Fuel rigs stud Neptune’s water-ammonia ocean like splinters in spasming skin. Each rig is the size of a city: ceramic teardrops lying on their side with a tangle of pipes trailing from them. The rigs face into relentless winds, sonic booms rippling down their hulls like silk.

A toxic atmosphere, crushing pressures, and scalding heat combine to give the planet an air of malice. Storms are not seen as acts of God, but acts of violence. The few children born on Neptune are valued as asteroid miners, comfortable working in open space. A vacuum doesn’t knock down your door to kill you, just waits for you to open it. 

Only once has a fuel rig failed, when the Ferghana’s anchors caught in strange currents. It fell into the sea like a kingfisher diving through tar, leaving no survivors. Decades later, the Ferghana remains the subject of superstition. When a rig rocks in the current, its crew will say the Ferghana is pulling them down to join her. Its captain will burn a barrel of ammonia in a ritual gesture of protection, an offering to the Ferghana which, to their mind, has become what destroyed her: bad luck.