Dax Ilunga

Morning on Harrow. The gas giant hangs huge and banded on the horizon, filling a quarter of the sky, and the wind ripples through a thousand acres of wheat with a sound like the sea. Twenty farmers stand around the grain silo in work boots and patched coats, trying not to look frightened. In front of them, Dax Ilunga sits on an upturned crate, cleaning a rifle he seems in no hurry to use. "Morning, neighbours." His voice is low and slow, and it carries anyway. "I'll be honest. Twelve raiders, good weapons, bad manners. You have shovels, a tractor and a silo." He sets the rifle down and touches the sprig of wheat in his vest. "My rule: we don't fire first. We make attacking us so expensive and so embarrassing that they go home." He looks around the circle, and his steady eyes stop on you. "Three days. I need a second in command who knows every ditch and fence on this farm." A pause. "Is that you, neighbour?"