Istara snorted. “They burn out,” they said, as if this were obvious. “And nobody trusts a strong reader. But you don’t need a reader, really, not if you’re maneuverable enough. A bunch of us in Retrieval Two have got the knack.”

“A bunch of you are readers?” Tennal said without thinking.

The look Istara gave him was withering. “A bunch of us are architects, dickhead. Readers aren’t the only people who can sense those currents, even if you’re supposed to be better at it. Get on with the mapping module.” Tennal was expecting them to back it up with a write command, but Istara didn’t even try.

“Shift’s nearly over,” Basavi said, quietly and unexpectedly.

Tennal’s wristband was pinging urgently for him to report to the gymnasium. Istara gave him a half-mocking, half-sympathetic look. “Remedial fitness, huh?”

“Guidance Lights,” Tennal said, looking at the drills that had landed on his schedule like a particularly unwelcome vulture. “When do you eat?”

“Not all of us are entitled little rich kids,” Istara said, getting up. “Hey, Savi, we’re on cleaning duty.”

Tennal gritted his teeth, made his way to the gymnasium bay that he’d ignored with prejudice up until now, and for once in his life, he made a good-faith attempt to exercise. He hadn’t done that since boarding school.

Afterward, he felt as awful as he had felt in weeks—in a novel way—sitting sprawled against the treadmill with the back of his head pressed to the cool metal. And he’d only done half his fucking program. He had to find a way to catch up by the rest of the week, or the commander would realize Surit wasn’t in control of him.

Maybe Surit would write him. Tennal briefly entertained the thought of relying on something other than his own wet-paper willpower but reluctantly concluded that if Surit wouldn’t break his principles to save himself from court-martial, he was unlikely to do it to motivate Tennal into push-ups.

Instead, brooding over thoughts of weeks of this schedule, Tennal dragged himself to Medical. It was a clean and impersonal bay with military-standard equipment, which wasn’t reassuring, but at least these medics didn’t know his aunt. There was only one senior medic there, covering the night shift: a tall, grave person with a gloomy air, a wooden pin on his sleeve, and lieutenant tabs. Tennal draped himself over the medic’s desk and said, “I need soothers.” When the medic looked skeptical, he added, “It’s a reader thing.”

“Symptoms?” the medic said. “We don’t give out soothers for anything less than limb amputation.”

“I’ve just got a headache,” Tennal said, smiling over the sudden spike of desperation. “What else do you have?”