Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Something I’ve always wanted to ask, Uncle…”

“Hmm?” Flatwell turns away from the holotable at the sound of the voice. The briefing’s just been dismissed. He doesn’t envy those defending the Gallia dam, but it has to be done. Best to let him muse over his guilts alone rather than in public.

But to see Index Dunham’s open, honest face washes away his annoyance - and in any case, there is too much for him to do to be angry over such a thing as this.

“It’s not much, actually.” Dunham scratches his head with his big hand. “Blame it on the fact I don’t spend as much in the time in an AC as you do, so I never truly considered it. But how does the arena actually work?”

Flatwell raises an eyebrow. “You mean the one run by ALLMIND? Why, it’s just a ranking system for mercenaries active on this world. I was under the impression that you’d submitted your data? I’ve been seeing you there whenever I do my training for the past year.”

“Well, there’s the rub.” Dunham smiles sheepishly. “I haven’t actually used any of ALLMIND’s services yet. Father would be disappointed if a Coral Warrior took jobs from the corporate scavengers. Plus, I doubt BURN PICKAXE can do much as she currently is against the higher ranks.”

“Ah.” Flatwell turns off the holotable. The large room is plunged into gloom as its blue-white light disappears. “So you’re wondering why you’re even registered in the first place, then?”

“Yes, Uncle.” Dunham looks relieved to be understood.

“I see.” Flatwell takes off his glasses, rubs the bridge of his nose. Trying to organise Gallia’s garrison in a way that is actually effective without putting an undue strain on the Wall’s defences has been… challenging. Not helped by how much strain’s been put on the Front’s logistics in recent days, what with those damned Arquebus-sanctioned independents. He forces the thought away. At least they didn't send the Vespers. “Want to get some caffeine? I can explain what I know over that.”

Standing outside, looking out from the Wall's heights over the abandoned city below, the eternal winter’s air freshens his lungs. He sips his cup of spice coffee, still hot through his gloves, and waits for Dunham as he struggles with his own cup’s lid. He does not offer to help. His fellow pilot is already self-conscious enough about his blue-collar fingers as he is. He thinks he's barely less clumsy than the JUGGERNAUT.

Mercifully, Dunham pops the cup open, and takes a long gulp.

“This is delicious.”

“It was among the stores you got from raiding that Dafeng convoy,” responds Flatwell. “Ziyi sent me some. It was probably meant for their higher-ups. Now I get to share with all of you.”

“Much better than the sludge the PCA’s contractors would give us when we were building the Grid,” rumbles Dunham. “So, Uncle, I’m ready to learn.”

“Well… you’ve been on Rubicon since the Grid was created. You remember how things were back then?”

“Couldn’t forget.”

Flatwell himself was not present on the planet’s surface, during those early days before the Front. His work in Schneider kept him away. That is why he cannot feel superior to his counterpart, talking to him as a friend, not a commander.

Dunham saw what it was like, even if he did not fully understand.

“It was a lawless time,” mutters the burly man over his cup. “PCA wasn’t properly militarised. Scavengers and racketeers everywhere. Everybody fighting everybody else just to stay alive.”

“And surely you remember the independent mercenaries who first surfaced then? After all, Father was one of them.”

“Of course!”

“Well, from what I understand, ALLMIND first surfaced during those years. Father has told me a little about it, although he says that what he knows is only scratching the surface. At first it was a system used far beyond the infant Grid, only for vagrants and Dosers who wanted something to arbitrate their disputes when they were too cracked on Coral to think. That was what the Arena was for.”

“Of course, this was before Father’s teachings spread among them,” says Dunham reverently.

“Very much so. Anyhow, ALLMIND soon came to become the dominant network for all the dozens of independent mercenaries on Rubicon. They had no stable employers, no friends to trust, no dependents to take care of, but at least now they had something to keep them unified. It gave them a hierarchy in the form of the Arena’s ranking system, which translated to order. Those who killed to take one of the top spaces gained power and wealth, and greater access to what BAWS, Elcano and the other local companies might sell.”

Flatwell sighs. That was about when he managed to connect with the RLF. Those were simpler times.

“The PCA, by this point, feared the mercenaries. There were too many of them to track and they didn’t have enough power, hard or soft, to control them. And many of them were getting ideas about how to run the world. Hence the rapid armament programs, the construction of the Closure System, the chaos and lockdown. Amidst that, I managed to slip to Rubicon.”

“That you did, Uncle.” Dunham nods with admiration. “And I remember those days myself. The PCA was conscripting us construction workers. I’m glad I didn’t get sent to fight.”

“Indeed. The PCA wasn’t as strong then as it is now. They had to use the Rubiconian pilots against each other, and introduce new ones under their employ into the fray. I became one of those. Inevitably, though, we newcomers heard of ALLMIND, and were tempted. An entirely complete, pre-existing mercenary support system? And the registration process was so simple too. It was an easy matter to induct oneself, and from there to climb the ranks and grab what riches Rubicon could offer. Rumours spread off world, despite the PCA’s best efforts. More and more mercs came into the war that they could not fight themselves, yet they had created. To think, this was when nobody even knew there was still Coral here.”

“Surely there must’ve been another reason you signed up, though, Uncle?”

“Well, naturally.” Flatwell adjusts his glasses. “Father and I were in close contact by that point. He was a high ranker in the Arena then, as he is now - he had plenty of clout on Rubicon, and he was full of his ideals for setting up what would become the Front. He wanted me to help him on the ground. But in order to have influence on Rubicon, I needed to adjust to Rubicon’s lifestyle. The average settler or factory worker might not know this representative from Dafeng or that one from Schneider, but a pilot with an ALLMIND licence and rank? That meant much more. It was a process of adaptation. It was also what the PCA was expecting me to do, as a newcomer. Going along was easy. Too easy, almost.”

“I understand,” says Dunham. “I also remember what happened next, though. The PCA cracked down hard.”

“Yes. That was when they finally started deploying their new warships and their first LCs. Closure at all costs was their motto. They fulfilled it.”

“Sure did. They put me to work in the shipyards. The amount of metal they were processing... you could have built the entire Grid again with all that."

“And with that, they tightened the screws on the independent mercenaries. Many of those I knew in those days died badly. They fought as hard as they could for their future dreams, but the PCA had the backing of governments and they won in the end. Those who survived stuck to what they had, and at that point that was two things.”

“The Front, and ALLMIND?”

“Precisely. Both to give us purpose, albeit in different ways.”

Flatwell shakes his head, before taking a gulp from his now tepid coffee. “Then things got even worse when the off-world corporations decided to come. They pushed past even the PCA and inserted themselves into ALLMIND too, for two reasons. To demonstrate their brute strength to those who live here rightfully. And to deny the top ranks and all their benefits and symbolism to those who truly deserved them, for their own greed.”

“Disgusting and cowardly,” growls Dunham.

Flatwell touches him on the shoulder. “That’s why we need good men like you in the network, Dunham. Men who represent what Rubiconians really want. It’s not about the jobs you get through ALLMIND, or the duels you can fight. It’s about guarding a system born on and made for Rubicon. A way of life. Hopefully that clears your confusion a little?”

“I think it does, Uncle.” Dunham looks thoughtful. “Forgive me for my ignorance. I haven’t been a pilot as long as you have.”

“Trust me, it isn’t worth it in the long run.” Flatwell thinks affectionately of TSUBASA, but he barely gets to take her out these days. To be tempted by what you once enjoyed is worse than never having experienced it at all, he finds. It’s a small miracle he still even stands at rank C.

Dunham smiles. “For me, the novelty hasn’t worn off yet. I’ll do my best at Gallia, I promise.”

“Balam will be coming in due course. If you take my advice, Dunham, make greater use of ALLMIND. Train against the Redguns. Be as ready as you can, with the resources you have.”

“I will.” Dunham clenches his fist. “No corporate dog will find me unprepared. And now that I know more about ALLMIND, I’ll be more than happy to use it.”

“That’s the spirit.” Flatwell smiles too, despite himself. “After all, it exists for all mercenaries.”