The ceiling was lava.
The hangar itself was floored with solid steel, gridded with tracks that held various ships—caught fast like flies in a web. This wasn’t the compact hangar of the Prismatic Moon, or the open field of the Glottal Moon—it was massive. Small electric cars darted across the surface to ease transport. People milled about on the floor, apparently oblivious to the imposing sight above them.
The walls dropped away above us, revealing the core of the College of the Gear: a pulsing, molten, cracking orb of superheated rock encased inside (beneath?) the space station. It bubbled and splashed above us and, paradox to the solid ground beneath our feet, splashed back up into the core. The hangar was alight as if it were under a natural sun.
And it was moving.