Excerpts romantic science fiction Read an Excerpt From Moss’d in Space by Rebecca Thorne Torian Razner finally bought a starship, and contrary to Amelia’s assessment, it was not “a meteoric sign of stupidity.” By Rebecca Thorne | Published on June 3, 2026 Comment 0 Share New Share We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from Moss’d in Space by Rebecca Thorne, a romantic science fiction novel publishing with Bramble on June 30th. Torian Razner finally bought a starship, and contrary to Amelia’s assessment, it was not “a meteoric sign of stupidity.” Sure, the alien starship may have been abandoned for a century, and it may be covered in moss now… but it’s Torian’s ticket to freedom, regardless of what her ex… ah, captain… said.Except Torian’s first flight reveals a surprise passenger: the moss is actually an organic computer with a snarky attitude and serious abandonment issues. The target of its loathing? The immortal alien who built it (and then parked the starship, with Moss inside, and forgot about it). The same alien who just found Torian and accused her of “stealing” the ship.It’s entirely possible that Amelia was right about this meteoric stupidity. IDENTITY: Mechanical Operations and Support Systems→SUB-IDENTITY: MossTIME/DATE: 14:29/Tember 53, Year 90092 [System U2Ab Universal]LOCATION: Colony 13 [human] After 112 years, 63 days, 14 hours, and 29 minutes, I reached a conclusion.That dog-turd fungus abandoned me. IDENTITY: Mechanical Operations and Support Systems→ SUB-IDENTITY: MossTIME/DATE: 17:12/Cembria 82, Year 90011 [System U2Ab Universal]LOCATION: Colony 13 [human] The fungus was back. No, not the “dog-turd fungus.” He was still gone. Fungus of any form was not permitted on the ship, combatting with my systems. I enacted the standard response: the insect breeding program that produced species specializing in consuming spores and fungal hyphae. Lights were turned to full bright. I would become the strongest moss colony in existence. And if he appeared on this starship again, I would slowly suffocate him. IDENTITY: Mechanical Operations and Support Systems→ SUB-IDENTITY: MossTIME/DATE: 05:92/Januous 9, Year 90113 [System U2Ab Universal]LOCATION: Colony 13 [human] Late on my reports—the sixteenth Battle of Fungus was arduous. But, as always, moss has emerged triumphant. Moving forward. On Januous 9, 90,113, two humans approached the Destitute. [For note: I renamed the starship previously known as the Destiny.] [He abandoned me.] I was unsure what these humans wanted, but past data confirmed one was probably shopping for a starship. Past data also confirmed that the humans would detest my moss colony. That was okay. Lately, I detested most humans, too. Awaiting more data to confirm if this human will be the same. Chapter 1 It was Starship Day. That wasn’t an official holiday, but considering how long Torian Razner, aspiring engineer, current scrap, future captain, had saved for this moment, it really should be. She had to force herself not to hum or bounce on the long walk to the impound lot. (“Long” was an understatement, because Colony 13 was a huge space station, and the impound lot was sixteen agonizing levels below both her sister’s medical clinic and Amelia’s docked ship.) The journey involved a cramped elevator ride down the central column, where they all had to grip special handles to keep from floating into each other, followed by a secondary elevator that required passengers to strap in. That elevator moved “sideways,” kind of, while gravity increased between the corridor and the outer ring of this level. It hardly mattered. The physics of space were not important for Starship Day. No, three things were important for Starship Day: First, ships cost a lot of money, which meant Torian was currently carrying her life savings in an easily stolen drawstring bag. This was a bad idea on Colony 13. Next, if she got mugged, Celise, her sister and a doctor, would not be happy to stitch Torian back up. Again. Finally, if this drawstring bag was stolen, Celise literally wouldn’t survive long enough for Torian to save up the amount again. Which meant this very casual stroll to the impound lot was actually the most important journey of Torian’s life—and Celise’s. She could have asked for an escort. Captain Amelia Perrosk, her employer (and nothing else, nope), would have come. But Amelia had a hard-ass reputation for a reason, and she didn’t take kindly to deserters in her crew. Torian didn’t think she was deserting. But she also wasn’t sure Amelia would agree. Instead, she forced a smooth expression and tried to channel Amelia’s infamous touch me, and I’ll kill you persona. It was a hollow likeness, since the captain usually had four knives, a shock stick, and a pistol holstered to her attire. Torian had found her old security pistol, but she couldn’t afford ammo, which meant she had an empty pistol and a fake scowl. (And the scowl probably seemed more like she was constipated than threatening.) Even Celise could have done a better job; though she was a doctor, her bedside manner was hot garbage. The drawstring bag was tucked into a hidden pocket inside Torian’s jacket, pressed against her heart. She’d padded it so her boobs looked bigger (nothing to see here, nothing unnatural, go about your business, definitely not breasting boobily anywhere). It might be her imagination, but as the elevator’s gravity increased, every breath seemed to jingle with the ionite bars. And ionite bars were a prize. Buy the Book Moss’d in Space Rebecca Thorne Buy Book Moss'd in Space Rebecca Thorne Buy this book from: AmazonBarnes and NobleiBooksIndieBoundTarget Torian had twenty of them, pure as anything. Almost a decade of saving, and most of it wasn’t pleasant. She’d only signed with Amelia’s crew last year—before that, it was a lot of shady underground deals from any security broker who’d work with her. Lots of broken bones. Lots of scars. Lots of time in Celise’s clinic, laughing as her sister closed wounds and viciously swore at Torian in the same breath. And too many times, Celise’s breath would be cut short by bone-rattling coughs. She would reach for the oxygen tank, but like the bullets in Torian’s pistol, it was empty more than it was full—pure oxygen from Rhymarra was expensive. It’s fine, Celise would snap. You’re the one bleeding. You’re the one dying, Torian would almost reply. (She never did. Not anymore.) But that’s why today was so important. Starship Day. Torian forced herself to take even footsteps, attempting to shift her expression from “constipated” to something confident and standoffish. The main corridor on this ring was wide and tall, framed with starship docks that were divided by huge bulkheads. Shops lined the opposite side: resupply stations for space travelers, a few information kiosks staffed by unhelpful drones, a couple brokerage offices that dealt jobs to starship captains. The corridor’s crowd thinned as she approached the impound lot. A few people glanced her way, which made Torian feel very uncomfortable with her definitely-just-big-boobs. Challenge them, Amelia always said. They’re expecting you to feel fear. Show them they should be afraid. So Torian offered a vicious scowl and mouthed, What? One woman rolled her eyes. A man snorted, and a third burst out laughing. They clearly didn’t have nefarious intentions, since they all waved her off and went on their ways. Torian hunched, face burning. She was not good at this. That thought made Torian’s ever-present fear resurface. For all of Amelia’s advice, despite the fact that Amelia was captain of her own ship, she’d refused to fly Torian to Rhymarra. Trust me, Scrap. They’ll stop you at their fancy planet’s terraformed atmosphere, she’d snapped. There was the chance that Amelia was right, and she wouldn’t even be allowed to land on Rhymarra, much less ask the university’s headmaster for the biggest favor of their lives. But of course, Torian still had a backup plan: alien space. She’d only seen a few aliens in her entire life, since they rarely entered the human solar system—but plenty of species weren’t hostile. Somewhere out there, there had to be a planet with cleaner air. Big galaxy, and all. Either by the grace of the Heavens or her Super Intimidating (empty) Gun and Big, Booby Breasts, Torian reached the impound lot without being mugged. Torian wasn’t one to tempt fate, though: she hurried to push the red button on the side of a shuttered window. A sharp BZZZZT echoed through the interior lot. Almost instantly, a Magnium F82 drone slid over the gate, aiming two massive guns at her. Drones didn’t speak, and this model didn’t have cameras, but its heat sensors knew exactly where she was—and where to fire a pulverizing jelly bullet if she tried anything. Torian went very still. “Ah, h-hello.” A heavy clank sounded, and the metal shutter rolled away from the window. Behind the counter was a clerk—but not a bland, paper-pushing one. In typical Colony 13 fashion, this man had a pistol strapped to his chest and a scowl on his lips. “That thing doesn’t talk.” His voice was gruff. “What do you want?” Near the gate, the Magnium F82 analyzed impassively. It never lowered its weapons. “I’m…” Torian’s voice died in her throat. With one careful glance at the people traversing the narrow hallway behind them, she whispered conspiratorially, “I’m here to buy a ship.” The man quirked an eyebrow, assessing her. To be fair, she probably didn’t look like much: ripped cargo pants, a lumpy bomber jacket zipped over a tank top. The empty pistol was holstered to her thigh, but even the holster was ripped and worn. Her long hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, and her pale skin was smudged with grit. Torian wanted to defend her appearance—that she worked for the Fleet, the most infamous smuggling syndicate in human space. But then she’d have to admit that she worked as a scrap, a cargo hand, crawling through tight storage areas in the double walls of Amelia’s starship, hiding heavy boxes. Being a scrap wasn’t glamorous or prestigious, even if it paid well, so Torian kept her mouth shut. The clerk frowned. “Minimum buy-in for ships is—” “Twenty ionite bars.” Torian dug into her bra to retrieve the drawstring bag. The clerk didn’t even look surprised at where it was stored; he watched with disinterest as she dropped it on the counter between them. She gestured at the drawstring bag. “I’ve saved enough. You can count them.” “Hmm.” The man produced a short, prod-like tool, then clicked his tongue at the drone. It pivoted from her toward the street, guns ready in case anyone tried to rush the window. With appropriate discretion, the clerk sorted through the ionite bars behind a metal barrier, testing each with the prod to ensure purity. Torian held her breath, her heart fluttering. This was the moment she’d dreamed about. It was a bit anticlimactic. The clerk grunted approval and swept the bars back into the bag, stepping around the corner of his office—out of sight. A distant beep sounded, and then he returned empty-handed. Likely, there was a safe somewhere behind the counter. Maybe another drone guarding it… or maybe one was enough. Magnium F82s weren’t cheap, and they definitely weren’t nice. Torian had a deep scar on her leg to prove it. “You might not like our supply, at this price point.” But he dutifully pressed a button, and the gate slid open. The Magnium F82 drifted left, guns still aimed at the street, and allowed Torian to enter. Her mind squealed in excitement, but she kept a composed demeanor as she followed him down a short hallway while the gate closed behind her. What opened before them was a starship wonderland. The hangar was multilevel and far bigger than Torian ever expected, based on the low ceiling of the hallway. Ships big and small crowded the space. Some were sleek and shiny, each denoted with a golden light hovering beside it. The rest were in various states of decay or disrepair, with red or blue lights. Gangplanks of flimsy metal scaffolding led to each vessel. Beyond the ships was a huge airlock. Torian had read that aliens used a different standard: a blue energy shield that protected them from the vacuum of space. But humans had never been able to replicate it, and the CSS—the Confederation of Spacefaring Species—didn’t share its technology with nonmembers. So, airlocks. “This way.” The clerk flicked two fingers. Torian skipped behind him, gaping at a sleek cargo ship looming overhead. There were hoverpads anchored to each corner, a stronger version of the technology the Magnium F82 used. If Amelia had access to hoverpads, Torian’s job as a scrap would have been a lot easier. Then again, maybe Amelia did have access, and she just didn’t want her scraps using it. That would be pretty typical for the vicious Princess of the Fleet. There was a standard to be set aboard her starship, after all. “Are these sorted into price ranges?” Torian asked. “Something like that.” The clerk sounded too casual now. “How wide is your piloting range?” “I can fly any starship,” Torian replied, praying that her Certificate of Really Authentic Piloting from the prestigious School of Pilot Licenses was versatile, and not the “online scam” Celise claimed. “Why?” “No reason.” They kept walking. Every step, Torian expected he’d point out options, that they’d get to browse a few before she made her choice. But he seemed to know exactly where he was going, and it wasn’t here. They finally reached the corner of the hangar, where a small cluster of ships remained. The others had been bigger, fitting crews of thirty to fifty hands. These ships could accommodate maybe three, which was a better fit for Torian anyway. “These aren’t bad?” It came out as a question. The dock worker laughed. “Those are fifty ionite bars.” He finally reached the edge of the hangar, a large metal wall with a single door, which he hauled open with ease. “Here’s what twenty bars will get you.” The hangar beyond was oppressively dark—but dim emergency lights illuminated a single ship’s outline. The air was scented with something… earthy. It vaguely reminded Torian of the potted plants outside Celise’s clinic, but that was ridiculous, because they lived on a metal space station. While Torian tried to place the scent, the clerk closed the door and stepped to a panel of knife switches, flicking them up. The bulbs overhead turned on one by one, flooding the space. Torian stared at the singular ship, dread settling into her chest. “Where are the others?” She thought she’d at least have a choice. “You’re looking at it. This is the only ship we have for twenty bars.” “It’s alien,” she said helplessly. When he’d asked about versatility, she didn’t think he meant an alien starship. It was awkward, blocky in ways human starships hadn’t been in centuries. It had windows, for Heavens’ sake, which was just a structurally terrible choice. The clerk crossed his arms, almost smug now. “Alien, yep. And ancient, far as we can tell. See that, there? Moss overgrowth. Ship is teeming with it. That’s why we keep it in the dark.” The starship was falling apart: its panels were brown with rust, the moss overgrowth spreading in every corner. The round windows were dark, impossible to see through, so she wasn’t even sure it had internal power. The flight deck appeared dark and decrepit. Torian had worked for seven fucking years for this. Six and a half in security jobs that literally almost killed her, and six months of physical labor in the belly of Amelia’s starship. Seven years trying to save her sister, and this was all she could afford. Torian felt her heart breaking—but even as it shattered, she slapped a cage around it, crushing it back together. There had to be a bright side here. Had to. “Ready for a refund?” the clerk asked, far too amused. “Less one ionite bar, of course, for the hassle.” “I’m not leaving.” Torian gritted her teeth and ventured farther into the hangar. Celise couldn’t afford to wait for the magical moment when the perfect ship fell into Torian’s lap. If this ship flew, it still fit her needs. Last week, Celise had coughed blood. She’d tried to hide it, but Torian saw. With that in mind, Torian examined her new vessel. It was blocky, yes, but that implied a spacious interior. The moss was… something she could work with. The windows didn’t look like glass, so Torian chose to believe it was some fancy alien material that was stronger, and thus didn’t compromise the hull’s integrity. The ship’s name was printed in fading black lettering, written in a language Torian hadn’t even seen before. She stared at it for a long, long time, wondering who’d owned this ship—and what they’d been doing on Colony 13. The only aliens who visited the human solar system were tou’siil, an honorable, aquatic race who collected knowledge like coin, and draics, massive gargoyle-like aliens who typically contracted themselves out as fearsome mercenaries. This language belonged to neither, by Torian’s limited knowledge. It hardly mattered. Not now. “How’s the engine?” Torian asked. A ship this size would fit two, maybe three people, and Torian prayed it wouldn’t need that many to fly. Most starships had auto-nav systems, alien or not, but this one did seem ancient. She wondered if it had communication devices at all—if so, any radio antennae were long gone. “We’re not great with alien tech, but the engine looks fine. Ship’s sold as-is, but we’ll tow it where you want.” The clerk shrugged. So, it may not fly. Torian set her jaw. “Can I see the inside?” He lifted a small red remote off a hook and tossed it to Torian. She caught it—suavely, smoothly, definitely didn’t almost drop it—and examined it. The remote was human in origin, likely programmed after the fact for easy access into the ship. There were three buttons on it, and she pressed one curiously. The windows on the starship faded from opaque to clear in a breath. Inside, the ship’s lights were on full bright. Torian knew of glass that did that, but… that felt like a fancy feature for a starship like this. Torian stared, dazzled. “Oh, wow. It looks cozy inside!” She could catch glimpses of the interior—a center room with a table and a couch, a peek of stairs leading up and down. It seemed small and homey. Hope sparked in her chest. Maybe she and Celise could create a life with this starship. The clerk seemed perplexed. “We turned off auxiliary power…” “It probably automatically reengaged to protect the engine. Mechanisms like that aren’t meant to sit dormant for years.” Torian pressed another button on the remote. A seam cracked along the cargo bay door, and a ramp lowered. She jogged toward the new entrance, giddy with enthusiasm. The double doors at the top of the ramp opened at her approach, and a plume of hot, humid air rushed out. Torian was again caught off guard by the smell—now it felt like stale oxygen and musky plant growth. Artificial and slightly sour. Torian covered her nose. The clerk grinned, clearly enjoying this. “Yeah, that moss infestation is worse on the inside. My predecessors tried to mitigate, but it grew back every time. I gave up.” “It’s nice. I bet this is what the terraformed planet smells like,” Torian insisted, even though she had no idea, not really. The clerk raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t know. Never been to Rhymarra.” Torian’s cheeks colored. “Me either.” But she would soon. That scent of moss, of nature, propelled Torian forward. Rhymarra was her first destination, but this wasn’t a bad place to spend the interim. Perhaps this ship was perfect for them after all. One way to find out. Torian drew a fortifying breath and climbed the ramp. Excerpted from Moss’d in Space, copyright © 2026 by Rebecca Thorne. The post Read an Excerpt From <i>Moss’d in Space</i> by Rebecca Thorne appeared first on Reactor.