The next morning everyone gathers in a loose mass near the satellite dish for the new work schedule—the rota, in Polis-talk—to be announced. The sky is overcast and a strong breeze is going, so we huddle a little closer than is strictly necessary. Two system maintainers, an old Havlander called Poul and a newcomer called Fatima, spend some time confirming that the system works and that everyone’s disabilities, specialties, and preferences have been accounted for. Then a randomiser script runs and an automated Excel timetable is generated for all one hundred members of Hekaton One for the next week. Will and I are allowed to watch from the outer rim but not talk while this is going on. Jens, surprisingly, stands next to us and is equally silent. When it’s all over I look at him.
“What are you doing? Shouldn’t you be in there?”
He shrugs. “I’m not a formal member of Hekaton number one or the Polis. Jens Dahl eleutheros apolis, remember? Apolis means outside of the city.”
“What? I thought—”
“Yes, I was a founder. Yes, I had the government contacts that accelerated the establishment of the Polis in Havland. But all of this makes it too easy for power to concentrate around me. If the culture of the Polis becomes one of leaders and the led then the game is over, no matter how many random juries we summon and how many consensus votes we take.”
“Yes, but the entire Tragic Law is designed to counter that,” Will points out. “It’s literally impossible to become anything like a traditional leader in this system unless you are confirmed by a consensus, and even then it’s clearly a temporary emergency measure. There’s nothing stopping you from just doing your part for the Polis and giving informal advice when asked.”
Jens shakes his head. “You don’t understand. The laws aren’t the important part of Polis—That’s what Paolo gets wrong. It’s what we as a group make our members believe through our actions, and I must set an example. We’re creating a new narrative about what it means to live in a post-climate-change society right now. You can have all the procedures you like, but if the culture, the shared story of your community, doesn’t reflect that, then it’s all pointless.”
He stops. “The American election is tomorrow. You’ll see what I mean then. At best, regulations and procedural stopgaps merely delay the inevitable.”
By now everyone’s scattered off to start working. Will throws his hands up, steps in front of Jens. “Say what you will about America, there’s 300 million people there. If you have to take anyone even slightly influential out of the picture and make sure everyone buys in 100% for your utopia to work, it will be very hard to be anything more than a tiny village.”
Jens is unfazed. Debating seems to come easily to him, his blue eyes reflecting a sort of polite disinterest mixed with high alertness, twitching ever so slightly as he thinks of a response. A sharp, attacking gaze. “Why else do you think we capped the population of a Hekaton at a hundred people? People can only maintain about that many personal connections. You can steal from the government or the company, but you certainly will think twice before stealing from someone you know.”
“It’s all just… fragile cultural norms and a computer giving everyone excel timetables. No enforcement, no regulation outside of just being asked to do something. Tragedy of the commons waiting to happen.”
“Tragedy of the commons happens without clear cultural guidelines and in places where there are incentives for situations to devolve into game-theoretic, non-communicative prisoner’s dilemmas with a lose-lose Nash equilibrium. We do the opposite of that. You underestimate the power of moothos, William.”
There’s a strange accent he puts on that word, moothos. “Moothos?”
“Today it’s pronounced mythos, but in Greek the y is more of a u sound. That’s what John told me, anyways. It’s the idea of speech or story, what I believe in. You might contrast that against what you’re talking about, which is nomos—law and regulation, the nomics in economics.”
Will looks incredulous. “Laws versus stories. The boy who cried wolf versus the death penalty.”
“Jesus versus the cross.” Jens says it with a completely straight face. At that, Will shakes his head and starts walking off. I shoot Jens a look, notice that he’s still got that strange quivering debating high, and decide that it’s probably a good time to exit the conversation as well. As I do so, however, I can hear him speak behind me.
“Flags to fall and ash to flow.”
I turn around. Will ignores him and keeps walking.
“Flags to fall and ash to flow. That was his last message before John disappeared.”
“What does it mean?”
Jens shrugs. “John liked to use cryptic phrases. If I had to guess, I’d guess it means he doesn’t have much faith in the nation-state, or really in the state of the planet as it’s been set up. This may not be perfect, but we need an alternative.”
He stands there for a long time as I head off, trying to find the maintainers.