The Numbered Panes

Glassmaker Wen Tabor builds shielded lamp housings for the frontline; behind heavy leadglass, a flame can burn even in Hush-deadened air. She checks your cargo numbers.

"Panes seven and eight were fitted onto the lamp-tender Patient along with a full set of leadglass hull ribs," she says. "She was built to survive a week inside the Hush fog, but she's been missing for ten days. Meanwhile, I also have two crates of finished lamp housings waiting for delivery to the next station."

The Patient drifts in dead air with every leadglass lamp still burning brightly. Her eleven crewmen stand motionless at their stations with blank, open eyes—the Hush hollowed out their minds while leaving the ship untouched.

Through her open cargo hatch, you can see the numbered leadglass ribs bolted to her hull frames.

The station keeper's hands are blistered from relighting oil lamps in the dark. He installs the first leadglass housing immediately, watching the flame steady behind the thick glass.

"Wen sent one housing more than our rock requires," he says. "Either she miscounted, or she meant the spare for your ship."

Eleven hollowed sailors stand frozen at their posts—the helmsman gripping the wheel, the cook holding a ladle.

By the steady light of her shielded lamps, you can see the leadglass ribs bolted to every hull frame. Loosening the bolts with a wrench will echo loudly through the quiet ship, risking waking the hollowed crew.

You tow the Patient back to the lamp-house dock with her lamps still burning and her hollowed crew still standing at their posts. Wen Tabor covers her mouth in shock.

"Her shielding held for ten days in the Hush," she whispers. "I'll care for her crew indoors. I don't have much coin, Captain—tell me how we can repay you."