The First of the Stoners
Copyright© 2026 by Al Steiner
Chapter 10: Excuse Me While I Kiss the Sky
Science Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 10: Excuse Me While I Kiss the Sky - For readers of the Greenies Universe, this is where it all began. In 2135, nineteen-year-old Nathan Stoner is offered something no vermin has seen in generations: a real job. The catch? It's on Mars. Follow the first wave of colonists as they leave Earth behind and build the foundations of the society that will one day shape the entire Greenies timeline.
Caution: This Science Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Fiction Science Fiction
New Pittsburgh
September 15, 2135
Nate left the Briggs Construction intake facility at exactly 1600 NT. Not a minute earlier. Not a minute later.
The doors had opened at the precise second the wall display ticked from 1559 to 1600. Teacher Connie had given them a cheerful sign-off—something about reviewing the material before tomorrow’s shift—and the terminals had gone dark. The system had logged them out automatically.
Workday complete.
For the first time in his life, Nate Stoner had finished a real shift at a real job.
He stepped out into the concourse corridor and took a long breath. The filtered air smelled faintly of hot metal and cooking oil drifting up from the lower floors. The place was still busy—people coming home from work, students drifting out of the high school levels, shoppers moving between the small retail kiosks that ringed the central concourse.
Lissa gave him a quick two-finger salute as she peeled off toward her own rez-hue tower. “Catch you topside, greenie.” The two of them had been assigned to the same construction site and would be seeing each other every workday for the time being. Nate was glad. It was nice to go into something like this with a friend.
He lifted a hand in reply and turned the other direction.
He walked the same route he had taken that morning, only this time his legs felt heavier. Not tired exactly. Just ... aware.
Tomorrow he would start the real job. Tower 725. North Side. Corner of 133rd Street and Jenkins Avenue.
That was all the information Connie had given them at the end of the day. The north side of New Pittsburgh was the upper tier of the city—larger rez-hues, better retail floors, more polished streets. Corporate housing, mostly. Upper managers. Earthlings. People who didn’t arrive in cargo ships stacked like cordwood.
Tower 725 would be another one of those.
He still didn’t know how tall the building was yet.
Maybe they were just starting the project. Maybe the frame was only a few floors up. That would give him time to get used to the job before they started climbing toward the sky.
He hoped that was the case. But a part of him—the part that had grown up around broken promises and bureaucratic shortcuts—had a strong feeling he wasn’t starting on a brand-new site. More likely the tower was already halfway to its final height and they needed fresh BEASTs to keep the cranes moving.
He pictured himself standing on a steel beam six hundred meters above the Martian ground and felt his stomach tighten.
He kept walking.
Twenty-two minutes later he stepped through the lobby doors of Tower Eight.
The place looked exactly the same as it had that morning. Same polished composite floors. Same kiosks scattered through the center ring of the concourse. Same filtered air and soft mechanical hum from the building systems.
People moved steadily through the space—workers heading home, shoppers drifting between storefronts, kids in gray academic wear weaving around adults as they headed toward the elevators.
Nate paused just inside the entrance.
He was empty-handed. His biosuit, Connie had explained, would be couriered directly to the construction site overnight. It would be waiting for him there in the morning when he checked in at 0900. No need for him to carry the thing around the city.
That meant he was walking into the evening with empty hands, nothing to do, and a fresh paycheck already forming in his mind. Thirty-seven dollars an hour. He still couldn’t quite believe that number.
He turned toward the AgriCorp market.
The sliding doors opened as he approached. The familiar smell of produce and baked bread washed over him. The place was moderately busy this time of day—people grabbing dinner supplies, picking up snacks, scanning shelves for deals.
Nate grabbed a small basket and moved through the aisles.
He picked up a pack of chicken meat from the refrigerated section. Not real chicken, of course. Soy meat. Greenies could hardly afford real meat, just like vermin back on Earth.
Next he grabbed a small container of shredded cheese. Then a bundle of flour tortillas. He visited the produce section and got a red onion and two red peppers. He paused at the spice rack for a second, scanning the labels. Cumin. Chili powder. Coriander. Cayenne. All produced on Mars, the labels proudly proclaimed. He took the cumin, the coriander, and the chili powder.
That would do.
At the register panel he laid derm, bagged the items himself, and stepped back into the concourse. His sack of ingredients swung lightly in one hand. On impulse he turned toward the intoxicant shop. Inside, he selected a six-pack of beer first. Nothing fancy. Just standard AgriCorp lager in tall green cans. Then he added a dimer of AgriCorp Brown.
The checker AI processed the order and thanked him for his business. He tucked the packet into his pocket, grabbed the beer, and stepped back out into the concourse.
Purchases in hand, he headed toward the elevator bank.
The indicator panels showed the cars cycling through their usual steady rhythm—people coming and going from the upper floors, the system balancing demand across the tower.
Nate pressed the call pad. Five minutes later a car arrived.
The rez was empty when Nate entered. The main wall display was showing a live feed of Mars from one of the satellites in aerostationary orbit above Eden. The view hung motionless on the screen—rust-colored plains stretching away beneath a pale sky, faint cloud bands drifting slowly across the atmosphere. From that height the planet looked quiet and empty, the land flattening into broad swaths of dust and rock that ran all the way to the horizon. The satellite held its station over the same point on the planet, so the ground never shifted in the frame. New Pittsburgh itself wasn’t visible from that altitude during the day but Eden was. Not the buildings and the streets, but the greenhouses could be seen as a darker, greener area than the surrounding red terrain, geographically shaped in a way that nature did not play with—straight lines and precise ninety-degree angles.
Nate had interacted enough with Tyler at this point to know that he got off work at 1600, just like Nate. But Tyler worked outside of the city, in one of the mining camps. He was transported to and from his worksite by the ore train that brought the raw product back to the processing facility in NP. Each trip took about a half an hour. It went without saying that he was not paid for this part of his workday. Once back in the city, he then had to walk from the industrial part of NP back home, which took another thirty minutes. Generally Tyler arrived a few minutes after 1700.
At 1730, Xan and Roxy would come over and they would all have dinner together. Nate had picked up that they pooled their money for this. So far they had not asked him to join them.
And so he would make fajitas, just like his mother had taught him back in Roseville.
He put his groceries on the counter, leaving the dinner items out and putting the beer in the fridge. He then went to his bedroom and grabbed a fresh pair of clothes. Casual clothes. Loose fitting shorts. Bulky socks that could be pulled up to the knees if needed. A simple pullover shirt. He had no intention of leaving the rez-hue tonight and he was reasonably sure the CEO of Briggs Construction would not be dropping by. True, Roxy and Xan would be here to see him, but they dressed exactly the same. It seemed to be standard home-wear on Mars.
“Snark,” he said upon entering the bathroom. “Shower on, thirty-eight degrees.”
“Fuckin’ A,” Snark said. “How was your first day of work, Nate-dawg?”
“Didn’t I ask you not to call me ‘Nate-dawg?’”
“You did ask me that,” Snark agreed. “I will consider the request.”
Nate took a long shower.
One thing he had really learned to enjoy on his journey from Earth vermin to Martian greenie was limitless hot water. The very concept had not even been a rumor in vermin land. Hot water was something that simply did not exist in pee-hues on Earth, and was available maybe an hour or two per day in are-hues. It was assumed that even rich motherfuckers had to deal with that shit. He had never been so happy to be wrong about something in his life.
He stood under the spray for the better part of fifteen minutes, letting it loosen his shoulders, letting it wash away the smell of brand-new biosuit from his skin. Letting it wash away the mysterious “sealant” the EMS had used to clamp down on his asshole.
Finally he shut the water off and dried himself with one of his recently purchased towels. He pulled on his fresh clothes and gathered up the ones he had worn earlier, carrying them from the bathroom to the laundry machine in the hallway.
It was empty.
The rule was simple: never leave your shit in there. So far Tyler and Nate had both abided by it faithfully.
He started the wash cycle and left the machine humming quietly behind him.
In the kitchen he pulled a cutting board from the cabinet and set it on the counter. The red onion rolled slightly under his palm as he cut the ends off and began slicing it into thin strips.
The rez door opened.
Tyler stepped inside wearing standard commute clothes—shorts, mocks, and a shirt.
“Wassup, mofo,” he greeted. That was standard vermin slang for how are you doing this fine day, comrade?
Nate kept slicing the onion. “Chillin’.” Which meant nothing spectacular to report about this particular day.
Tyler walked straight to the refrigerator, opened the right side, and grabbed one of his beers. He pulled the tab, took a long pull, and let out a satisfied breath. “Been waiting for that shit all fuckin’ day.”
Then he noticed what Nate was doing. The onion. The cutting board. The two red peppers sitting beside it. Tyler squinted slightly as the bite from the onion reached his eyes.
“Damn, mofo. That shit’s hittin’ hard.”
Nate nodded apologetically. “Sorry. It’s static to cook with actual fresh onions though. The fuckin’ thing was in a field in Eden two weeks ago. I love that sting.”
Tyler looked at him for a moment like he might be dealing with someone who had recently escaped from a psychiatric facility. “Where the hell you learn to cook shit?”
Nate understood the question. Most vermin families didn’t cook. They lived on welfare packs from the Welfare Mart—pre-assembled meals for a family of three, cheap and containing just enough calories and vitamins and shit to keep you alive. Families that cooked were rare, but not unheard of.
“My family always cooked,” Nate said. “Good way to stretch the welfare credits further. Tastes better too. Healthier. And what the fuck else does a vermin mom have to do with her time?”
Tyler took another drink of beer. “Huh.” He still didn’t look convinced. “That’s some interesting shit. What the fuck you makin’?”
“Fajitas,” Nate said.
“What the fuck’s a foo-heet-uh?”
“Fuh-hee-tah,” Nate corrected. “And it’s Mexican food.” And then something occurred to him. “You’re from fuckin’ Mazatlán and you don’t know what a fajita is?”
“Yes,” Tyler said simply. “That is correct fuckin’ information.”
“Interesting,” Nate replied.
Tyler took another swig of his beer and headed toward the bathroom. “Gonna rinse the mine off,” he said, already halfway down the hall. He took the beer with him.
Nate kept working at the counter. He finished slicing the onion and pushed it into a bowl, then cut the red peppers into long strips. After that he turned his attention to the chicken meat, slicing it into thin pieces the way his mother had shown him.
He set a conductive pan on the stove and turned it on. A small puddle of olive oil went in first. When the surface heated, he dropped the onions and peppers into the pan and began stirring them around with a spatula.
They sizzled immediately. He kept them moving until they softened and started to turn translucent. That means you can almost see through the motherfuckers, his mom had taught him.
Then he added the meat.
Right then the rez door opened. Roxy and Xan stepped inside.
Xan was carrying a takeout box from one of the eateries in the lobby. Something that fell into the category of barbeque, the smell told him. She set it down on the table.
Both girls were dressed pretty much like Nate, with only the colors differing. Roxy had on a pink shirt and white shorts, her socks pink as well. Xan was less flashy, less girly. She wore gray shorts and a white top with green socks.
“Wassup, mofo,” they both greeted.
“Chillin’,” Nate replied.
Roxy wandered over to the stove and peered into the pan.
“Cookin’ shit again?” she asked. “Smells like fuckin’ fajitas.”
Nate glanced over at her. “What the hell do you know about fajitas?”
Roxy looked offended. “Are you fuckin’ kidding?” she said. “I grew up in Bangor fuckin’ Maine, homedawg. That’s where they invented the shit.”
“In Bangor?” he asked.
“It’s a known fuckin’ fact,” Roxy said seriously.
Nate looked at her for a moment, considering the statement, then nodded slowly.
“That makes total fuckin’ sense,” he said.
“Fuckin’ A,” Roxy replied.
Xan, as usual, said nothing.
Nate had noticed that about her. When Tyler and Roxy were around she talked normally, but when he was part of the conversation she tended to go quiet. He couldn’t tell if she didn’t like him or if she simply didn’t talk much outside of her own circle.
He decided not to worry about it.
He turned back to the stove. The meat was starting to brown.
Tyler came out of the bathroom just as the meat finished cooking in the pan, his hair still damp and the empty beer can dangling loosely from his fingers. The smell of the fajita mixture filled the rez now—onions, peppers, spices, and meat all blending together in a way that made the little kitchen feel warmer than it actually was.
Xan had already opened the takeout box and put recyclable spoons and forks out. She and Tyler both heaped up their shares of the barbecue slices and beans without much ceremony. Roxy stood nearby and watched them finish before taking her own plate, moving more slowly as she spooned food onto it.
Nate turned off the pan and grabbed two flour tortillas, dropping them into the microwave for a quick zap. When the machine hummed to life, Roxy leaned slightly toward the stove and inhaled.
“Those smell really fuckin’ good.”
Nate glanced over at her. “You wanna try one?”
She shook her head immediately. “Can’t. I didn’t chip in money for your fuckin’ food. Wouldn’t be right.”
By now Nate had figured out the roommate etiquette that operated inside this rez. If food was shared, the cost was shared. No exceptions.
Still, he kind of wanted Roxy to taste a real fajita.
He thought about it for a second, then nodded toward the plate in her hands. “Tell you what. I’ll trade you two pieces of that barbecue meat and one scoop of that potato salad for a fully assembled fajita.”
Roxy considered the offer for about half a second. “Deal.”
The microwave chimed. Nate pulled the tortillas out and laid one flat on a plate. He scooped the meat and pepper mixture onto it, sprinkled shredded cheese over the top, and finished it with a quick dash of Tabasco sauce.
Roxy stepped forward and handed over her payment, slapping two slices of barbecue and a mound of potato salad onto Nate’s plate.
“Hope you like my meat,” she said.
“I’m sure I will,” Nate replied.
Roxy shook her head and leaned closer, lowering her voice slightly.
“You were supposed to say, ‘that’s my line, Roxy.’ People who know about friends can say that shit to each other.”
Then she turned and walked over to the couch, sitting down beside Tyler and Xan.
After eating, Nate cleaned up his mess. He rinsed the pan and the utensils he had used, stacked them in the dishwasher, and started the cycle running. A wash and dry took about fifteen minutes. He would put the dishes away before he went to bed.
Tyler, Roxy, and Xan were stretched out on the couch watching some kind of entertainment show on the vid screen—something about people in space doing funny things. They were laughing at it pretty hard. Every five minutes the program was interrupted by a stream of targeted advertising pushes, each one tailored to the viewers in the room.
Nate had never watched much vid entertainment. He preferred reading.
He headed down the hall to the laundry machine and pulled out the clothes he had put in earlier, still warm from the drying cycle. While he was gathering them into a pile, Roxy got up from the couch and walked toward the bathroom. As she passed him she gave him a small smile before disappearing inside.
Nate carried the laundry into his room.
Per his standing instructions to Snark, the door did not close behind him. When he entered, she left it open unless he told her otherwise. When he left, however, she closed it automatically. It was mostly for convenience—if he was just stepping in for a moment or making several trips, there was no reason to keep opening and closing the fuckin’ door.
He dropped the clothes on the bed and started folding his shirts.
A minute later he heard the bathroom door open.
And then Roxy was standing in his doorway.
“Hey, mofo,” she said. “Mind if I come in?”
Nate looked down at the pile of underwear in his hands and shrugged. If she knew what a friend was, she had seen men’s underwear before. Maybe not clean ones though.
But why split hairs?
“Yeah, get your ass in here,” he said, giving her the vermin version of ‘of course you may enter my domicile, madam’.
She came in. She made no comment on what he had done with the place. No greenie ever did anything with any place. Not when you likely were going to be moving to something hopefully better in a year or two. More shit acquired meant more shit to move from place to place. Instead, she asked him about his job.
“How was your first day? They tell you what kinda shit you’re gonna be doin’?”
Nate kept folding, matching the hem of a shirt, pressing it flat with his palm. “Putting construction beams into place,” he said. “Way the fuck up on high-rises being built.”
Roxy leaned against the dresser again, arms crossed loose. “No shit?”
“No shit,” he confirmed. “Apparently the AI construction bots can’t do the actual joining very well. So a human has to climb his ass up there to do it for them.”
She tilted her head. “So you’re gonna put on a biosuit? Go outside the pressure area? Outside the fake fuckin’ gravity?”
“Yeah.”
She let out a low whistle. “You getting hazard pay for that shit?”
Nate snorted. “The fuckin’ corporation has deemed the position non-hazardous.”
Roxy stared at him like he’d just said the sky was green. “Climbing a hundred motherfuckin’ stories up the side of a fuckin’ building with no air to breathe ain’t fuckin’ hazardous?”
“Apparently not,” Nate said.
“Ain’t that some shit?” she asked, shaking her head.
Nate agreed that it was some shit.
He folded his underwear a little faster than he had his shirts, stacked them in the small dresser, and then started working on his shorts.
“So...” Roxy said, walking over and sitting on the edge of his bed. She lowered her voice slightly. “Tell me about the ‘friend’ you made on the trip to Mars.”
Nate looked at her, expecting to see teasing in her eyes, or maybe challenge—let’s hear about your alleged ‘friend’, twat-story man—but that was not what he saw. He saw interest. Clear and present interest.
“The subject of friends is something you study?” he asked slowly.
She nodded her head. “Fuckin’ A,” she said.
Nate glanced out the door. He could not see them but he could hear Xan and Tyler having a conversation. They were paying no attention to what was going on. If the social rules were the same here as in Roseville pee-hues, it was okay for an unmarried couple to be sitting together and talking in a room alone. As long as they did not shut the door. If the door were to shut, it became scandalous. “You won’t tell Xan and Tyler if I tell you?”
“Fuck no,” she scoffed. “They’re still Earth-fucked, mofo. They don’t know about friends like we do. They don’t know the fuckin’ secret.”
“The secret?” She was starting to lose him.
“That having a friend is fun,” she said. “They Earth-fucked us, mofo. Every last one of us. Taught us that sex is disgusting. That you’ll get a disease if you do it. That people only do it a few times to have a baby and never again. That shit ain’t true.”
For the first time, Nate felt like he was talking to a kindred soul. She had just put into words what he had learned on the trip to Mars. “That’s fuckin’ right,” he said, in awe of her perception. “They have been mind-fucking us. Sex is incredible. The best thing in fuckin’ life.”
“Fuckin’ A,” she said enthusiastically. “And here, anyone can do it as much as they want if they just get over their Earth-fuck. It’s safe. No fuckin’ diseases on Mars, greenie. A whole new fuckin’ world is open.” She leaned a little closer. “I have fucked twelve guys since I’ve been here, Nate-dawg. Twelve. Does that make me a slut? Fuck yeah it does. And I love it.”
“Wow...” Nate said slowly. Twelve guys? And not even including the one she fucked on the ship? She really was a slut by any definition of the term. Not just a slut, but a SLUT. Capital letters. Bold. Italicized. Underlined.
But ... what was wrong with that? “This is some deep shit.” he said softly.
“I’m hoping so,” Roxy said with a wicked smile that made Nate blush. “Now ... you gonna tell me about her or what? Tell me your story and I’ll tell you mine.”
Nate shrugged slightly and sat down on the edge of the dresser while Roxy watched him.
“Her name was Darla,” he said. “We met on the train to Edwards. Ended up sitting near each other. Started talking. Then we kept hanging out after we boarded the Green Horizon.”
Roxy nodded slowly, listening.
“We’d walk around the ship together. Eat together. Stuff like that.”
She tilted her head. “You had any experience before that?”
Nate shook his head. “Not really. Just some making out. And one handjob from the girl that wanted me to stay on Earth and marry her.”
Roxy smirked. “So you were the shy one.”
Nate gave a small shrug. “Guess so.”
She leaned back on her hands on the bed.
“I was too,” she admitted. “Before the trip. Hadn’t even kissed a guy before, let alone jacked one off.” She snorted at herself. “Bought the whole fuckin’ lie. Sex was disgusting. Dangerous. I used to hope they’d invent some way to make babies without it before it was my turn.”
Nate laughed quietly. “Darla already knew the secret,” he said. “She’d been married before. Her husband died.”
Roxy’s expression changed immediately. She shook her head. “That’s some fucked-up shit,” she said. She knew what kind of trap that put a vermin woman in.
Nate nodded. “Yeah. It was.”
He glanced down at the shorts he was folding.
“She kind of ... led me down the path,” he continued. “Took it slow. Teased me a little. She hadn’t been with anybody since the night before her husband died, she told me later. Then there I was, and she liked me.”
He looked up and smiled faintly.
“She didn’t have to tease very hard.”
Roxy leaned forward slightly.
“So what happened?”
Nate chuckled.
“She invited me into the maintenance corridor behind the laundry machines.”
“Motherfucker!” Roxy hissed, delighted. “That’s where we used to fuck on the Mars Delivery.”
Nate laughed. “She didn’t invite me there to fuck. She just wanted to show the place to me. That’s what she said anyway.”
“I like her already,” Roxy said with a giggle.
“Pretty soon we were fucking in that corridor every night.”
“And you found out it was the most incredible fuckin’ thing in life?”
He smiled at the memory. “I found that shit out,” he confirmed. “But did you ever think it was suspicious there was such a convenient place for people to do that?”
Roxy frowned at him. “You call that fuckin’ convenient?” she said. “I got windburn on my nipples in that motherfucker.”
Nate laughed. He couldn’t help himself. “Tell me your story now,” he said.
Roxy shifted a little on the bed and watched him fold another pair of shorts.
“My first was a guy named Chevy,” she said. “We met in the dorm on the Mars Delivery. Long trip. Eighteen fuckin’ weeks because of that orbital shit.”
It was clear she had no real understanding of what ‘that orbital shit’ actually was. Astronomy got touched on in elementary school, but the real explanations didn’t come until the eleventh and twelfth grades—after ninety percent of vermin had already dropped out.
Roxy went on.
“Chevy was real good lookin’. I couldn’t help but be attracted to him. Even though I thought sex was disgusting, I was still a twenty-year-old girl full of fuckin’ hormones.”
She grinned a little at the memory.
“And he was a smooth motherfucker too. Never told me straight up, but I wasn’t the first twat he railed. That was for damn sure.”
Nate listened quietly, putting away another shirt.
“Took him about four weeks just to get me to kiss him,” she continued. “After that things moved along. He never forced anything, but he made me feel so fuckin’ good.”
She leaned back on her hands again, staring at the ceiling as she talked.
“And one night, in the corridor, I let him do it. Hurt a little at first, yeah. But then ... then it didn’t.” She looked back at Nate. “Then it felt real good.”
Nate nodded slowly. He knew exactly what she meant.
“I learned the fuckin’ secret,” she said. “We did it the rest of the trip whenever we could.”
Her tone stayed casual, but there was something honest in it too.
“And when he got sent to Eden and I got sent to NP, I didn’t cry. I thanked him.”
“For what?” Nate asked.
“For showing me the fuckin’ light.”
Roxy pushed herself off the bed and brushed her shorts flat with her palms.
“I better get back to the sibs before they start making fuckin’ wedding plans for us or some shit like that.”
Nate nodded. That sounded like a good idea. In their culture it was fine for the two of them to sit and talk alone in a bedroom with the door open, but if it went on too long people started drawing conclusions. A budding relationship would be assumed and quietly acknowledged by everyone around them.
Nate didn’t really want them thinking that. Roxy likely didn’t either.
She took a step toward the doorway, then paused and turned back to him.
“You wanna bump clinkers with me?”
The phrase wasn’t sexual. It was the modern term for exchanging numbers. All you had to do was touch clinkers together while holding the derm pads and it was done.
Still, it was an unusual request for someone to make at this point in a relationship.
Nate hesitated for a moment.
Roxy noticed. “It’s in case the two of us want to talk about friend things at some point,” she said. “I seem to be between friends at the moment. How about you?”
Nate considered that. “I don’t have a current friend under that particular definition of the term,” he admitted.
She laughed at his formal diction. “You’re so pussy,” she told him. “I could just fuckin’ eat you alive. Let’s do it.”
He put derm on his clinker and held it out. Roxy did the same.
They tapped the devices together. The exchange completed instantly.
The first person on Mars he had bumped clinkers with.
Hopefully not the last.
Snark and her counterpart, Clinker Snark, had both assured him that the walk from Tower Eight to the worksite would take thirty-eight minutes, give or take thirty seconds.
Nate believed them. And that was a long fuckin’ walk.
And there was no alternative. There were no autocars on Mars, no intercity tram system. Foot power was how you commuted and there was no other option—even for the rich and powerful. People who lived on Mars did not talk about the weather when they shot the shit with each other, for the weather was always the same in the Martian cities. They talked about footwear.
Walking shoes were very important to Martians, and the companies that made them were forced to keep up. Anyone selling substandard shoes in the Martian marketplace was ruthlessly smeared by online reviews. As such, good shoes were plentiful and cheap.
Nate had a pair of Norwood Commuters that had cost him six hundred dollars at the Everything Store. They were expensive but comfortable.
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