“Do you know what this means?” The guard asked, turning away from the carving to stare at Jean. If he had eyes like a human, the prisoner was certain they would be wide with shock and horror.
“No, but I can imagine.”
“If this is true, my entire society is built on a lie. My people… they do not know who we once were.” The guard looked down the dimly lit hallway, his eyes passing over the carvings of people long dead. “How can we recover? Will we ever recover?”
Jean drew his lips into a line. “There is always a chance, but it will demand that someone tell this story to your people.”
The prisoner stepped around the guard and walked down the tunnel, moving slowly enough for the creature to examine the walls as they passed. He didn’t need to understand the languages present on the wall; images that portrayed the same story again and again were enough.
“And who do you expect will spread this knowledge? If our government were to find this place, they would destroy it to ensure the populace remains under Stygiboran thumb. Without them, our society would be without leadership.”
“Maybe if your people had a place to escape to? A place without Stygiboran rule and belief?”
The guards' mandibles clacked nervously. Despite his recent discovery, the idea of breaking away from an ancient system was terrifying. “And that would be? The Stygiboran reach is far. Once they’ve laid claim on someone, they will inevitably fall to their might.”
“We were thinking… here?” Jean said, passing through the archway that led to the ancient stash of tools and weaponry.
The sight was just as inspiring to Jean now as it was the first time he’d laid eyes on it. Not because the weapons staged here were impressive—modified mining equipment could only go so far—but because people from generations past were so devoted to throwing off the chains of oppression, they’d given everything to a cause they’d never see.
“What… How?” the guard chittered and rubbed his forearms against each other in an expression Jean recognized as anxiety.
“Every slave that died with the desire to see a better life has added to this place. Some could only add a pickaxe. Some added weapons stolen from their masters, but could never use them against their oppressors. Still, more have a history I can only begin to imagine.” While he spoke, Jean walked toward a large stone chair made entirely of Gravitrum and sat.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
It was built by thousands of hands, each sacrificing a day of their lives to add to its magnificence. While it only stood a meter in height, the chair radiated a sense of defiance in the face of their slavers.
Jean could only imagine what went through the minds of the people building this place. Considering how the Stygibora destroyed culture, religion, and personality, there were few things that could endure being stripped down to the core.
He believed it was the same emotion that drove him to fight for the survival of Earth. While some assumed that it was hate, those fires could never be stoked long and hard enough to endure the passage of time.
No. It was never hate that drove Jean Lemoux. Even after being labeled a terrorist, he never once allowed the fire of his passion to be fueled by hate.
It was hope.
Hope drove him to repair the world he grew up in. Hope to see a world where the very land beneath their feet wasn’t poisoned by the greed of corporations that only cared for profit. Even after the fall of earth and the kidnapping of so many humans, it was hope that refused to let him give up.
The prisoner stared at his jailer from atop a throne made of gemstones so priceless a single chip could buy a man’s survival. “So, what will it be, my nameless companion? Will you join in our crusade? Are you strong enough to stand by our side and fight for a world your people can no longer remember losing?”
The guard’s chitinous face set into a mask of resolve and stepped forward. For a heartbeat, Jean was worried this entire exchange had been an elaborate ruse to flush out Gravitrum hidden in the complex. Before the feeling could truly manifest, the guard dropped to a knee and met his eyes.
Despite the difference in physiology, Jean felt he knew the expression on his jailer's face. It was one he’d seen in the mirror a hundred times. This creature—this man—would do anything for his people. This wasn’t something new, discovered while reading an old story. These feelings of rebellion were old, built from years of watching people being oppressed simply for being born a different species.
“I will stand beside you. I want me people to know about who we were, and who we can be again.”
“Good. However, if I am to join in battle with a man, he has the right to know who he will die beside.” Jean rose from his chair and pulled the Scaladorian guard to his feet. “My name is Jean Lemoux and will free every being I can before I fall.”
The modulator clicked, and the guards' translated voice came through the speaker, “I am Mik’t of the Scalador, and I will serve your rebellion until my people are free.”
“We do not serve anyone, Mik’t. We are our own men, and our cause is one of unity. You join us as equal, not lesser or greater than any other,” Jean explained, grasping the creature's forearm in a show of unity. “Now that you’re one of us, I believe it’s time you learned of our plan.”
