The Garments of Caean

As he spoke Alexei’s face was deadpan. He probably never would learn to use facial expression, even though all the requisite muscles had been revitalized.

Mast was aware that Alexei could tolerate human company only with difficulty. But, he told himself, the Sovyan must also be lonely.

They were walking along one of the belly passages that ran the curve of the Callan’s hull, Alexei stepping awkwardly and falteringly so that every now and then Mast automatically put out a hand to save him from falling, though in fact the Sovyan lost his balance only rarely. As they reached an observation window Alexei stopped, as if to regain breath. Mast stood by, embarrassed, while he gazed with homesick longing into the vacuum of space.

Then he hurried on. They turned aside from the belly corridor and came to Amara Corl’s sociology department, which Mast took care to visit at least once a day. A murmur of agitated talk was coming from behind the door of the conference room. No one took any notice as Mast rudely pushed the door open and went in, followed by his limping companion.

The team had drifted apart into two groups. One, bunched around Amara, was busy with some kind of calculation using a computer terminal at the other end of the room. The rest didn’t seem to be doing anything very much, except to talk aimlessly in the sort of crass jargon which Mast found irritating.

He listened patiently to their drivel for a minute or two until Estru, who had been gazing into a mirror, suddenly interrupted the discussion.

‘It’s wouldn’t surprise me to learn that this is the sort of clue we’re looking for,’ he announced.

Mast came closer. The mirror was oval, set in a frame of wrought gold. It seemed unremarkable, unless it was that its surface was a little too bright.

‘What, that mirror?’ someone asked.

Estru chuckled. ‘Yes, just a mirror, an ordinary silvered glass reflector. Only it isn’t. While you’re looking into the mirror, the mirror is looking back at you.’

He turned it over in his hands, explaining. ‘The glass isn’t ordinary silica glass; it’s hologram glass. Instead of being coated with mercury in the usual manner, it’s painted with a micro-computer backing of about the same thickness. The hologram glass digitizes the image that falls on it, absorbing all the incident light, and passes it into the computer, which then puts it through the perception process. Eventually – a few nanoseconds later – the reconstituted image bounces back into the hologram glass and is re-emitted by fluorescence.’

‘What in the galaxy is the point of all that?’

‘Yes,’ someone else joined in, ‘that’s a very complicated method for a simple convenience.’

‘The difference is that the mirror has machine sentience. Only in an extremely receptive, passive way, of course. It has no output leads whatsover; no outcome. It’s a mirror with a mind that reflects what it experiences. So you’re looking at yourself being looked at – the more you think about that, the less simple it seems.’ He chuckled again. ‘You could say it’s a mirror with an open mind.’

Mast peered at the artifact over Estru’s shoulder. ‘But what practical use is it?’

‘None at all. It’s an ornament, a typical Caeanic conceit. Though there’s a little more to it. Sometimes it modifies the “reflected” image, and occasionally quite drastically. The effect can be pretty scary if you don’t know how it’s done. But it still doesn’t invent or add anything. It brings out latent qualities, points out what the human eye might miss.’

The other speakers edged forward, staring at the mirror. ‘So what’s this got to do with Caean?’

Estru gripped the mirror, his eyes going dreamy. ‘What if Caean is trying to turn itself into such a mirror … trying to lose its specific human consciousness …’ He shook his head, aware that he was floundering.

Mast laughed mockingly.

At that moment Estru spotted Alexei Verednyev hovering nearby. A sudden ruthlessness flitted across his features.

‘Here, Alexei, take a look at yourself.’

‘No, I don’t like mirrors –’ Alexei, however, could not avoid the shimmering oval surface as it was thrust before his face. For a moment he stared, his expression still wooden, before he turned aside with an agonized cry.

‘What’s wrong, Alexei?’ Mast said with concern. But the Sovyan turned his back on them all and went stumbling through the door. Mast moved to follow him, then changed his mind.

‘Now that wasn’t very nice,’ he said accusingly to Estru.

‘Forget it, he needs these shocks as part of his treatment. Besides, it was an interesting result. I saw what showed in the mirror.’

‘Oh? And what did show in the mirror?’

‘A metal space helmet. Verednyev’s face wasn’t there at all.’

Estru’s co-workers, embarrassed by the incident, looked away and began to inspect some Caeanic garments that hung in a mobile rack. The clothes had been obtained during their last stop. By now the Callan had a big enough store of them to go into business, Mast thought.