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.

News Supergirl The Dog Is Still in Danger in Final Supergirl Trailer We also get more of Jason Momoa’s Lobo By Vanessa Armstrong | Published on June 3, 2026 Courtesy of Warner Bros. Comment 0 Share New Share Courtesy of Warner Bros. Tickets are now on sale for Supergirl, and to celebrate the occasion, Warner Bros. has released a final trailer for the DC Universe movie. The two-minute clip doesn’t give us much that’s new, though we do get to see a little bit more of Jason Momoa’s Lobo as well as Matthias Schoenaerts’ rendition of the dog-hating villain, Krem of the Yellow Hills. We also are reminded that Milly Alcock’s Kara Zor-El (aka Supergirl) really loves her dog Krypto, and will do everything she can to save him, including hunting down Krem to get the antidote and gaining some found family members (perhaps?) along the way. The movie is the latest installment in James Gunn’s new DC Universe, which kicked off on the big screen with 2025’s Superman, starring David Corenswet as the Man of Steel. Corenswet makes an appearance in Supergirl as well, according to the trailers, but this film is centered on the more-jaded Kara Zor-El and, as the logline says, her journey where she must “reluctantly join forces with an unlikely companion on an epic, interstellar journey of vengeance and justice.” The film is directed by Craig Gillespie (Cruella), with a script from Ana Nogueira. It premieres in theaters on June 26, 2026. Check out the final Supergirl trailer below. [end-mark] The post The Dog Is Still in Danger in Final <i>Supergirl</i> Trailer appeared first on Reactor.

Books Reading the Weird An Inordinate Fondness for Beetles: Donald A. Wollheim’s “Mimic” Could non-human creatures walk among us, hidden in plain view? By Ruthanna Emrys, Anne M. Pillsworth | Published on June 3, 2026 Comment 0 Share New Share Welcome back to Reading the Weird, in which we get girl cooties all over weird fiction, cosmic horror, and Lovecraftiana—from its historical roots through its most recent branches. This week, we cover Donald A. Wollheim’s “Mimic,” first published in Astonishing Stories in December 1942. You can find it more easily in column-favorite anthology The Weird, edited by Ann and Jeff VanderMeer. Spoilers ahead! This week’s story opens with a classic preamble about human hubris. We think we know a lot, but half the planet remained undiscovered less than five hundred years ago. Science and technology remain in their infancies—why, the discipline of atomics has barely been born! Many truths lurk unimagined, and “when they are discovered, they may shock us to the bone.” Our unnamed narrator works as a museum curator’s assistant, “mounting beetles and classifying exhibits of stuffed animals and preserved plants, and hundreds and hundreds of insects from all over.” He soon learns that “Nature is a strange thing.” Look at its fondness for camouflage and mimicry. Soft-bodied moths masquerade as armored wasps. Beetles imitate army ants and march undetected in their all-devouring columns. In all animal groups, there are the killers, the survivors. Lesser species are wise to ape them. And since man is “the greatest hunter of them all,” the “irresistible master” of the world, why wouldn’t inferior creatures walk among us, hidden in plain view? When narrator was young, a neighbor rented rooms in a grimy tenement at the end of the street. He appeared twice a day, early morning to head for the elevated train, after nightfall to return home. He always wore a black ankle-length cloak, and a wide-brimmed black hat pulled low over his face. Though he looked like a creature from “some weird story out of the old lands,” he harmed nobody; indeed, he paid attention to nobody. Except, maybe, women. If a woman crossed his path, he’d close his wide, watery blue eyes until she passed. Then he’d march on as if there’d been no such encounter. At Antonio’s grocery he never spoke, only pointing to what he wanted. The kids jeered until they grew bored with his unresponsiveness; then, like their parents, they ignored him. Only one incident of note occurred during Black-Cloak’s long residence. He dragged sheets of metal into his room, banged on them for several days, then stopped. That was all anyone ever knew until years later, when narrator was grown. Sheer luck found him nearby when the janitor of Black-Cloak’s building ran out shouting for help. Narrator and a policeman followed him to Black-Cloak’s rooms, where he’d heard thuds and screaming. Silence greeted them. Knocking received no answer. At last the policeman and narrator broke in the door. Beyond lay a room littered with torn papers and garbage. Oddly, it was unfurnished except for a metal box four feet square, screwed and roped shut, its lid sealed with a waxy substance. Black-Cloak lay on the floor, still cloaked though his hat was cast aside. He was dead. Inside the box, something rustled. The would-be rescuers examined the body, “gradually—horribly” becoming aware of its wrongness. Black-Cloak’s eyes remained open, staring. The eyebrows were mere lines in the flesh of a face with no nose—mottled skin only presented as a nose if unscrutinized. It had no teeth. The “coat” was “a huge black wing sheath, like a beetle”. The thorax underneath had six insectile legs and a hole oozing watery liquid, while the abdomen below was crumpled, reminding narrator of a wasp after egg-laying. The janitor fled, “gibbering.” The policeman began to pray, but at narrator’s instigation he helped break the seal on the box. Together they lifted the lid. “Noxious vapor” poured out, along with things two or three inches long, dozens flying on gauzy beetle wings. They looked like little men in black suits, with expressionless faces and watery blue eyes. Out the open window they streamed. Narrator ran to watch their exodus. How could people have known about army ant imitators without ever suspecting some creature might disguise itself to look like “the supreme animal himself—man.” They found bones at the bottom of the box, maybe human—they didn’t try too hard to identify them. In retrospect, narrator supposes that Black-Cloak was female, the box her nest, the flying throng her offspring. He speculates that Black-Cloak was wary of women because they observe men more closely and could suspect her inhumanity. Or maybe Black-Cloak had an “instinctive feminine jealousy” of potential competitors. But what shakes narrator most is the thing only he saw, staring after the fliers in the dawn sky. On the roof of a lower building, what looked like a red brick chimney opened two white eyes, unfurled great bat-wings, and peeled away from the real chimney to pursue Black-Cloak’s young. What’s Cyclopean: Gibbering! The Degenerate Dutch: “It is less than five hundred years since an entire half of the world was discovered.” Does that mean that First Nations folks already knew about cape-men as well? Weirdbuilding: Vampires get close by passing as human. But there are a lot of opportunities for monstrous urban camouflage—just ask Fritz Leiber’s smoke ghost. And if you want really terrifying insects (with bonus human mimicry), there’s T. Kingfisher’s new Wolf Worm. Ruthanna’s Commentary Humans may be top predators—the army ants of the larger world. But we are also awfully anxious. Evolve without predators, like the dodo, and you’ll be without fear (or protection). But evolve as a predator—or an adaptable scavenger, which is humanity’s actual niche—and you’re forever aware that something bigger or sharper or smarter might come along any minute. Thus our endless, ant-like stream of b-movie giant insects/tomatoes/amorphous blobs. And thus the fear of predators passing as our own. It’s interesting that this latter fear barely arises in “Mimic.” Amid the variety of insect-kind, there are species that look like other species so they can eat their young, or lay cuckoo eggs, or just free-ride on the work of busier ants. But Wolheim’s examples involve vulnerable beetles passing as dangerous wasps, or finding safety amid army ant columns. The man in the black cloak walks among humans, even buys our food, but fears us more than we do her. There’s that bone in the nestbox, of course. But corpses are pretty easy to find in 40s New York, and grave-robbing is probably safer than killing for yourself. A single escaped victim would be a lot more dangerous than a random perceptive woman. I’m side-eyeing the explanation for the mimic’s femmephobia, by the way. Sure, women are on average socialized to pick up indications that a man might be dangerously… off. But freezing every time one goes by is A Lot, and not a good way to avoid scrutiny. Nor does it seem likely that insectile femininity should find conflict with the mammalian version. Birds get jealous, sure, but they also pick out human “mates” about whom to get territorial. Maybe the mimic is actually an insect-looking bird? It would explain a certain amount, not least the violation of the inverse square law. But we only rarely fear birds, while insects can raise an instinctive flinch. Like snakes, they’re often-enough venomous that we have our own adaptations—many but not all humans are predisposed to develop phobias. Narrator, oddly, isn’t. He works with insects in the museum, finding more interest than terror in their strangeness. His fear, perhaps, comes more from that knowledge than from uncanny valley reflex, from inferring a whole mimetic ecology from one individual. Or two: there’s that chimney flyer. And where harmless beetles pass themselves off as army ants, there are probably predators and scavengers as well. There are parasitic breeders with faster and more vicious reproductive cycles than the mimic. It scares our narrator. But it’s not what scares me. This is New York only a little after Lovecraft’s time there—and no less prone to xenophobia. There may be cape-man beetles every few blocks, but more often there are visitors terrified of unfamiliar languages, human predators taking advantage of immigrants, and white supremacists eager to prove their egos on othered bodies. All of whom would leverage “some supposed people are actually insects” for their own purposes. Not that we need excuses, but any new impetus for dehumanization is terrifying. Wollheim presumably knew this—it was 1942, and it would be hard to miss. Earlier that same year, the U.S. had entered World War II and sent Japanese-Americans to internment camps. So is the story infavor of identifying the “real” inhuman threats, or is the reader expected to infer the dangers of looking for them? My head-canon: we never do figure out where cape-man gets her money. I think those “bills” are the most dangerous mimetic predators in the story. They have a symbiotic relationship with the cape-men, helping them scrounge human food in exchange for insertion into the economy. Hapless bodega-owners pass them to landlords or bankers; eventually they’ll fasten onto the richest and most greedy humans. They’ll send feelers, cordyceps-like, into the brains of CEOs, encouraging them to focus on profit alone until the bills reach their final instars in the form of crypto. What happens then, we are only just starting to learn. Anne’s Commentary Wollheim’s “Mimic” kicks off with the cautionary reflections of a narrator who has Come to Know Too Much and Seen That Which He Cannot Unsee. After graduating from college (with a degree in biology would be my guess), he may justifiably think he knows a lot, or at least something, about his subject. His studies earn him a museum job, where he assists in curating exhibits and organizing collections, with an apparent emphasis on class Insecta and order Coleoptera. The beetles alone would be humbling, comprising as they do almost 40% of all arthropods. As the story goes, evolutionary biologist J.B.S. Haldane quipped to a group of theologians that God must have “an inordinate fondness for beetles,” but the junior curator assigned to sort through endless drawers of them could be excused for not always sharing that fondness. And for concluding, like “Mimic’s” narrator, that Nature is a strange thing. The strangeness specific to his story is that Nature revels in camouflage and mimicry. My favorite example of the two combined is Pseudocerastes urarachnoides, the Spider-tailed Horned Viper. Its mottled pattern of creams and browns allow it to hide in plain sight on the arid substrate of the west Iranian mountains. That’s not surprising — camouflage is a common feature of ambush predators. Less common but far from singular is its use of a caudal lure, usually a tail-tip that squirms in imitation of a wormy treat. This snake’s lure, however, sports a bulbous “abdomen” and scales elongated into spidery “legs,” irresistible to its largely avian prey. This is a form of Peckhamian or aggressive mimicry. The Black-Cloak Man primarily practices another form, though we can’t rule out him keeping some kind of lure under his cloak or wing-protective “suitcoat” elytra. If those bones in his metal box are human, after all…. The stereotypical images of candy-offering pedophiles and alley-lurking flashers come too forcibly for me to speculate further about Black-Cloak lures. I brake my current train of thought to mention that my appreciation of “Mimic” was several times sidetracked by credulity-stretchers. Also, narrator annoyed me right off with his Anglo-European-centric remark that the Americas were discovered less than five hundred years ago, his time frame. Hello, peoples inhabiting North and South America long before 1492 might have said. If establishing even freaking empires doesn’t count as discovery with you guys, we don’t know what would. I wasn’t inordinately fond, either, of his analysis of why Black-Cloak particularly avoided women. First off, how women may notice men more closely than men do, thus having a greater chance of detecting Black-Cloak’s inhumanity. Men, of course, only notice women. Unless they’re gay men, who didn’t exist in 1940s America, at least not in narrator’s neighborhood. Second off, Black-Cloak turns out to be a she, not a he, which given that males of some inhuman species can tend to their young is not a necessary conclusion. But allowing Black-Cloak is female, she might experience “some touch of instinctive feminine jealousy” toward women. I can’t. I’m restarting my previous train of thought. So. Assuming that Black-Cloak is some sort of giant arthropod that has survived to the Age of Superior Humanity and has had time to evolve alongside said Superior Humanity long enough to mimic it, not that really Superior Humanity has been around long, evolutionarily speaking, what advantage does Black-Cloak gain by the deception? They go regularly to the grocery store, and there have been no disappearances of neighborhood kids or pets since their arrival. So, let’s assume they’re not large-scale carnivores needing mimicry to go as “wolves in the fold” among their prey. We could ask Antonio whether it’s the meat case or the produce section to which Black-Cloak points when they visit his grocery. Moving on, hypothesis-wise. Narrator mentions army ants and their beetle-mimics among his examples of Nature’s strangeness. Army ants will devour everything in their “marching” path, but the beetles that resemble the ants (probably by tactile and chemical imitation as well as visual) can be engulfed by a column while escaping predation. This is protective mimicry. But if Black-Cloaks need to escape human aggression, do they need to blend in with humans? It would be “cheaper” for them to avoid humans altogether by living in unpeopled areas. Certainly not in big cities. This suggests that Black-Cloaks gain some advantage exactly by living in much-populated areas, the very strongholds of their models. We’re back to the ants, and creatures that don’t want to beat ants but to join them. Myrmecophiles, “ant-lovers,” are broadly defined as “any organism that is dependent on ants at least during part of its life cycle.” Many myrmecophiles make their homes within ant colonies, or even in the midst of army ant columns, drawing advantages from the protection, resources, and stability these communities provide. Ant guests (inquilines) have relationships with their hosts ranging from the parasitic through the commensal and mutualistic. If Black-Cloaks are live-in myrmecophiles, or rather anthropophiles of a sort, where would they fall on the relationship spectrum? Lacking textual evidence that humans benefit from Black-Cloaks, I’ll go with a commensal one, with Black-Cloaks benefiting from humans and neither hurting nor harming humans (with the possible exception of harvesting the odd human for larva fodder.) It’s possible that Black-Cloaks aren’t human mimics in the evolutionary sense Wollheim’s going after, which I continue to have problems buying. Maybe they’re aliens with the ability to semi-shapeshift in short order and pass on the shift to offspring. Maybe over time they could perfect their human mimicry. Maybe that bat-winged thing that peeled off the chimney is another alien with cephalopod-level camouflaging ability—it seems unlikely it would have evolved only to imitate brickwork. And maybe Brick-Bat was what put the hole in Black-Cloak’s thorax, preparatory to devouring their succulent hatchlings. Not that I think the narrator would take greater comfort in finding out that extraterrestrial or interdimensional shapeshifters are real, rather than terrestrially evolved megaroaches and chameleon-bats. Whatever he’s seen, he still Can’t Unsee It. Next week, Arthur clings to civilization in Chapters 17-18 of The Buffalo Hunter Hunter.[end-mark] The post An Inordinate Fondness for Beetles: Donald A. Wollheim’s “Mimic” appeared first on Reactor.

News Hollow Sydney Sweeney Will Face Off With the Headless Horseman and a Love Triangle in Hollow Is this Ichabod Crane Is the Villain, the book/movie? By Molly Templeton | Published on June 3, 2026 Image: Neon Comment 0 Share New Share Image: Neon We’ve had Sleepy Hollow (Tim Burton version) and Sleepy Hollow (did-Abbie-dirty TV version). We’ve had a lot of takes on Washington Irving’s “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,” honestly. Here’s the latest: In screenwriter, director, and novelist Lindsay Anderson Beer’s novel Hollow, Katrina Van Tassel is the protagonist. And she’ll be played by Sydney Sweeney (Immaculate, pictured above). Hollow is about to be both a movie and a book. As Deadline reports, Anderson Beer’s novel was picked up by Putnam, which will publish next year. Anderson Beer (Pet Sematary: Bloodlines) is also writing and directing the movie adaptation of her own book. If any of this sounds lightly familiar, it might be because Anderson Beer’s take on “Sleepy Hollow” was announced in 2022. Back then, it was just a movie adaptation. Why, how, and when did Anderson Beer change it into a novel-first story? That backstory remains to be told. According to Deadline, “the novel positions Van Tassel not as a romantic prize, but as the central figure in a dangerous mystery and seductive supernatural love triangle. The story blends gothic atmosphere, psychological intrigue, and erotic thriller elements into a contemporary, high-concept reinvention of the classic tale.” The book is scheduled to be released in the fall of 2027, which Deadline says is “timed to align with development of a feature film adaptation.” This is a little unclear, but the long and short of it is that Hollow will be available for your enjoyment next year—in one form or two.[end-mark] The post Sydney Sweeney Will Face Off With the Headless Horseman and a Love Triangle in <i>Hollow</i> appeared first on Reactor.

News Stargate Martin Gero’s Stargate Series Is Canceled at Amazon Stargate may yet live on in some other form By Molly Templeton | Published on June 3, 2026 Photo: Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Comment 0 Share New Share Photo: Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer The new Stargate series didn’t make it out of the resurrection sarcophagus. In November, Amazon MGM Studios announced a new addition to the franchise: a “next phase” from Martin Gero, who worked on Stargate SG-1, Stargate Atlantis, and Stargate Universe. But just seven months later, Variety has the news that the show has been canceled. “According to an individual with knowledge of the situation,” Variety notes, “Amazon execs were concerned that Gero’s take on the series would not have broad appeal beyond the franchise’s already dedicated fanbase.” No plot or character details were ever announced about the Gero show, which was supposed to be a “bold new chapter” for the franchise that has been running since the 1994 James Spader/Kurt Russell film. The series Stargate SG-1 followed, for ten seasons; Stargate Atlantis ran for five seasons; several other series and two direct-to-video movies exist, and they are not all in continuity with one another. But they all, presumably, have Stargates, alien-built doorways that allow for instantaneous travel across the universe (provided there is another Stargate where one is trying to go). Amazon had been considering developing new Stargate projects for years; the massive corporation’s purchase of MGM Studios brought with it the rights to a lot of franchises. Variety notes that the studio “is still exploring new ways to further the franchise.”[end-mark] The post Martin Gero’s <i>Stargate</i> Series Is Canceled at Amazon appeared first on Reactor.