to watch Tung command, and learn how he did it, his alternate modes of thinking to Barrayaran Academy Standard. Miles's only legitimate point of overrule might come if some external political/strategic need took precedence over internal tactical logic. Miles prayed that event would not arise, because a shorter and uglier name for it was

betraying your troops.

Miles's attention sharpened as a little jumpscout winked into

existence at the throat of the wormhole. On the tactics display it was a pink point of light in a slowly moving whirlpool of darkness. On a

telescreen, it was a slim ship against fixed and distant stars. From its own wired-in pilot's point of view, it was some strange extension of his own body. In yet another vid display, it was a collection of

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telemetry readouts, numerology, some Platonic ideal. What is truth?

All. None.

"Sharkbait One reporting to Fleet One," the pilot's voice came over Tung's console. "You have ten minutes' clearance. Stand by for tightbeam burst."

Tung spoke into his comm. "Fleet commence jump, tight by the

numbers."

The first Dendarii ship waiting by the wormhole jockeyed into

place, glowed brightly in the tac display (though it appeared to do nothing in the televid), and vanished. A second ship followed in thirty seconds, pushing the safety limit of time margins between jumps. Two ships trying to rematerialize in the same place at the same time would result in no ships and a very large explosion.

As the Sharkbait's tightbeam telemetry was digested by the tac

comp, the image rotated so that the dark vortex representing (but in no way picturing) the wormhole was suddenly mirrored by an exit

vortex. Beyond that exit vortex an array of dots and specks and lines represented ships in flight, maneuvering, firing, fleeing; the hardened Homeside battle station of the Vervani, twin to the Hub-side station where Miles had left Gregor; the Cetagandan attackers. A view of their destination at last. All lies, of course, it was minutes out of date.

"Yech," Tung commented. "What a mess. Here we go . . ."

The jump klaxon sounded. It was the Triumph's turn. Miles gripped the back of Tung's chair, though intellectually he knew the feeling of motion was illusory. A whirl of dreams seemed to cloud his mind, for a moment, for an hour; it was unmeasurable. The wrench in his stomach and the godawful wave of nausea that followed were

anything but dreamlike. Jump over. A moment of silence throughout

the room, as others struggled to overcome their disorientation. Then the murmur picked up where it had left off. Welcome to Vervain.

Take a wormhole jump to hell.

The tac display spun and shifted, shunting in new data, recentering its little universe. Their wormhole was presently guarded by its