CLARA FUTURA

Star Land was built by thousands of choices that favored money over people and progress before research. The only option now was survival. Ojawan, the city architect watched through the storefront window as people rushed across asphalt oceans, clad in loose fitting solar deterrents, drowning in the rays of a buttery sun. Despite his title, he was really hired to design the virtual mirror of Star Land. They needed his expertise in foresight, coding, and regenerative architecture to create an immersive escape for the roughly 4 million citizens. His passion for science fiction was a bonus.

Ojawan left the gruesome site of his decaying corner of the world. Cities are supposed to patina over time and weather their traumas with dignity, but Star Land was past saving. He entered the black box theater illuminated by a luminescent grid on every surface. His break was over, and he only had a few more days until the mirror world went online in the largest event the city had ever seen. He poured the haptic skin over his body, letting each living agite slip to its assigned pore. When fully immersed, wearing it felt like wet velvet, giving it the nickname, “dolphin suit.”

He inhaled deeply, allowing the links to build down into his respiratory system. Once connected, he jolted forward, each hair on his forearms saluting. The display connected to his optic nerve and synchronized with his cochlea. 

Welcome, treasured citizen.

Ojawan wasn’t sure if the opening was too formal or too intimate. It could go either way. He plucked the top of the letters that spelled out c – u – l – t – u – r – e, revealing a pass key entry point. Ojawan entered his private Sci-corps encryption, and the darkness transformed into a modern rail station. 

In front of him stood an old-fashioned turnstile, and in his right palm he held a neon yellow ticket. Tossing the ticket in the air moved him through the passage to the main concourse. Here, everything felt expansive. Large open-air bays ran along both sides, revealing where stratosphere seemed to meet mesosphere in a crescendo of deepening blues. Matte stone tiles led to gardens with birds and peastone walking paths. Wood benches wrapped in tight laces of leather supported the waiting area despite the wait time always being within three minutes. Background characters and programmed staff stood paused in mid-motion awaiting him to activate their sub-layer.   

A breeze rushed past his cheek as a white and glass train appeared. Its movements were so fast it felt disorienting, and Ojawan stumbled. He opened the code index and set the train’s speed to quarter time so that a human could process its deceleration. He stroked each metal railing, checking its temperature, the plaster walls for texture, and the clothes on his body for movement. No matter how many times he worked on a particular part of the virtual city, it would never feel completed. What he needed was 10 more architects, but the council didn’t want to deal with any more NDAs after the last incident. Stepping from the stone concourse to a luxurious navy carpet inside the train, he opened the holographic map of the city and selected the Hotel Phlox.  

Named for the delicate star-shaped flower, the hotel blended art nouveau with utopian optimism. As the train pulled into the city-center platform, Ojawan looked out over the river that snaked along the edge of the city. Twinkling lights from the other side promised even more adventures, but for now it was nothing more than a digital scrim. The architect turned back to Hotel Phlox. Gold balconies embraced narrow, walnut-paneled windows with French doors up the facade. A background gardener stood paused, ready to water the red bougainvillea vine that wrapped the columns at the front entry. Ojawan was proud of designing the stained-glass ceiling over the interior lobby that displayed vibrant colors in a Mondrian pattern, but the lounge needed to have a distinct look that related to the natural, romantic themes of the Phlox. The hotel and the lounge should look like partners while reflecting their individuality, like siblings. It comes down to purpose.  

Jazz feels like romance. He started by laying out a stone entry, but it felt too ordered, so he adjusted the stone dimensions into a surprising staccato as the space deepened. He stepped on the stones one at a time, enjoying the feeling of skipping around at varying cadences. What if it wasn’t random, but from a song. His favorite compositions created unbalanced patterns, his synapsis lighting up as he flipped through beats and imagined them as stone patterns. After a few minutes he hit upon the 1961 bebop jazz “Epistrophy” by Thelonious Monk and John Coltrane, which fit perfectly into his vision of a futuristic lounge. 

Hours snaked by as one inspiration led to another and the nagging fatigue of his agite shroud began to warn him to take a break. The architect quickly disabled the warning. No one would come looking for him, and he needed to finish before the grand opening in—he checked his virtual watch—two days. He decided to work through another solar cycle. Who would miss him, he reasoned. If he could just design a little more detail, he would be done with the lounge, then he would log out. 

If he could just find the right material or the proper plantings… While trying to decide the best layout for the garden terrace lighting, the architect wondered if he was building this all in vain. What if people enter, walk around, and then leave disenchanted. What if it didn’t feel authentic? The city’s investment depended on him, and it was clear that building a perfect mirror city was much easier than fixing the real one. I’ve got one shot to make sure the title of City Architect won’t die in obscurity. He busied himself adding small touches. Visuals in a virtual world were expected to be perfect, but what truly set apart his mirror city from the gaming environments everyone was accustomed to was touch, taste, and smell. Freesia arrangements were powerful at first then tapered off the further you moved from the flowers. Fire from the candles on the tables felt warm but could never burn visitors. Forest-green bucket Paulistano chairs were supple and smelled of aged leather. Even the food worked with the agites to provide millions of flavors. 

This was Clara Futura. 

The architect shivered with excitement. Creating a city inside a virtual sphere was an exercise in vanity without the critique of users. Ojawan snapped the code bar and was transported to a riverfront promenade. Elevated boardwalks swung out over the water’s edge, walking trails clung to the banks, opening into wide integrated seating, and boats of varying sizes and styles drifted slowly under a necklace of constellations.  

Perhaps the marble library, garden restaurants, and alleyways lined with paper lanterns was disjointed or worse, too homogenous. Orange trees lined the plaza, and live oaks wound their gnarly roots into the river’s edge. Buildings of varying material facades were partially obscured by blankets of green moss, ivy, and plants spilling down their sides. Ojawan chewed his lip for a moment thinking of what a genuine public reaction might be. Virtual spaces use a lot of energy. Typically, the city was powered in whichever part he happened to be in, working on a grid that veiled the uninhabited sectors behind masks that made the rest of the city appear to be illuminated. Having so many guests roaming about required a different system. He brought up the root map that controlled power system settings and set up a switch box for multiple users. The visual world stuttered for a moment then returned to normal parameters. Everything was on the solar bank now. 

 The main event for opening night was an architecture biennale with pavilions, a street market, performers, and artists woven throughout the city. He laid out a map of events that would take visitors through the completed zones of his city. String lights shimmered overhead, with outdoor seating, tables, and kiosks for sharing food and wine. Virtual experiences were rarely open to the public, often ticketed, curated, and limited in their participation. The Clara Futura Biennale would be a first of its kind, free and open to all citizens of Star Land.

Architects, vendors, chefs, and artists were allowed entry first to set up their stations and get a feel for the enormity of the wondrous city. Each pavilion represented explorations of time and ranged in material and size. Fixed twilight painted the city in tender light, and a chorus of “magnificent,” “glorious,” and “unbelievable” rounded each corner. The architect basked in the glow of his creation from the balcony of the library. 

The city could use a test run, but time was up. After 48 hours he knew that he would just have to manage the issues as they came. Ojawan unlocked the code that allowed users to enter the main portal. Guests materialized at the rail station coordinates, whisked away instantly on a tour of the city extents. They rode through courtyard-hugging residences, community gardens, and narrow cafes; past partially buried glass conservatories exploding with flora-like geodes reaching out from the strata; and into urban forests designed to feel isolated and wild.  

Music and laughter tinkled in the car-less streets past dawn. Ojawan, asleep in his Star Land studio was awakened by an alert for the sunrise sequence. He quickly logged back in hoping he hadn’t disrupted everyone’s circadian rhythms by falling asleep. Many guests were curled under tree canopies and along grassy knolls at the river to rest. 

In the 20th hour of the greatest public event ever virtually orchestrated, he realized that he could never close Clara Futura again. The council held an emergency meeting and determined that the mirror city would remain open permanently, and a new department would be hired to oversee and manage the daily coding. 

With the higher powers satisfied, Ojawan was finally given the green light to allow outside architects the opportunity to attach their own code, expanding the neighborhoods and building types. Vowing to never leave his virtual city again, he designed a home using the rough layout of his office. Every step, door, countertop, desk, bathroom, and chair. This way he could stay in the virtual space to go get something to eat or use the facilities. Within the limitations of his building footprint, he re-envisioned his office as a concrete penthouse with slim, steel factory windows. The beat-up chairs in the waiting area became Eames loungers, and his tired wooden door drafting table morphed into a gleaming cherrywood desk. He raised the ceilings from 8 feet to 15 feet. and covered the concrete floors with elaborate vintage rugs he borrowed from memories of castles he visited as a student in Scotland.

Years passed and the urban party mellowed into daily life. Someone created dogs and cats, which became mascots for families. An architectural historian developed an entire sector modeled after the circular medieval streets of Baghdad circa 762 CE. It housed a menagerie and aviary like none ever seen before. Money was unnecessary and resources endless. It became the utopia that society longed for, yet something was missing. Ojawan couldn’t figure out what felt off about the city. He tried different variations, events, and lighting. New tastes, smells, and vistas were added each day. 

After nearly a decade inside Clara Futura, he made the decision to take a brief leave to see if he could discover something in the real world that would scratch the itch that nothing he created would ever feel “real” enough. He left his cabinet of architects in charge and gingerly paused his virtual haptic set. The dolphin suit slipped over his pale, atrophied limbs back into their port. Alone in the black box, he went to the door, took a deep breath, and entered his actual office. Light blazed through dusty windows as he saw all the spots his robotic vacuum routinely missed. He went to the main door and touched the metal handle. It felt colder than he remembered. Everything smelled muddled together. Despite all this, it was thrilling reentering the natural world.  

Ojawan opened the door and stepped outside to find a very unexpected sound. Birdsong. It was a bright, cheerful, melodic avian symphony! The architect ran to the end of his street. Cars were parked neatly in their driveways and along the curb. A gentle rain was misting across the ground creating puddles that reflected vibrant colors all around him. He shivered and rubbed his eyes unsure what he was seeing. The many years in calculated light levels had taken their toll on his pupils, making it hard for them to adjust quickly. He shaded his brow and scanned the buildings in front of him. Tall grasses rose from the ground and weeds broke through every crack in the concrete sidewalks. Laughter tumbled out of his throat, and Ojawan stumbled down the street towards the main road. 

Businesses, long abandoned by the population, were managed by a handful of robotic assistants in quiet orchestrated movements. It smelled like spring, and the air was fresh, untamed. Clean. The architect filled his lungs with it, running his hands along the imperfect brick of a nearby restaurant. Plants, hungry for sunlight, stretched up onto buildings using their facades as an armature to reach as high as they could. He knelt and caressed a divot in the road where time and transportation left a hole, now filled with water. A family of ducks bathed in it. They did not move in response to his presence, unaware of any danger he might impose. Rustling in a nearby tuft of grasses caught his attention, and he met the gaze of a coyote. The architect walked for several hours taking in the city he once despised. Everything felt raw and unpredictable. 

Suddenly, like an arrow to the heart, the architect knew what Clara Futura was missing. The inhabitants of the real city were living virtual lives inside a non-space. They were gone, and along with them went their memories. A metropolis is meant to be a collection of stories that tell how the city was born, how we lived our lives, and the dreams for our future. When the artisan worked their steel, orbital sander vibrating in powerful motions, their hands created a precious touch only a maker could leave. The scar of work and sweat. The mark of care. Each blemish bearing unimaginable and unique beauty. In his search for perfection, the architect fell in love with a fantasy that was devoid of memories and scars. Clara Futura would never rival the splendor of reality, because a string of code can’t replicate the sensation of living.