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Excerpt
While the boys brought sheets, mops and buckets to wrap the pilot and clean up his blood, Killian kept her eyes on the blank window. The gray differentiated sometimes into feathers and rills of darker gray or vibrant white, as the Heart of Gold spiraled down, seeking the lower edge of the fog bank. She tried to take it as a good omen that the whole thing was brightening, turning gold at the edges with oncoming dawn. She tried not to listen to the gristly sounds and grunting from behind her. She was imperfectly successful in both attempts.
When four boys lifted the body, wrapped head to toe in white sheets rapidly turning reddish, she turned and rested her fingers on the upper end of the bundle. The pilot was masked in white, all his words unsaid now, all his chances taken, like Pennier, like the runner who had fallen, like the others of her crew who had died in battle over the years. She stood there for a long moment and then nodded. The boys carried him down, where he would be strapped against the wall in the engine room.
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