UTOPIA
Recognizing Anson, the glass doors sweep aside to let him enter.
“You’re late,” his mother calls down to him, a venom in her otherwise soft, sweet voice.
Anson ignores his mother and his loathing for her. His run has become a limp now as he ascends the steps to the first landing, the staircase spiraling up and around again to the second. Anson refuses to collapse and trudges on.
As he approaches his mother on the second landing, he can see the details of the dress. It has taken all day to weave. When he left this morning, the artisan was just getting started. The hundreds of ribbons hung from a hoop around her neck, draping down her naked body, pooling on the floor. The bright colors of the ribbons have now been woven across her body with such art that the individual ribbons cannot be seen, only the intricate pattern they make. The artisan is stooped now at her feet, weaving along the hemline, where the ribbons will coalesce into a magnificent train to follow his mother through the gardens like her guests.
In only a few minutes, such a dress could be made by the same nanotech that form Anson’s uniform. Her neural interface could transmit the pattern and shape the nanotech accordingly. Instead, the artisan is creating the pattern on her body as the whole city watches through the glass of their transparent house. That way everyone knows no shortcuts were taken. Her dress is a completely unique work of art. Anson’s mother knew just how long it would take when the artisan began this morning. It will be complete in less than an hour from now, just as the barriers drop and the guests start to arrive.