The Year's Best Science Fiction (2008 Edition) Read online

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  The Year's Best Science Fiction: 2008 Edition

  by Rich Horton, Michael Swanwick, Karen Joy Fowler

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  Science Fiction

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  Wildside Press

  ebooks.wildsidebooks.com

  Copyright ©2009 by Wildside Press

  First published in USA, 2009

  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  CONTENTS

  SCIENCE FICTION: THE BEST OF THE YEAR (2008 EDITION)

  THE YEAR IN SCIENCE FICTION, 2007

  DARK INTEGERS

  A PLAIN TALE FROM OUR HILLS

  AN EYE FOR AN EYE

  ALWAYS

  AN OCEAN IS A SNOWFLAKE, FOUR BILLION MILES AWAY

  VIRUS CHANGES SKIN

  WIKIWORLD

  ARTIFICE AND INTELLIGENCE

  JESUS CHRIST, REANIMATOR

  NIGHT CALLS

  EVERYONE BLEEDS THROUGH

  ART OF WAR

  THREE DAYS OF RAIN

  BRAIN RAID

  FOR SOLO CELLO, OP. 12

  PERFECT VIOLET

  VECTORING

  THE SKYSAILOR'S TALE

  CONTRIBUTORS

  PUBLICATION HISTORY

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  SCIENCE FICTION:

  THE BEST OF THE YEAR

  (2008 EDITION)

  EDITED BY RICH HORTON

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  SCIENCE FICTION: THE BEST OF THE YEAR (2008 EDITION)

  Copyright © 2008 by Wildside Press, LLC.

  Cover art by Bob Eggleton.

  Cover design by Garry Nurrish.

  All rights reserved.

  Prime Books / Wildside Press

  www.prime-books.com

  Publisher's Note:

  No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, mechanical, electronic, or otherwise, without first obtaining the permission of the copyright holder.

  For more information, contact Prime Books.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-8095-7250-2

  [Back to Table of Contents]

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  THE YEAR IN SCIENCE FICTION, 2007

  Rich Horton

  The best novel I read this year is a novel that has the rare—dare I say unique?—distinction of being quite plausibly a contender for the Pulitzer Prize and the Hugo and Edgar Awards at once: Michael Chabon's The Yiddish Policemen's Union, at once a brilliant alternate history novel, a gripping murder mystery, and a moving portrayal of a man's life and his love for his ex-wife. Now, Michael Chabon has spent considerable energy the past few years urging more attention to what might be called “genre values"—most simply, a greater emphasis on plot. And there is no doubt he has practiced what he preaches—his novels are worth reading anyway, but SF fans ought to try, in addition to The Yiddish Policemen's Union, his other 2007 book, Gentlemen of the Road (not really fantasy, but quite exotic and adventurous historical fiction), his 2002 YA fantasy Summerland, and his wonderful Pulitzer winner The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay (2000)—mostly a mainstream novel, but about a pair of comic-book writers.

  I'll be honest—I am always keeping an eye on the reception of SF within the so-called “mainstream” literary audience. I admit that in the past my eye was often jaundiced—or aggrieved—hard to avoid some of that feeling on encountering phrases like that opening Sven Birkerts's review of Margaret Atwood's SF novel Oryx and Crake: “I am going to stick my neck out and just say it: science fiction will never be Literature with a capital ‘'L,'’ and this is because it inevitably proceeds from premise rather than character.” But for all that mainstream critiques of SF often stem either from ignorance (perhaps they don't like SF movies, or Michael Crichton, but have not read the best SF) or false premises (why does proceeding from premise rather than character preclude a work being Literature?), we must also admit that they sometimes have at least half a point. For one, much SF, even much that we love, is deeply flawed in both characterization and prose—and these flaws can be addressed, can be fixed. And for another, SF readers are often as ignorant of the mainstream as mainstream readers are of SF.

  So, Chabon's advocacy and his own work aside, is the mainstream really embracing SF? Or even Fantasy? Well, there have been other notable recent SF novels in the mainstream, including last year's Pulitzer Prize winner, The Road, by Cormac McCarthy. And the most recent winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature, Doris Lessing, has written a lot of science fiction—and she's not afraid to admit it! (Even her most recent novel, The Cleft, is SF.) I don't think there is any doubt that SFnal concepts have become more respectable than ever for use by the wider literary world. But actual in-genre work still tends to be ignored by mainstream critics. And there is still outright hostility towards even the idea of writing SF in some corners. For example, some critics complained that Lessing had been lured away from serious work by SF. And some writers (this year's example was Jeanette Winterson—a past example was Atwood) continue to insist that their rather obviously SFnal stories somehow aren't really SF.

  I have to say, in the end there is no real point taking offense at sneers from the “mainstream” world. The works survive. I'm glad—thrilled—to see SF from Chabon and McCarthy and Lessing—and even from those less willing to openly embrace the genre, like Winterson and Atwood. The field is richer for it—and all readers are richer for the wider imaginative palette available to writers. And SF writers (and readers) are better too for serious criticism from any source—good writing does matter, characterization does matter, avoiding clichés matters.

  As for short fiction, this year I saw a first-rate Stephen Millhauser SF story in Harper's; as well as a Stephen King SF story from a genre source, Postscripts—but remember that King also publishes in The New Yorker. (Indeed, King is a writer with at least some mainstream cachet who openly promotes genre writing, and at the same time a writer whose clear genre roots—and, let's be fair, occasional genre-sourced faults—have been a reason for his lack of acceptance in some literary quarters.) Alas, neither story was available for reprinting.

  I began this introduction to a collection of short stories by talking about a novel ... let's continue by mentioning other significant SF novels of 2007. Ian McDonald's Brasyl is in one sense a sort of companion to his excellent River of Gods, in that it describes a future Brazil in terms that recall the earlier novel's look at a future India. And, just as that novel was also a fascinating exploration of a cool SFnal idea (AI), Brasyl quite stunningly treats such notions as alternate worlds and the idea that we might be actually a simulation. Several novels are sequels—and well worth a look on their own terms: Jo Walton's Ha'Penny is another mystery set in the scary Nazi-influenced alternate history of last year's Farthing; Robert Charles Wilson's Axis takes us to the other planet revealed at the close of his Hugo-winner Spin; Karl Schroeder's Queen of Candesce is tremendous fun, a sequel to Sun of Suns in which the somewhat villainous Venera Fanning now takes center stage; and Tobias Buckell's Ragamuffin is wonderful space adventure, a sequel to Crystal Rain, featuring scary aliens and space pirates and illegal human
uploads and lots of action. I suppose we could also mention that none of the writers above was born in the US—one is from Northern Ireland, one from Wales, two from Canada, one from Grenada. We can add Ken MacLeod's The Execution Channel, Charles Stross's Halting State, William Gibson's Spook Country, and Jay Lake's Mainspring to the list of significant SF novels of 2007—and while that adds two more writers born in the U.S., each of them (Gibson and Lake) have spent much of their life outside this country. (And indeed, when you consider that Gibson and Walton both now live in Canada, that makes four major novels by Canadians—not even mentioning Robert J. Sawyer's Rollback, one of his better novels, another Hugo nominee for him. It is indeed a boom time for SF in Canada.) It has been clear for years that there has been an explosion of outstanding SF—hard SF and space opera included—from the U.K. and the former Commonwealth countries. It is perhaps not quite as clear, but I think it is true that while there is still plenty of fine work being done by Americans, they have done less of the very best work, by percentage, than ought to be expected. I have no good reasons to offer—except to suggest that the experience of living in multiple places, and among different cultures, has to be useful for an SF writer.

  I'm not sure I need say much here about the best shorter fiction in the field—just read this book! These are, after all, my favorite stories of the year. Though of course there were many fine pieces I couldn't fit. In particular I had no room for novellas this year. My favorite SF novellas were “Memorare” by Gene Wolfe; “Dead Money” and “Stars Seen Through Stone” by Lucius Shepard; and “Womb of Every World” by Walter Jon Williams. Other stories I really wished I could have squeezed in here included “The Lustration” by Bruce Sterling; “The Prophet of Flores” by Ted Kosmatka; “do(this)” by Stephen Graham Jones; and “Finisterra” by David Moles.

  It must be said, from a business viewpoint, that the print magazines still seem on shaky ground—circulation in general is either declining or stable. Still, the fiction at Analog, Interzone, Fantasy and Science Fiction, and Asimov's was as solid as ever in 2007. And more optimistically, there are increasingly exciting sources of fiction online. Two newer sites that publish a lot of SF (and fantasy as well) are Jim Baen's Universe and Orson Scott Card's Intergalactic Medicine Show. Both have published some very fine work. Strange Horizons is the longest running online fiction site (that I know of) and they continue to do excellent work, and the much newer Helix has also been very interesting. And you can find very good SF at such other sites as Ideomancer, Abyss and Apex, Aeon, Clarkesworld and Challenging Destiny, among others.

  Among the smaller print magazines, Postcripts continues in fine fashion, as does Electric Velocipede, On Spec, and Talebones. (Noting that each of these also publishes lots of fantasy.) And I will also mention one intriguing revival: Thrilling Wonder Stories, of which I saw one thick new issue (as much a book as a magazine), featuring a number of reprints and some nice new stories.

  The clear best SF anthology of last year was The New Space Opera, edited by Gardner Dozois and Jonathan Strahan, just chock full of excellent and intelligent space opera. Other fine outings were Eclipse One, edited by Jonathan Strahan (though that was largely fantasy); Fast Forward 1, edited by Lou Anders; The Solaris Book of New Science Fiction, edited by George Mann; and Alien Crimes, edited by Mike Resnick.

  It may be harder than before to keep track of all the best short science fiction—between the magazines both large and small, the anthologies, and the many online sites. But the best SF is as good as it has ever been—and what follows is the best of 2007.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

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  DARK INTEGERS

  Greg Egan

  “Good morning, Bruno. How is the weather there in Sparseland?”

  The screen icon for my interlocutor was a three-holed torus tiled with triangles, endlessly turning itself inside out. The polished tones of the male synthetic voice I heard conveyed no specific origin, but gave a sense nonetheless that the speaker's first language was something other than English.

  I glanced out the window of my home office, taking in a patch of blue sky and the verdant gardens of a shady West Ryde cul-de-sac. Sam used “good morning” regardless of the hour, but it really was just after ten AM, and the tranquil Sydney suburb was awash in sunshine and birdsong.

  “Perfect,” I replied. “I wish I wasn't chained to this desk.”

  There was a long pause, and I wondered if the translator had mangled the idiom, creating the impression that I had been shackled by ruthless assailants, who had nonetheless left me with easy access to my instant messaging program. Then Sam said, “I'm glad you didn't go for a run today. I've already tried Alison and Yuen, and they were both unavailable. If I hadn't been able to get through to you, it might have been difficult to keep some of my colleagues in check.”

  I felt a surge of anxiety, mixed with resentment. I refused to wear an iWatch, to make myself reachable twenty-four hours a day. I was a mathematician, not an obstetrician. Perhaps I was an amateur diplomat as well, but even if Alison, Yuen, and I didn't quite cover the time zones, it would never be more than a few hours before Sam could get hold of at least one of us.

  “I didn't realize you were surrounded by hotheads,” I replied. “What's the great emergency?” I hoped the translator would do justice to the sharpness in my voice. Sam's colleagues were the ones with all the firepower, all the resources; they should not have been jumping at shadows. True, we had once tried to wipe them out, but that had been a perfectly innocent mistake, more than ten years before.

  Sam said, “Someone from your side seems to have jumped the border.”

  “Jumped it?”

  “As far as we can see, there's no trench cutting through it. But a few hours ago, a cluster of propositions on our side started obeying your axioms.”

  I was stunned. “An isolated cluster? With no derivation leading back to us?”

  “None that we could find.”

  I thought for a while. “Maybe it was a natural event. A brief surge across the border from the background noise that left a kind of tidal pool behind.”

  Sam was dismissive. “The cluster was too big for that. The probability would be vanishingly small.” Numbers came through on the data channel; he was right.

  I rubbed my eyelids with my fingertips; I suddenly felt very tired. I'd thought our old nemesis, Industrial Algebra, had given up the chase long ago. They had stopped offering bribes and sending mercenaries to harass me, so I'd assumed they'd finally written off the defect as a hoax or a mirage, and gone back to their core business of helping the world's military kill and maim people in ever more technologically sophisticated ways.

  Maybe this wasn't IA. Alison and I had first located the defect—a set of contradictory results in arithmetic that marked the border between our mathematics and the version underlying Sam's world—by means of a vast set of calculations farmed out over the internet, with thousands of volunteers donating their computers’ processing power when the machines would otherwise have been idle. When we'd pulled the plug on that project—keeping our discovery secret, lest IA find a way to weaponize it—a few participants had been resentful, and had talked about continuing the search. It would have been easy enough for them to write their own software, adapting the same open source framework that Alison and I had used, but it was difficult to see how they could have gathered enough supporters without launching some kind of public appeal.

  I said, “I can't offer you an immediate explanation for this. All I can do is promise to investigate.”

  “I understand,” Sam replied.

  “You have no clues yourself?” A decade before, in Shanghai, when Alison, Yuen, and I had used the supercomputer called Luminous to mount a sustained attack on the defect, the mathematicians of the far side had grasped the details of our unwitting assault clearly enough to send a plume of alternative mathematics back across the border with pinpoint precision, striking at just the three of us.

  Sa
m said, “If the cluster had been connected to something, we could have followed the trail. But in isolation it tells us nothing. That's why my colleagues are so anxious.”

  “Yeah.” I was still hoping that the whole thing might turn out to be a glitch—the mathematical equivalent of a flock of birds with a radar echo that just happened to look like something more sinister—but the full gravity of the situation was finally dawning on me.

  The inhabitants of the far side were as peaceable as anyone might reasonably wish their neighbors to be, but if their mathematical infrastructure came under threat they faced the real prospect of annihilation. They had defended themselves from such a threat once before, but because they had been able to trace it to its source and understand its nature, they had shown great forbearance. They had not struck their assailants dead, or wiped out Shanghai, or pulled the ground out from under our universe.

  This new assault had not been sustained, but nobody knew its origins, or what it might portend. I believed that our neighbors would do no more than they had to in order to ensure their survival, but if they were forced to strike back blindly, they might find themselves with no path to safety short of turning our world to dust.

  * * * *

  Shanghai time was only two hours behind Sydney, but Yuen's IM status was still “unavailable.” I emailed him, along with Alison, though it was the middle of the night in Zürich and she was unlikely to be awake for another four or five hours. All of us had programs that connected us to Sam by monitoring, and modifying, small portions of the defect: altering a handful of precariously balanced truths of arithmetic, wiggling the border between the two systems back and forth to encode each transmitted bit. The three of us on the near side might have communicated with each other in the same way, but on consideration we'd decided that conventional cryptography was a safer way to conceal our secret. The mere fact that communications data seemed to come from nowhere had the potential to attract suspicion, so we'd gone so far as to write software to send fake packets across the net to cover for our otherwise inexplicable conversations with Sam; anyone but the most diligent and resourceful of eavesdroppers would conclude that he was addressing us from an internet café in Lithuania.