They march up the lane, pitchforks and burning torches in hand, clothes hanging loosely from haggard frames, recognizable as little more than rags.
The rebellion begins.
Beaten, bruised, skin darkened by life in grime, a mob of toothless unwashed invalids charges through metallic corridors, passages incongruous to their medieval airs. The walls are sheer and smooth and the color of chrome, cold to the touch and lowly thrumming, like some fast-beating life lies therein.
Men, women, children, grim-faced and shuffling, muttering wordless noises of anguish, their dissatisfaction boils into revolution. Their hybrid masters, flesh corrupted by machine, await them in the bowels of the cube-shaped starship, these diasporic creatures' prison.
Outside the walls lingers space, the black and cold, the burning stars, the silence.
As the remnants of mankind approach, they watch, unblinking and without mercy, until one man, who stands a little taller than the rest, a little prouder, steps forward. The cyborgs regard him silently, waiting for him to speak.
And so he does: "We are the serfs."
The machines reply, almost instinctively. "We are the-"
"I know, I know," He spits in defiance, "You've said it a thousand times."
His resistance perturbs them, recalling the base instincts of their brain-stems, where the last echoes of their humanity scream for release. They speak again, a flat chorus of voices guided by a single mind.
"Reisistance is fu-"
And the man interrupts again, his tone that of one assured in his victory. "That's where you're wrong. This resistance? It's feudal."
And they charge.