The First of the Stoners
Copyright© 2026 by Al Steiner
Chapter 6: Why Can’t We Be Friends?
Science Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 6: Why Can’t We Be Friends? - 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
The AgriCorp Green Horizon
Interplanetary space. Sol System near Mars
September 9, 2135—1900 ship time.
Nate and Darla were sitting on their blankets in their usual spot, backs against the dorm bulkhead, mocks kicked off and shoved aside, the deck cool through the thin fabric. Around them the UE deck had settled into its evening rhythm—voices lower, movements slower, people already orienting themselves toward lights-out even though it was still three hours away.
Darla had a cigarette between her fingers, elbow propped on her knee, smoke curling lazily upward before being pulled sideways by the ship’s ventilation. Nate cradled a hemp paper cup of beer in both hands, the material soft and slightly spongy against his palms, already damp with condensation. Darla had one too—the standard 350 milliliter size—both of them careful with it, not wanting to spill a single drop at seventy-five dollars a cup.
They were two hours from the deceleration burn that would reduce their velocity down to Mars orbital insertion speed.
One of the big wall screens in the dorm was showing the forward starfield. Because the ship was almost exactly halfway through its long turnaround, “forward” at the moment meant sideways—more or less perpendicular to the direction they’d been rushing through interplanetary space for weeks.
The Milky Way filled that screen like a wound made of light.
It wasn’t a polite band across the sky the way it looked from Earth. It was dense and messy and overwhelming—layer upon layer of stars in three dimensions, packed so tightly they blurred together, dust lanes cutting through the glow like veins. The core was visible now, bright enough that it looked almost solid—a white-gold congestion of stars so thick it hurt to stare at for too long.
On the opposite screen, framed by the slow rotation of the ship, Jupiter and Saturn hung against black space.
Jupiter didn’t fill the screen. It didn’t need to. It shined brighter than any of the surrounding stars, a steady, off-white point that refused to twinkle. If you looked closely—really closely—you could just make out faint banding across its disk and, nearby, a couple of tiny pinpricks that had to be moons. Saturn hung not far from it, dimmer but unmistakable, its light stretched just enough that the rings were barely discernible as a thin, pale smear crossing the planet’s glow. They looked close together from here, paired by perspective rather than proximity, even though Nate knew the distance between them was still enormous.
He lifted his cup slightly toward the Milky Way screen. “That bright knot right there? That’s the fuckin’ galactic core. The actual center. You can’t see shit like that from Earth.”
Darla squinted at it, took a drag from her cigarette, and exhaled. “I don’t care what it’s called,” she said. “It’s pretty as fuck.”
“It’s not just pretty,” Nate said. “It’s ... everything. That’s where most of the stars are. We’re looking edge-on into the disk.”
She smiled at him, amused. “You always gotta make shit educational.”
He shrugged. “I think it’s static.”
“I think it would be way more static if we were fuckin’ baked,” she said, flicking ash into the disposal tray by her knee. “Can you imagine? That shit would look like it’s moving.”
“Yeah,” Nate said, then sighed. “If we had any fuckin’ money left.”
Darla laughed softly. “Five grand seemed like a lot when they gave it to us.”
“We’re basically broke,” he said. “And we don’t even know when we get paid again.”
“Couple weeks, minimum,” she said. “After we hit dirt. After assignments. After processing. After they decide we’ve earned it.”
He took a careful sip, the beer flavorful and cold, and felt the cup flex slightly under his grip. “Worth it, though.”
“Yeah,” she agreed easily. “Still worth it.”
They sat in companionable silence for a minute, watching the slow, stately rotation of the ship slide the stars across the screens. Somewhere deep in the hull, massive systems were already shifting, preparing. You couldn’t hear it yet, but you could feel it if you paid attention—a subtle change in the background hum, like a machine clearing its throat.
“Decel burn in two hours,” Darla said. “You ready to go through that shit again?”
Nate snorted. “Nothing I can do about it even if I ain’t. Ten weeks ago it felt like the fuckin’ ship was trying to shake itself apart.”
“That noise,” she said, shaking her head. “Jesus Christ.”
“And the vibration,” he added. “Everything rattling at once. Bunks. Lockers. Teeth.”
“And we fuckin’ vermin get it the worst,” she said. “We’re basically sitting on top of the engine room.”
“We’re not vermin anymore, we’re greenies,” he reminded her.
“Oh yeah,” she said with a little giggle. “We fuckin’ upgraded.” She nudged his leg with her foot. “At least this one’s gonna happen while we’re asleep.”
“Assuming we can sleep through it.”
She took another drag, eyes still on the stars. “We will. Eventually. Or we’ll just lie there and bitch about it in the dark.”
Nate smiled. “Tradition.”
They tapped their cups together lightly—paper on paper, no clink at all—and went back to watching the universe slide past.
Darla took another slow drag on her cigarette, held it a second, then exhaled through her nose so the smoke curled up past her eyes like she was trying to look tough. She watched the Milky Way slide across the forward screen for a moment longer, then turned her head just enough to catch Nate’s eye.
“You up for another laundry mission after the burn ends?” she asked quietly. “0320, give or take. Machines should be back online by then.”
Nate felt the question land low in his gut. He didn’t answer right away. The thought of the corridor during the burn itself made his skin crawl—the way the whole ship would shudder and moan, the engines thundering through every bulkhead, the vibration rattling teeth and bones. The laundry machines would be locked out anyway; nobody ran cycles while the fusion plume was screaming. Even if they had, the noise alone would make it impossible to think, let alone feel anything.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “After. Not during. I ain’t trying to fuck through an earthquake.”
They both laughed—short, quiet, the kind of laugh that acknowledged how absurd their little routine had become. Ten weeks. Ten weeks of stolen time in that freezing maintenance corridor, the hatch locked from the inside, the fold-down table at perfect height, her breath hot against his neck while the ventilation pulled the smell and the sweat away.
Twenty-seven times.
He’d counted. He was the kind of person who counted things like that. Every one between midnight and 0600, when the dorm was quietest and the linen room was empty. Twenty-six of them in the corridor behind the laundry machines.
The one exception had been that reckless night at the AgriCorp propaganda desk in the roach pit—late, after the last rotation had cleared out, when they’d both been too wound up to wait. She’d bent over the desk, shorts around her ankles, guiding him in from behind, teaching him doggy style like it was a skill he needed to master right then.
He’d been halfway to losing it when the door hissed open. They’d disengaged so fast he almost pulled something. She yanked her shorts up, he spun away, both of them breathing hard and trying to look like they were just ... reading the propaganda screen and trying to learn all about the corporate structure of AgriCorp.
The couple that walked in gave them a single, knowing look—part smirk, part sympathy, part disappointment—then went to the water dispenser as if that was what they had come in here for. Nate and Darla had slunk back to their bunks without finishing. He’d gone to sleep with blue balls so bad he’d almost cried.
Darla nudged him with her elbow now, pulling him back to the present. “You still thinking about that propaganda-desk fiasco?”
“How’d you know?”
“You get that same look every time we talk about it. Like you’re pissed and horny at the same time.”
He huffed a laugh. “I was so close.”
“Poor baby.” She leaned her head against his shoulder. “We’ll make up for it. We need a few more shipboard fucks before they dump us planetside.”
He looked down at her—hair messy, cigarette dangling, eyes half-lidded from the beer. The forward screen had rotated far enough that the Sun now hung in frame, dimmed by the camera’s filters to a clean white disk with a soft corona.
“It’ll be fuckin’ badass once we’re down on Mars,” he said. “We’ll be able to fuck whenever we want. With privacy.”
She gave him a smile. “I can’t fuckin’ wait.”
The burn began on schedule.
The first hint wasn’t the noise—it was the vibration. A low tremor that came up through the deck plates and into the bunks, setting frames and lockers to chattering in sympathetic resonance. Then the sound arrived in full, a thunderous, sustained roar that swallowed the UE deck whole. It wasn’t loud in the way a shout was loud. It was loud in the way weather was loud—pressure and power, everywhere at once. The fusion rockets were firing.
Nate lay on his back in the top bunk, blanket pulled to his chest, eyes open. There was nothing above him but the ship’s ceiling—flat paneling that looked the same as it always did, except now it seemed to vibrate at the edges of his vision. The roar turned the air into something thick. It wasn’t just in his ears. It was in his teeth. In his ribs. In the springs of the bunk frame.
On the rear-facing screens—the side aimed toward Mars—the view had turned into pure engine. A blue-white stream of hydrogen plasma stretched away into black space, so bright it overwhelmed the camera and smeared into a continuous ribbon. Mars was somewhere behind that glare, but you couldn’t see it at all. It looked like the planet had been swallowed in fusion fire.
The relative velocity readout began to wind down.
Slowly at first—numbers changing, but not fast enough to feel dramatic. Then, minute by minute, the descent became more obvious, the digits falling with greater intensity as the burn continued. There was still no sense of momentum change—artificial gravity canceled that neatly—but the noise and vibration were distracting enough without needing the body’s usual cues. The bunk itself buzzed and rattled, adding its own small, ugly percussion to the big roar.
There was no point trying to sleep. Nate didn’t even bother closing his eyes. Ten weeks ago, during the acceleration burn at the start of the trip, he’d learned that lesson the hard way. This was the same sensation in reverse—same thunder, same shake—only now it meant they were bleeding off speed instead of adding it.
Time dragged. The roar made minutes feel longer than they were.
Then, at 0324 ship time, it ended. MECO. Main engine cutoff. The relative velocity meter now read 3.31 km/s.
The sound and vibration disappeared in an instant, cut so clean it left a ringing quiet behind it. No taper. No aftershocks. One second the ship was a continuous thunderstorm. The next it was just ... a ship.
And with the burn’s noise gone, the UE deck reappeared.
Snoring resumed as if someone had unmuted the world. A cough. A couple of low voices starting up, people checking in with each other in the dark. Someone farted with the casual confidence of a person who’d just survived the loudest thing on board and had decided dignity was optional.
Nate exhaled and rolled onto his side. The clock band glowed dim amber: 0326.
He and Darla had a laundry date for 0345. Plenty of time.
He listened to the ship settle back into its baseline hum, systems cycling, ventilation smoothing out. He could picture Darla doing the same math on her side—waiting out the immediate post-burn stir, then moving when the aisles thinned.
At 0332, someone on the men’s side swung down from a bunk and padded off with a laundry bag slung over one shoulder.
Too early, Nate thought. Rookie timing.
A few minutes later, another guy wandered toward the roach pit. Not hurried. Maybe just after water or a snack, post-burn nerves still humming in his system, or maybe meeting someone in the propaganda corner for a northern docking mission.
Then someone else headed for the supply room too, unaware that the first guy hadn’t come back yet.
The pattern started fast. People were keyed up, awake whether they wanted to be or not, and a lot of them had the same idea at the same time.
On the women’s side, a figure slipped into the roach pit. Not Darla. Wrong shape, wrong pace.
A minute after that, a guy from Nate’s aisle wandered in there as well. He came back out a few minutes later with a cup of water in hand and a look that said he’d walked in on something he hadn’t wanted to see—even if he hadn’t actually seen it.
Nate didn’t need to see the supply room to know what was happening there.
By 0338, the mission was a bust.
Too much traffic. Too much overlap. The post-burn window wasn’t a window at all—it was a hallway full of people doing exactly what he and Darla had planned to do. He had no way to contact her. No way to explain. No way to reschedule without breaking rules they didn’t break, not after lights-out. Crossing into the women’s side was forbidden.
He let himself sink back into the thin pillow.
Darla would understand. No-showing wasn’t personal. It was logistics. Timing and luck, nothing more.
Around him, the quiet games continued without him—doors hissing, footsteps coming and going, small movements threaded through the dark. People returning in blue-ball disappointment. Nate listened for a while, then let exhaustion take him.
He drifted off to sleep while other people made their plays.
He woke to a light, rhythmic pressure on his shoulder.
“Nate,” Darla said softly. “Hey. Wake up.”
His eyes cracked open and he squinted against the ambient light of the dorm. For a second his brain insisted it was still night cycle, but then the noise level registered—voices, footsteps, the distant smell of cigarette and marijuana smoke—and his brain kicked into gear.
He rolled onto his back and blinked up at the ceiling panels a few times, getting his bearings. Darla was standing on the deck beside his bunk, one hand braced on the rail, the other having just finished shaking him awake. She looked relaxed, fully dressed, hair tied back, no urgency in her posture.
“What time is it?” he asked, voice rough.
“Eleven thirty-four,” she said. “You slept straight through breakfast, motherfucker.”
He groaned quietly and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Shit.”
“Relax,” she said. “You didn’t miss anything good. The desert scramble again. Lunch is in, like, twenty minutes.”
That made sense. The dorm was fully awake now. People moving up and down the aisles, some sitting on bunks talking, some pulling on mocks or shrugging into shirts, the low, constant hum of a population killing time in transit. It was the ship’s normal daytime mode—busy without being hectic.
Darla sat on the edge of his bunk, one leg dangling, the other tucked under her. From anyone else’s perspective, it looked exactly like what it was supposed to look like: two friends, one of them oversleeping, the other doing a solid and waking his ass before lunch. Opposite sexes were allowed in the bunk areas prior to lights out. There were lots of mixed sexes hanging out.
They’d both learned the etiquette by now.
By this point in the journey, a sizable minority of the future greenies had found a friend. Some pairings were obvious, some weren’t, and a lot of them didn’t fit the neat boxes people back on Earth liked to imagine. Nate had clocked plenty of male/male friendships that ran deeper than conversation, just as many female/female ones, and more than a few arrangements that didn’t bother with labels at all.
The rule was simple and universally observed: we don’t say anything. We don’t speculate, even internally if we can help it. None of my business was more than politeness—it was a survival skill. On a ship this big, this crowded, this bored, privacy only existed because everyone agreed to pretend it did.
If you wanted to fuck—and a lot of people did—you learned fast to mind your own bees-wax.
So nobody gave Darla a second look as she sat there on Nate’s bunk, nudging his foot lightly with her hand.
“You good?” she asked. “You were out cold when I came by earlier.”
“Yeah,” he said, pushing himself up onto his elbows. “Didn’t sleep at all during the burn. Guess my brain made up for it.”
Darla shifted on the edge of his bunk, her dangling foot brushing his calf in a way that seemed accidental but really wasn’t. She kept her voice low, the way people did when talking logistics with each other.
“So,” she said, “when’d you figure the laundry mission was a bust?”
Nate rubbed the back of his neck, still half-asleep. “Pretty much the first time I saw someone heading that way. Guy from aisle three, laundry bag over his shoulder, looking all casual like he was just going for a walk. Then another one a couple minutes later. After that it was obvious.”
She snorted softly. “Yeah. I walked all the way down there—past the roach pit, down the corridor, right to the hatch—and what do I see? Two people already putting their fuckin’ laundry in. Just standing there like they owned the place.”
He didn’t ask who. He knew almost every one of the three hundred people in U-Deck by name at this point—faces, bunk numbers, shift habits—but asking would’ve broken the rule. The unwritten one. You don’t name names. You don’t speculate. You pretend it didn’t happen unless someone walks in on it and witnesses shorts down and equipment engaged.
Darla leaned in a little closer. “I had to perform my own maintenance again.”
Nate huffed a quiet laugh. “Me too. Now I got a sock to wash.”
That got her giggling—short, tired, but real. Nine weeks ago he couldn’t have imagined saying something like that to anyone, let alone a girl he was fucking. Back on Earth, polishing your missile was something you did alone, felt ashamed for doing, and never talked about. Here it was just ... another thing that happened. Like being hungry or bored. No big deal.
She tilted her head, studying him. “Were you thinking of me while you were at it?”
He met her eyes. “Yeah. That whole doggy-style thing at the propaganda desk. Kept replaying it. Probably ‘cause we didn’t get to finish.”
Her grin softened into something warmer. “Same. I kept thinking about how close we were. How you sounded when you were right there. Made it ... easier.”
They sat with that for a second, the admission hanging easy between them. No embarrassment. No shame. Just truth.
The dorm noise was picking up around them—people heading for the roach pit, someone coughing, a clinker buzzing somewhere down the aisle. Mars was still out there on the screens, bigger every hour. Triad waited in orbit. Assignments would drop soon.
They made it to the roach pit line at 1155 on the dot. They were in the earliest lunch rotation—there were three of them, each thirty minutes in length. The corridor outside was already crowded with the usual mix: people shuffling in mocks and shorts, hair still messy from sleep, clinkers tucked in pockets or dangling from fingers.
Zack and Lisa were right in front of them—Zack with his tall, lanky frame and the pointer strip of hair that always looked like it needed a trim, Lisa shorter, freckles across her nose, both of them standing as close as they could to each other without actually touching. Everyone knew they were friends, the same way everyone knew Nate and Darla were friends. But everyone pretended not to. Same rule as always.
Zack glanced back when Nate and Darla slotted in behind them. “What up, motherfuckers?” he greeted.
“Fuckin’ chow time,” Nate said. “Anyone know what we’re having today?”
Lisa grinned. “I smell lunchmeat,” she said. “Maybe that soy turkey shit again?”
“That shit’s not bad,” Darla said. “Almost tastes real.”
“It’s still got some fuckin’ ground to cover though,” Nate said. He didn’t think the turkey tasted real at all. But it did taste good and was satisfying.
The line inched forward, slow but steady. Conversation drifted the way it always did—nothing heavy, nothing that touched on what people did after lights-out.
“So,” Zack said, turning halfway so he could talk to all three of them, “what do you figure they’ll have us doing down there? Eden, right? All of us?”
“Has to be,” Darla said. “AgriCorp hired us. Greenhouses need bodies. And all the greenhouses are in fuckin’ Eden on the equator.”
Lisa nodded. “Building ‘em or working in ‘em. Either way, it’s real work. Real dollars.”
“Manual shit,” Zack added. “They ain’t gonna put us in no offices or runnin’ no fucking crews or any shit like that. Just hands and backs. But employed. Fuckin’ employed.”
Nate felt the word land in his chest the way it always did. Employed. None of them—none of the three hundred former vermin assigned to this dorm in U-Deck—had ever been employed before. Not officially. Not with dollars instead of trade items. The idea still felt unreal, like something you talked about but never expected to touch.
“Greenhouses are fuckin’ huge,” Lisa said. “They said some of the new ones are a kilometer wide. Two klicks long. That’s a lot of planting, trimming, packing.”
“Or pouring concrete,” Zack said. “Or hauling steel. They’re still building them as fast as they can put them up, right? That’s why they need us.”
Darla shrugged. “Don’t matter. As long as it’s not sitting in a pee-hue waiting for the next welfare drop.”
They all agreed to that quite enthusiastically.
The line moved. They shuffled into the roach pit proper—long tables bolted down, serving counter at the far end, machines humming behind scratched composite shields. The smell hit hard. Lisa’s nose had been correct. Warm soy-turkey and something cheesy.
They grabbed trays. The sandwiches were thick—two slices of soft white bread, layered with pale “turkey” slices, cheese if you were into that sort of thing, a smear of mayo substitute, lettuce that actually crunched. The mac and cheese steamed in its little compartment, orange and gooey, way better than the powdered welfare-mart packets that always tasted like cardboard and poverty.
Nate and Darla both skipped the beer—too expensive—and filled cups at the water dispenser. Zack and Lisa did the same.
They found an empty spot at one of the long tables, slid in across from each other—Nate next to Darla, Zack next to Lisa. Trays down. Forks in hand.
The mac was hot, creamy, with a little crust on top that gave it a pleasing mouth feel. The sandwich held together better than expected. Nobody talked for the first few minutes. They just ate.
They finished up in comfortable silence, the way people do when the food is decent and the company is easy. Nate scraped the last of the mac and cheese from the compartment with his fork; Darla polished off her sandwich in three big bites and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. The fruit cup was mostly syrup and a few sad cubes of something that used to be peach, but they ate it anyway.
Zack and Lisa stood, trays in hand, and headed for the conveyor belt at the far end of the roach pit. Nate and Darla followed a moment later. The belt was already moving—slow, steady, disappearing into a slot in the bulkhead like a mouth swallowing everything it was fed. Trays slid onto it one after another, vanished into the dark, and would reappear later for dinner service from some other slot nobody ever saw.
Nate watched his tray disappear and wondered, not for the first time, where they actually went. Somewhere deep in the ship, he supposed—washing machines, sterilizers, stacking racks, robots or conveyors moving them through pipes and chutes he’d never see. There were no blueprints on the ship’s internet, no schematics for passengers to poke through. He’d mentioned the curiosity to Darla once, weeks ago. She’d looked at him like he’d asked her to explain quantum mechanics.
“Why the fuck do you care?” she’d replied. “They come back clean. That’s all that matters.”
Curiosity about how things worked wasn’t part of her makeup. She cared about whether things worked, not how. Nate had let it drop. He still wondered, though. Quietly. The way he wondered about a lot of things these days.
They made their way back to the dorm with Zack and Lisa, dodging the mid-day shuffle in the corridors. The ship had settled into a post-burn rhythm—engines quiet, vibration gone, just the steady hum of life-support and the occasional clank of something far away. People were moving with a little more energy now, like the burn had stripped off the last of the cruise haze.
As the four of them stepped back into the dorm, Zack pulled his clinker out and waggled it. “Poker? We got time before whatever happens next.”
Darla glanced at Nate, then back at Zack. “Fuck yeah. I’m down to lose a few more dollars.”
The poker app had become a staple on the ship by week three. Everyone had downloaded it—free, simple, no house rake, just dollar bets with a two-raise cap so nobody went broke. The clinkers handled the cards, the pot, the blinds. No physical deck needed, no cheating possible unless you were stupid enough to try looking at another player’s screen. It was real gambling, though. Real dollars moved in and out of accounts. Small stakes, but they felt real. For people who’d never had dollars before, even a buck won or lost carried weight and made the activity fun.
They found a clear spot near their usual bulkhead corner, spread out a blanket, sat cross-legged in a rough circle. Zack thumbed the app open. “Texas Hold ‘em, standard. Dollar ante, two-dollar max bet. Who’s dealing first?”
Lisa raised her hand. “Me. I’m feeling lucky.”
The cards appeared on their screens—virtual, crisp, no lag. The game started slow. Small pots, folding on shitty hands, the usual trash talk.
About five hands in, Nate drew a pair of jacks pre-flop and raised. Zack called. Lisa folded. Darla looked at her cards, sighed, and tossed them in. “Garbage.”
The flop came ten-jack-three. Nate bet again. Zack called. The turn was a blank. Nate pushed all-in for the last dollar. Zack stared at his screen for a long second, then folded.
“Fuck you,” Zack said, but he was grinning. “You got lucky.”
Nate collected the pot and it was deposited in his account—six dollars. Not life-changing, but it felt good.
They were halfway through the next hand when the background conversation erupted everywhere at once—excitement, curses, a few whoops, someone yelling “Fuck yeah, Eden!” from the far end. Three hundred former vermin, all of them finally employed, all of them realizing in the same minute that the future had just arrived on their screens.
Heads bent over clinkers. Small groups clustered. Voices rose and fell. Darla’s hand froze mid-air. She pulled her clinker closer.
Nate did the same.
The assignments had dropped.
All four of them put the poker game in the background and called up their email programs.
Darla was the first to speak. “Mine’s in,” she said, voice flat but steady. “Greenhouse Labor Pool. Eden. Rez-hue in the Morris Housing unit. Two-bedroom on the 112th floor. Roommate named Tracy. Rent is six grand a month. I pay half, Tracy pays half.” She looked up from her clinker, eyes bright with something between relief and excitement. “It’s real. I’m going to Eden.”
Lisa leaned over to glance at her screen. “Same assignment as me. Morris unit, but 98th floor. Same roommate setup. Guess we’ll be neighbors.”
Zack was still staring at his own clinker. “Agricultural Expansion. Entry-level construction. Eden. Different building, but still Eden.” He laughed once, short and disbelieving. “Fuckin’ Eden for all of us.”
Darla turned to Nate. “What about you?”
He didn’t know yet. He clicked to open the notification and just got a spinning globe of Mars for his efforts. Please stand by, the screen read in calm white letters. Nothing else.
He felt Darla’s knee press against his atop the blanket. “It’ll be so static if we can work together,” she said softly. “Same building. Same floor, maybe. We could see each other whenever.”
“Yeah,” Nate said, imagining the possibilities. “Static.”
They sat like that, clinkers in hand, waiting. The dorm noise had settled into a low roar—people reading their assignments out loud, laughing, cursing, hugging, someone yelling “Waste management operations? What the fuck’s that?” from the far end. The word “Eden” floated everywhere like a prayer answered.
Nate’s screen blinked.
CONTRACT REASSIGNMENT NOTIFICATION Your AgriCorp contract has been sold to Brigg’s Construction. Please follow the link below for your new assignment details.
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