September 2015

Welcome to Asimov’s Science Fiction! Discover the Who’s Who of award-winning authors, stories, editorial insights, news, reviews, events… Come tour our universe!

Biology at the End of the World
Brenda Cooper

Sam J. Miller

What We Know Now . . .
Robert Frazier

Two Memorials
Sheila Williams

The Sixth Palace
Robert Silverberg 


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Aliette de Bodard’s October/November 2015 cover story is an enormous new novella that plunges us into a far future where various factions struggle to find the lost “Citadel of Weeping Pearls.” ...

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Over 35 Years of Awards

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Welcome to Asimov’s Science Fiction. Fulfilling a lifelong goal, I started my career with Asimov’s in 1982 believing it was the best magazine on earth. I still do.

Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine continues to bring together celebrated authors, new talent, and award-winning stories, poems, and articles as it has for over 35 years. The premier literary magazine in the genre, Asimov’s rewards readers with an exciting new trove of adventures each month that transport them on journeys examining the human experience across the Universe.

The perfect gathering place to meet the Who’s Who of Asimov’s Science Fiction authors! We feature posts, articles, and podcasts from our writers. Come by frequently – you never know what you’ll discover! 

Brenda Cooper’s lead story in our September 2015 issue looks at the lines we draw between ethics and scientific research. A deadly clash between forces making last ditch efforts to preserve life as we know it and renegades involved in potentially dangerous, but possibly life saving, experimentation will ultimately determine what will be the “Biology at the End of the World”! Plus so much more!

A potpourri of resources both practical and whimsical – from Writer’s Submission Guidelines, the Calendar of Science Fiction events, and Asimov’s editorial archives to News you can use, the Asimov’s Index, Podcasts, and Cartoons.

More From Dell Magazines!




Biology at the End of the World

by Brenda Cooper

Sumot’s red coat flashed brightly in the artificial sun, a beacon that showed my trajectory down the zip chair from the observation cliff to the landing platform. A flock of parrots rose screeching in affront at the brightly colored humans penetrating their forest, a riotous dance of glittering color and noise. The audacity of the birds clawed an unseemly screech of pleasure from my throat. The tops of trees closed over me, hiding the parrots and displaying life in all of the greens and browns possible to imagine.

It looked as beautiful as the advertisements, like a perfect place for space eco-tourists. Maybe too perfect, since our bosses had sent us here.

I landed behind Sumot with a thump as the mag locks in my boots recognized the platform and stuck me to it. I freed myself with a short orgy of unclipping and tying and hanging and neatening my hair with my fingers. I pulled my uniform shirt tight through the strap of my waist-pack, trying to look professional in spite of the sticky air. I glanced at Sumot in hopes of an approving look, but she faced away from me, looking down. On her back, the words Resist, Remember, and Respect were embroidered in a neat line, a bright yellow against the red of her shirt. I whispered them to myself. Resist. Remember. Respect. READ MORE



by Sam J. Miller

My son’s eyes were broken. Emptied out. Frozen over. None of the joy or gladness was there. None of the tears. Normally I’d return from a job and his face would split down the middle with happiness, seeing me for the first time in three months. Now it stayed flat as ice. His eyes leapt away the instant they met mine. His shoulders were broader and his arms more sturdy, and lone hairs now stood on his upper lip, but his eyes were all I saw.

“Thede,” I said, grabbing him.

He let himself be hugged. His arms hung limply at his sides. My lungs could not fill. My chest tightened from the force of all the never-let-me-go bear hugs he had given me over the course of the past fifteen years, and might never give again.

“You know how he gets when you’re away,” his mother had said on the phone the night before, preparing me. “He’s a teenager now. Hating your parents is a normal part of it.”

I hadn’t listened. My hands and thighs still ached from months of straddling an ice saw; my hearing was worse with every trip; a slip had cost me five days’ work and five days’ pay and five days’ worth of infirmary bills; I had returned to a sweat-smelling bunk in an illegal room I shared with seven other iceboat workers—and none of it mattered because in the morning I would see my son. READ MORE


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