• In celebration of the recently released THE NEW VOICES OF SCIENCE FICTION, Tachyon and editors Hannu Rajaniemi and Jacob Weisman present glimpses into the future of science fiction from several of the volume’s magnificent tales.

    The previews included

    For more info about THE NEW VOICES OF SCIENCE FICTION, visit the Tachyon page.

    Cover art by Matt Dixon
    Cover design by Elizabeth Story

  • Born in Israel, British Science Fiction and World Fantasy Award–winning author and editor Lavie Tidhar has lived all over the world, including in Vanuatu, Laos, and South Africa, and currently resides in London. Among his lauded novels are Candy (2018) A Man Lies Dreaming (2014, winner of the Jerwood Fiction Uncovered Prize for Best British Fiction), THE VIOLENT CENTURY (2013), Martian Sands (2013), Osama (2011, winner of the World Fantasy Award for Best Novel), the Bookman Histories (The Bookman, 2010; Camera Obscura, 2011; The Great Game, 2012), and The Tel Aviv Dossier (2009 with Nir Yaniv). For CENTRAL STATION (2016), Tidhar received overwhelming acclaim including winning the prestigious John W. Campbell Memorial Award and the inaugural Neukom Institute Literary Arts Award as well as nominations for 2017 Arthur C. Clarke Award and 2016 British Science Fiction Award. The book places on NPR Best Books of 2016, Barnes and Noble Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of 2016, and 2016 Locus Recommended Reading List. UNHOLY LAND (2018) garnered similar acclaim with best book of 2018 selections from NPR, Library Journal, Publishers Weekly, Guardian, Barnes & Noble, and Crime Time.

    Tidhar’s numerous shorter works, which include the 2012 British Fantasy Award-winning novellas Gorel & The Pot-Bellied God, have been collected in 金星は花に満ちて (Venus in Bloom; 2019 in Japanese) Black Gods Kiss (2015), and Hebrewpunk (2007). Much of his non-fiction has been collected in Art And War: Poetry, Pulp And Politics In Israeli Fiction (2016).

    As an editor, Tidhar has been responsible for The Apex Book Of World Sf (Volumes 1-3, 2009, 2012, 2014), Jews vs Zombies (2015 with Rebbecca Levene), Jews vs Aliens (2015 with Rebbecca Levene), and A Dick & Jane Primer For Adults (2008). His graphic novel credits include going to the moon (2012 with artist Paul Mccaffrey), and Adolf Hitler’s “I Dream Of Ants!” (2012 with artist Neil Struthers).

    All of us at Tachyon wish the goofy, inventive, and talented Lavie a happy birthday!

    For more info about UNHOLY LAND, visit the Tachyon page.

    For more info about CENTRAL STATION, visit the Tachyon page.

    For more info about THE VIOLENT CENTURY, visit the Tachyon page.

    Covers by Sarah Anne Langton

  • Peter Watts will be signing copies of PETER WATTS IS AN ANGRY SENTIENT TUMOR at Bakka Phoenix Books on Saturday, Nov. 16, 3PM in Toronto, ON.

    Saturday, November 16
    Bakka Phoenix Books
    84 Harbord Street
    Toronto ON   

    For more info about PETER WATTS IS AN ANGRY SENTIENT TUMOR, visit the Tachyon page.

    Cover design by Elizabeth Story
    Icons by John Coulthart

  • How do you do, fellow kids? I have made you a “meme”

    #books #bookstagram #bookish #bookmemes #bookjokes #bookhumor #memes #sciencefiction #sciencefictionbooks #scifi #scifibooks #fantasy #fantasybooks #thenewvoicesofsciencefiction #thenewvoicesoffantasy #whydontwehaveboth #porquenolosdos #petersbeagle #hannurajaniemi #publishing

  • In celebration of the recently released THE NEW VOICES OF SCIENCE FICTION, Tachyon and editors Hannu Rajaniemi and Jacob Weisman present glimpses into the future of science fiction from several of the volume’s magnificent tales.



    Sarah Pinsker

    A middle-aged cowboy wandered over to stare at our van. I pegged him for a legit rancher from a distance, but as he came closer I noticed a clerical collar beneath the embroidered shirt. His boots shone and he had a paunch falling over an old rodeo belt; the incongruous image of a bull-riding minister made me laugh. He startled when he realized I was watching him.

    He made a motion for me to lower my window.

    “Maryland plates!” he said. “I used to live in Hagerstown.”

    I smiled, though I’d only ever passed through Hagerstown.

    “Used to drive a church van that looked kinda like yours, too, just out of high school. Less duct tape, though. Whatcha doing out here?”

    “Touring. Band.”

    “No kidding! You look familiar. Have I heard of you?”

    “Cassis Fire,” I said, taking the question as a prompt for a name. “We had it paint­ed on the side for a while, but then we figured out we got pulled over less when we were incognito.”

    “Don’t think I know the name. I used to have a band, back before …” His voice trailed off, and neither of us needed him to finish his sentence. There were several “back befores” he could be referring to, but they all amounted to the same thing. Back before StageHolo and SportsHolo made it easier to stay home. Back before most people got scared out of congregating anywhere they didn’t know everybody.

    “You’re not playing around here, are you?”

    I shook my head. “Columbus, Ohio. Tomorrow night.”

    “I figured. Couldn’t think of a place you’d play nearby.”

    “Not our kind of music, anyway,” I agreed. I didn’t know what music he liked, but this was a safe bet.

    “Not any kind. Oh well. Nice chatting with you. I’ll look you up on StageHolo.”

    He turned away.

    “We’re not on StageHolo,” I called to his back, though maybe not loud enough for him to hear. He waved as his Chauffeur drove him off the lot.

    “Luce, you’re a terrible salesperson,” Silva said to me.

    “What?” I hadn’t realized he’d been paying attention.

    “You know he recognized you. All you had to do was say your name instead of the band’s. Or ‘Blood and Diamonds.’ He’d have paid for dinner for all of us, then bought every T-shirt and download code we have.”

    “And then he’d listen to them and realize the music we make now is nothing like the music we made then. And even if he liked it, he’d never go to a show. At best he’d send a message saying how much he wished we were on StageHolo.”

    “Which we could be …”

    “Which we won’t be.” Silva knew better than to argue with me on that one. It was our only real source of disagreement.

    The neon “open” sign in the restaurant’s window blinked out, and I took the cue to put the key back in the ignition. The glowplug light came on, and I started the van back up.

    My movement roused Jacky again. “Where are we now?”

    I didn’t bother answering.

    As I had guessed, the owner hadn’t quite understood what I was asking for. I gave him the engine tour, showing him the custom oil filter and the dual tanks. “We still need regular diesel to start, then switch to the veggie oil tank. Not too much more to it than that.”

    “It’s legal?”

    Legal enough. There was a gray area wherein perhaps technically we were skirting the fuel tax. By our reasoning, though, we were also skirting the reasons for the fuel tax. We’d be the ones who got in trouble, anyway. Not him.

    “Of course,” I said, then changed the subject. “And the best part is that it makes the van smell like egg rolls.”

    He smiled. We got a whole tankful out of him, and a bag full of food he’d have otherwise chucked out, as well.

    The guys were over the moon about the food. Dumpster diving behind a restaurant or Superwally would have been our next order of business, so anything that hadn’t made a stop in a garbage can on its way to us was haute cuisine as far as we were concerned. Silva took the lo mein—no complimentary bread—screwed together his travel chopsticks, and handed mine to me from the glove compartment. I grabbed some kind of moo shu without the pancakes, and Jacky woke again to snag the third container.

    “Can we go someplace?” Silva asked, waving chopsticks at the window.

    “Got anything in mind on a Tuesday night in the boonies?”

    Jacky was up for something, too. “Laser tag? Laser bowling?”

    Sometimes the age gap was a chasm. I turned in my seat to side-eye the kid. “One vote for lasers.”

    “I dunno,” said Silva. “Just a bar? If I have to spend another hour in this van I’m going to scream.”

    I took a few bites while I considered. We wouldn’t be too welcome anywhere around here, between our odor and our look, not to mention the simple fact that we were strangers. On the other hand, the more outlets I gave these guys for legit fun, the less likely they were to come up with something that would get us in trouble. “If we see a bar or a bowling joint before someplace to sleep, sure.”

    “I can look it up,” said Jacky.

    “Nope,” I said. “Leave it to fate.”

    After two-thirds of the moo shu, I gave up and closed the container. I hated wasting food, but it was too big for me to finish. I wiped my chopsticks on my jeans and put them back in their case.

    Two miles down the road from the restaurant, we came to Starker’s, which I hoped from the apostrophe was only a bar, not a strip club. Their expansive parking lot was empty except for eight Chauffeurs, all lined up like pigs at a trough. At least that meant we didn’t have to worry about some drunk crashing into our van on his way out.

    I backed into the closest spot to the door. It was the best lit, so I could worry less about our gear getting lifted. Close was also good if the locals decided they didn’t like our looks.

    We got the long stare as we walked in, the one from old Westerns, where all the heads swivel our way and the piano player stops playing. Except, of course, these days the piano player didn’t stop, because the piano player had no idea we’d arrived. The part of the pianist in this scenario was played by Roy Bittan, alongside the whole E Street Band, loud as a stadium and projected in StageHolo 3D.

    “Do you want to leave?” Jacky whispered to me.

    “No, it’s okay. We’re here now. Might as well have a drink.”

    “At least it’s Bruce. I can get behind Bruce.” Silva edged past me toward the bar.

    A few at leasts: at least it was Bruce, not some cut-rate imitation. Bruce breathed punk as far as I was concerned, insisting on recording new music and legit live shows all the way into his eighties. At least it was StageHolo and not StageHoloLive, in which case there’d be a cover charge. I was willing to stand in the same room as the technology that was trying to make me obsolete, but I’d be damned if I paid them for the privilege. Of course, it wouldn’t be Bruce on StageHoloLive, either; he’d been gone a couple of years now, and this Bruce looked to be only in his sixties, anyway. A little flat, too, which suggested this was a retrofitted older show, not one recorded using StageHolo’s tech.

    For more info about THE NEW VOICES OF SCIENCE FICTION, visit the Tachyon page.

    Cover art by Matt Dixon
    Cover design by Elizabeth Story

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