"Hello, Ancient Broadcast Tutor System—what is this?" I shouted before I even had time to think. A palm-sized holo unfolded over my dressing table and blinked in colors that didn't belong backstage. The image was flat and impossible and excellent at interrupting everything. "Vera Kuenz, Host Candidate 2109," a calm, genderless voice announced. "You are scheduled for activation." "Cancel that," I said. "I'm ten minutes from the stage. I am not doing activations." I tapped at the holo with glittered fingernails and the light slid through my hand like a paper-thin ghost. "Sorry, concert schedule locked," the voice replied. "Interstellar Broadcast Bureau directive. Consent required." "Who the hell authorized—" I started, then my phone buzzed. Grace's face filled my screen in a second. She was in the car, sensible curls, driving gloves on, headset on. She'd probably been herding production for the last hour. "Vera, don't sign anything stupid," she said without saying hello. "You have to warm up." "I won't sign. Not a teacher. I perform. I sing. I sell out halls. I'm not explaining ancient agriculture to peasants on a hologram," I said. "Vera," the System said. "Consent is verbal or biometric. The interface will present mission terms." "Show me the terms," I snapped. A contract scrolled, lines of formal words that felt like nails. The words marked me as a host, assigned me a call sign, and promised—offered—access to another timeline through a holo-bracelet link