We buried the soldier at midnight.
It wasn't a funeral. It was a cache.
Gareth pried up the floorboards in the back corner of the workshop. The earth underneath was dry and smelled of old sawdust. We had dug a trench deep enough to hold the disassembled chassis of the Centurion.
Mira wrapped the glass plating in heavy wool blankets. "This feels wrong," she whispered. "Putting it in the dirt."
"It's storage," I said. "Not a grave. When we need it, we pull it up."
We laid the bone struts in the trench. We packed the joints with greased rags to keep the moisture out. We covered the pile with a tarp, then shoveled the earth back in.
Pelham nailed the boards down. He used a mallet wrapped in cloth to deaden the sound.
When we finished, we dragged a heavy workbench over the spot. I scattered dust and wood shavings over the floor to hide the seams.
"Invisible," Gareth said, wiping sweat from his forehead.
