal, wrote essays and opinion pieces at the moment, she was especially exercised by attempts by multinational companies to move in on the Antarctic Peninsula, and a utopian group that was using alien technology to build a floating community on a drowned coral reef in the Midway Islands , and maintained friendships, alliances, and several rancorous feuds with former colleagues whose origins had long been forgotten by both sides.
In short, hers was a way of life that would have been familiar to scholars from any time in the past couple of millennia. She'd been a lecturer in philosophy at Birkbeck College before the nuclear strikes, riots, revolutions, and netwar skirmishes of the so-called Spasm, which had ended when the floppy ships of the Jackaroo had appeared in the skies over Earth. In exchange for rights to the outer solar system, the aliens had given the human race technology to clean up the Earth, and access to a wormhole network that linked a dozen M-class red dwarf stars.
Soon enough, other alien species showed up, making various deals with various nations and power blocs, bartering advanced technologies for works of art, fauna and flora, the secret formula of Coca-Cola, and other unique items.
The Year's Best Science Fiction: Twenty-ninth Annual Collection : Gardner Dozois :
Most believed that the aliens were kindly and benevolent saviours, members of a loose alliance that had traced ancient broadcasts of I Love Lucy to their origin and arrived just in time to save the human species from the consequences of its monkey cleverness. But a vocal minority wanted nothing to do with them, doubting that their motives were in any way altruistic, elaborating all kinds of theories about their true motivations. We should choose to reject the help of the aliens, they said.
We should reject easy fixes and the magic of advanced technologies we don't understand, and choose the harder thing: to keep control of our own destiny. Julia Wittstruck had become a leading light in this movement.
When its brief but fierce round of global protests and politicking had fallen apart in a mess of mutual recriminations and internecine warfare, she'd moved to Scotland and joined a group of green radicals who'd been building a self-sufficient settlement on a trio of ancient oil rigs in the Firth of Forth. But they'd become compromised too, according to Julia, so she'd left them and taken up with Lucas's father Lucas knew almost nothing about him — his mother said that the past was the past, that she was all that counted in his life because she had given birth to him and raised and taught him , and they'd lived the gypsy life for a few years until she'd split up with him and, pregnant with her son, had settled in a smallholding in Norfolk, living off the grid, supported by a small legacy left to her by one of her devoted supporters from the glory days of the anti-alien protests.
When she'd first moved there, the coast had been more than ten kilometres to the east, but a steady rise in sea level had flooded the northern and eastern coasts of Britain and Europe. East Anglia had been sliced in two by levees built to protect precious farmland from the encroaching sea, and most people caught on the wrong side had taken resettlement grants and moved on. But Julia had stayed put. She'd paid a contractor to extend a small rise, all that was left of her smallholding, with rubble from a wrecked twentieth-century housing estate, and made her home on the resulting island.