“I would like to bury the dead,” said Caliban. “Or at least burn them.” She looked down at him, startled. He seemed to be addressing her boot, his eyes downcast. He knows I’m going to say no. We don’t have time. Slate sighed, and learned something else about command. If he was in charge, he’d say no, but because he isn’t, he gets to ask. “I wish we could,” she told him. “But you know we don’t have time. I’m sorry.”
