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Congratulations to our Nebula Award Nominees!

"The Weight of the Sunrise" by Vylar Kaftan for Best Novella
"They Shall Salt the Earth with Seeds of Glass" by Alaya Dawn Johnson for Best Novelette
"Pearl Rehabilitative Colony for Ungrateful Daughters" by Henry Lien for Best Novelette

Congratulations to our Bram Stoker Award Nominee!

"No Others Are Genuine" by Gregory Frost for Superior Achievement in Long Fiction

2013 Index
Volume 35, January though December 2013.

Geekmom interviews Asimov's editor Sheila Williams

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arrowEditorial: Where Are They Now?
Paul Di Filippo: On Books
Reflections by Robert Silverberg: Borges, Leinster, GoogleTh
Erwin E. Strauss: Conventional Calendar
arrowJames Gunn: Thought Experiments: Celebrating Isaac
arrowOn the Net: Good (and Bad) News From Outer Space

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Jimmy Randolph, who had driven all four hours of the trip, went silent as they came in view of the lake, seeing a landscape his girlfriend did not see and hearing words she had not heard.

Bekka said, turning from the open window, “This is something else. Right? It’s beautiful.” Both hands on the wheel for the highway’s curving descent, Jimmy made a sound that signaled agreement. From above, the road followed the lake’s slender finger, the valley walls dense with trees, the water blue with the day’s blue, the slender finger pointed toward the white beach and the city of Ithaca. Attention on the highway, Jimmy saw overlaid on this bending stretch a two-lane road arrowing between horizontal Texas fields; saw a low sky too bright, scarred with meager gray clouds; felt again, despite the hot air from the road, the harsh sting of a Hummer’s air conditioning. The driver, a young man from the base’s private security team, wore a sparse red beard that failed to conceal his acne. He heard the man say, “This isn’t just nowhere. This is the capital of nowhere”—most likely repeating something he’d been told on his arrival, Jimmy thought, but then recognizing how so cynical a response so early in the mission wasn’t good.

Most times, Bekka’s presence suppressed some of his cynicism, muted his depression. Still, Jimmy wondered how many times someone had said at just that point on the road, “It’s beautiful.” Was her judgment as common and unconsidered as the judgment of all those others, all those people who couldn’t find something to say but had to say something? How far wrong was her judgment about him?

His leg jumped when her hand settled on his thigh. “What’s running through your brain?” she asked.

“Just trying to watch the road,” he said, glancing in each mirror, taking in the modest traffic.

“Uh huh,” she said, making it clear she didn’t believe him. She had picked her hair into a massy weave; the wind pushed it to the roof. Leaning close, she drew her other hand over her forehead to restrain her hair. “Just don’t go totally silent on me,” she said. “I want my friends to like you.”

His clenched lips twitched as he worked to say something, but she let him off, patting his leg. “Okay,” she said. “No pressure. Be inside yourself.”

How deep inside himself had the prisoner been? And silent for years. Could Jimmy have sustained that? Anyone would hunger for human contact, for human voices, or to hear your own voice, the reassurance that all of you is still there, that you are still familiar to yourself.

The steering wheel suddenly slick, he shifted his grip toward the middle. Perhaps Bekka had let the relationship move too quickly. Surely when she got to know him more fully . . .

The beach below was flecked with people. Jimmy and Bekka planned to meet college friends of hers, stay with them for a night, then, if the weather cooperated, camp at a park near a waterfall; there may have been more details, but he had not been a terribly attentive listener in the past six months, a condition that, rather than improving, had worsened in recent weeks. He imagined lying on a precipice to see water cascade through a cleft, but he couldn’t get close enough to see where the water struck bottom. Six months ago, he had stood before a hole in the earth, a guard gripping each arm, and, peering down, known for sure there were mysteries he would never solve. . . .

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Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine: 30th Anniversary Anthology

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"A truly extraordinary sampler of tales.... Every piece in this superlative collection is a nugget of pure science fiction gold."

-Publishers Weekly, starred review

This anniversary anthology presented in chronological order showcases 30 years of excellent stories published in the legendary magazine, Asimov’s Science Fiction. Asimov’s Science Fiction was founded in 1977. As one of science fiction’s most influential and prolific writers, Isaac Asimov wanted to provide a home for new SF writers—a new magazine for young writers could break into. Asimov’s Science Fiction remains that home, as well as the publisher of some of the field’s best known authors.

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