“Ellen Datlow is the queen of anthology editors in America.”—Peter Straub With original stories by Jeffrey Ford, Pat Cadigan, Elizabeth Bear, Margo Lanagan, and others From Del Rey Books and award-winning editor Ellen Datlow, two of the most respected names in science fiction and fantasy, comes a collection of fifteen all-new short stories, plus a science fiction novella, that could count as a virtual “best of the year” anthology. Here you will find slyly twisted alternate histories, fractured fairy tales, topical science fiction, and edgy urban fantasy. In “Daltharee,” World Fantasy Award–winning author Jeffrey Ford spins a chilling tale of a city in a bottle—and the demented genius who put it there. In “Sonny Liston Takes the Fall,” John W. Campbell Award–winning author Elizabeth Bear pens a poignant and eerie requiem for the heavyweight forever associated with his controversial loss to Cassius Clay. From hot new writer Margo Lanagan comes “The Goosle,” a dark, astonishing take on Hansel and Gretel. In the novella “Prisoners of the Action,” Paul McAuley and Kim Newman take a trip down a rabbit hole that leads to a Guantanamo-like prison whose inmates are not just illegal but extraterrestrial. Many of the writers you’ll recognize. Others you may not. But one thing is certain: These stars of today and tomorrow demonstrate that the field of speculative fiction is not only alive and well—it’s better than ever. PLUS TWELVE MORE STORIES “The Elephant Ironclads” by Jason Stoddard “Ardent Clouds” by Lucy Sussex “Gather” by Christopher Rowe “North American Lake Monsters” by Nathan Ballingrud “All Washed Up While Looking for a Better World” by Carol Emshwiller “Special Economics” by Maureen F. McHugh “Aka St. Mark’s Place” by Richard Bowes “Shira” by Lavie Tidhar “The Passion of Azazel” by Barry N. Malzberg “The Lagerstätte” by Laird Barron “Gladiolus Exposed” by Anna Tambour “Jimmy” by Pat Cadigan

Five months out from Earth, we were half-way to Saturn and three-quarters of the way to murder. At least, I was. I was sick of the feuding, the worries and the pettiness of the other nineteen aboard. My stomach heaved at the bad food, the eternal smell of people, and the constant sound of nagging and complaints. For ten lead pennies, I'd have gotten out into space and tried walking back to Earth. Sometimes I thought about doing it without the pennies. But I knew I wasn't that tough, in spite of what I looked. I'd been built to play fullback, and my questionable brunet beauty had been roughed up by the explosion years before as thoroughly as dock fighting on all the planets could have done. But sometimes I figured all that meant was that there was more of me to hurt, and that I'd had more experience screaming when the anodyne ran out. Anyhow, whole-wheat pancakes made with sourdough for the ninth "morning" running was too damned much! I felt my stomach heave over again, took one whiff of the imitation maple syrup, and shoved the mess back fast while I got up faster. It was a mistake. Phil Riggs, our scrawny, half-pint meteorologist, grinned nastily and reached for the plate. "'Smatter, Paul? Don't you like your breakfast? It's good for you—whole wheat contains bran. The staff of life. Man, after that diet of bleached paste...." There's one guy like that in every bunch. The cook was mad at us for griping about his coffee, so our group of scientists on this cockeyed Saturn Expedition were getting whole wheat flour as punishment, while Captain Muller probably sat in his cabin chuckling about it. In our agreement, there was a clause that we could go over Muller's head on such things with a unanimous petition—but Riggs had spiked that. The idiot liked bran in his flour, even for pancakes!...

This book, first published in 1980, is a guide to the major forces in the subculture of science fiction. It analyses the history of the field and the related developments, for instance the Bomb, that have shaped the literature. It examines the complex of activity and background tradition, the body of accepted beliefs and conventions, and the ethics and values of the world of science fiction.

From above came the sound of men singing. Captain Duke O'Neill stopped clipping his heavy black beard to listen. It had been a long time since he'd heard such a sound—longer than the time since he'd last had a bath or seen a woman. It had never been the singing type of war. Yet now even the high tenor of old Teroini, who lay on a pad with neither legs nor arms, was mixed into the chorus. It could mean only one thing! As if to confirm his thoughts, Burke Thompson hobbled past the cabin, stopping just long enough to shout. "Duke, we're home! They've sighted Meloa!" "Thanks," Duke called after him, but the man was hobbling out of sight, eager to carry the good news to others. Fourteen years, Duke thought as he dragged out his hoarded bottle of water and began shaving. Five since he'd seen Ronda on his last leave. Now the battered old wreck that was left of the flagship was less than an hour from home base, and the two other survivors of the original fleet of eight hundred were limping along behind. Three out of eight hundred—but they'd won! Meloa had her victory. And far away, Earth could rest in unearned safety for a while. Duke grimaced bitterly. It was no time to think of Earth now. He shucked off his patched and filthy clothes and reached for the dress grays he had laid out in advance; at least they were still in good condition, almost unused. He dressed slowly, savoring the luxury of clean clothes. The buttons gave him trouble; his left hand looked and behaved almost like a real one, but in the three years since he got it, there had been no chance to handle buttons. Then he mastered the trick and stepped back to study the final results. He didn't look bad. Maybe a little gaunt and in need of a good haircut. But his face hadn't aged as much as he had thought. The worst part was the pasty white where his beard had covered his face, but a few days under Meloa's sun would fix that. Maybe he could spend a month with Ronda at a beach. He still had most of his share of his salary—nearly a quarter million Meloan credits; even if the rumors of inflation were true, that should be enough....

Chapter I ONE WAY TICKET Chapter II HONEST IZZY Chapter III THE GRAFT IS GREEN Chapter IV CAPTAIN MURDOCH Chapter V RECALL Chapter VI SEALED LETTER Chapter VII ELECTIONEERING Chapter VIII VOTE EARLY AND OFTEN Chapter IX CONTRABAND Chapter X MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE Chapter XI THE SKY'S THE LIMIT Chapter XII WIFE OR PRISONER? Chapter XIII ARREST MAYOR WAYNE! Chapter XIV FULL CIRCLE Chapter XV MURDOCH'S MANTLE Chapter XVI GET THE DOME! Chapter XVII SECURITY PAYOFF...

Bruce Gordon was an ex-fighter, ex-gambler, ex-cop, ex-reporter, and now he was an ex-patriot of Earth. Security shipped him to Mars with a knife, 100 credits, and a yellow card that meant no return. A novel of courage and duty...An unsentimental story with an emotional impact that is unforgettable... The Solar Security office had given him the knife practice, to make sure he could use it, just as they'd made sure he hadn't taken extra money with him beyond the regulation amount. "You're a traitor, and we'd like nothing better than seeing your guts spilled," the Security man had told him. "That paper you swiped was marked top secret. But we don't get many men with your background--cop, tinhorn, fighter--who have brains enough for our work. So you're bound for Mars, rather than the Mercury mines. If..." It was a big if, and a vague one. They needed men on Mars who could act as links in their information bureau, and be ready to work on their side when the expected trouble came. They wanted men who could serve them loyally, even without orders. If he did them enough service, they might let him back to Earth. If he caused trouble enough, they could still ship him to Mercury. "And suppose nothing happens?" he asked. "Then who cares? You're just lucky enough to be alive." "And what makes you think I'm going to be a spy for Security?" The other had shrugged. "Why not, Gordon? You've been a spy for a yellow scandal sheet. Why not for us?" Gordon had been smart enough to realize that perhaps Security was right. They were in the slums around the city now. Marsport had been settled faster than it was ready to receive. Temporary buildings had been thrown up, and then had remained, decaying into deathtraps. It wasn't a pretty view that visitors got as they first reached Mars. But nobody except the romantic fools had ever thought frontiers were pretty.