You’ll find a riveting novella by Kristine Kathryn Rusch in our July/August 2023 issue. “Death Hole Bunker” is set in the author’s Diving universe. This thrilling tail will have you on edge from start to finish. The issue also features a new “Great Ship” novella from Robert Reed. “What>We>Will>Never>Be” is a love story, a mystery, and a relentless quest for justice. 

Don’t miss Garth Nix’s exciting “Showdown on Planetoid Pencrux.” This novelette will be the well-known author’s first tale for Asimov’s. Other new to the magazine authors include Stephen Case, who intrigues us with a novelette about the “Daughters of the Lattice”;  Sam W. Pisciotta, whose novelette startles us with “Morning Glory”; Rick Wilber’s collaborator on their poignant short story about “The Greeter,” Lisa Lanser Rose; and Barry N. Malzberg’s collaborator on correspondence about when to “Let the Games Begin,” Robert Friedman. James Van Pelt returns with a short story that asks “Have You Seen Bitsy?”

The Death Hole Bunker
by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Six mummies on the stairs leading into the bunker. And it was an actual bunker, too, not some cave that had much too smooth walls. Hogarth adjusted the pack he’d slung over his shoulder. He was wearing an environmental suit, and he had climbing gear—not that he’d needed it so far.

He was a bit surprised by that. He was surprised by all of it.

The mummies were sprawled on the stairs as if they had all fallen while in transit. They were dressed in tattered clothing that looked deeply unfamiliar. The mummies he’d found in the past were wearing clothing that usually followed some kind of style from the Enterran Empire’s history, something he could recognize. READ MORE

Bridges
by Sean Monaghan

Saibel’s pet was just the cutest thing. I wish, on reflection, that I could have done more to protect them both.

Purl, the pet, was a tiny tangle of blondish, puffy fur. A chuss. Fur perfectly white at the tips and grayer closer to the body. Small enough to fit in the palm of my craggy old hand. She liked to be stroked, though when I did that, I would always wonder where her body was. Ninety percent of her volume seemed to be just fur.

The kind of insubstantial softness that feels like little more than air. Like a puff of spores from a ripe cragwort. Or that moment of vapor over a shaded southern stream, just when the sun is up and catching the light through the tangle of jungle, before the day’s heat burns away the haze. READ MORE