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By Ian McDonald

The global: 'Cyberabad' is the India of 2047, a brand new, muscular superpower of 1 and a part billion humans in an age of man-made intelligences, climate-change brought about drought, water-wars, unusual new genders, genetically stronger little ones that age at part the speed of baseline humanity and a inhabitants the place men out-number ladies 4 to 1. India herself has fractured right into a dozen states from Kerala to the headwaters of the Ganges within the Himalayas.

Cyberabad is a set of seven stories:

"The Little Goddess". Hugo nominee most sensible Novella 2006. In close to destiny Nepal, a child-goddess discovers what lies at the different aspect of godhood.

"The Djinn's Wife". Hugo nominee and BSFA brief fiction winner 2007A minor Delhi megastar falls in love with a man-made intelligence yet is it a wedding of heaven and hell?

"The airborne dirt and dust Assassin". Feuding Rajasthan water-rajas locate that revenge is a sluggish, sophisticated process.

"Jasbir and Sujay move Shaadi". Love and marriage might be plain-sailing while your matchmaker is a soap-star synthetic intelligence.

"Sanjeev and Robotwallah". What occurs to the boy-soldier roboteers while the warfare of Separation is over?

"Kyle meets the River". a tender American in Varanas learns the genuine that means of 'nation development' within the early days of a brand new country.

"Vishnu on the Cat Circus". A genetically more desirable 'Brahmin' baby unearths himself left at the back of as he grows throughout the ultimate new release of humanity.

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Rai stepped out to survey the terrain. " Sanjeev sat in the shade of the rear cabin watching Rai pace up and down, up and down, kicking up the dust of Ahtaura with his big Desi-metal boots. You didn't stop them, did you? Sanjeev thought. You didn't save us from the plague-walkers. Rai suddenly leaped and punched the air. " A storm of dust moved across the dead land. The high sun caught glints and gleams at its heart. Moving against the wind, the tornado bore down on Ahraura. The robot came to a halt at the foot of the ridge where Sanjeev and Rai stood waiting.

And that's why I don't like it—because it isn't honest about the truth, and I know that whatever I say, what you do with Salim is your thing, but I do think you're not to play it here, in the house. And it's good you've got a good friend here—I remember when Kelis was your age, when we were in the Gulf, she had a really good friend, a Canadian girl—but it would be good if you had a few more friends from your own background. Okay? " The referee had gone down with a head-butt to the nuts in the first thirty seconds, so it was only when the decibel count exceeded the mundane Varanasi traffic roar that security heads-upped, guns-downed, and came running.

But no one took it up and the man soon stopped. But there was another voice, hectoring and badgering, the voice of Schoolmistress Mawji laboring up the path with a lathi cane. "Get down from there, you stupid stupid men! " Everyone looked for the story on the evening news, but bigger, flashier things were happening in Allahabad and Mirzapur; a handful of contras eliminated in an unplace like Ahraura did not rate a line. But that night Sanjeev became Number One Robot Fan. He cut out pictures from the papers and those pro-Bharat propaganda mags that survived Ahraura's omnivorous cows.

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