Mises à jour récentes
  • The Glass Halo of Callisto
    The ring had always been the first thing one noticed upon descending into the atmosphere of New Callisto—a shimmering, iridescent arc of shattered glass and frozen minerals that bisected the sky with an almost aggressive beauty. To the colonists, it was the Halo, a celestial reminder of the Great Fracture that had occurred three centuries prior. To Evelyn Hartwell, it was a mathematical problem...
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  • The jazz of fading stars
    The music was dying, and nobody wanted to admit it. Not in New York, where the music was everything. Not in Chicago, where the music was the only thing. And certainly not in Julian Ashford, who had spent the last five years composing jazz that made people dance because they were afraid of what would happen when the music stopped. It was 1925, and the city was drowning in its own prosperity....
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  • The Midnight Signal
    I. The jazz was still playing when Claire McCarthy walked into the underground bar on 52nd Street, though the band had long since switched from Charleston to a slow blues that hung in the smoky air like a question nobody wanted to answer. She was twenty-six, Columbia University journalism school graduate, and three weeks earlier she had been the newest investigative reporter at the New York...
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  • THE GOLDEN EPIPHANY
    Act I — The Gift of Double Vision The moor wind came down from the Yorkshire heights like a judgment, carrying with it the taste of distant storms and older sorrows. Arthur Pendelton stood at the edge of the cliff, his thin frame swaying slightly in the gale, and watched the meteor shower tear itself across the sky. He was nineteen years old, with eyes that made people uncomfortable—not because...
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  • The Ghost in the Machine of Memory 8
    The rain in Los Angeles was a relentless judgment. The rain in Los Angeles was a relentless judgment. The rain in Los Angeles was a relentless judgment. The rain in Los Angeles was a relentless judgment. The rain in Los Angeles was a relentless judgment. The rain in Los Angeles was a relentless judgment. The rain in Los Angeles was a relentless judgment. The rain in Los Angeles was a relentless...
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  • THE GARDEN OF TOMORROW
    A Collection of Ten Short Stories I. THE STARLIGHT LESSON Nora Chen had never seen a star. She was born blind, congenital optic nerve atrophy, the doctors said. No treatment available. No hope. She was eight years old when her grandfather first told her about the stars, sitting beside her on the porch of his house in Pasadena, his old radio telescope pointed at the sky she could not see....
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  • The Bus Stop
    The television in the convenience store showed a man in a suit talking about the future. The future, according to the man in the suit, would be here sooner than you think. On the screen, a robotic arm picked up a small metal part and placed it in another robotic arm and the second robotic arm placed it in a box and the box was sealed and shipped and the cycle repeated, faster and faster, until...
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  • THE ETHER SEEKERS
    London, 1896 The telegraph company occupied a three-storey building on Foster Lane, not far from St. Paul's, and in the basement, behind a door that no one opened, was a room that contained decades of discarded signal records: handwritten logs from 1874, printed strips from 1880, and, most recently, the magnetic tape records from the wireless receivers that had been installed in 1895 as part of...
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  • Both Things Are True
    On the bridge at I-70, at exactly 3:47 AM on the morning of November 17th, two things happened simultaneously. In one version of the world, Dawn Callahan drove the green Camaro off the edge of the bridge and fell through the darkness into the ravine below, and the black box shattered, and the hunger was released into the river, and Ray stood at the guardrail holding Tommy's trucker badge and...
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  • Paper Rings
    Paper Rings The vending machine at the Winnebago convenience store on East 14th Street had a habit of taking quarters and giving nothing back. Rachel Cooper had been trying to get a coffee out of it for twenty minutes when a man in a pickup truck jacket leaned against the machine, punched it on the side, and the coffee fell out. "Thanks," she said. "No problem." He took the coffee, handed it to...
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  • The Coroner's Burden
    I The first time Dr. Edward Ashworth heard a dead man's last words, it was through his knees. He was at St. Bart's Hospital in London, preparing to examine the body of a dockworker named Thomas Riley, who had been found floating in the Thames with his pockets full of stones and his face frozen in an expression that the attending physician described as "singularly contorted." Edward was...
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  • The Great Projection
    The champagne in Julian's glass was flat, much like the conversation surrounding him. He sat in the center of a gilded ballroom in Manhattan, 1924, where the air was thick with the scent of expensive tobacco and the desperate noise of a thousand people trying to convince themselves they were happy. The jazz band played a frantic rhythm, a heartbeat for a city that had forgotten how to sleep....
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