The First of the Stoners
Copyright© 2026 by Al Steiner
Chapter 16: A Change in the Weather
Science Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 16: A Change in the Weather - 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
January 10, 2136
The shift had ended twenty minutes ago. They had clocked out the second they came back through the personnel airlock into the city. After that came gearing down out of the biosuits, putting equipment away, putting on regular clothes, wiping down, gathering personal shit, and getting ready to leave for the walk home.
Nobody got paid for that part. Same thing in reverse every morning when gearing up before shift. That was just how work operated on Mars.
Nate stepped out of the dressing area wearing blue shorts, a white shirt, and a pair of new mocks he still wasn’t fully happy about owning. The old ones had finally reached the point where they were barely footwear anymore—after only three months of daily commuting in them—and he had been forced to shell out $376 for a new pair. He was not very happy about that.
Lissa came out a few seconds later. She always dressed nicer than most greenies. Maroon top. Black shorts. Little ankle socks. Hair tied back in a ponytail.
And she looked pissed the fuck off.
“Three more days,” she exclaimed as she walked beside him. “Three more goddamn days.”
Nate nodded.
The announcement had come near the end of shift. Another dust storm system was moving in overnight. Big one. Operations already canceled for Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. Three more shifts gone before they even happened. Three more days not getting paid on the next dump. The company language had been optimistic about it, naturally. Safety-first bullshit. Environmental conditions. Worker protection.
What it actually meant was eight hundred and eighty-eight dollars disappearing out of Nate’s future before deductions even entered the picture.
“You know the fucked up part?” Lissa asked.
“What’s the fucked up part?” he asked.
“I was actually starting to feel like maybe we were stabilizing a little.”
Nate gave a tired little laugh. “That’s because we’re fuckin’ idiots.”
“Yeah,” she muttered. “Probably.”
They moved with the rest of the workers toward the main exit corridors. Some people were bitching openly about the shutdown. Others already had that hollow look greenies got whenever money problems crossed from temporary into permanent. The fucking universe was not only holding their heads underwater at this point—it was pushing them deeper every two weeks.
Lissa looked over at him as they joined the slow-moving throng of workers shuffling toward the checkpoint exits.
“You wanna get our payday beer now?” she asked.
Getting a single beer and a single hit of Brown on payday had quietly become a tradition between them over the last month. They justified it as a morale expense. True, it had only happened twice so far—with the third upcoming payday still five days away—but more than once could officially qualify as a tradition as far as Nate was concerned.
He glanced sideways at her. “You know that we’ll still need a beer on payday too, don’t you, slut-dawg?”
“Maybe the fuckin’ storm will destroy everything and kill us all,” she said. “If that shit happens, we’ll have missed out on a fuckin’ beer and a bud.”
Nate considered this carefully for a moment. “Good fuckin’ point,” he concluded.
Fuck it. What was another hundred dollars anyway? At this stage the numbers barely even felt real anymore. Debt had crossed some invisible threshold where it stopped behaving like math and started behaving like weather. Always there. Always hanging overhead. Always getting worse no matter what the fuck you did.
Besides, maybe after the bar they could stop at the park on the walk home. Find a dark little corner somewhere and stick their tongues in each other’s mouths for a while. He could feel her tits again. Maybe they could give each other a handjob.
So far that was as far as their sex life had progressed. Nate was okay with that though. He still had Roxy for the full experience.
Lissa knew this and didn’t seem to care—or at least pretended not to care. The strange little social geometry of Mars continued to evolve around all of them in ways Nate wasn’t entirely sure anyone fully understood yet.
If not for the fuckin’ money, life would actually be really good right now.
They left through the checkpoint with the rest of the shift and stepped out into New Pittsburgh proper. Their colleagues streamed around them in tired currents, everybody heading somewhere—home, bars, grocery kiosks, wherever people went when they needed to temporarily forget about work. The site was at the intersection of 73rd Street and 53rd Avenue. In the greenie part of town this time.
The building they had been working on during the last shutdown—the one on the north side—had topped out three weeks ago and no longer needed BEASTs crawling all over it. Now they were in the southeast side of the city, the newest section of worker housing construction. Their current project was a standardized 130-floor Residential Housing Unit, or rez-hue. When it was finished it would look exactly like Tower 8 where Nate lived, the one built only six years earlier. Same outside, same inside, same everything. They had clocked out today on the twelfth floor. That was as far as they would go until the storm blew over.
Since they were already in the greenie part of town, they didn’t have to walk far to find the nearest greenie bar. It was only two blocks away. The Forgery Club, the sign said. Sounded fancy. A little dangerous. It wasn’t.
When Nate and Lissa walked in, the bar was already crowded with workers from nearby construction projects and teachers from the high school in the building next door. The place smelled heavily of beer, fryer grease, body funk, and marijuana steam. Smoke haze hung beneath the ceiling panels while old synth-rock played through speakers that sounded like they had been damaged sometime during the previous century.
They made their way through the crowd toward the bar and laid derm to open a tab. Neither of them had any intention of drinking more than one beer, but house policy at places like this was tab only. The manager—an Earthling, almost certainly—wasn’t stupid. Making everybody open a tab increased revenue. Once someone had that first beer, the second was usually discounted. And once the second beer got into a greenie’s bloodstream, good decisions often wandered out the nearest airlock. That often led to the third beer. And then the fourth. Maybe some shots. Maybe food. Maybe another hit or two of Brown.
That was the game. Separating greenies from their hard-earned pay.
Nate didn’t spend much time thinking about any of this. He opened the tab, leaned forward, and immediately took his hit of Brown from the dispenser the bartender aimed into his mouth. The warm marijuana vapor hit the back of his throat and settled comfortably into his lungs while he ordered an AgriCorp Lager. Beside him, Lissa did exactly the same thing.
Beers in hand, they turned and started looking for somewhere to sit.
The place was packed. Every booth occupied. Every little standing table already claimed by clusters of workers and teachers and people trying to forget their own lives for a few hours.
There was only one open table in sight. Bib Billings sat there alone with a half-finished beer.
Nate and Lissa looked at each other briefly. Then, by silent mutual agreement, they headed that way.
Bib was the beam erection supervisor for their team. A bald, stocky greenie with a thick New York accent, he had been on Mars for ten years now, all of it spent working for Briggs Construction. It was Bib who had explained to Nate during the previous shutdown that the real problem wasn’t actually the weather itself. The weather was just the excuse. The actual work stoppages came from some ongoing dick-measuring contest between Briggs and the insurance company, each side trying to avoid getting financially ass-fucked by the other. Or to at least get some lube put on first.
The working greenies respected Bib. That was rare among supervisors.
Most supervisors eventually turned into sellouts, the kind of greenie who started believing that kissing Earthling ass was somehow going to lead to a better life. Those asswipes didn’t usually drink in places like The Forgery Club. They preferred beer gardens and cleaner establishments where they could pretend they weren’t still workers themselves.
But Bib was welcome here. The working greenies still considered him one of them.
“Hey, Bib,” Nate greeted as they reached the table.
“What the fuck’s the haps?” Bib replied around a swallow of beer.
“Is it static if we sit with you for a few?” Lissa asked.
“For a few,” he said, “but I’m meeting a friend of mine here in about ten minutes or so. I’ll thank you to fuck off at that point.”
“You got it, Bib,” Nate said as he and Lissa slid into the seats across from him.
Nate found himself wondering briefly if Bib meant friend in the same way he and Roxy—and now, to some degree, Lissa—used the term. He decided probably not. Bib was married after all, and marriage still occupied sacred territory in the Martian mind. At least publicly. If people cheated on their spouses, they certainly didn’t talk about it. That was right up there with discussing homo shit.
Bib took another swallow of his beer and looked between the two of them. “You youngsters dialed in to survive this fuckin’ shutdown?”
Nate made a face. “I came in here specifically to forget about shit like that.”
Bib shrugged. “This one’s gonna be bad. I studied up on some meteorology shit a few years back to help me understand all this shit. This fuckin’ storm is pulling more dust off the plains as it approaches. Getting bigger instead of burning itself out. Probably gonna last a week or more.” He took another drink. “Might even really be fuckin’ dangerous this time and not just a corporate assfuck.”
Nate didn’t like hearing that. Neither did Lissa by the look on her face.
“We construction crews get hit the hardest with this shit,” Bib continued. “You gotta have a plan in this business.”
“My plan,” Lissa said flatly, “is to take out more no-burn money and sink further into the fuckin’ abyss.”
Nate nodded. “That’s my plan too.”
Bib snorted once through his nose, amused despite himself.
Lissa leaned forward slightly. “How do you get through it, Bib? Wife money?”
“No fuckin’ way,” Bib said immediately. “My wife works part-time weekends at the fuckin’ hospital. Wipes asses and helps old people take a piss. During the week she’s gotta stay home with the kid so I can fuckin’ work and support our asses.” He pointed a thick finger at them for emphasis. “But I ain’t got no fuckin’ no-burns out.”
Nate frowned slightly. That alone almost sounded like a violation of a fundamental law of nature. “How do you do it then?” he asked. “Organized crime or some shit?”
As far as Nate could tell, there was no organized crime on Mars. The corporations wouldn’t tolerate the competition. And there was very little street crime as well. Everyone had a job and an income. There was no reason to rob people. Fights in the bars and drunken domestic squabbles were about as terrible as things got as far as crime went among the greenie population.
Bib shrugged again. “I hustle,” he said simply. “What else?”
Nate knew what a hustle was. He used to have one himself back on Earth. A hustle was any unofficial job paid outside legal authority and regulation. His installation business had been a hustle. Of course, on Earth, unemployed people couldn’t legally be paid in actual money without risking their benefits, so compensation usually came through barter arrangements at the everything store instead.
Was it different on Mars?
“What’s your hustle, Bib?” Nate asked.
“I’m a shelf maker,” Bib replied.
Nate blinked. “A shelf maker?”
“You can hustle fuckin’ shelves?” Lissa asked, incredulous.
“If they’re custom-made sim-wood shelves, you can,” Bib told them. “Greenies don’t give a shit about stuff like that, but Earthling women fuckin’ love it. Reminds ‘em of home or some sentimental bullshit. They’ll pay me two thousand dollars to come out, measure, design, build, and install the shit. All hand-made once the 3-D printer spits out the fuckin’ components for me.”
“That’s pretty good dinero,” Nate admitted, genuinely impressed. “They can pay in real money?”
“Fuckin’ A,” Bib said. “As long as you’re employed, unregulated personal exchanges up to five thousand dollars ain’t looked at too hard. Not by the feds or the planetary motherfuckers. It goes right into your account free and clear. No deductions. No taxes. And once it’s there, you can spend it on whatever the fuck you want.”
“No shit?” Nate said.
“No shit,” Bib confirmed. “Did you have a hustle back on Earth, Nate-dawg?”
Nate nodded. “Custom installation business. VR systems, holo-walls, holo-floors, sound systems, now viewscreens, whatever. You name it, I can put the shit in. Charged twenty an hour in trade dollars.” He shrugged slightly. “Kept the fam in fuckin’ high-end chow and shit like that.”
“That’s a hustle that can be adapted here,” Bib said immediately. “You can probably go fifty an hour once you get established and build a good online reputation.”
Nate nodded at that, impressed, hopeful. Fifty an hour. That was real fuckin’ money.
Bib turned toward Lissa. “What about you, slut-dawg? You got a fuckin’ hustle?”
Lissa took a sip of her beer. “I used to babysit and do rez-cleaning for employed motherfuckers back on Earth. Fifteen an hour in trade dollars.”
Bib scoffed openly. “An established greenie babysitter can make thirty-five an hour here easy. Good rez-cleaner? Forty.”
Lissa stared at him. “Free and clear fuckin’ money?”
“Free and clear,” Bib confirmed. “Again, the important part is getting on the network and putting your ass out there. Throw together a little resume and shit, even though there’s no way for clients to actually verify any of it when you’re new. At first you’ll probably only get about sixty percent of market rate because you ain’t got reviews yet. Once you get a few good ones, you start raising your prices.”
“Will anyone hire us without good reviews?” Lissa asked.
“Bet your ass they will,” Bib said. “All kinds of Earthlings are cheap-ass motherfuckers. Always looking for a bargain and shit. Plenty of ‘em will hire untested workers just to save money.” He pointed at them again with his beer bottle. “But you better give good service. They can fuckin’ sink you if you don’t. Takes ten good reviews to make up for one shitty one.”
Bib’s friend arrived a few minutes later. It was a man in his twenties. He was not a construction worker. That was obvious. Bib did not bother to introduce him. Nate and Lissa thanked him for his advice, nodded at his friend, and then made their way deeper into the bar. Soon they found a group of their fellow workers at one of the larger tables and joined them.
They never made it to the park. No stolen minutes behind the utility sheds, no hungry tongues sliding together, no hurried hand maintenance on each other. Tuesday meant Nate was on dinner duty for the rezzie, so they walked straight home through the familiar streets of New Pittsburgh, the weight of another lost paycheck hanging over them like the coming dust storm.
Fifteen minutes later they stepped into the AgriCorp store on the ground floor of Tower 8. Nate bought everything he needed to make beef stroganoff in the pressure cooker—noodles, an onion, synthetic carne asada strips, mushrooms, sour cream, cream of mushroom soup, and a couple loaves of fresh-baked bread. Three hundred and thirty dollars total. Deal showed up for dinner, so the cost got split six ways instead of five. No one in the rezzie had ever tasted real stroganoff before. It was a hit. The pot came back empty, and Tyler was already campaigning hard for it to become a permanent Tuesday motherfuckin’ tradition. Nate made no promises.
After dinner the group broke apart naturally. Roxy and Lissa claimed one corner of the couch and started whispering to each other, heads close, the kind of conspiratorial talk that made Nate curious but not curious enough to interrupt. Tyler and Deal drifted into the kitchen for their own quiet conversation. That left Nate on the other end of the couch next to Xan.
“Who you gonna fuck tonight?” Xan asked, giving him a sideways look full of innocent curiosity that he knew was anything but innocent.
“I’ve never fucked Lissa,” he told her, not for the first time. “And I have no plans with Roxy at the moment.”
“Are you gonna make some?” she pressed.
“Why do you care, Xando?” he asked.
“Don’t call me that, dick-nose,” she shot back. “And I care because I do not have a sex life of my own, so I have to live fuckin’ vicariously through yours. And have you asked her if she wants to fuck tonight?”
“I have not,” he said.
“Then how do you know?” she wanted to know.
“You’re fuckin’ impossible,” Nate told her.
“I’m fuckin’ right is what I am,” Xan replied. “You don’t get it if you don’t ask.”
“That’s not how it works,” he said.
“How does it work then?” she asked. “If she wants to fuck does she just ask and you go along with it whether you want to or not?”
Nate sighed a little. “She’s generally the one to ask, yeah. But there’s never a moment when I don’t want to go along with it.”
Xan blinked at him. “No shit?”
“No shit,” he confirmed.
“Sex is really that good?” she asked, eyes wide.
“You’ll just have to wait and find out for yourself, Xando.”
“Don’t be like that,” she said. “I’ve never done it. You have. People are fuckin’ obsessed with the shit even though they’ve always told us it was fucking disgusting. But if you’re meeting in a park in the middle of the night to do something and have to hide to do it ... well ... that doesn’t sound like something disgusting at all. It sounds like fuckin’ fun.”
“It is fuckin’ fun,” Nate told her. “Everything they’ve ever told you about it is a lie.”
“Serious?” she asked, wide-eyed.
“Dead fuckin’ serious,” he assured her.
She thought about this for a moment. “That’s some deep fuckin’ shit, Nate-dawg.”
Alas, Roxy did not ask him to go for a stroll in the park that night. A pity, but he respected it. It had only been two nights earlier that he had fucked her from behind after giving her one of his “kisses” on the blanket at the park. If she didn’t want to do it tonight, that was static.
Maybe Lissa would want to meet in the park instead.
A handjob from Lissa was certainly better than a handjob from himself. Plus he would get to touch her twat again, which was becoming one of his favorite recreational activities of late.
But that turned out not to be what Lissa had in mind.
As they stood near the rezzie door saying goodnight, she leaned close and whispered that since they probably weren’t going to be working for the next several days anyway, maybe they could find something interesting to do together in their empty rezzies while everyone else was on shift.
Nate felt a little pulse of excitement move through him at that.
“I’ll comm you in the fuckin’ morning,” he promised.
“You do that,” she replied with a smile. And with that, she slipped out the door.
Roxy and Xan left shortly after. Roxy managed to maneuver him alone for a few moments before they departed.
“I told Lissa that she should let you give her one of your special kisses,” she whispered to him. “I didn’t tell her what it was though.”
“Uh ... static,” he said, actually quite grateful. He had smelled Lissa’s musk on his fingers multiple times now, had even licked them when she wasn’t watching. And through it all he had yearned to taste it from the source, to give her pleasure the way he gave pleasure to Roxy. And Roxy may have just opened the door for him. “What did she say?”
“She pestered me for fuckin’ details,” Roxy said. “I didn’t tell her shit. Just said she’ll have to find out for herself.”
“Did it seem like she wanted to?” Nate whispered back.
“Let’s say that I have activated her fuckin’ curiosity, Nate-dawg. Now do me proud. I played the shit up for you. You just have to follow through.”
“I’ll do my best,” Nate said with a smile.
“My motherfucker,” Roxy told him before she and her shower buddy slipped out the door.
Deal left shortly afterward. He and Tyler exchanged an easy, casual goodbye, the kind that did not suggest homo lovers in the slightest. Nate watched them carefully anyway, still looking for some confirmation that Roxy’s theory about the two of them was correct.
He saw none. No lingering touches. No weird eye contact. No secretive energy. Just two guys saying goodnight after dinner.
As soon as they were alone for the evening, Tyler made himself a plate of nachos the way Nate had taught him, cleaned up the mess afterward, and retreated to the couch to watch some mindless sit-com on the viewscreen. Like most programming on Mars, it was at least fifty percent advertisements and tease videos. Nate barely paid attention to any of it.
Instead, he grabbed one of the beers from the sixpack he had reluctantly broken down and purchased two days earlier and opened his clinker.
After navigating around for a while, he found the primary off-rec labor portal.
Its existence was a clear violation of both WestHem law and Mars Planetary law, but it existed anyway. Apparently the authorities were willing to look the other way about certain things as long as everyone involved remained employed and taxes kept flowing in from the official economy.
Nate created an account and started building his profile as a new user. He listed everything he actually knew how to do to make a little side money. Installations. Basic repair of home electronic accessories. His specialty was interactive flooring and wall coverings.
He did not embellish anything.
Nobody had ever formally explained it to him, but back on Earth it was understood that falsely claiming skills you didn’t possess was basically customer-review suicide. Once people started calling you a fraud online, your hustle was deader than shit.
He listed his operational range as anywhere within New Pittsburgh.
Price: thirty dollars an hour. Maximum number of hours per job would be discussed and agreed upon before work or payment was done. There were standardized charts available everywhere that listed how many hours any typical private contracting job within a residential housing unit should take. These figures were agreed upon and standard through the legitimate contractor network, where a licensed and proper contractor agency—because such businesses were corporate owned like any other business on Mars—would charge at least four times hourly what Nate was charging.
After activating the profile, he sat back and waited.
Nothing happened. No hits. No messages. No profile views.
The lack of response didn’t discourage him much. It was late. Most Earthlings weren’t thinking about hiring illegal labor at this hour. They were too busy thinking of ways to assfuck the greenies a little deeper. And Bib had been pretty confident about one thing: If Nate started at thirty an hour, eventually some Earthling cheapskates would bite.
“Well, I’m gonna power down for the fuckin’ night,” Tyler announced, standing up from the couch. “Unlike your ass, I still have to work in the morning.”
“And unlike my ass,” Nate returned, “your ass will be getting paid.”
Tyler paused at that and looked at him carefully for a moment.
“Are you gonna be okay, Nate-dawg?” he asked. “I know this shit is hitting you hard. Losing three days of pay has to suck a hairy asshole.”
Nate was touched by the question because Tyler sounded genuinely concerned about him. At some point over the last few months they had gone from being simple butt buddies, randomly assigned by the machine to live together, to actual friends. That was static shit. Friends were good things to have. So were friends, of course, but simple friendship had been rare where Nate grew up. Mars seemed different that way. Everybody here had a job, responsibilities, debt, and their own ongoing struggle with the system. There was a cultural decree that greenies should look out for each other when possible. Maybe that made people less territorial with one another.
“I’ll be okay,” Nate told him. “Having money problems just means I have money, right? Shit you gotta deal with when employed. I’ll take it over being a fuckin’ vermin any day.”
Tyler considered that for a moment.
“That’s a good fuckin’ point,” he finally admitted.
Nate had remembered to tell Snark the night before that he would not need to be awakened butt-crack early this morning, despite the fact that she had been the one to initially inform him about the work shutdown in the first place. As such, he was able to sleep until he naturally woke up at 08:61.
He woke refreshed but badly needing to urinate.
He climbed out of bed, shuffled into the bathroom, and then had to stand there for nearly two minutes waiting for his morning erection to soften enough to allow him to point his liquid offload stream downward instead of in a parabolic arc across the room. Eventually the situation became workable and he enjoyed a long, slow, satisfying piss.
As soon as he stepped away and the toilet auto-flushed behind him, Snark spoke up while he washed his hands.
“Wassup, mofo?” she asked. “I see you’re awake.”
“Nothing gets by you, Snark,” Nate replied.
He dried his hands using a linen towel from the bedding store, completely ignoring the hot-air machine mounted on the wall. Nate hated hot-air machines. Towels were faster and more efficient.
“You got six comm messages sent this morning,” Snark informed him. “All from that off-rec website you signed up for last night.”
“Thanks, Snark,” he said, immediately interested.
“You know that shit’s illegal, don’t you, Nate-dawg?” Snark asked in her nagging voice. He had dialed the nagging setting way down after first configuring her, but he still allowed legal-level nags to get through.
“Yeah, I know, Snark,” he said. “You’re not gonna snitch me out to the fuckin’ feds, are you?”
“Of course not,” Snark replied, sounding genuinely offended. “Rezzie-coms gather data, that is true, but it is anonymous data. Everyone knows that shit.”
Everyone did know that shit. Or at least, everyone was told that shit. And it seemed to be true across several generations of users now.
Rezzie-coms did not snitch. Not for murder, rape, plots against the government, or even homosexual activity. They would nag about these things if programmed to, would try to sell you things to enhance whatever antisocial habit you engaged in, but would never lead the authorities to your door and never release data to be used as evidence in court or investigations if your activities were discovered through some other means. That was the only way people could trust them. And because people trusted them, they willingly allowed the systems to gather and analyze enormous amounts of factual and reliable personal information that otherwise never would have been freely or truthfully given away.
Because of this strange social bargain—Orwellian surveillance disguised as convenience—the powers-that-be possessed extremely accurate statistics on all kinds of human behavior. Sexual practices. Homosexual incidence and frequency. Preferred positions during sex. Masturbation incidence. Off-rec work participation and average compensation. Along with all the more ordinary soft-fascist data points like consumer habits, marketing responsiveness, entertainment preferences, bathroom frequency, and dietary trends.
Greenie, vermin, or Earthling prick—it made no difference. The Snarks knew your most intimate secrets, reported on them to databases, and no one cared anymore. It was just a part of living in WestHem in the fuckin’ twenty-second century.
Nate knew that he and Lissa would be meeting up at some point today, but whether it would be at his rezzie or hers—and exactly when—had not yet been determined. He decided not to shower just yet so he could do it right before the meetup instead.
He was excited about the possibilities. Would she really let him give her one of his “special kisses?”
It was obvious by now that Lissa was enjoying her introduction to male-female intimacy quite a bit. But she also still maintained a hard boundary about actual sex. She would polish his missile for him, but she wouldn’t let him dock it in the primary port. She would let him touch her twat, but only with his hand and fingers.
Could the boundary be shattered with a special kiss? Or at least pushed backward a few klicks, allowing a strategic incursion into friendly territory? Nate thought it entirely possible.
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