Gravity Wells: Speculative Fiction Stories by James Alan Gardner

By James Alan Gardner

Award-winning writer James Alan Gardner conjures up a feeling of ask yourself that's synonymous with nice speculative fiction. Now, in his first short-story assortment, he brings jointly the varied stories that experience made his popularity, starting from the standard adventure to the cosmic, from peanut butter sandwiches to area drives. There are tales of ask yourself, mind's eye, humanity, and the unknown and stories that remind us of the significance of risk.

Some of the tales during this assortment have gained the Aurora Award and the grand prize within the prestigious Writers of the long run contest and been nominated for either Hugo and Nebula Awards, whereas others are thoroughly new and undiscovered.

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Sample text

Imagine yourself in our place. Imagine yourself with a world entirely to yourself, and being free, absolutely free, to follow your Art as you choose. No Philistines to question the value of what you’re doing, no political system that feels threatened by your activities, no mundane responsibilities to weigh you down. “And then the children come. In no time, you’re up to your ankles in diapers, with this little howling thing bawling for your attention twenty-five hours a day . . no time to work, not even a decent night’s rest, the incessant crying .

One of those End-Every-Sentence-with-an-ExclamationPoint publications whose natural habitat is the top drawer of hotel night tables. The hotel in question was the Nascence Renaissance—redundant in name, and redundant to describe for those who have stayed at its kin throughout our wart on the galactic arm. Squatting by the main highway, just inside the environment dome’s airlock, surrounded with carefully tended greenery that would look more natural if it were plastic . . anyone who has traveled on expense account knows this same hotel follows you from city to city, running on ahead so it has time to put down its foundations and change its makeup in the hope you won’t recognize it from the night before.

The trucks we passed were all bot-driven, which was just fine with me—if Phil had seen one of those Bloaters under human control, he would have drag-raced the rig in order to demonstrate his testosterone level to his captive member of the Press. (Ah, children, the world is full of people who want to impress the old Scalper with feats of derring-do. ) Nascence City, the colonial capital, nestles halfway up the side of a volcano everyone swears is extinct (this surrounded by a lavid plain that seethes with fumaroles, geysers, and the like .

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