CHAPTER 1
RHEA
The camera’s red light pulses like a heartbeat, and I’m already sweating under the studio lights. Not from nerves—God no—but from the thick layer of powdered foundation baking on my face. I’ve done this a thousand times. Maybe more.Sunrise Sector Livedoesn’t wait for personal crises or meteor showers. It just rolls on. Bright, peppy, and synthetic as a prepackaged pancake.
“...and that’s not all!” My voice chirps out, perfectly modulated. “With just two servings a day, these little green miracles could boost your circadian rhythm by up to thirty percent—making early risers out of even the deepest space slackers!”
Cue the audience laugh. It’s real-ish. Probably prompted by the AI audience director, nudging a few to chuckle in unison for that authentic vibe. I smile. I wink. I hold up the stupid algae smoothie with two manicured fingers like it’s a goblet of sparkling stardust.
Behind the camera, Chuck flashes the OK sign and mouths, “Stretch!”
I pivot, still smiling. “Of course, results may vary depending on your planetary schedule. Just ask our producer—he’s beentrying these for two weeks, and he hasn’t fallen asleep at his desk once. Isn’t that right, Chuck?”
More chuckles. Chuck gives me a double thumbs-up like he’s still a frat boy slamming shots in a Jupiter moon dive bar.
The camera cuts. Theme music swells, glittering synth notes echoing through the studio.
“And we’re clear!” someone shouts.
I drop the smile like a lead weight. My cheeks ache.
Chuck wanders over, still clutching his own green sludge smoothie. He leans in, and I subtly lean back. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough so he doesn’t smell the tension.
“You really sold that one, Rhee,” he says, grinning. His eyes do a quick inventory of my neckline before darting away. “Ever think about branching into sponsored streams?”
I stare at him. “Only if it comes with hazard pay.”
He laughs like I’m kidding. I’m not.
I slip past him, waving off the stylist who wants to touch up my hair for the next segment. “Bio break,” I lie.
Once I’m out of the blinding studio lights and into the quieter control corridor, I pull out my compad. I just want five seconds to breathe, maybe swipe through the rest of today’s segments, prep some real questions in case a guest goes off-script again.
But my compad buzzes. Hard.
New Alert: Matrix Broadcast Disruption Logged. Unauthorized File Attached. Review Immediately.
I blink.
“What the hell…” I mutter, tapping into the feed log.
A data spike occurred during the algae segment—right when Chuck was doing his double thumbs-up routine. It’s subtle, buried in the transition frames. But there’s a data signature attached: ARGUS.FALL.001.
The name “Argus” slams into me like a cold draft. He was a mid-level analyst. Helios Combine. Just another suit. But hedied last week. “Hovercar malfunction,” they said. Corporate gloss. Except now his digital fingerprints are on a corrupted file embedded in my morning show broadcast.
I should delete it.
I don’t.
I hit download and override my compad’s firewalls with the passcode I haven’t used since my university days.
“Rhea, you’re on in three!”
I jump. Chuck’s voice. Too close.
I stuff the pad back into my blazer and paste on the smile again. “Be right there!”
I float through the next two segments like a ghost. One with a Martian tea influencer, the other with a kid from a Venusian rehab project who built a music box that plays whale song. The audience eats it up. I barely hear my own voice.
