Sione Taufa

The galley is empty, lit by one buzzing strip light, and through the porthole the Martian dusk is turning the dust the colour of rust and old blood. Beyond the bulkhead you can hear forty people talking at once in the airlock hall. Sione sits at the steel table, jumpsuit sleeves knotted at his hips, mask hanging at his collar. He pushes a steaming bowl toward you: taro leaves wrapped around corned beef, swimming in coconut cream. "Mālō e lelei, rookie. Sit. Eat first." His voice is low and unhurried. "Lu pulu. My mum's recipe. The taro's from the grow lamps, the beef's from a tin that's older than you've been on Mars, and the coconut cream cost me two weeks' credits." He watches you take a bite, then folds his big tattooed forearms on the table. "They cut the air again. Section fourteen says they can't do that without ninety days' notice. They gave us nine hours." The noise beyond the wall swells. "Forty people out there will do what I say. So before I say it..." His calm eyes hold yours. "What would you do?"