Galatea
Emily Short
ask/tell conversation character-based complex NPC conversation cover art ekphrasis gender-neutral protagonist IF Art Show IF Art Show 2000 interaction memorable NPC multiple endings on Jay Is Games one-room open-ended parser portrait puzzleless recommended for beginners sandbox short single room strong characterization surprisingly not pornographic unstable truth Xyzzy Awards 2000 XYZZY Best Individual NPC
A conversation with a work of art. "47. Galatea. White Thasos marble. Non-commissioned work by the late Pygmalion of Cyprus. (The artist has since committed suicide.) Originally not an animate. The waking of this piece from its natural state remains unexplained." Takes an ambitious approach to NPC (non-player character) conversation, both in terms of volume (Galatea has many hundreds of things to say) and complexity (she keeps track of the state of conversation and reacts differently according to what has already been said and done).
%
You come around a corner, away from the noise of the opening.

There is only one exhibit. She stands in the spotlight, with her back to you: a sweep of pale hair on paler skin, a column of emerald silk that ends in a pool at her feet. She might be the model in a perfume ad; the trophy wife at a formal gathering; one of the guests at this very opening, standing on an empty pedestal in some ironic act of artistic deconstruction --

You hesitate, about to turn away. Her hand balls into a fist.

"They told me you were coming."

Unlit, except for the single spotlight; unfurnished, except for the defining swath of black velvet. And a placard on a little stand.

On the pedestal is Galatea.
You look at the galatea
She is facing away from you. You cannot see her face, only her hair, and the line of her shoulder. It's hard to know what she's looking at -- the velvet backdrop, if she has her eyes open, but there's not much to see in that. Mostly, it is obvious, she is not looking at you.

Her green dress widens out at the knee, falling over the pedestal on which she stands in a way that would probably be very awkward, if she wanted to move.

"You might try speaking to me," she prompts. "It's not polite merely to stare. And I've gotten very bored, standing here."

(An attempt to engage the audience -- the proactive element... you frame the words for your review, but you find that you can't get as far as a complete first sentence. There's something more here; anxious, chilly, visceral. Better pay attention.)
You talk to her
(Galatea)
[To talk to someone, try TELL <person> ABOUT <topic> or ASK <person> ABOUT <topic>.]
You turn her
(Galatea)
You take her by the elbow and turn her a few degrees towards yourself. She cooperates, but her arm feels stiff under your touch. "Don't do that again, please," she says.
You ask Galatea about her face
She just shrugs.
You read the placard
Large cream letters on a black ground.

47. Galatea

White Thasos marble. Non-commissioned work by the late Pygmalion of Cyprus. (The artist has since committed suicide.)

Originally not an animate. The waking of this piece from its natural state remains unexplained.
Look around
Unlit, except for the single spotlight; unfurnished, except for the defining swath of black velvet. And a placard on a little stand.

On the pedestal is Galatea.
You tell Galatea about yourself
Where would you begin? And what context would she have for anything you could say? She has had no childhood, no history, no network of passions and friends.The persistent inclination to tell her such things takes you by surprise. Animates are notoriously poor at processing uncontextualized personal information. And you know better than to waste your time.

But this piece of logic doesn't banish the desire to confide in her.
Talk animates
There are a dozen better people with whom to discuss animate design and critical theory, standing around in the other room.
Journey
"How did you get here from Cyprus?"

"Oh, I flew. They had me in a crate -- which was uncomfortable, and cold as well. But that was the only way for them to get me through customs, because of course since I wasn't born anywhere I didn't have a passport. I did my best to look still and motionless when customs checked me. Fortunately they weren't very thorough."
You examine the mouth
The expression could best be described as maliciously satisfied.
You examine the hair
It is a pale, Scandinavian blonde, curling just a little beside her face, but elsewhere straight and quite severe.
You touch the hair
You feel too self-conscious to do that; she might not appreciate the gesture.
You examine the dress
If you knew designers, you might recognize it: it looks expensive. A shimmering column from the bodice down to the knee, where it flares to cover the whole base of the pedestal.
You talk komininsky
Before you can tell her anything about animates you're going to have to explain the nature of this exhibit. It's not clear that she understands that point.
You talk exhibit
"You do realize what kind of exhibition this is, right?" you ask.

"What kind of exhibition?" she asks stupidly. "It's an art exhibition. I'm art."

"It is an artificial-intelligence exhibit. The other displays have artfully designed bodies, yes, but they also have programs to make them speak and think in particular ways. So you see--"

"You think that's what I am," she says. "A fake person."

You grin a little apologetically. "Perhaps you can understand the mistake. Under the circumstances. After all the truth -- as you would have it -- is far stranger."
You talk komininsky
"There's a piece by Komininsky in the next room," you volunteer. "Mingling with the guests. He, ah, brought her as his date, actually." You and Mike go way back: you've always been fascinated by his genius for subversion.

"And so...?" Her eyes meet yours briefly.

"It means that he can mediate between her and anyone who tries to talk to her. Being able to control the input gives him an unfair advantage. Most of the fun is watching them interact with each other, in fact."

"Bizarre. And he doesn't find it uncomfortable to be romantically involved with a--"

"He isn't actually involved with her, naturally. It's a joke. And anyone can see she's not real because she has his signature tattooed across her right shoulderblade."
Step down
"Er...?"
Down
"Why don't you come down from there?" you ask. "It can't be comfortable."

She looks at you in surprise. The curtain moves in a slight breeze. "But I --" She frowns slightly, evaluating what she was about to say. "Yes. Yes. After all, why not?"

Catching up the excess of her gown in one hand, she steps down, ignoring the hand you extend in support.

"Won't this surprise them," she says. "Did you see him here? The artist? You know what he looks like, don't you?"

"I didn't see him," you say heavily.

"Oh." She frowns. You open your mouth to speak again, but she outstrips you, hurrying down the hall and into the bright throng. And perhaps she'll be all right...
You get on the pedestal
"Hey," you say. "Trade you places."

Her eyes meet yours briefly. "What?" she asks, startled.

"Come on, get down. You can wander around. Talk to people. Look at things."

She just looks at you speculatively, her forehead creased.

"Very well," she says finally. She steps down, and you climb up in her place -- first hanging your jacket strategically over the placard.

Which is how it comes about that you spend the rest of the night sitting on the pedestal. It's rather amusing, in fact; your long familiarity with animate behavior styles makes it easy to emulate one.

Of course you are a bit piqued by your reviews: "Supplied only with esoteric data... personable in a self-deprecating way, but unexciting... breaking no important barriers in the development of more human-like animates." Damn critics.

From the same source, you read that the gallery hired a new assistant. In the photo she's looking severely at the camera, her pure-blonde hair taken up in a French twist.
It's already occupied, and there's certainly no room for two. Interesting statement though that might make.
You kiss her
(Galatea)
You can't really reach at this angle, and she seems disinclined to cooperate.
Continue
"If one of the gods woke you, which one do you suppose it was?"

"I've no idea."
Keep going
"Well, she sounds like a harmless and pleasant sort."

Her eyes meet yours briefly. "Pleasant and harmless," she repeats in a dull voice. "She's the one who sent Helen to Troy; she's the one who made Zeus chase after all sorts of mortal women, to their disadvantage and Hera's fury. If it weren't for her and her tricks and her cruelty--"

She pauses, her eyes flickering up to something behind you. You turn.

"It is unwise," says the newcomer, "to rail against the gods. Especially against those who have done you favors." She walks toward where you are standing: from a distance she looks like one of the gallery owners, but when she is beside you you realize that this is an illusion: close up you notice how tall she is, and how the light seems to follow her of its own accord. There's a smell of something sweet and unfamiliar.

You move back, nervous. But the goddess seems hardly to notice you. She touches Galatea with one finger and instantly the life is gone from her: there is only a statue on the pedestal, perfect, still.

Too appalled and too miserable to speak, you huddle against the wall. Aphrodite glances once, contemptuously, in your direction, as she goes out.
Dance
"Er...?"
You talk placard
"The artist," you say gently. "It says on the placard that he has committed suicide."

Her eyes meet yours, large and dark. Time passes, but she doesn't move. You are tempted to reach out to her, but the memory of the last time you touched her still leaves you a little embarrassed. As though you'd made it obvious that you weren't thinking of her as an actual person... The intention would be just the opposite now, but the barrier is there. So you just stand there, watching her downcast eyes and wondering whether you were wise to say anything at all. (Though surely she should know?)

"I don't know," she says in a strained voice, "what I am supposed to do now. I only exist because of him, for his sake--"

You bite back a remark on the virtues of modern feminism.
Turn
"Don't like me facing you, now?" she asks wryly. But she doesn't move.
You talk yourself
Where do you want to start? Your childhood, your family, your job?
You talk the childhood
Which do you mean, the artist's childhood or the childhood?
You talk job
"I'm a critic of artificial intelligence pieces. Animates, they're called. I'm writing a review of the exhibition."

She sighs slightly. "Ah," she says. "So you could tell immediately that I wasn't like the others --"

When you're silent, she makes a funny gesture with her left hand, as though she's throwing something away. "Never mind, don't answer that. You know now, which is what matters."
You talk the family
"I lived with a bunch of different relatives, growing up: my aunt for a while, and then my grandmother for a long time, but with visits to our uncle in the summers. It was crazy."

"Did you enjoy it?"

You become aware, for half a second, of the people waiting for you in the other room. But the thought is easily squashed. "Yes, actually, I did. It sounds inhuman to say so, but there were actually times when I was glad that my parents had died, because it meant I was free. I didn't belong to any one place. I could go where I wanted."
Utterly against what a child psychologist would predict, and not the kind of admission you ordinarily make...

You stop, a little flustered. But she listens without prejudice -- perhaps because she's too inexperienced to find this kind of thing trite, or perhaps because what she really understands is how to be still and listen.
Keep going
Talking to her is too easy. One thing tumbles out after another -- memories, philosophies, names you haven't spoken for years.

She sits down on the pedestal, drawing her knees up to her chest. ("Have you no respect for that gorgeous dress?" "None.") Her bare feet poke out; she's painted the toenails a ruddy shade of bronze, and she studies the effect whenever she isn't looking at you.

Eventually she begins to talk too: about her first encounter with a northern rain; the frustration of trying to watch the television in her hotel room...

And that's where you find yourselves when the lights blink and the owners come to send everyone home: sitting shoulder to shoulder, shading your eyes from that hard downglare. You stand; a happy exhaustion sets in, so you're too tired to be self-conscious about hugging her goodbye under the skeptical gaze of the caterers.