Some people were more susceptible to architect commands than others. It didn’t necessarily relate to your own abilities. You could be born with natural defenses—even neutrals or readers could. You could discipline your mind and learn techniques to make yourself harder to affect. But very strong architects—the level the army called Rank One—were, to a person, almost impossible to write.

Surit had learned that fact once and compared it in his memory to the occasions people had tried to write him, and to the few times he had used his own architect abilities—and to the shocked and dismayed expression on Elvi’s face, quickly hidden, when he had seen what Surit could do. Then Surit had very deliberately never thought about it again.

Surit supposed, when he thought about it, that you could class that as a lie. He’d always known he was a stronger architect than was listed in his file. The test they’d all taken in the first year of officer academy had seemed perfunctory, just a physical fitness test where the whole class took turns shouting orders. Most families who suspected their child was a strong architect would have had them professionally tested when they were a teenager. “I didn’t lie,” he said. “I didn’t know what it was supposed to feel like.”

“I can almost believe that,” the official said easily. “I doubt anyone’s succeeded in writing you in your life, have they?”

“I don’t know,” Surit said. Honesty compelled him to add, “Probably not.”

“Then why didn’t you get your file corrected?” The official seemed entirely comfortable standing while Surit sat: Surit guessed this was an interrogation technique. “Odd behavior. You’d be much better off in your career.”

“That’s not a fair way to select for promotion,” Surit said. It was true that stronger architects ended up with better postings and tended to float to the top, but Elvi had always been stubbornly against that. He’d always said Marit had never liked it either—not that it mattered what Marit would have thought about anything, but Surit cared about Elvi’s opinion. “Someone’s architect abilities shouldn’t matter. Writing without consent is illegal.”

“Except for reasons of military necessity,” the official said. “Know what else is illegal? Lying to your superior officers. But good news, kid. We don’t care about that because you’re strong enough for a regulator-approved assignment.” Just as Surit was opening his mouth to request a professional retest, the official asked, “Ever met a reader?”

Surit hesitated. The army had stopped making readers decades ago. The first readers and architects had worked together, but the readers had started a coup—Orshan’s history was littered with coups—and the military had hastily stopped making them and started churning out architects to quell it. Now the only new readers were genetic throwbacks in architects’ children.