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The cultural attaché’s spine straightened, perhaps at the prospect of a Barrayaran who actually showed some interest in culture. “It’s such a simple thing, really it’s not hard. You could find one at any children’s art museum, or academy, or in private homes, or anywhere there is an interest in cultivating our youth. A training aid, to put it in military terms. A well-designed display offers a carefully curated progression of challenges to each of the five senses, to increase the fine awareness of each. At the end, the student is invited to observe a piece of artwork aesthetically combining, first, a blend appealing to one sense, then a more complex work combining several senses.”

Kaya put in, “I guess it’s like tasting a string of varietal wines, and then trying some balanced blends and trying to guess what went into each. Except not with wine.”

Ghem Soren nodded. “Tastes, sights, sounds, textures, and scents.”

“The finer the gradations a person can distinguish, the more…the more points they get, I guess,” said Kaya. Ghem Soren looked faintly pained at this athletic metaphor, but Jole suspected she’d hit it square on.

“Your base,” said ghem Soren carefully, “is very large, and many people go there…”

Oh, right! thought Jole. By all means, let us expose as many of our soldiers as possible to the ingestion of untested Cetagandan biochemistry! And whatever else could be slipped into the audiovisual portion. All right, Jole couldn’t exactly see the somewhat feckless ghem Soren as such an agent provocateur, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t being operated by someone subtler. On the other hand, perhaps the young man was simply trying to do his job, and without much support from his consulate, it sounded like. Or, even more likely, trying to impress a girl.

“Mm, I think using the base would be starting at the most difficult end of your cultural teaching challenge,” Jole said, more diplomatically. “I’d advise some practice in civilian venues, first. Observe, learn, modify, move up.”

Ghem Soren’s face pinched, trying to decode this; Kaya, sighing, translated, “That means no, Mikos.”

Jole thought she knew very well it meant, Over my dead body, but the lieutenant wouldn’t have been sent to him if she’d been as lacking in nous as some of the rank-and-file.

A little silence fell around the table, as each person followed out his or her not-necessarily-related line of reflection.

“Starting smaller,” said Kaya. “There’s a thought. What about—what about some temporary, simplified demonstration model, for a first outing? To prove the principle.”

“A discernment garden is already a simplified model,” objected ghem Soren. “It can’t get much simpler and still perform its function.”

“Yes, but I’m thinking…there’s an event coming up which will have base people and town people and all the consulates, and square kilometers of spare space. The Admiral’s birthday picnic. They’re setting it up a ways outside town. You could plunk in your garden as a sort of kiosk, and anybody could come by and look at it. It could be an advertisement. Then, once you’d worked up some interest, you might have a better chance setting up something more permanent in town.”

“You would have to clear it with the officers’ committee organizing the picnic,” said Jole, thinking, Wait, how did the consulates get in on this? He had steadfastly refused to involve himself in any planning for a party he didn’t actually want in the first place; perhaps he should have been paying closer attention…?

“Yes, I’m on the committee,” said Kaya. “It’s, um, it grew a bit while we were on upside rotation. We’ve got a lot of townies to help, including some of the galactics, and since the Vicereine’s coming you can’t invite one consulate without inviting them all. And some of the local businesses chipped in a bunch of supplies, so they had to be invited as well, of course.”

“Are you keeping the Kayburg municipal guard apprised of this…expansion?”

“Certainly, sir. We’ve got a couple of their people on the committee, too, now.”

He hesitated. “Did that by chance result in a mass invitation to that organization, as well?”

“Um, yeah, sort of. We thought it would be a good idea.”

Maybe, maybe not. Off-duty guardsmen weren’t quite the same as a scheduled patrol. And Kayburg’s on-duty guardsman had some vigorous history with off-duty soldiers from the base.

General Haines, Jole dimly recalled, had wanted to set up the party on-base to keep it under control. It had been Jole’s own bright idea to banish it to the wilderness, for what had seemed sound reasons. Right.

“The Vicereine,” Jole seized a straw. “Given that she’s coming, any such display would have to be checked by her ImpSec people. In advance. And again on-site.”

“But it’s only a—” began ghem Soren, only to be poked again.

“That was a yes, Mikos. Provisionally. You could get something together for them in time, surely?”

“Yes, but—” he glanced at her firm face, and mustered some manly resolution. “Yes.”

Jole was reminded that Cordelia’s ImpSec commander, Kosko, had annoyed him more than once, recently. And that if anyone had the resources to examine weird-ass Cetagandan art for hidden toxic properties, ImpSec did. It would be good exercise for them. Even though the absurd display was probably utterly benign, except for whatever hidden slur there might be in presenting a children’s show to adults. A prospect that ruffled Jole not at all; he’d met some scarily smart children.

Jole said thoughtfully, “You have had your anthelmintic vaccine, have you not, Lord ghem Soren?”

Ghem Soren nodded. “Yes, all the consulate personnel were required to receive them.”

Jole really ought not to think, Oh, too bad. “My one other suggestion is that you plan to have your display taken down and back to your consulate by dark. Most of the families will be going home then, too.”

“Is the Sergyaran wildlife that dangerous?” asked ghem Soren.

“Only if the troops share their booze with the hexapeds. Nightfall will be when the heavy drinking starts.”

Vorinnis grinned. “See your point, sir. It’s all right, Mikos. I’ll even help.”

And so it became a done deal, rather against Jole’s more conservative judgment. He probably could rely on Kosko to defend them all against Cetagandan art education; defending its earnest preceptor from his audience would be the chore of either the municipal or the base guards. Jole endured both his subordinate’s pleased beam and Cetagandan thanks—how did a man manage to be both gormless and patronizing simultaneously?—and made his escape.

* * *

Back at his base apartment, Jole checked his comconsole. His diligent second-in-command, Commodore Bobrik, had gone upside to the orbital transfer station yesterday as Jole came down, smoothly swapping chairs. All communications were routed through his office while Jole was supposedly off-duty; in theory, Bobrik ought let nothing through this filter but emergencies and personal messages, and any notification of emergencies should come immediately by wristcom. Jole was therefore a little surprised to find a message stamped Ops HQ in Vorbarr Sultana, addressed to him eyes-only.