Best 1974 quotes in «science fiction quotes» category

Harl whirled round, all his attention ... on Skulker. "What is that on your carapace?""What?" Skulker tried to peer back... A tinny voice issued from somewhere... It took Skulker a moment to recognize it as that of the human male he earlier encountered. "It's CTD gecko mine - yield of about five kilotones." Skulker's shriek terminated in a blast that peeled back four square kilometers of jungle canopy and sunk a crater down to the bedrock.

. . . hated each other so much their feud had become legendary. Half the jokes in the galaxy started with “a vampire and an otrokar walk into a bar….

Hate's not functional; why are we taught it?

Having had some experience as a sci-fi writer myself, I found Suddenly Paris to be a very nicely written, YA Sci-Fi novel that turns the story of THE MATRIX on its head. It explores the following question. What if, instead of being people trapped in a synthesized dream world, we only think we are real? The ethical and existential questions that go along with computer generated characters inside a simulation acquiring self-awareness without an awareness that they are living in a simulated world are dealt with in a very entertaining story. Enjoy.

Having to amuse myself during those earlier years, I read voraciously and widely. Mythic matter and folklore made up much of that reading—retellings of the old stories (Mallory, White, Briggs), anecdotal collections and historical investigations of the stories' backgrounds—and then I stumbled upon the Tolkien books which took me back to Lord Dunsany, William Morris, James Branch Cabell, E.R. Eddison, Mervyn Peake and the like. I was in heaven when Lin Carter began the Unicorn imprint for Ballantine and scoured the other publishers for similar good finds, delighting when I discovered someone like Thomas Burnett Swann, who still remains a favourite. This was before there was such a thing as a fantasy genre, when you'd be lucky to have one fantasy book published in a month, little say the hundreds per year we have now. I also found myself reading Robert E. Howard (the Cormac and Bran mac Morn books were my favourites), Lovecraft, Clark Ashton Smith and finally started reading science fiction after coming across Andre Norton's Huon of the Horn. That book wasn't sf, but when I went to read more by her, I discovered everything else was. So I tried a few and that led me to Clifford Simak, Roger Zelazny and any number of other fine sf writers. These days my reading tastes remain eclectic, as you might know if you've been following my monthly book review column in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. I'm as likely to read Basil Johnston as Stephen King, Jeanette Winterson as Harlan Ellison, Barbara Kingsolver as Patricia McKillip, Andrew Vachss as Parke Godwin—in short, my criteria is that the book must be good; what publisher's slot it fits into makes absolutely no difference to me.

He checked her over while mentally checking himself. “Environment suits sealed up. Breather masks in hand. Daemons. Blades. Transmitters. Healthy respect for the adversary—you’ve got that, right?” One corner of her mouth curled up. “Absolutely.

He cares about you, Celes. I’m not going to deny that. He’ll do whatever it takes to get you to safety. Just remember that I would too.”, Grayson in FADE by Kailin Gow

He could hear the ocean waves nearby soothing and peaceful. His mind never fully rested. Never. But, here he could ease his thoughts away from his past. Away from regrets.

He could argue a case for anything, but that doesn’t change the fact he’s wrong most of the time.

He clicked the Save button, and there was the sound of a trumpet fanfare. A cleverly designed Flash animation in emerald green illuminated in gold leapt out at him in a 3D effect like the titles of an epic film: WELCOME, ASH, TO BIG BROTHER, THE AVENGER! The words exploded in a shower of gold dust. A voice boomed chillingly, ‘If you want help to sort them out, look no further! Big Brother will avenge you!

He considered himself a sort of esoteric martyr, who'd sacrificed everything for principle. Apparently that little book had set him on a course towards political extremism, culminating in the loss of his job at the community college, as well as the breakup of his previously stable marriage. By the time he met Old Hoss, a few years later, Hiram Buckley was one of those unfortunates the normal and untroubled point at in scorn and laugh at derisively; a veritable dog that's kicked while it's down. He was, under such circumstances, a perfect companion for Abner "Old Hoss" Billingsly, one of the few people who didn't consider him a prime candidate for St. Elizabeth's, the infamous mental hospital located in the District of Columbia. Since his career in education had been so rudely interrupted, the Professor had worked his way through a series of menial, low paying jobs, which he inevitably lost due to his proclivity for preaching unwelcome and unpopular political ideas to his fellow employees.

He could be human, in that last moment. He could exalt in his ability to destroy.

He’d been called “monster” since the day of his creation. Words like “witchcraft” were screamed in his presence as villagers would rise up in an attempt to capture and burn him.

He'd been lucky enough to find a home with Team Four of the GhostWalkers in the Pararescue Unit. In his life, those men had been the first he'd ever given his allegiance to, and that had been hard-won.

He didn’t want to talk about London’s wreck, and so he steered the conversation back towards Professor Pennyroyal’s favourite subject: Professor Pennyroyal.

He’d wanted answers so passionately he couldn’t trust his mind not to supply hope at the cost of truth.

He felt a psychosomatic rush of emptiness before he spoke. “Since we are getting to the real point, I am not stupid John. And it would be foolish to think me ignorant. Isn’t this about the Science Nation interview? Isn’t this because I mistakenly used the word “soul?” Isn’t this about you and the others thinking somewhere along the lines, I had gained an imaginary soul? We all know when you gain a soul, you lose a mind. Don’t we john?” John hesitated briefly staring at Roma. “I believe so yes. Souls are luxuries for speculative minds. Real scientists can’t afford such luxuries. They have the world to save.” Roma narrowed his eyes. “Or destroy.

He glanced back at her over his shoulder, his incredible eyes moving over her face. Seeing her. Focusing on her. The way he looked at her made her heart begin to accelerate.

He finds a basket and lays fish inside it. Charcoal is in a wooden bucket. Enrique lifts it, basket in his other hand, and moves through shadow toward daylight. A presence makes him turn his head. He sees no one, yet someone is there. He sets down fish and charcoal. Straightening up, Enrique slips his Bowie knife clear of its sheath. He listens, tries to sense the man’s place. This intruder lies low. Is concealed. Behind those barrels? In that corner, crouched down? Enrique shuts his eyes, holds his breath a moment and exhales, his breath’s movement the only sound, trying to feel on his skin some heat from another body. Where? Enrique sends his mind among barrels and sacks, under shelves, behind posts and dangling utensils. It finds no one. He is hiding. Wants not to be found. Is afraid. If he lies under a tarpaulin, he cannot see. To shoot blind would be foolish: likely to miss, certain to alert the others. Enrique steps around barrels, his boots silent on packed sand. Tarps lie parallel in ten-foot lengths, their wheaten hue making them visible in the shadowed space. They are dry and hold dust. All but one lies flat. There. Enrique imagines how it will be. To strike through the tarp risks confusion. Its heavy canvas can deflect his blade. But his opponent will have difficulty using his weapon. He might fire point-blank into Enrique’s weight above him, bearing down. To pull the tarpaulin clear is to lose his advantage; he will see the intruder who will see him. An El Norte mercenary with automatic rifle or handheld laser can cut a man in half. Knife in his teeth, its ivory handle smooth against lips and tongue, Enrique crouches low. Pushing hard with his legs, he dives onto the hidden shape. The man spins free as Enrique grasps, boots slipping on waxed canvas. His opponent feels slight, yet wiry strength defeats Enrique’s hold. He takes his knife in hand and rips a slit long enough to plunge an arm into his adversary’s shrouded panic. Enrique thrusts the blade’s point where he believes a throat must be. Two strong hands clamp his arm and twist against each other rapidly and hard. Pain flares across his skin. Enrique wrests his arm free and his knife flies from his grasp and disappears behind him. He clenches-up and, pivoting on his other hand, turns hard into a blind punch that smashes the hidden face. The dust of their struggle rasps in Enrique’s throat. His intended killer sucks in a hard breath and Enrique hits him again, then again, each time turning his shoulder into the blow. The man coughs out, “Do not kill me.” Enrique knows this voice. It is Omar the Turk. [pp. 60-61]

He had a way of making you think the bad things he did to you were your own fault.

He had allowed the advertisers to multiply his wants; he had learned to equate happiness with possessions, and prosperity with money to spend in a shop.

He had been trying to measure the distance between the earth and God.

He had never trusted a woman-or anyone, for that matter-to sleep close to him, let alone in the same bed. And yet, already, he was completely relaxed with her. He couldn't imagine being without her, and now, if they survived, it was a very real possibility.

He had seen many criminals in his years in Division. Dangerous men and even more dangerous women. Small-time hucksters and savvy crime lords. Spies, gangsters, assassins, insurgents and wannabe-revolutionaries. True believers and soulless mercs willing to kill children for the right price.

He had the impression of Shylah pouting, and that made him happy. Just talking to her made him happy. The fact that she would circle around, hunt and find the man watching from the forest, was a complete turn-on. He liked that this woman would be his partner.

He holds her for an eternity. Time cascades into the void of the past. She inhales his scent. Full of man and strength and yearning. And she wonders why she ever doubted their relationship. Why she let Julian’s soothing touch coax her into loving him too. Gage is everything. Gage is hers.

He holds her with the strength of a million-man army, but with all the tenderness of her heart lying naked in the palms of his hands.

He had to be a GhostWalker. She was looking at a legitimate GhostWalker. The real deal.

He held her, his arms tight around her, trying to tell her without words, that no matter what, he would be there for her

He licks his lips as his head tilts down toward me. My body goes wild. Frissons of electricity travel up and down my spine as the True Born leans down. His voice is silk in my ear. 'You're not with your parents now. No restrictions. How does that make you feel?

He liked that she gave the questions thought. That she actually saw the mysteries and worked at solving them.

He let out a short laugh. "You sound like Sherlock Holmes. You gonna pull out a magnifying glass? A pipe, maybe?

He lost his appetite for reading. He was afraid of being overwhelmed again. In mystery novels people died like dolls being discarded; in science fiction enormities of space and time conspired to crush the humans ; and even in P.G. Wodehouse he felt a hollowness, a turning away from reality that was implicitly bitter, and became explicit in the comic figures of futile parsons.

He loved the idea of paper, how the ink would fade and the paper would age. So finite, he would explain, just like life.

He looks like a Miltonian angel falling with wrath and glory. His exoskeleton sheds its friction armor, as Lucifer might have shed the fetters of heaven, feathers of flame peeling off, fluttering behind. Then a missile slashes the sky and high-grade explosives christen him mortal once again.

He made sure his tone remained casual. He was trying to keep his son unaware of the encroaching alien invasion for as long as he could, be it another day or another hour. Once innocence was lost it was never regained. So he took his son fishing and strolled along the river and pretended as though the galaxy wasn’t on fire.

Help!" he yelled and he lifted one leg, trying to run. But you can't outrun the membrane — he was soon gone.

He peeled out the banknotes from inside a billfold held on a chain and paid her. Andy Jackson’s eyes were X’d out. For an edgy instant she wondered if his money was counterfeit. She also noted his missing middle finger, and a skull tattoo decorated his sinewy wrist. She put down the card key. “You’re in Seven, straight down the courtyard.” He slid the card key off, but it fell to the floor. "Oops. I haven’t gotten used to this high gravity.” “I beg your pardon?” “Nothing. I’m just punchy from all the driving.

He pulled her into his arms and kissed her like she was his and had been for years. Like he was a man dying and she was his greatest love. He felt like she was. Shylah Cosmos. His only little peony. His delicate flower. Dependable. Long-lived.

He preferred smaller knives, but when you wanted to make a statement, you did it big. He wanted this man cowed and willing to talk.

He places a hand on either side of the bar, locking me in. 'And why won't you admit it?' he asks. I'm so startled by his new, gentler tone that I hazard a glance. My breath catches in my throat. Jared's eyes have changed to that sumptuous green, huge and mesmerizing, the pupils dilating like a cat's. I can't see to look away as he inches forward, until he's standing all but a hair's breadth away from me.

He pointed to the burning building as sirens heralded the approach of emergency personnel. “This is your job—this is your life. Blood and death and pain and vengeance and justice. And sometimes it sucks, but it’s worth it.” Caleb sighed, but not in resignation. “I know this is the job, and it is worth it. But I refuse to believe it’s my life. Not only and not forever.” Samuel pinched the bridge of his nose and waved dismissively with his other hand. “F***ing romantic.

He pointed to another number, changing as rapidly as the first, but on a lower trajectory; it rose to a high of 8.79 rem per hour. Several lifetimes of dentists’ X-rays, to be sure; but the radiation outside the storm shelter would have been a lethal dose, so they were getting off lightly. Still, the amount flying through the rest of the ship! Billions of particles were penetrating the ship and colliding with the atoms of water and metal they were huddled behind; hundreds of millions were flying between these atoms and then through the atoms of their bodies, touching nothing, as if they were no more than ghosts. Still, thousands were striking atoms of flesh and bone. Most of those collisions were harmless; but in all those thousands, there were in all probability one or two (or three?) in which a chromosome strand was taking a hit, and kinking in the wrong way: and there it was. Tumor initiation, begun with just that typo in the book of the self. And years later, unless the victim's DNA luckily repaired itself, the tumor promotion that was a more or less unavoidable part of living would have its effect, and there would appear a bloom of Something Else inside: cancer. Leukemia, most likely; and, most likely, death.

He pulled out of her mind abruptly. She knew because she felt bereft. Starkly alone. The feeling was raw and ugly after having him there with her. She wanted him back, and that wasn't an intelligent response.

Her consciousness emerges within when the beast of the darkness allows them. This beast was a conjuration of the billion innocent souls lost to the structure of modernization. He was an archetype that transcended time and reality, a governing force as natural as nature itself, and yet this darkness was a new kind, born out of technology only apparent in the last few hundred years.

Here I pause. If you wish to walk no farther with me, reader, I do not blame you. It is no easy road.

Here lies the body of Colonel Cornell’s. The rest of the fellow, I fancy, in hell is.

Here we go,” Phoenix said, turning back to Nora. “Try not to let this room scare you.

Here the clouds constantly adjusted like obedient phantoms, so that shadows never lengthened or shortened. At any point in space, Limbo never became any darker or lighter than the moment before.

[...]her mouth curved into that smile that always teased every one of his senses. Amusement. She could feel it and give him that sense of playfulness and joy that she seemed to have in abundance.