The First of the Stoners
Copyright© 2026 by Al Steiner
Chapter 11: Finding Out About You
Science Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 11: Finding Out About You - 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, Mars
September 15, 2135
“Stoner, you’re up,” Brian said.
Nate gave a small nod, steadying his voice.
“Bob. Stoner ready.”
“Very good, Stoner,” Bob replied. “Erection of your beam is now in progress.”
A chuckle from Brian. “Fuckin’ classic,” he said.
The crane lifted the next column from below, the long carbon fiber beam rising smoothly past the edge of the structure until it hovered above their position. Nate kept his eyes on it, deliberately ignoring the open space beyond. The drop was still there—two hundred meters of nothing—but it no longer mattered the way it had a few minutes ago. The harness had already made its point.
He reached up as the beam came down.
“Bring it down slow.”
The column descended into his hands. It felt light, but the mass carried through in a slow, drifting way that made quick corrections sloppy if he wasn’t careful. He leaned forward slightly, checking the studs beneath.
Four holes. Four studs. Same as before.
He nudged the beam left, corrected right, overshot both times. The movement carried farther than he wanted, like everything had a slight delay built into it.
“Easy,” Brian said. “Guide it.”
Nate exhaled and forced himself to slow down. Smaller inputs. Less force. He adjusted again, barely moving the beam this time.
“Bob,” he told the crane. “Down a few ... uh ... twat hairs.”
Bob complied.
The beam hovered just above the studs. Nate shifted it again, trying to line it up. It didn’t seat. He pulled it back, corrected, tried again, and missed a second time.
The frustration came faster than the fear now. He knew what he was supposed to do and had a good idea how to do it, but his hands just weren’t there yet. He paused and changed focus, looking at the studs instead of the beam. Then back to the holes.
There. A subtle alignment he could feel more than see.
“Bob, down.”
The beam lowered. One stud slipped in, the others hovered just off.
“Stop.” A pause. “Up a twat hair.”
The column lifted slightly. Nate rotated it just enough to feel the shift.
“Down.”
All four studs slid into place. He felt the connection settle through his gloves—solid and unmistakable.
“Hold.”
He kept his hands on it for a moment, confirming the feel.
“That’s it,” Brian said.
Nate nodded.
“Bob, give me a little up and down.”
The crane responded, lifting and lowering the beam slightly. It moved clean, no catching, no resistance.
“Good,” Nate said. “Bring it to prep height.”
Bob lowered it to the required five centimeters.
“Frank, Margaret—secure.”
The stabilizers moved in and clamped onto the column, holding it steady just above the seating point.
“Bob, release tension.”
“Confirmed.”
The crane slackened its lines and backed off.
“Snitch, go ahead and do your shit.”
The inspection arm came up beneath the joint and did its scan. It then laid down adhesive with quiet precision.
“Frank, Margaret—lower.”
The beam descended into its final seated position.
“Clear the vicinity for final bonding operation,” Snitch said.
Nate stood carefully on the flange and moved forward along the beam. Brian did the same. Once they were clear, Snitch completed the weld.
“Bond complete. Joint integrity within tolerance.”
Nate sat back down and looked at the column.
“Your first erection,” Brian said blandly. “You’ll always remember this moment, greenie.”
The next beam was easier.
This time Nate didn’t hesitate when Bob brought it into position. He reached up immediately and started guiding it. His movements were still imperfect—he overcorrected once, then again—but the adjustments were tighter now, more controlled.
He found the alignment quicker.
“Down.”
The studs met the holes with only a minor correction needed.
“Stop. Up. Down.”
The beam seated clean.
He ran through the sequence again, smoother this time. Up-and-down check. Prep height. Stabilizers. Crane release. Snitch. Lower. Clear. Bond.
By the third beam, the fear had receded further into the background. It hadn’t disappeared, but it no longer interfered. He moved along the flange with less hesitation, his balance improving with each step. At one point he overbalanced again and the harness snapped him upright, but it barely registered. No spike of panic—just a correction and back to work.
He was starting to trust it.
By the fourth beam, Brian had shifted several meters away and wasn’t commenting much anymore. He just sat with both legs hanging over open space, otherwise leaving Nate alone.
Nate handled the entire placement himself from start to finish. When the beam seated cleanly on the first try, he didn’t question it. He felt it and accepted it.
He leaned back slightly, looking out over the structure.
They were building a floor. Not eventually—right now. Piece by piece, beam by beam, the thing was rising around them.
And his role in it was almost absurdly simple.
He sat on a beam, guided another beam into place, and told the bots what to do.
And he didn’t fall.
At this point, falling felt almost theoretical.
“I cannot believe this is a real job,” he said.
Brian glanced over. “What?”
“Nothing,” Nate said. “Just ... this is some wild shit.”
Brian smirked. “Welcome to Mars.”
The work continued in steady rhythm until the last of the verticals for their section were in place. By the time they finished, the floor grid stood complete in its skeletal form, waiting for the horizontal members to lock everything together.
“All right,” Brian said. “Now the HIBS mofos go to work.”
“HIBS?” Nate asked.
“Horizontal I-Beam Specialists,” Brian said. “The name kinda says it all, doesn’t it?”
“I guess so,” Nate agreed.
Brian led them over to the corner of the building, near the intersection with the north side. He encouraged Nate to assume the ‘comfort position’, which was used for long stretches of beam sitting. Butt on the beam, both lower legs dangling.
“It’ll keep your fuckin’ ass from going numb in the straddle position,” Brian said. “The harness will protect you just like always.”
Nate gave it a try, though it seemed the very definition of suicidal to sit like that so high in the fucking sky. He found it best if he didn’t look at his feet and the long stretch below them.
“Chow down, motherfucker,” Brian told him. He then took a taste of his own meal. “Hmm. The vegetable shit today. Not my fuckin’ favorite.”
“Suit computer,” Nate said. “Activate feeding mode.”
“Fuckin’ A,” the computer replied.
A soft mechanical movement followed inside the helmet as the feeding tube extended from the lower interior edge. Nate guided it into his mouth and gave it a suck.
Warm paste flowed steadily, controlled and even. Braised beef, he remembered. He paused for a moment, instinctively wanting to chew, but there was nothing to chew. The texture was smooth, uniform—but the flavor was absolutely amazing—for food paste anyway.
“Pretty fuckin’ solid,” Nate said.
“Better than lickin’ gramma’s twat,” Brian replied.
Nate laughed.
Around them, the HIBS crews moved into position. They worked along the tops of the newly placed verticals, setting the horizontal beams that would tie the entire level together. Their movements were efficient and practiced, locking the structure into its next stage while the BEASTs took their break.
Nate watched them for a moment, then leaned back slightly and looked out over the city.
Two hundred meters up. Eating lunch through a tube inside a sealed helmet. Watching a building come together in real time beneath his feet.
Nate followed the paste with water from the separate line, cool and clean.
He let out a slow breath.
This is my job now, he thought in amazement.
It was a living.
The work resumed after break with the same steady rhythm, only faster now.
Nate didn’t think about each step anymore. He saw the beam, felt the alignment, gave the commands. His hands moved with more confidence, his corrections smaller and more precise. The fear stayed where it belonged—in the background, present but irrelevant.
Beam after beam went in.
Across the structure, the other BEAST crews moved in sync. Garcia on the south, Goodshake on the east, Lissa and Stohl on the north. Bob and the other cranes fed them continuously, lifting columns from below and placing them with mechanical patience. Frank and Margaret did their part without comment. Snitch inspected, sealed, and welded every joint with the same quiet efficiency.
Above them, the HIBS crews followed in sequence, laying down horizontal beams atop every two verticals. By the time Nate glanced at the time again, they were already working the final placements for the fifty-fourth floor.
It didn’t feel like hours had passed. It felt like minutes.
“Last one,” Brian said.
Nate nodded and took the beam.
This one seated clean on the first try. No hesitation, no adjustment. Just a smooth drop into place, a quick confirmation cycle, and Snitch finishing the bond.
“Floor’s up,” Brian said.
Nate leaned back slightly and looked around.
Another level of the building existed now. Where there had been open space that morning, there was now structure—lines and angles and connection points stretching out in all directions.
They had built that.
“Down-time in ten minutes,” Brian said.
Nate frowned slightly. “Down-time?”
“That’s when we get the fuck off the building,” Brian said. “You wanna be at the airlock by seventeen hundred sharp to clock out.”
“What happens if you’re not?”
Brian snorted. “You get noticed.”
“And that’s bad?”
Brian shifted his position on the beam, both legs dangling out over the drop.
“One sure way to attract the attention of the Earthling fucks runnin’ this operation is to clock out even a minute late,” he said. “You log overtime, alarms probably go off in some project manager’s fuckin’ penthouse suite. Lights flash, sirens, the whole fuckin’ shebang.”
Nate chuckled. “For one fuckin’ minute?”
“For one fuckin’ minute,” Brian said. “They don’t like paying for shit they didn’t schedule. You’re late clocking out, somebody’s askin’ why.”
“Good to know.”
“Yeah,” Brian said. “So when it’s time to go, we fuckin’ go.”
The call came a few minutes later.
“Commence down-time procedures.”
Workers across the structure began disengaging in a practiced sequence. Harnesses unclipped. Tools secured. Final checks made. The rhythm of construction shifted cleanly into the rhythm of departure.
Brian nodded toward the lift cage.
“Let’s move.”
Nate followed him along the beam, his steps quicker now, more natural. The harness tracked overhead, sliding smoothly with each movement. He didn’t think about balance anymore. He just walked.
They reached the cage, stepped inside, and latched the door.
Stohl and Lissa were already there, along with several others from nearby sections. The space filled quickly, shoulder to shoulder in fluorescent green suits.
Stohl punched in the command. The cage jerked, then began its descent.
This time Nate felt the difference immediately. On the way up, his body had tensed with every meter gained. Now, as they dropped, that tension unwound itself. Slowly at first, then more noticeably. His shoulders loosened. His breathing deepened. Something in his gut unclenched as the ground rose to meet them.
He kept his eyes on it the entire way down. Didn’t fight it. Didn’t look away. Just watched it get closer. By the time the cage reached the lower levels, he could feel it in his whole body—a kind of quiet relief that didn’t need to be spoken.
When the cage hit the ground and the door opened, he stepped out onto the surface and felt the difference instantly. Solid. Familiar. Safe in a way that no harness could quite replicate.
For a split second, he had the urge to drop to his knees and kiss it. The only thing that stopped him was the fact that the ground was sitting at about ten below fuckin’ zero and he still had a helmet on.
“Welcome back to civilization,” Brian said as they walked.
Nate let out a short breath. “Fuckin’ A.”
They made their way across the site toward the airlocks, joining the steady flow of workers converging from all sides. Boots thudded against the composite ground in a uniform rhythm, everyone moving with the same quiet urgency.
Nobody wanted to be late.
They reached the loading area just as a group was forming at one of the airlock doors. Nate stepped in with them, the space filling quickly as more workers packed in.
He and Lissa naturally hung together in one of the corners.
“How’d it go?” Nate asked over the proximity channel.
Lissa turned her helmet slightly toward him. “I didn’t fuckin’ die. Put up a few beams. I’ll take it.”
Nate nodded. “Same.”
“Did your harness save your ass a few times?” she asked.
“Fuckin’ A,” he said. “I learned to trust the motherfucker.”
“Yeah,” she said. “That thing’s fuckin’ magic.”
Around them, the proximity channel buzzed with overlapping chatter. Workers comparing notes, making jokes, talking shit, making plans for after work. Voices cut in and out, layered on top of each other in a constant stream of noise. It was hard to focus on any one conversation.
The inner airlock doors sealed with a heavy, final clunk.
A calm female voice filled Nate’s helmet.
“Airlock pressurizing to Earth sea level standard.”
On his HUD, the external millibar reading began to climb rapidly. The chamber filled in silence. No rush of wind, no dramatic change—just numbers ticking upward and a faint shift in how the air felt against his suit.
“Stand by for heavying in three ... two ... one...”
Nate closed his eyes.
The sensation hit immediately. Not as violent as lightening. Not even close. But it was there—strong enough to demand attention. And, while not nauseating or terrifying, it was still, all in all, not quite up there with docking his missile in Darla’s silo in the maintenance corridor of the Green Horizon.
It felt like the floor was pushing up into him. Not lifting him, not throwing him—just ... pressing upward. His body reacted all at once. His bones seemed to settle deeper into themselves, like something inside him was being compressed back into place after drifting loose. His legs took the brunt of it. He felt them swell slightly, a sudden heaviness returning that hadn’t been there outside.
They wobbled.
He kept his eyes shut, jaw tight, riding it out. There was no panic this time. No disconnect between what he saw and what he felt. Just a strange, uncomfortable reminder that his body had gotten used to something else—and now had to readjust.
The sensation faded quickly.
Not like lightening, which lingered and left its fingerprints behind. This went clean. One moment it was there, the next it wasn’t.
By the time the outer doors opened, Nate felt normal again.
Normal—and very aware that he was standing on solid, pressurized ground where he belonged.
They stepped out into the staging area.
“Why’d they make this planet with fucked up gravity anyway?” Nate muttered under his breath. “Didn’t they know we were gonna colonize the motherfucker once there was money to be made?”
The group moved together through the post-shift routine. Harness assemblies came off first. Nate unclipped his and slid it back onto a hanger. From there they moved to the rinse corridor. High-pressure jets lined both sides. The moment they stepped into position, the system activated. Water blasted across their suits from multiple angles, hammering away the fine layer of Martian dust that coated everything outside.
The force of it pushed slightly against Nate’s body, but nothing like the earlier transitions. Just enough to remind him he was being cleaned whether he liked it or not. Dust washed away in thin reddish streams, disappearing into grated drains beneath their feet.
Through it all, the four of them stayed together—Brian, Stohl, Lissa, and Nate—moving through the system as a loose unit.
As the spray tapered off and the corridor opened into the locker access area, Stohl glanced over at Brian.
“You tell your new greenie about the tradition?” he asked.
Brian shook his head. “I did not.”
Stohl snorted. “Same. Totally slipped my fuckin’ mind until now.”
Nate looked between them. “What are you two talking about?”
Lissa turned her helmet slightly toward them. “Yeah. What fuckin’ tradition?”
Brian gestured lazily toward Stohl. “Go ahead. You tell ‘em.”
They could see Stohl grinning through his visor. “There’s a tradition,” he said, “that every new BEAST buys his trainer a beer at the nearest greenie bar after his first shift.”
Nate stared at him for a second.
There was a solid chance they had just made that shit up right here in the rinse corridor. But at the same time ... He thought about the day. The height. The beams. The fact that he had not died and was not even having the screaming horrors about having to do it again tomorrow.
And the fact that he had just made two hundred and ninety-six dollars.
A beer didn’t seem like a bad idea.
“Fuck it,” Nate said. “I’m in.”
Lissa gave a quick nod. “Why the fuck not?”
Stohl chuckled. “That’s what I like to hear.”
They reached the locker room split.
“Meet us at the checkpoint,” Stohl said to Lissa.
She nodded and peeled off toward the female side.
Inside, the helmet came off first.
Nate twisted the collar ring, felt the seal break with a soft hiss, and lifted it away from his head. For the first time in eight hours he breathed the inside air of Mars instead of oxygen and nitrogen from tanks.
It tasted different.
Suit air had been metallic, filtered, faintly rubbery from the tubes and regulators it passed through. This air carried the warm, unmistakable tang of young bodies—sweat, skin, maleness. Not bad, exactly. Just ... lived-in. Human.
He wondered, idly, if the female locker room smelled better. Probably. Less musk, more whatever shampoo and deodorant women used. Girl smells. It would have to be better than male funk.
He unzipped the front seal of the biosuit and peeled it away. The suit was designed for direct skin contact—no undersuit, no liners, nothing between him and the smart fabric except his bare body. The EMS assembly pulled free with a quiet squirm as he stepped out of the legs. He hung the suit on the assigned rack, naked for a moment in the locker room’s cool air.
He was remarkably dry and clean. No sweat-soaked skin, no clinging dampness. The biosuit had kept him at perfect temperature all day—cool where it needed to be cool, warm where it needed warmth. At the low exertion rate he’d been working—mostly sitting, guiding, standing, walking the flange—sweating hadn’t been necessary. The job was terrifying, sure, but not particularly physical. Bots did the heavy lifting and holding. His body had only had to manage balance, small adjustments, and not falling off a beam two hundred meters up.
He never even got a discharge warning. No red flash on the HUD telling him he was burning oxygen faster than the system could replace it. Just steady green across the board.
He would not take a shower before dressing. There wasn’t a place to do it even if he’d wanted one. The locker room had sinks and sani-wipes, but that was it. He wiped his face, armpits, and groin with a disposable towel, then pulled on his commuter clothes—loose shorts, pullover shirt, the usual—and slipped his feet into his mocks. The clinker went into his pocket.
He glanced around. Brian and Stohl were already dressed, helmets racked, suits hung. They nodded toward the exit.
“Let’s blow this fuckin’ scene,” Brian said.
They walked out together—three men in casual greenie clothes, still carrying the faint scent of suit fabric and Martian dust that the rinse hadn’t quite killed. The corridor opened onto the site checkpoint: a simple barrier gate with a derm reader and a bored security bot that paid them no attention.
Lissa was already there.
She leaned against the barrier post, arms crossed, one foot propped back against the metal. Yellow shorts, black pullover shirt, hair still damp from whatever quick cleanup the female side had allowed. The shorts were short enough to show off her legs—long, toned from whatever life she’d had before Mars, now relaxed in the easy post-shift slouch.
Nate took a moment to admire them again. They were nice ones. Strong lines, smooth skin, the kind of legs that looked like they could carry someone through a long day without complaint. The kind of legs a man would like to run his hand up and down and feel the texture of.
She caught him looking and raised an eyebrow.
“Ready to buy your trainer a beer, greenie?” she asked.
Nate shrugged, feeling the future paycheck in his primary account like a promise.
“Fuckin’ A,” he said. “Let’s go.”
The closest greenie bar turned out to be twenty-seven blocks south.
The building they had been performing their erections upon sat in the north part of the city. The north part was where the corporate Earthlings who ran the show and counted the money lived. There were bars there, many of them. Sleek places with soft lighting and fine Earth liquors. And none of them had signs out front saying “No Greenies Allowed.”
But they didn’t have to.
Even Nate and Lissa, newbies to Martian reality, knew better than to try to pop into one for a drink. The doormen would look at their cheap mocks, their post-shift pullovers, their bargain basement hairstyles, and simply shake their heads. No scene. No argument. Just a quiet, practiced refusal that said you don’t belong here, go south where you belong.
And so they walked.
Through downtown NP—wide pedestrian concourses bathed in the pale reddish daylight that filtered through the overhead canopy, polished composite underfoot, the faint scent of imported Earth coffee drifting from corporate cafés—they moved south. Past the towers where Earthling managers lived in mini-suites with real windows and private air recyclers. Past retail floors stocked with goods shipped from Earth at prices no greenie could touch. Past the quiet, orderly streets where people walked in twos and threes and didn’t glance at the group of four in worn shorts and pullovers like they were carrying the smell of the high steel with them.
Then they crossed the invisible line.
The towers stayed tall—ninety floors or more, every one of them—but now they were identical. Same gray composite exteriors, same repeating window patterns, same efficient modular frames built fast and safe to house twenty to thirty thousand greenies apiece. No variation. No flourish. Just the safest, quickest design Mars could mass-produce to provide basic housing to the tsunami of incoming workers from Earth. The canopy overhead let the same pale daylight through everywhere, the steady reddish tint and faint dust haze.
This was where the greenies lived, the ones who currently outnumbered the Earthlings about eight to one in New Pittsburgh. Are-hues stacked tight, retail floors selling everything a greenie would need, including low-end furniture, cheap alcohol, AgriCorp brown, and simple greenie clothes.
The bar was called, appropriately enough, “The Grunt Bar.”
Brian led them into the lobby of one of the buildings with a tilt of his chin as they approached. They found a low, wide-fronted place on the ground level of one of the identical towers. No neon. No holo-sign. Just a simple composite door with a derm reader and a small etched plaque:
EST. 2118
FIRST GREENIE-FRIENDLY INTOX CLUB ON THE MOTHERFUCKIN’ SOUTH SIDE!
“First one down here,” Brian said as they stepped up. “Been in business for almost twenty years now.”
Lissa glanced at the door. “Greenies own it?”
Brian laughed—short, dry, the laugh of someone who’d just been asked a particularly ridiculous question.
“No fuckin’ greenie owns anything but the clothes on their fuckin’ back,” he said. “DrinkCo owns it. Third largest alcoholic beverage provider in WestHem. They’re making a fuckin’ killing selling booze to us greenies. They partner with AgriCorp for the bud they sell on the side.”
Stohl’s voice came out low and bitter. “All of that money we spend on the shit goes back to fuckin’ Earth.”
Nate frowned as they laid derm on the reader. The door slid open. Warm air and low conversation spilled out—spilled beer, fried protein strips, tobacco and marijuana smoke.
“People have been living on Mars for two generations now,” Nate said. “None of them thought to open their own intox club?”
Brian stepped inside first, holding the door. “A few might’ve tried. But you can’t get no foothold when you’re trying to take money out of DrinkCo and AgriCorp’s fuckin’ pockets. No one will sell them product at fuckin’ wholesale. And no one will rent them any fuckin’ store space in a building. Those are two fundamental fuckin’ things you need to start your own business.”
Lissa stepped in behind him, glancing around the dim interior—composite tables, low stools, a long bar with a few holo-posters advertising AgriCorp Brown and DrinkCo lager.
“That’s fucked up,” she said.
Brian and Stohl just shrugged in unison, the same tired motion.
“It’s the way of the fuckin’ solar system,” Brian said.
Stohl nodded once. “Welcome to Mars, greenies.”
They moved deeper into the bar, heading for a corner table that looked like it had seen a thousand post-shift nights.
One thing that had survived the AI revolution was the cocktail server.
When smart systems and bots had taken over most of civilization’s menial work—and a good portion of the not-so-menial work—people had assumed that bars would follow. They had tried it. More than once over the past hundred years. Service bots, perfectly programmed. Personality algorithms tuned to mimic warmth, humor, flirtation.
They all failed.
Not technologically. The drinks came faster. The prices dropped. No tips required.
People just didn’t want them. Something about a bar required a human presence. Someone real behind the counter. Someone real bringing the drinks. A pair of eyes that could look back at you and mean it—or at least pretend well enough. In corporate studies it was clearly shown that overhead was much cheaper with AI servers and AI bartenders, and prices could be kept cheaper to attract customers, but that establishments staffed with human workers kept individual butts in individual bar seats nearly forty percent longer per butt. No one wanted to talk to an AI bartender or server. People did want to talk to human servers even if it took longer to get a drink and cost more.
And so bartenders and cocktail servers remained human.
In The Grunt Bar, they were all women. All of them attractive.
They moved easily through the crowd in red short shorts that clung tight to their bodies and sleeveless tops that left little to the imagination. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t meant to be. It was part of the atmosphere, part of the draw.
Behind the bar, two men worked the taps and the mixers. They were young, fit, and dressed with the same intention—tight shirts, sleeves cut to show arms, everything chosen to make them look good while they worked.
The four BEASTs took a table in the corner.
The surface lit up as they sat, menu screens activating automatically. No food. Just beer and bud, exactly what Brian had promised.
“We’ll keep it cheap for you,” Brian said, “and order the lager.”
They all selected American Lager. Like all alcoholic beverages on Mars, it came from Earth.
Nate laid derm to the menu and covered Brian’s drink along with his own. Lissa did the same for Stohl without comment. They didn’t have to wait long.
A brunette waitress with a pixie cut, small breasts, nice legs, and a quick, practiced smile stepped up to the table carrying four tall glasses. The beer was pale and clean, a thin head resting on top.
She set them down one by one.
“Shellie,” she said. “I’ll be taking care of you.” Her eyes moved across them, reading the table in a second. “Construction workers, right?”
“How’d you know?” Nate asked.
“You all got the fuckin’ helmet head goin’ on,” she said.
“Very observational,” Brian said with a nod of respect.
“You get to know motherfuckers workin’ here,” she said. “You guys want any bonghits? AgriCorp Yellow’s running tonight. Mondo fuckin’ shit. Hundred bucks a hit.”
Nate blinked. “A hundred dollars?”