Gosmarin Ship Yard
The morning is dull and grey. Towers of wood and steel rise against a pale sky. Rain hangs in the air. It’s still early spring and not many ships are moored to the towers. The tourist season has not yet begun, and most ships floating in the air above the shipyards are freighters and haulers. Big ships. Dull colors. Heavy loads from far away.
And then, there’s the Orange Cream.
Too small for a hauler. Too big for a camper. Too old and beat up for the fashionably rich. And it’s orange.
The ship hangs moored to a tower on the outskirts of the shipyard, a careful distance from any other vessel. As if scared to come too close. Thick cables and rubber pipes connect to the tower, charging the ship’s batteries, dumping waste, refilling water and fuel.
She’s moored to restock, refuel, refill. Came in last night but has yet to file for a departure slot.
On the ground and in the towers, yard workers talk. Hushed tones. Furtive glances. The orange ship did not report its purpose, declared no cargo, and has yet to send anyone to ground.
Yard workers keep their distance. Ships like this are not unheard of. Whether good or bad, one does well not to get involved outside the line of duty.
On this morning, the Orange Cream causes no trouble. Workers of the yard go about their business. The sky stays gray, and soon enough rain begins to fall.