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Our top 10 Roger Daltrey songs list presents some of the best Roger Daltrey songs outside of his work with the band The Who. It’s pretty much a no-brainer that when one thinks of the voice of Roger Daltrey‚ one thinks of The Who. The sound‚ the look‚ and the persona of Roger Daltrey will forever be connected to the band The Who. The legendary band The Who is one of the greatest rock and roll bands ever. For a short time‚ the band was fueled by four very distinct personalities in the musicianship of Pete Townshend‚ Roger Daltrey‚ John The post Top 10 Roger Daltrey Songs From His Solo Albums appeared first on ClassicRockHistory.com.

By screening billions of human antibodies‚ scientists may have taken the first steps towards developing a universal antivenom for snakebites. Their screen identified one which counteracts a protein in venom found in a variety of snakes including king cobras and black mambas. Researchers at Scripps Research Institute then found that the antibody protected mice against […] The post Scientists Find Potential Universal Antivenom to Treat Snakebites‚ from Kraits to King Cobras. appeared first on Good News Network.

From Grand Rapids comes a story too magical to believe—of a mother’s love creating a medical miracle‚ and a woman who cared for a comatose daughter in silence for half a decade. Jennifer Flewellen was 35 when‚ according to a feature on Good Morning America‚ she was put into a medically induced coma after crashing […] The post Mom’s Love Helps Woman Wake from Coma after 5 years appeared first on Good News Network.

Book Recommendations Dissecting the Dark Descent The Call Is Coming From Inside the House: “If Damon Comes” by Charles L. Grant A family tragedy‚ a foggy night‚ and a father wracked with guilt… By Sam Reader | Published on February 27‚ 2024 icon-comment 0 Share New Share Twitter Facebook Pinterest RSS Feed Welcome back to Dissecting The Dark Descent‚ where we lovingly delve into the guts of David Hartwell’s seminal 1987 anthology story by story‚ and in the process‚ explore the underpinnings of a genre we all love. For a more in-depth introduction‚ here’s the intro post. Charles L. Grant is best remembered for his work as an anthologist and author of short stories‚ creating his own fictional universe with Oxrun Station‚ a Connecticut town that acted as a suburb of New York and a nexus of supernatural phenomena‚ with influence so far-reaching that it can be seen in movies and even video games (most obviously Silent Hill). “If Damon Comes” is one of the more famous Oxrun stories‚ an eerie‚ cold tale about the disintegration of a family and the terrifying haunting that comes in its wake. While Hartwell places it in his “moral-allegorical” category‚ that placement does Grant a disservice. Rather than focus on some “moral calculus” or punishment of evil‚ the justice meted out in “If Damon Comes” is internal—the main character is punished more for his guilt and inability to process or confront his emotions‚ and his inevitable doom comes from how he punishes himself. It’s intimate‚ it’s psychological‚ and it’s a brilliant moral twist on a gothic tragedy.   Frank and Susan live with their son Damon in the small Connecticut town of Oxrun Station‚ where Frank buries himself in his work as a lawyer and Susan has a nightly job as a lounge singer that sees her only returning home to sleep. Damon is a peculiar child; his eight years have been marked by an unnerving number of pet deaths and two stillborn siblings; he prefers to spend all his time with Frank to the degree that he stalks his father all over town and suffers emotional distress when they’re separated. Frank‚ to his credit‚ loves Damon‚ and tries to provide a safe environment for his son‚ but that fragile home life shatters when Damon follows his father one night and sees him drunkenly kiss another woman at a party. This one moment‚ and Frank’s guilt over the act‚ sends the family spiraling out of control. As the family is pulled apart‚ Frank and Susan’s tug of war over Damon results in a tragic accident and the loss of their son—except that even after his demise‚ Frank sees Damon following him in the fog‚ growing ever closer. Dead or not‚ it appears Damon still wants to be with his father. Damon is still coming home. The element that makes the outcome of “If Damon Comes” more tragic than justified is that Frank isn’t a monster and doesn’t deserve his eventual fate. He’s not a saint‚ obviously—over the course of the story he makes multiple chauvinistic remarks‚ he hits Susan‚ and the catalyst for his paranoid spiral is kissing another woman and then getting caught by his son. He’s also immediately shocked and horrified that he laid hands on Susan (although his remorse doesn’t undo the harm of his actions). As a father‚ he shows genuine affection and empathy for Damon to the point that the kid is devoted to him‚ and tortures himself with his own guilt over momentarily straying from his family while letting his son down. Despite his constant protestations that he’s an awful person‚ that he never really loved Damon or Susan or any of Damon’s pets‚ he’s also the one person in the story (including Damon) that shows any concern or care towards Damon. Even at the start of the story when we first encounter Frank‚  he’s out wandering Oxrun searching for Damon’s stray cat. The thing that comes for Frank at the end of the story might take Damon’s shape‚ but it’s a monster borne of Frank’s own guilt and torment‚ punishing him for his perceived sins. It’s an internal judgment‚ a self-inflicted castigation rather than an external one. Franks sins and weaknesses are less important (and arguably less harmful) than how Frank reacts to his own bad behavior. Rather than apologize to Susan for hitting her‚ or talk to Damon about how he kissed another woman in front of him‚ or engage with his son about Damon’s continuous loss of pets and dependence on his father‚ Frank instead prefers to withdraw from conflict‚ flagellating himself with his own guilt rather than confronting his problems. He fears a loss of stability‚ but the way he projects his shame and guilt onto Damon creates a world where that’s the inevitable outcome. When Damon finally tells Frank that he told Susan about the other woman Frank kissed‚ he seems more apologetic and innocent than Frank’s projection of guilt predicted he would be. Frank is utterly terrified he’ll be punished but welcomes the idea that he deserves that punishment. He is selfish and cowardly in his guilt‚ ignoring the actual situation and instead forcing his internal world on the people and environment around him. Whatever force is in the fog‚ the ghostly Damon that stalks Frank as ardently as his son used to merely finalizes the punishment Frank’s already meted out to himself.   One question remains‚ though—in the grand scheme of the story‚ where is Damon? His mother isn’t interested in him‚ she’s only interested in ticking boxes and making sure he’s living out her definition of “normal.” His father‚ for all the love he shows‚ is doing what he does partly out of atonement for his perceived guilt. While it might be Frank’s guilt that torments him in the form of Damon’s presence‚ it’s the selfishness of both parents and their lack of interest in Damon as a human being that kills him. No one in “If Damon Comes” acknowledges the humanity of the other characters‚ and a boy whose only failing was his need to be loved dies because of it. Perhaps that’s another reason the spirit in the fog chose to torment Frank using Damon‚ because the power struggle between his parents destroyed him as sure as any walk through the cold. Hartwell’s assessment of the story places it in his “moral-allegorical” stream‚ but the idea that Frank is judged for his sins by an external force (as Hartwell describes moral allegory) rings false. Frank‚ in his guilt and selfishness‚ has already judged himself—to borrow one of horror fans’ favorite phrases‚ the call is coming from inside the house. Damon’s ghost is merely meting out what Frank believes is the appropriate punishment for Damon’s death and his own moral failings. It’s tragic‚ it’s inevitable‚ and worst of all‚ the only person who wanted it to happen was Frank.   Now over to you: How did you first find Charles L. Grant? What’s a good collection to start getting into Oxrun Station? And‚ given the setting of this tale‚ can you think of other favorite stories about weird events unfolding in fog and darkness? And please join us in two weeks as we dissect the final story in Part 1 of The Dark Descent with Manly Wade Wellman’s “Vandy‚ Vandy.”[end-mark] The post The Call Is Coming From Inside the House: “If Damon Comes” by Charles L. Grant appeared first on Reactor.

News The Watchers Who’s Looking at Dakota Fanning? The Watchers Trailer Suggests It’s No One Good The adaptation of A.M. Shine’s horror novel may make us all claustrophobic. By Vanessa Armstrong | Published on February 27‚ 2024 icon-comment 0 Share New Share Twitter Facebook Pinterest RSS Feed Who’s ready for some creepy‚ living-in-a-fishbowl vibes interlarded with what sounds like the eerie warblings of a theremin? If you’ve raised your hand‚ then The Watchers‚ a film adaptation of A.M. Shine’s eponymous horror novel‚ might be the movie for you.  The adaptation comes from writer-director Ishana Night Shyamalan and is produced by her father‚ the veteran horror filmmaker M. Night Shyamalan. Warner Bros. released a trailer of the film today‚ which captures a claustrophobic retro aesthetic (shout out here to composer Abel Korzeniowski‚ assuming what we hear in the trailer is a sampling of the score for the film). The clip also teases invisible‚ sinister beings who like to watch people trapped in a literal glass house (well‚ one wall at least) in the woods.  What exactly is going on? The trailer is purposefully opaque about that‚ beyond conveying that things aren’t great for the humans trapped inside.  Here’s the official synopsis‚ which doesn’t give us much more to go on: Mina‚ a 28-year-old artist‚ gets stranded in an expansive‚ untouched forest in western Ireland. When Mina finds shelter‚ she unknowingly becomes trapped alongside three strangers who are watched and stalked by mysterious creatures each night.You can’t see them‚ but they see everything. The Watchers stars Dakota Fanning (Once Upon a Time in Hollywood) as Mina‚ as well as Georgina Campbell (Barbarian‚ Suspicion)‚ Oliver Finnegan (Creeped Out‚ Outlander)‚ and Olwen Fouere (The Northman). We can all watch them ourselves when the movie premieres in theaters in North America on June 7‚ 2024.  Check out the trailer below.[end-mark] The post Who’s Looking at Dakota Fanning? <;i>;The Watchers<;/i>; Trailer Suggests It’s No One Good appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts Space Opera Read an Excerpt From L.M. Sagas’ Cascade Failure A fierce‚ messy‚ chaotic space family‚ vibrant worlds‚ and an exploration of the many ways to be—and not to be—human… By L.M. Sagas | Published on February 27‚ 2024 icon-comment 0 Share New Share Twitter Facebook Pinterest RSS Feed We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from L.M. Sagas’ debut Cascade Failure by L.M. Sagas‚ a high-octane‚ sci-fi adventure out from Tor Books on March 19. There are only three real powers in the Spiral: the corporate power of the Trust versus the Union’s labor’s leverage. Between them the Guild tries to keep everyone’s hands above the table. It ain’t easy.Branded a Guild deserter‚ Jal “accidentally” lands a ride on a Guild ship. Helmed by an AI‚ with a ship’s engineer/medic who doesn’t see much of a difference between the two jobs‚ and a “don’t make me shoot you” XO‚ the Guild crew of the Ambit is a little… different.They’re also in over their heads. Responding to a distress call from an abandoned planet‚ they find a mass grave‚ and a live programmer who knows how it happened. The Trust has plans. This isn’t the first dead planet‚ and it’s not going to be the last.Unless the crew of the Ambit can stop it. JAL Somewhere in Jal’s file was a note from an old crewmate that read‚ Jalsen Red will either be the reason you die‚ or the reason you live. Good fucking luck. With a love letter like that on his record‚ he should’ve figured pretty quick that his Guild career was on the fast track to nowhere. Would’ve saved a lot of folks a lot of grief‚ but Jal just wasn’t made to be a thinker. Wasn’t in his DNA. They’d seen to that. Just as well. If he thought too much about what he was doing‚ he’d just as likely turn back the way he came; hop that rickety old shuttle back to the ass-end of the O-Cyg spiral‚ away from the hustle and bustle of the outpost. That was what a thinking sort of man would’ve done. Jal ducked his head and kept walking‚ glancing around the hangar through a dirt-brown mess of shaggy hair that had gone too many days without a washing. Must’ve been a dozen ships there—rows of shiny hulls and top-of-the-line gear‚ idling on docks suspended fifty-some-odd decs above an airlock. He paused by the rail to look down as one of the doors lurched apart with the groan of well-used metal‚ coughing up another shuttle with the Trust’s big‚ embellished T stamped on each side‚ up top‚ and just about everywhere else they could stick it. Shit‚ probably would’ve stamped it inside the plumbing‚ if they thought anybody’d ever see it. It was all about the brand. The Trust was the centuries-old answer to what always seemed to Jal to be a pretty stupid question: What would happen if we let a bunch of big-money business types go out and settle space? No governments‚ no oversight‚ just carte-goddamn-blanche to claim and build and grow as they pleased. A handful of corporations spreading like fungus in the black‚ swallowing each other and anything smaller than them‚ until everything was smaller than them. As long as Jal’d been alive‚ they’d been the only game in town. Newcomers‚ he thought. Only ships coming out of the center of the spiral ever looked that nice. The ones headed outward‚ deeper into the frontier circles‚ had taken a few more knocks in their time‚ carting prospectors and workers out to make their fortune in the next cluster of newly terraformed planets. He tipped his head in a half-assed salute and pushed off the rail. Best of luck to you. God willing‚ they’d find better luck out there than he had. Back into the crowd. He’d have to get used to that again— all the people. Merchants and mechanics hawking their wares‚ pushing their carts down gangways barely wider than Jal’s arm span. Crews out stretching their legs before their next trip. It didn’t matter how much he tucked his shoulders and hugged the rails; he still got bumped into and jostled and mean-mugged for his trouble. Halogen lights burned above like hundreds of white dwarfs‚ stinging his eyes through the shaded lenses of his specs. So bright‚ and so busy‚ and so blaring‚ and if he let himself focus on all of it‚ get drawn into the sights and sounds and scents of being surrounded by so many strangers in a strange new place‚ he’d forget how to breathe. But. He’d come this far‚ gotten this close. Closer to the center of the spiral‚ closer to civilization‚ closer to home. He could keep going a little while longer‚ to hell with the rest. Head down‚ keep moving—he was good at that. Down the gangway a few rows‚ he spotted a ship with its cargo bay door down‚ engines running. Contestant number one. Running engines meant they’d just gotten in‚ or they were just leaving‚ and judging by the couple of guys slow-walking their way back up the ramp‚ he leaned toward the latter. “You got need of an extra hand?” he said under his breath. He’d practiced it so many times on the shuttle ride in that he’d lost count‚ but hadn’t yet had occasion for an audience. Shuttle rides to the outpost were cheap—handful of caps would cover the fare‚ though a meal and legroom would cost you extra— but heading any farther inward was a pocket-emptying sort of enterprise‚ and Jal’s pockets had nothing but lint. Leave rich or stay poor: those were the options‚ out in the frontier. The last one just never seemed to make it into the ads. His gut was in a weaver’s knot as he came up on the ship‚ mouth gone dry and sour. “You got need of an extra hand?” he croaked out again‚ voice breaking in the middle. Yeah‚ fine‚ he was rusty. Hadn’t said much to another person in years that wasn’t yessir and no sir and fuck you‚ sir. Although ’scuse me was making its way back into his vocabulary with gusto. “You got need—” A flash of gray paint above the wing of the ship stopped him in his tracks. Too abruptly‚ it turned out‚ because a slip of a woman in coveralls bounced off his back with a curse so colorful he might’ve laughed under different circumstances. Instead‚ he barely managed to rasp out one of those “’scuse me”s as she strode on past‚ light glinting off the fine polymer filaments woven into her dark braids. An augmented? You didn’t see a lot of Biomech out this far. He couldn’t have stopped and asked her anyway. She was too far down the gangway‚ for one; and for two‚ that weaver’s knot seemed to have lodged itself in his throat. A flag. Just a stupid painted flag‚ gray against the hull’s sleek silver and emblazoned with a spiral of white stars‚ but Jal’s heart still stumbled over the next few beats. It was the banner for the Guild—two parts paramilitary‚ one part gig economy. Thousands of different crews in thousands of different ships taking thousands of different jobs from the Guild-sanctioned postings‚ all bound up together with a simple guiding principle: the neutral preservation of life. Felt like a lifetime since he’d worn that flag on his shoulder. He’d have happily gone another lifetime without seeing it again. Shit. He cut left‚ angling away from the Guild ship and down the gangway. Had they seen him? He didn’t risk a glance back‚ cutting his way through the crowd as quick as he could without drawing attention. “Refurbed cables!” barked a merchant from a cart piled high with coils of wire. Which‚ Jal had learned‚ was just a fancy way of saying stolen. Lifted from ships when nobody was looking‚ identifiers buffed off and cleaned up so nobody’d know them from the rest of the pile. “Half the price‚ just as nice!” The woman he’d bumped into‚ the augmented in the coveralls‚ picked over the stacks of cables with a disinterested eye. Not really shopping‚ just killing time—waiting for somebody‚ maybe‚ and she didn’t even look at Jal as he slipped past. Not you‚ either‚ he thought‚ passing a shiny-hulled shipping vessel with its cargo door dropped. No Guild flag in sight‚ but she was loaded to the gills‚ and a pair of merchants squabbled on the dock over who saw her first‚ so they must’ve seen some serious scratch from whoever that ship belonged to. Only folks out there with capital like that were with the Trust‚ and he’d just as soon avoid them‚ too. He passed a few more like that‚ ducking between carts and crews with his hands in his pockets and his duffel on his shoulder‚ trying not to squint at the sting of the lights. His specs‚ like the rest of him‚ had seen better days: scratched lenses‚ thinning tint‚ and a strap hanging on by about four threads and a prayer. Not a lot of opportunities to fix them up‚ where he’d been. “You got need of an extra hand?” he repeated to himself. It’d turned into a mantra‚ of sorts. A meditation. Keep your eyes on the next foothold‚ his mama used to tell him. The rest is just noise. There was just so much of it‚ though. The noise. He used to love crowds—the snatches of conversations‚ the new faces. Windows into the lives of total strangers that made the universe feel big and small at the same time. Now‚ though‚ the busyness of the hangar chafed at him. Made his head ache and his teeth grind‚ and as he passed the next shipping rig in the line‚ there was that fucking flag again. Half the crew stood outside it‚ staring straight at the walkway. No way they miss me. But if he stopped‚ doubled back‚ he could draw their attention‚ and he’d just be headed straight back to the other Guild ship. Do something. He was running out of time. Another dozen steps‚ and he’d be in front of them. Do something. Buy the Book Cascade Failure L.M. Sagas Buy Book icon-close Cascade Failure L.M. Sagas Buy this book from: AmazonBarnes and NobleiBooksIndieBoundTarget And then‚ out of the corner of his eye‚ he saw it. There. The noise faded‚ and for a blissful half second‚ all he heard was the soft pneumatic hiss of a dropping cargo bay door. A smile kissed the corner of his chapped‚ chewed-raw lips. In a hangar full of sparkling newness‚ the old gyreskimmer perched in the next slip was like a glimpse back through time. They’d been decommissioned back when Jal was still picking up rocks on his home moon‚ but somehow‚ this one had dodged the scrap fields and made her way clear out to the pioneer rings. Bet you’ve got some stories to tell. And best of all‚ he reckoned none of them involved the Guild. GS 31–770 Ambit was the only designation on the hull‚ painted and repainted above one wing. No flag‚ no shine‚ no slick-tongued merchants with the gleam of caps in their eyes. Not the prettiest thing to look at—the kind of classic that was only three rusted bolts away from scrap‚ with mismatched parts and a half-dozen layers of paint showing through nicks and scratches—but somebody’d taken care of her where it mattered. Sleek-cut lines like a phosphomoth midflight and engine thrumming so steady and smooth it could’ve been a lullaby. Old or not‚ that ship was likely as fit to glide through the black as any craft in that hangar. Which did fuck-all to loosen his shoulders as he peeked through the open cargo door. No movement inside‚ at least none that he could make out‚ and eyes like his didn’t miss much. We really doing this? The duffel on his shoulder said yes‚ but the weight on his chest said on second thought‚ twenty-eight’s awful old for leaps of faith. He’d never been too keen on ship living‚ as a matter of principle and proportion—they didn’t tend to build deckheads with heights like his in mind—but he couldn’t even look inside of one lately without his intestines twisting themselves up like bootlaces. Just didn’t seem like he had another choice. Least this coffin’s got character‚ he thought‚ and with a sigh in his throat and a shudder threatening the top of his spine‚ Jal started up the ramp. Tall son of a bitch that he was‚ squeezing into the close quarters of a ship had never been easy‚ but this one felt tighter than most. Low-slung wires dragged across the top of his head as he ducked into a cargo bay so short he could nearly flatten his palms against the ceiling‚ and barely wide enough for a rover and a couple weeks’ worth of supply crates. Not a long trip‚ then. Good. He hoped they were headed the right direction. “’Scuse me‚” he called as he moved deeper into the bay‚ fingers skimming along the top of the rover‚ but he didn’t get an answer. Didn’t seem likely the whole crew would disembark without locking their ship up nice and tight‚ especially in the frontier‚ but there had to be some reason the door had dropped. He didn’t hear anyone moving around inside‚ so he cleared his throat and tried again. “Excuse me?” A sudden‚ familiar hiss sounded behind him‚ and he turned in time to watch the hatch rise. Moved too quick for him to beat it‚ but just slow enough for Jal to think‚ Well‚ that can’t be good‚ before the last sliver of light from the hangar shrank from view. There was a certain kind of finality in the click of the locks and the ear-popping pressure of a new atmo system kicking on‚ as if to say‚ You’re stuck now‚ boy. “Out-fucking-standing.” He kicked the door‚ once‚ steel-toed boots against a metal much‚ much harder. She was built solid‚ that old ship‚ and for want of a code for that door panel‚ he figured he wasn’t getting out the way he came in. The rest is just noise. His pulse pattered on the back of his tongue‚ sweat gathering under the layered collars of his ratty button-up and refurbed blue coat. He straightened his back and turned away from the hatch‚ eyes on an open doorway on the other side of the cargo bay. Either he’d find a way out‚ or he’d find whoever crewed the ship—whichever way‚ it’d serve him better than standing there‚ beating on a three-dec-deep hunk of metal and screaming himself blue. Nice folks‚ nice folks‚ nice folks. A new mantra‚ fingers crossed at his sides because you never regretted the luck you didn’t need. Please be nice folks. They kept a homy ship‚ at least—much homier on the inside than the outside. He passed the makeshift gym tucked into the corner of the cargo bay‚ with a punching bag and weights all packed up nice and tight in case the gravity got shifty. A toolbox sat against the wall‚ wrenches nestled side by side with bags of dried fruits and wafers in case whoever was working got peckish‚ and Jal’s stomach gave an impatient snarl to remind him it’d been nearly a day since anything’d passed his lips but water. Colorful little hand-knit creatures watched him from the top of the box with seed bead eyes as he ducked through the doorway and into a narrow hall. Somebody’d painted the walls. Not the plain old white or beige or gray the manufacturers usually slapped on the walls to hide the metal underneath—this was some kind of soft blue‚ or maybe lavender? He was shit with colors‚ and his specs didn’t help. Everything looked a little greener through the tint. “Hello?” He peeked into an open door to his right. Sick bay was his guess‚ less from the bed and sparse setup of equipment‚ and more from the sharp stink of antiseptic. An alcove sat opposite the sick bay‚ with an open porthole and a ladder plunging down into the belly of the ship‚ but he didn’t hear anything coming from below‚ so he walked past. Between hanging planters and covered bulbs‚ loose string tapestries hung on the walls. He’d never seen anything quite like them‚ some woven together in patterns too abstract to guess and some streaked with phosphorous strands that glowed against the rest. The glowing ones reminded him of the augmented’s hair‚ pops of bright against the dark. He fought the urge to touch them‚ to wind them around his fingers‚ but nothing ever felt as soft as it looked. Ahead‚ the hallway forked around one more room‚ and Jal knew before he even looked inside that it was the galley—a spartan kitchen setup on the near left wall‚ shelves stacked along the others. He probably could’ve spat from one doorway‚ cleared the four-top in the middle of the room‚ and hit the door on the other side. Small but lived-in; ship had a theme‚ and—fuck‚ were those apples on the shelf? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had fruit that didn’t come out of a sealed foil pack. His mouth watered‚ and the low-grade headache he’d been ignoring gave a quick spike behind his eyes. Fasting was right up there with thinking on the list of things he wasn’t designed for‚ and it took every ounce of his self-control not to swipe himself some breakfast. Dinner? Hard to keep track of time with all the traveling. Hard to keep track of much of anything. He was halfway through the galley when something darted out from the shelves. Dark and small—barely shin height—and so quick he couldn’t make out what it was as it streaked past his legs. Some kind of animal‚ maybe? Startled the shit out of him‚ whatever it was. He stumbled back and nearly knocked a potted plant off the middle of the table‚ peering off in the direction the blur had darted. Toward the bridge‚ he thought‚ if he hadn’t gotten turned around‚ but a dividing wall blocked the view from the galley. On his side of the wall‚ somebody’d put up a glass board‚ and what looked like years’ worth of paint pen marks had been scribbled‚ erased‚ and scribbled over again. Little notes like add nori to req list and fed bodie this morning‚ the asshole is lying‚ and in a different hand‚ NO SPARE PARTS IN THE GALLEY. He paused over the last line‚ angling his head. The straight‚ heavy lines looked vaguely familiar; he nearly read them in a different voice. Gruffer‚ to-the-point‚ like— “Something I can help you with?” Jal jumped again‚ like a flea on a hot plate. Twice in as many minutes. The fuck is up with this ship? People didn’t sneak up on Jal. People were noisy‚ even when they tried to be quiet— sometimes especially when they tried to be quiet. They also smelled. Good or bad‚ they always smelled‚ and he’d never in his life been in the room with another human being and not known it. And yet. A whole-ass person stood in the doorway of the galley‚ so close he could’ve reached out and touched them if he hadn’t been too busy backing into the glass panel. First time for everything. Wry was better than panicky‚ but his muscles had already tensed to bolt. The stranger smiled pleasantly enough‚ standing in the doorway like they’d been there the whole time. Close-cropped hair and proud shoulders‚ round features shaped in a patient smile. Their clothes flowed like water over their skin‚ silken robes in fluorite shades of blues and greens and purples that somehow looked vibrant even through Jal’s specs. For a beat‚ all he could think about was the way their skin caught the lights‚ like a clear night’s sky dusted with stars‚ but even that wasn’t right. Didn’t do them justice. Theirs was the kind of beautiful that words didn’t quite grasp—not the kinds of words Jal knew‚ at least. His world hadn’t had much use for poetry. Or for pretty things. For lack of anything better to say‚ he swallowed hard and asked‚ “You got need of an extra hand?” Do better. He’d practiced this. “I’m a good worker.” That part was true. “Don’t bring any trouble with me.” That part wasn’t. “All I need’s a meal a day and passage to your next stop‚ wherever it is.” Long as it was closer to the interior‚ it didn’t much matter to him. The stranger arched an eyebrow‚ still smiling that inscrutable smile. “Who couldn’t use a bit more help every now and again?” Their voice‚ a clear middle tone as pleasant as their smile‚ somehow seemed to be coming from everywhere. Above him. Behind him. “But I think we could do better than a meal a day‚ Mister…” they trailed off‚ expectantly. “Tegan‚” he said. He’d practiced that‚ too. My name’s Tegan. Call me Tegan. Tegan‚ Tegan‚ Tegan. The stranger’s nose gave the faintest wrinkle‚ but it disappeared so quickly Jal thought he might’ve imagined it. “Welcome aboard‚” they said. “I’m Captain Eoan.” Oh-ahn‚ deliberately‚ like they didn’t expect people to get it right. I know that name. He couldn’t remember where he’d heard it‚ but he swore he knew it. Why do I know that name? Something felt strange about that ship. Something was wrong. Eoan extended a hand from the trim of their flowing robes‚ and Jal‚ too flustered to do anything else‚ reached out to shake it. Or try to‚ at least. His fingers passed straight through. Static pricked his palm‚ charged particles suspended where skin and bone should’ve been. No heat‚ no cold‚ just a current that stood the hairs on his arm on end. Eoan’s dark eyes laughed. “Figure it out?” they asked‚ and once again‚ it sounded like they’d had this conversation a time or two. It was another first for Jal‚ but though he never claimed to be the sharpest pick in the mine‚ he liked to think he wasn’t the dullest‚ either. “You’re AI.” “Less of the A‚ if you don’t mind‚” Eoan replied‚ still smiling. “You of all people ought to know that being engineered and being authentic aren’t mutually exclusive.” A chill washed down the back of his neck‚ sinking between the blades of his shoulders like a cold rain. “Me of all people‚” he echoed past the tightness in his throat. “All due respect‚ Captain‚ you don’t know me.” “I suppose that’s true‚” they said‚ thoughtfully‚ and damned if Jal couldn’t hear the but coming before their lips ever shaped the word. “But I know your name isn’t Tegan. And I know that you look very different from your enlistment photo. Gone a bit long in the hair‚ haven’t we‚ Ranger Jalsen?” They held out their hand‚ and his face—his enlistment photo— appeared above their palm. It was like looking at a stranger‚ or maybe at a ghost. At the base of the photo‚ around his shoulders‚ scrolled a bright orange banner. DESERTED Jal’s mouth went dry‚ fingertips tingling as his blood started pumping to more useful places. Heart. Lungs. Legs. You’re wrong‚ he wanted to say. You’ve got me confused with somebody else. But he couldn’t find the words‚ or the air to speak them. They know. It was a trap. They saw me‚ and they opened the door‚ and they fucking know. Except knowing was only half the problem; it was how they could’ve known. Scanned his face or ran his prints‚ that part wasn’t too tricky. But to match them to his enlistment record? The only folks who had access to Guild records were— No. “Captain Eoan.” It sounded like someone else speaking‚ someone far away and muffled by the roar of blood in his ears. He had recognized that name‚ though it felt like a lifetime ago that he’d seen it on his transfer request form‚ right next to that damning red DENIED. “Guild Captain Eoan.” “The one and only‚ as far as I’m aware.” His lungs wouldn’t expand in his chest‚ heart beating against his ribs so hard it ached. Jal glanced down the hallway. Fewer doors meant fewer chances for Eoan to block him in; he could make a break for it. Run‚ he thought. Fucking run. Because the way he saw it‚ the only way out of the minefield he’d strolled into was his own two legs and a hell of a lot of distance. He’d deal with the door when he got there. Somehow. “Please‚ don’t‚” said Eoan‚ as if they knew. Too late. He was already halfway down the hallway‚ banking off the corner where the hall curved around the mess. His boot treads were long gone‚ but the floor’s diamond texture kept his feet under him as he sped toward the cargo bay. Eoan flickered into place a few decs down the hall from him. “Please‚ Ranger Jalsen. There’s really no reason—” That projection blinked out as Jal ran through it‚ and another one blinked into place by the sickroom door. “—to leave in such a rush. If we—” Past another one‚ and the next appeared in the doorway to the cargo bay‚ expression flat. “—could only take a moment to discuss‚ I’m sure we could get it all sorted—” Jal had just hit the end of the hall when that telltale pneumatic hiss from the hatch echoed through the cargo bay. A blade of blue-white light appeared as the door opened‚ casting shapes across the crates. People-shaped blurs approached up the gangway‚ and Jal skidded to a halt by the rover with a sick lurch in his stomach. “There you are‚” Eoan said from all around him. He didn’t see their projection anymore‚ but he was too busy watching the door. The blurs became people again as his eyes adjusted to the brightness‚ and damned if it wasn’t the woman from the gangway again‚ with the grease-smudged coveralls and raven plaits. She wasn’t alone. Beside her stood a man‚ easily as tall as Jal but built much sturdier. Silver streaked his short hair and beard‚ though his forties were still a few years ahead of him‚ and his shoulders were the kind of wide that made you think they’d borne their share of burdens and then some. Jal could tell the moment they saw him. The woman cocked her head with the most fuck you‚ fuck this‚ fuck’re you doing here look he’d ever seen‚ and the man— CRACK! The crate the man had been holding had dropped from his hands‚ old wood splintering on impact and contents scattering like confetti across the floor. Potatoes. Carrots. Every-color citrus‚ and produce Jal didn’t even recognize. A head of something leafy came rolling toward him‚ bouncing off the tip of his boot as the rest of the cargo bay stood still. “You.” Jal knew that voice‚ hoarse as it was. Knew it like he’d known the handwriting on the wall‚ like he knew the green-brown eyes gone wide under furrowed brows‚ like he knew the calluses on the hands stretched out like they still had something to hold. Huh‚ he thought‚ errantly‚ with a fist squeezing around his quick-beating heart. You got gray‚ old man. Then he ran. Sprang forward‚ launching himself up the hood of the rover‚ vaulting across its roof‚ and sliding down off the back square between the two newcomers. It’s not him‚ whispered a desperate little voice from the depths of his head‚ struggling up from under a wave of run‚ run‚ run that threatened to drag it under. It can’t be him. Out onto the too-bright gangway. Tears stung his eyes‚ white stars bursting across all those shiny hulls and strangers with someplace else to go. “Stop!” That voice again. Damn that voice. It wasn’t supposed to be there. How the fuck could it be there? And on and on went those frantic little whispers in his head‚ not him‚ not him‚ not him. “Goddamn it‚ Jal!” His name. Of all the stupid things that could’ve damned him‚ it was the sound of his own name in that grit-and-gunshot voice that did it. He stumbled on his next step—runners like him didn’t stumble‚ didn’t slow‚ didn’t stop‚ but he did. His outsoles caught on thin air a few decs down the gangway‚ that fist around his heart clamping down until he swore his pulse stopped dead. His name‚ punctuated by the crack of charged air‚ was Jal’s only warning. The last thing Jal felt before the world dropped out from under him was a slug between his shoulders and the most terrible sense of déjà vu. Excerpted from Cascade Failure‚ copyright © 2024 by L.M. Sagas. The post Read an Excerpt From L.M. Sagas’ <;em>;Cascade Failure<;/em>; appeared first on Reactor.

News Curfew Curfew‚ a Series Where Men Aren’t Allowed Out at Night‚ Is Coming to Paramount+ Stars of Doctor Who‚ Stay Close‚ and Mayflies lead the upcoming sci-fi thriller. By Vanessa Armstrong | Published on February 27‚ 2024 icon-comment 0 Share New Share Twitter Facebook Pinterest RSS Feed Paramount+ has greenlit the production of a U.K. thriller series called Curfew‚ which stars Doctor Who’s Mandip Gill (pictured above)‚ Sarah Parish (Stay Close)‚ Mitchell Robertson (Mayflies)‚ and singer Alexandra Burke (Sister Act).  According to Deadline‚ the premise of the series is suggested by its title: Men‚ living under what’s called “The Women’s Safety Act‚” aren’t allowed to walk about from the hours of 7:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. and are monitored at all times by an ankle tag. That doesn’t stop a police officer named Pamela Green (Parish)‚ however‚ from believing that the person who murdered a woman during curfew and left the body in front of the Women’s Safety Centre is a man.  While Parish appears to be playing the protagonist of the series‚ we also know that Mitchell is playing a young police officer named Eddie who is Pamela’s partner for the investigation‚ Burke is taking on the role of a school teacher who is pro-curfew‚ and Gill’s character is a woman named Sarah who works at the male tagging center that’s somehow entangled in the murder.  In case you missed what’s being explored here‚ producer Nathalie Peter-Contesse told Deadline that Curfew is a “provocative and thrilling show that aims to contribute to the important conversation around violence against women.” No news on when the series will stream on Paramount+‚ although we do know that Lydia Yeoman (The Haze) is the lead writer on the show and Joasia Goldyn (Britannia) is directing the episodes. Other writers include Jess Green (EastEnders)‚ who will tackle the third episode‚ and Sumerah Srivastav (Manifest)‚ who will pen the fifth.[end-mark] The post Curfew‚ a Series Where Men Aren’t Allowed Out at Night‚ Is Coming to Paramount+ appeared first on Reactor.

The names Charles Manson‚ Joseph Stalin‚ and Jim Jones are infamous throughout the world for the unthinkable actions of the people tied to them. While society sees them as monsters‚ some pictures see them in a different light‚ an almost innocent light. Although smiles‚ laughter‚ childhood portraits‚ and even family photos don't take away what these people did‚ it is interesting to see them doing... Source

President Joe Biden’s fitness to stand trial and his fitness to serve as president are not comparable standards‚ the forensic psychiatrist who led the movement to oust Donald Trump from the presidency via the 25th Amendment contends. Dr. Bandy X. Lee‚ who edited “The Dangerous Case of Donald Trump: 37 Psychiatrists and Mental Health Experts Assess a President‚” first released in 2017‚ said earlier this month that she did not judge Biden’s cognitive decline to be a danger to his service as a president.  Last week‚ several Republican lawmakers responded to her comments‚ with many alleging a “double standard” for judgments of Trump and Biden.  In a detailed email sent Friday to The Daily Signal‚ Lee responded to both GOP lawmakers’ comments and The Daily Signal’s coverage of her comments in what she called “too many misconceptions” by lawmakers and in the news story.  The investigative report that special counsel Robert Hur released on Feb. 8 looking into Biden’s mishandling of classified documents said Biden “willfully retained and disclosed classified materials after his vice presidency when he was a private citizen” at his home and office.  However‚ Hur said he would not seek charges because Biden would appear to a jury to be an “elderly man with a poor memory” and because his “diminished faculties” make it less likely he intentionally violated the law. “Robert Hur is not a mental health professional‚ and he commented on capacity to stand trial‚ not capacity to serve‚” Lee told The Daily Signal in the detailed email.  Several Republican lawmakers have made the comparison of Biden’s capacity to stand trial and his ability to do the job of president.  Among those lawmakers‚ Rep. Claudia Tenney‚ R-N.Y.‚ argued‚ “Either President Biden is fit to stand trial‚ or he is unfit to serve as president. There is no middle ground.” Lee‚ who has worked for Yale‚ Columbia‚ and Harvard‚ responded‚ “On the contrary‚ fitness to stand trial and fitness to serve are two different standards.” West Virginia Attorney General Patrick Morrisey‚ a Republican‚ made a similar comment to Tenney‚ to which Lee said‚ “Actually‚ you can [compare fitness to stand trial versus fitness to serve as president]‚ because they are two different standards.” Lee insisted that she and other mental health professionals conducted an evaluation of special counsel Robert Mueller’s 2019 report and determined Trump was not fit to be president. Mueller investigated allegations of a conspiracy between Trump and Russia to interfere with the 2016 presidential election. Lee disagreed with a statement from a previous Daily Signal story on Wednesday that “Neither Trump nor Biden were evaluated by medical professionals for mental fitness‚” which was meant to convey that neither man was personally examined. She contends the review of the Mueller report counted as an actual evaluation.  “Again‚ there was a formal mental capacity evaluation done by a panel of the nation’s top mental health experts‚ for which Donald Trump failed every criterion‚” Lee wrote about her colleagues’ and her review of the Mueller report.  While the Mueller report “did not establish that members of the Trump campaign conspired or coordinated with the Russian government in its election interference activities‚” several aspects of the report indicated temperament issues with Trump.  The press release that accompanied Lee’s and her colleagues’ 2017 evaluation said‚ “Without diagnosing‚ these top experts on mental health demonstrate‚ through a standard procedure‚ that the president clearly poses a danger to the nation and the world in his role as commander in chief.” She also responded on Friday to several Republican members of Congress who said there was a “double standard” among the people who called for ousting Trump for supposed mental health reasons but who apparently have no problem with Biden.  In extended comments in her email to The Daily Signal‚ Lee was also dismissive of a cognitive test that Trump took in person while in office. She said this was a 10-minute screening.  “He [Trump] passed a 10-minute cognitive screen by his personal physician who did not have proper qualifications or the training to do a fitness test‚” Lee told The Daily Signal.  Lee is the co-founder of the Violence Prevention Institute and is the president of the World Mental Health Coalition‚ a coalition specifically created to critique Trump’s mental health and author “The Dangerous Case of Donald Trump.” Last week‚ Rep. Mary Miller‚ R-Ill.‚ told The Daily Signal‚ “There has been a glaring double standard. … The same people who questioned President Trump’s mental stamina after he passed a cognitive test are now defending Biden’s mental acuity.” Rep. Mike Collins‚ R-Ga.‚ told The Daily Signal‚ “The only reason you’d refuse a cognitive test is if you can’t pass it.” Lee scoffed at this presumption.  “If he [Collins] is referring to the one Donald Trump passed‚ there is another reason: it would be an insult‚ if not a grave concern‚ for a president to have to take that 10-minute screen (not a full test)‚” Lee wrote in the email.  Referring to another lawmaker’s comment‚ Lee wrote‚ “Again‚ Donald Trump did a 10-minute screen‚ which if he did not pass‚ he would be in a nursing home.” She also noted‚ “That was a 10-minute screen‚ on which hospitalized psychiatric patients get perfect scores.” Lee expressed that she was not happy with how Wednesday’s Daily Signal news story came out. The story included comments from several GOP members of Congress.  “I was told that a publication by The Heritage Foundation would at least be intellectual‚” she said (Heritage is the parent organization of The Daily Signal). “There were just too many misconceptions‚ I had to respond.” She took exception to the story’s reference that she “defended” Biden.  “A psychiatrist does not ‘defend’ a president; she detects (or not) signs of unfitness‚ regardless of person‚” Lee said.  She also disputed the previous Daily Signal stories that said making an assessment of either Trump or Biden without an in-person evaluation could violate the “Goldwater Rule.” Lee countered that it actually “fulfills” the rule.    The “Goldwater Rule” prevents psychologists from offering a “professional opinion unless he or she has conducted an examination and has been granted proper authorization for such a statement.” The American Psychiatric Association adopted the rule after a group of partisan Democratic psychology professionals declared that 1964 Republican presidential candidate Barry Goldwater was “psychologically unfit to be president.”  Lee said her previous evaluation of Trump didn’t violate the rule. “Rather‚ it fulfills the ethical guideline that precedes 7.3 (“the Goldwater Rule”)‚ which is 7.1: ‘Psychiatrists are encouraged to serve society by advising and consulting with the executive‚ legislative‚ and judiciary branches of the government.’” Specifically‚ the 25th Amendment to the Constitution allows for the vice president and a majority of presidential Cabinet secretaries to determine whether a president is physically or mentally unfit to carry out the duties of the office. If the president is deemed unfit‚ the vice president would become acting president on a temporary basis.  Under the amendment‚ Congress could remove the president from office permanently with a two-thirds vote of both the House and Senate. That is a higher bar than for impeachment‚ which requires only a simple majority in the House to vote for impeachment and a referral to the Senate for a trial and possible removal from office. Have an opinion about this article? To sound off‚ please email letters@DailySignal.com‚ and we’ll consider publishing your edited remarks in our regular “We Hear You” feature. Remember to include the URL or headline of the article plus your name and town and/or state. The post Biden’s Fitness to Stand Trial Irrelevant to Presidency‚ Says Psychiatrist Who Declared Trump Dangerous appeared first on The Daily Signal.