The architect snorted. “Turn around.” Tennal’s mouth snapped shut as a renewed flash of light tore his thoughts away from him. He turned and felt the sharp edges of handcuffs around his wrists.

“Not taking any chances?” Tennal said. It was easier to talk if he told himself he wasn’t going to move just now. “Where do you think I’m hiding the burn gun, in my sock?”

The architect put a hand on his shoulder and spun him around. “You’re a strong reader,” he said. “I know your abilities. I’ve been briefed on you. If I get a single hint that you’ve tried to deep-read me or anyone we encounter, I will sedate you for the journey. Understand?”

It didn’t have a command behind it, which meant he wasn’t lying about his briefing and knew compulsions wouldn’t last long on Tennal. Tennal swallowed a flash of resentment at the accusation. He might shallow-read on a regular basis, but cracking open people’s brains for a deep read wasn’t something he made a habit of, and besides, it was extremely illegal. Writing people was also technically illegal, though that didn’t seem to be stopping this architect. “Of course,” Tennal said. “I’ll leave the brainwashing to you.”

It was a deliberate insult. Architect commands were temporary and nobody, architect or reader, could change someone’s brain completely—though architects had done a better propaganda job of reassuring the public. But if Tennal had been hoping for a reaction, the architect disappointed him. The clang of a command came back into his voice. “Get on the plane and shut up. I got pulled from region command for this, and I’m not in the mood for bullshit.” Tennal was already stumbling toward the Swift’s landing ramp by the time he finished speaking.

The architect gestured for the rankers to move out. One of them put her foot in someone’s discarded shirt, soaked from being used to mop up a spill, and nearly stumbled. “For fuck’s sake,” she muttered. “This isn’t army work.”

“More like the planet’s most expensive taxi service,” Tennal said over his shoulder. “Where do I sit?”

They put him in one of the rows of carrier seats in the dim, bare-bones interior of the plane. One ranker took the adjoining seat to guard him, though there wasn’t exactly anywhere he could go. Tennal managed bravado for all of a few minutes before slumping uncomfortably forward and shutting his eyes. The architect was up front with the pilot and, thank Guidance, had stopped writing.

“Sen Tennalhin,” the other ranker said. “There’s a medic detailed to receive you at the other end. I need to take some blood for tests.”

Tennal extended his arm without opening his eyes. “To make me presentable?”

“Not information I have, sir,” the ranker said, but the tone of his voice said probably.