Three Sisters

A short story about new beginnings in society — about discovering what's real after our crypto fantasies and partisan rancor have burst

I first met Alyam Orsak on a bright spring morning in 2037. She was still unknown at that point — it was years before her clear, strong voice would cut through the thick fog of hopelessness, years before anyone would refer to her as “Joan of Vermont” or “The General.”

It was my first trip to the newly-formed country of Vermont, only 5 or 6 months after it seceded from — what we still jokingly called — “the Union.” In reality, the United States hadn’t been united for decades and was in full-swing, house-is-on-fire chaos by the mid 30s.

Other states had already broken off: four years earlier, it was the Republic of Texas, and a year later, the Oregon Democracy, and there were secession movements in a dozen others. These states had separated along party lines — red / blue, liberal / conservative — and such fissures and cracks rayed out in all directions across the face of America.

Secession seemed like a relatively peaceful option, though it was hard to tell if anyone really believed it would work — it seemed certain that each new country would break up into still smaller pieces. They were as divided as the country they’d left behind, so violence was inevitable; it was the hungry dog trotting patiently along, just out of sight of the departing caravan. And so everyday, no matter where you lived — in the US or in Texas or in Oregon, in big cities or in small towns — the one thing you could count on was that political partisans would take to the streets and try to settle their grievances for good.

On top of that, most parts of the country had lost all their industries after the crash of the crypto market in 2032. The hurt just kept getting deeper. With all that suffering, no one paid any attention when Vermont went its own way. It was just another slip, another stumble, in the unending and embarrassing collapse of civilization. Or at least that’s how it seemed.

Some of us knew better — I knew better. For the past 10 years, I’d been writing for any newspaper I could. I’d seen first-hand how the government controlled all the papers through its seemingly benevolent NMGP — the News Media Grants Program — and it was clear to me that something was different about Vermont. How did I know? Because of the silence. The papers were pumping out vitriol and hype every day, but after half a year no one had written a thing about Vermont. The topic was taboo. It couldn’t be touched. Everyone was waiting for the government to choose their angle and signal the attack, but no one knew what the hold-up was about.

I think they contacted me because I was something of a journalistic hit-man in those days. I’d built my career on take-downs. There was so much corruption, so much stench, that I could simply hop from politician to politician and, if I smelled the winds turning against them, drop my shovel and dig up the dirt.

So, with the light just dawning on a cold April morning, I found myself boarding a train in Massachusetts and riding through endless dark forests of pine, birch, and maple, on my way up to Montpelier, the capital of Vermont. The ticket in my pocket had been fully paid by the US government, and I was on the verge of doing the biggest take-down of my career: a whole country.

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From the train station, I had to walk a couple miles to get to the gold-domed State House at the center of Montpelier (there were almost no cars on the road, gas being only for the super-rich). I arrived there around 9:30 or so, and the “citizens’ meetings” that I’d been told about were already in full swing on the lawn outside the capitol. Groups of various sizes were scattered across the green, everyone sitting in folding chairs, discussing the pressing issues of the day.

There were little signs staked in the grass alongside each group: “Washington County Food Network,” “Rethinking the Executive,” “Support for Teachers.” I had seen similar outbursts of idealism at other times — people organizing to do some good — and I knew it always fizzled out and came to nothing. Nothing was possible. Nothing worked. There was always some grand new idea, but everything grew old and stale in the mouth the moment after you said it.

I took a seat on the outskirts of one of the larger gatherings called the “Associations Group,” and listened to a stocky, middle-aged man with a ring of reddish hair describe how he’d just just gotten back from the Northeast Kingdom, how they were starting to get some of their industries back online (he mentioned a furniture factory and a paper mill), and how everyone had agreed to organize according to something called “the principles,” but that it was slow-going.

At 10am a bell rang: the signal that it was time to move to new groups. I’d already seen a stage being set up on one side of the lawn and I knew that’s where my story was. Walking over, it was impossible to miss the huge banner exclaiming, “Jared Cole for President. He breeds success!”

Cole was the main reason I’d been sent to Vermont. He was a wealthy businessman — a horse breeder and racer known for being ruthless with his competitors — and he seemed like a shoo-in as the first president of the new Republic. I’d been told no one else was even running, which I didn’t understand, except for the fact that driving across Vermont to speak with people would be expensive; you’d need money and connections. So it seemed like Jared Cole’s turn in the limelight, and to me Cole looked like just another would-be authoritarian in the making, and probably not a very savvy one at that. A redneck dictator. Probably an easy mark. Once I dragged him through the mud, I would have effectively dragged the newly-failed experiment of Vermont through the mud, and maybe it would discourage other states from starting their own countries. I doubted it, but I also didn’t really care — I got a certain joy from taking down people like Cole. And I got a paycheck for it.

When Cole finally took the stage, he looked irritated, and rightfully so: there were only a couple dozen people in the audience. Besides a few stragglers, this side of the lawn was completely empty, while on the other side of the green there was a massive group forming. It was clear that’s where the action was.

Jared started up, and his tone was defiant. I took out my pen and pad and began to take notes on his speech (“… the citizens’ meetings have been a great success, they’ve given us a fresh start, but now we need strong leadership in order to found a new nation…”), but I was struggling to pay attention. My mind was shifting about, trying to make sense of the new situation. I was in the wrong place. This wasn’t where the story was. Jared was my story, but no one seemed to care about Jared. Then… what was really going on? Whatever it was, it was clearly on the other side of the green.

So I took my leave, walked across the empty lawn, and joined the massive congregation. It had the energy of a last minute huddle at a sports game, everyone leaning in, almost holding their breath. There was a small group in the front giving directions:

“…Listen, if we want to do more than just survive this year, we’re gonna need to organize things in a much more hands-on way.”

Someone else took the lead — “We need more people to join the associations group, definitely more people in the refinery network working on prices. We’ve got to get people into the surrounding counties by the end of the month or there will be a huge amount of hardship again.”

Then another — “Also, the cultural councils still aren’t fully formed, so we can’t yet meet with any of the associations about supporting cultural workers. If that doesn’t happen, we still won’t have any proper schools running in the fall and we won’t have any nation-wide papers. No nation-wide papers means no nation-wide conversation. And we need that conversation.”

Then someone piped up — “But what are we going to do about the political situation? We still haven’t come up with a ballot initiative to reduce the role of the governor or, god-forbid, ‘president’…”

Then, as if on cue, Jared’s voice could be heard, beginning to screech into a fever pitch. He was starting to rant about “retrograde elements in the community” and “people holding us back.” His voice burst into a mocking laugh and he sneered something about “the so-called professor and her friends.” The people around me looked uneasy and shifted in their chairs; it was clear he was talking about this group. Then a tall young woman who was one of the organizers spoke up.

“Listen everyone: we chose the wrong time for our meeting today. Jared didn’t sign up for the stage until late and we were already slotted for this time. Anyways, let’s bring this to a close. The main thing is we need to redouble our efforts and get more people involved. Also, we need to expect this kind of interference in the future. A representative from every group should meet with someone from the threefold organizing team the day before each meeting, if possible, so we don’t have to spend time on long reports but can jump right into the action. We have another meeting at the same time tomorrow, so let’s start then. Thanks everyone.”

With that, the group began to disperse and I was left at a loss. I’d just heard the inside scoop, the game plan for a game where I didn’t know any of the rules. I didn’t know what an “association” or a “cultural council” was. No one had told me that the Vermonters were redesigning their democracy. And I had no idea what the hell a “threefold organizing team” could possibly be. I sat with pen in hand for a few moments, underlining and circling different words on my pad, until I realized there was someone standing in front of me. I looked up and met the alert, half-amused gaze of the young woman who had spoken at the end of the meeting.

“You’re new here,” she said. Then, seeing my pen and pad, she continued: “And you’re a journalist… working for the US government. Interesting! Do you want to get a cup of coffee? You must be confused,” and with this she gave an abrupt and warm laugh.

I was certainly confused, and seeing as she was the only lead I had, I reached out my hand and said, “Robert Baker.”

“Alyam. Alyam Orsak,” she said, shaking my hand and still looking amused. “Mr. Baker, there’s a wonderful bakery a few blocks down, will you join me?”

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We walked in silence for a couple minutes and I assumed she was waiting for me to start the conversation. Instead I took it as an opportunity to catch my breath, reorient, and look around, and noticed that there was something strange about the street. I couldn’t put my finger on it though — the town looked like any number of New England towns I’d seen: a wide, tree-lined boulevard with ornate stone and red brick buildings. It was all incredibly normal, almost boring looking. And then it struck me: there was no sign of street battles, no broken windows or burnt-out buildings.

“What’s the story,” I asked, pointing to the buildings, “Don’t you have hypers here?” (“hyper” was what we called “hyper-partisans” — the true believers in both parties who were responsible for all the violence).

“We don’t, actually… You didn’t hear? Governor Morrison banned political parties a little over a year ago. He asked everyone to gather in the streets and leave their affiliations behind. That’s when the citizens’ meetings began,” — with her thumb, she pointed back over her shoulder to the meeting we’d just left. “There were thousands starving from all the shortages, and we knew about the violence erupting everywhere else, so it seemed like a better option. Wipe the slate clean. Empower the people to find solutions without politicians always riling them up about how terrible the other half is.”

With this we arrived at the bakery. As we entered, a little bell rang, and Alyam was greeted by an older woman behind the counter.

“You’re early,” she said.

“Just came for a cup of coffee before my shift. Can we have two?”

We sat down at a little table along the wall, sipping our coffee which was surprisingly strong. Most coffee was just grain coffee in those days, but this one clearly had a little actual coffee in it.

“So — you must have questions,” Alyam said.

“You work here?”

“Yeah, I started a few months ago. I taught at a community college down in Poultney for seven years, and walked up to Montpelier about two years ago. I do teach-ins every day, but I also wanted to learn how to bake, so now I apprentice here a few days a week.”

“Was it you, then, who Jared was referring to as ‘the professor’?”

With this she gave another laugh, “Yeah. It’s silly. I’ve never presented myself as anything other than I am.”

“So what do you teach?”

“I used to teach political science. Now I just focus on what we call ‘threefolding.’”

I pulled out my pad of paper and went back to my notes from the morning. “Is that connected to the ‘threefold organizing team’? Can you tell me what that is — and also about the ‘associations’?” I quickly scanned my meager notes. “I was at the associations’ meeting this morning and they were talking about organizing according to the ‘principles.’ I have no idea what any of these things mean.”

“I can give you some of the basics now, and if you want, you can come to my teach-in this afternoon. The ‘principles’ are a good place to start. They’re the foundational agreements we’ve made so far, but they’re really just a series of observations.”

She continued, “You were around for the crypto crash. You saw how everyone leveraged everything they had in order to pour money into what was just a big casino. They hoped it would always grow, which was impossible, or that they’d get out before it crashed on everyone’s heads. Well, it took down the global economy. There were no real values being exchanged. It was all make-believe. So our first principle is just a basic observation of the economy: that a real economy consists of people working for one another. At bottom, there are just people in it — people creating things for one another. If you’re trying to make a buck without working — even if you’re just trying to get a ‘good deal’ — then you’re really just trying to take the fruits of someone else’s labor without giving anything in return.”

“That’s an interesting idea, but what’s the point of it?”

“It’s not an idea, it’s an observation. If we want to fix society, then we have to get down to what actually is, and the basis of economic life is people producing things for each other. We’re just getting clear about what’s fact and what’s fiction. The crypto market was a fiction, but it was also a symptom of a deeper blindness. For years no one recognized the fact that when they were working, they were working for other people — producing things for other people, serving other people. Everyone thought they were working for themselves, for a paycheck. They were just trying to get as much as they could by whatever means necessary, regardless of who loses, regardless of who’s money they were taking. That’s how you get pyramid schemes, and that’s why we all went crazy for crypto. We lost sight of the real point of the economy.”

“OK. So what’s the second principle?”

“Hold on. You just asked ‘what’s the point of this observation?’ and we should draw that out. The fact is, in a large, complex economy we can’t naturally see the people we’re working for, or the people working for us — which makes it easy to forget them and try to get as much as we can for ourselves. So, in order to see each other, in order to cure the blindness, we’re creating associations. Basically, it’s just making the supply chain visible, making it conscious. Of course we first have to rebuild supply chains, but now we’re rebuilding them without any top-down control. No aloof CEOs telling people what to do. No government officials directing things. It’s a network of people who are trying to become aware of each other — who are constantly learning about the operations of the larger network so they know why they’re working, even if they’re just doing the same repetitive action day in and day out. Now they can actually see what their work means — who it serves.”

This all struck me as incredibly naive and doomed to failure. Alyam seemed to sense she was losing me and shifted gears.

“OK. Let’s zoom out. The biggest blindspot in our social thinking is the fact that we don’t see the larger dynamics of society. Everyone who went to school was taught about the “balance of powers” inside government — the balance between the executive, legislative, and judicial — but no one ever taught us about the balance of powers outside government. For instance, what’s the right balance between government and business? And most importantly: what’s the right balance between government, business, and culture? That’s the question at the heart of what we call ‘social threefolding.’”

“Threefolding. So, is that referring to government, business, and… culture?” — I was starting to doubt that I’d come to the right place after all. It was just too complex. Like everyone else, I was used to easy answers and had no feeling for actual ideas, for actual pictures. Promise me some solution, tell me you’ll take down the bad guy or put money in my pocket — those were the kind of “ideas” I could follow, even though I knew they’d never make a difference.

“Yes. Culture. You’re a journalist, aren’t you? — have you ever asked the nature of your own profession? Is it just a business, producing the news like a factory produces clothes? Or maybe it’s just an arm of the government? That’s how it’s been for a while now, but is that it’s real nature? No, of course not. Journalists used to pride themselves on being independent. They were trying to get at the truth, and the truth can’t be produced on an assembly line like cars. It has to be discovered. There’s a creative process to it, a living story that has to be found. The same kind of creative process that lies at the heart of education, medicine, art, science — these are all cultural endeavors. They need to be independent of business and government, not simply their handmaidens. That’s why we’re creating cultural councils, so that there’s a healthy separation, like the separation of powers within the government. You can’t have real vitality — new ideas, new discoveries, new solutions — without it.”

I was starting to follow her, though still tentatively. I had hated the government’s influence on the newspapers. It was always heralded as being for the “greater good,” but it always had the effect of consolidating power and silencing enemies. The only thing worse were the corporate-run papers. After a moment, Alyam went on.

“I grew up in the Midwest with two younger sisters. They’re both incredibly gifted. Not necessarily more than other people, it’s just that we didn’t grow up with all the VR games, we didn’t even have TV or social media, so we were always just exploring and entertaining ourselves. One of them has an amazing ear for music — she can pick up any tune. She also loves animals and definitely could be a zoologist or veterinarian. At one point, she was also designing all her own clothes, and talked about opening up a clothing store.” Alyam gave a little laugh. “Basically, she could do a lot of things.”

“My other sister has this really earnest love of nature. She wanted to be a scientist — and maybe still will be someday — but since the crypto crash she’s thrown herself into farming, like everyone else, and she’s amazing at it.” Alyam started slowly getting ready for work: rolling up her sleeves and pulling her flaxen hair up into a top knot.

“But growing up, I constantly saw how the outer world mostly just hindered their development. For instance, the music program at my sister’s school was cut when the government decided it needed more engineers in order to be competitive with India. And it wasn’t just my sisters, it was like that with all my friends. So many of them wanted to do some good, wanted to help the world in some way, but then, by the time we all finished school, they just ended up taking jobs they hated in order to earn a ‘good living.’ Their dreams dried up.”

She paused, looking inward. For a moment, I caught a glimpse of an inner wasteland — not mountains destroyed, trees cut down, or rivers polluted, but people, all the people I’d known who ran through life with their heads down and never looked up, myself included.

She went on, “Society shouldn’t be like that. It shouldn’t be an obstacle to people becoming themselves — developing their gifts and giving them. It should be a support.” She looked up, and caught my eye. “It goes back to the first principle I described. The economy is based on people creating and producing things for each other, so we need to develop everyone’s capacities to the fullest extent possible. We need to help them develop their gifts, and we need to help them give their gifts, because we all need those gifts. We need new ideas and initiatives.”

At this, the doorbell jingled and Jared Cole walked in, followed by a handful of obedient goons. It was a small space, not much room between the counter and the few tables lining the wall, and Jared and his gang quickly crowded out the easy and warm atmosphere that had been there before. Jared stopped in front of our little table. He was focused with a kind of icy fury on Alyam.

“I thought I might find you here.”

“Hi Jared.”

“When are you bringing your big ideas back to Poultney?”

“I’m not going back to Poultney, Jared.”

“But it’s warm down there. And safer… Less crowded.” Jared’s men chuckled at this. He continued, “Anyways, I came just to make a little peace offering, my contribution to the train ticket down.”

With this he reached into his inside jacket pocket, pulled out an envelope, and placed it on the table. Alyam’s eyes never left Jared’s.

“Jared, I’m not interested in your money and I’m not afraid of you. You have to understand: what’s happening here is bigger than you and me. They’re not ‘my ideas.’ I didn’t invent threefolding. I didn’t invent culture, politics, and business — I’m just trying, like everyone else, to see their right relationship. And that’s why you can’t stop it. It’s not some neat social experiment. It’s just people trying to perceive and work with what’s real — the real nature of society.”

She went on, “If I was to disappear tomorrow, that search would continue. People have caught the scent. They’ve glimpsed the reality of social life for themselves. After all these years of despair, they’ve suddenly seen that real change is possible, they just need to keep at it. No one’s going to step back from the work of the associations, or from the citizens’ meetings, or from figuring out how to educate themselves and their children. They’re not going to hand things back over to technocrats who always say they’ll fix the house, but just end up stealing the furniture. That game’s up, Jared. There are too many people. And they’re too hungry to participate. And they’ve found a way.”

Jared gave a little sigh, picked the envelope up off the table, and put it back in his pocket. The conversation was done. Then he noticed me, which was funny because he was almost on top of us both.

“And who are you?” he said, “Another woolly professor, or just a foot soldier?”

Alyam cut in, “He’s a journalist, Jared. Came up from the US to see what’s happening.”

With this Jared raised his eyebrows. “Really? Would you like to come interview the first President of Vermont? I’m sure you can always catch up with the ‘great professor’ later. That is, if you still want to hear any more of her elaborate theories.”

I hesitated. This was the whole reason I’d come in the first place. This was my paycheck. But at that moment I also felt how cold my life had become, and how — at this moment, in this bakery — I’d finally found a small spark of warmth, a living ember. I didn’t really understand what Alyam was describing. It didn’t make sense, but everything she said also somehow rang true. And I was tired of the easy fix that never fixed. I was ready to try to really see; I was ready to dig deep.

“No… but thank you, Mr. Cole. We haven’t heard much about Vermont for the last half year or so — just a few wild rumors. So I came up to see what was happening, to try to sort out fact from fiction… if you know what I mean. I think I found my story.”