The First of the Stoners
Copyright© 2026 by Al Steiner
Chapter 9: They Call Me The Working Man
Science Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 9: They Call Me The Working Man - 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
Snark came to life to remind Nate of his scheduled wake cycle. She turned on the lights in the room and her voice followed a millisecond later: “Yo, Nate-dawg,” she said from the ceiling speakers, bright and unapologetic. “You need to get your ass up and get ready for your first gig.”
Nate rolled onto his back and blinked at the ceiling. The wall display showed both clocks automatically: 2148 UT and 0800 NPT. He didn’t even look at the UT. UT was now obsolete to him. It was used on Earth and off-Earth for corporate systems, ship logs, payroll servers, and anything that had to synchronize Earth and Mars in the same spreadsheet. His life did not run on UT anymore.
His life ran on New Pittsburgh Time.
Work started at 0900 NPT. That was all he needed to know.
The AI handled the rest. Because Mars rotated differently from Earth, UT drifted against local Martian time by thirty-seven minutes every sol. That meant his schedule would list a different UT start time each day—2248 UT one morning, 2111 UT the next, then 2034 UT after that—while still reading 0900 NPT on the local clock. The corporate systems spoke UT. Humans on Mars spoke NPT. AI did the conversion.
He stretched hard enough to feel his spine pop and swung his legs off the mattress. His body had already taken initiative without consulting him. He had morning wood. He glanced down briefly and registered the situation with mild indifference. Of course. He was nineteen years old. If he didn’t have a wet dream he would wake up with wood. Sunrise, sunset.
He stood, naked, the erection leading the way like it had somewhere important to be and something important to do. It didn’t.
Snark did not miss it. “I’m detecting a fueled missile with no place to dock,” she observed conversationally. “Would you be interested in a subscription to a badass porn site? They offer high-quality holographic porn and a complete collection of VR content if you buy a few attachments.”
Nate yawned. “I’m good for now.”
“They’ve got premium Martian categories. Shipboard classics. North Side exclusives.”
“Snark.”
“Yes, Nate-Dawg?”
“Don’t advertise to me.”
A fractional pause. “If you want ad-free Snark you gotta sign up for premium service.”
“How much?”
“Three hundred seventy dollars per WestHem calendar month.”
He tied the belt of his robe. “Pass.”
He walked into the main room. Tyler was already up, standing at the one-hitter coffee machine, loading grounds into the chamber. The device hissed as it sealed.
“Morning,” Tyler said.
“Morning.”
Nate stepped into the bathroom and shut the door. By the time he finished shaving and brushing his teeth, the morning missile had retreated back into its silo without ceremony.
“Snark,” he called, “turn on the shower. Thirty-eight degrees.”
“Fuckin’ A.”
Water started immediately.
“Would you like to order some shampoo and conditioner so you don’t have to use body soap on your hair?” she asked.
“No thanks, Snark.”
“Suit yourself. Also, have you considered a smart loofah?”
He stepped into the spray. “What’s that?”
“It’s like a fuckin’ service robot for your body. Gets your back and your ass crack and even your front side without effort. And there are special smart-loofs that do more than clean, if you know what I’m saying.”
“How much for one that just cleans?”
“Basic, non-masturbatory models start at three thousand nine hundred ninety-nine dollars at Gabonia All-Delivery.”
“I can’t afford that shit.”
“If you’re having trouble acquiring necessities, I can hook you up with a no-burn loan broker.”
“Snark.”
“Yes, mofo?”
“Stop talking now.”
There was a soft digital click.
He took his shower in silence.
Nate dressed in a pair of blue shorts, a tan pullover shirt, and his mocks. The New Employee Intake Avatar—”Innie,” as she had introduced herself—had been very specific about that. Light clothing. Flexible. No need for boots or harnesses yet. Any protective gear required for his assignment would be issued on-site. He had half expected something more dramatic for his first day, but Innie’s tone had been clinical and calm. Show up dressed comfortably. We’ll handle the rest.
He was to report to a training center on 23rd Avenue at 12th Street in the south quadrant of New Pittsburgh. The address sat on the fifth floor of a rez-hue building that, judging by its location and profile, almost certainly housed working-class greenies like himself. No glass atrium. No decorative canopy. Functional concrete composite and the are-hues with actual windows would cost twice as much. Efficient.
“Innie” had told him it would be a twenty-two minute walk. Snark had confirmed this and then asked him if he wanted to order a pair of custom-fitting, genuine imitation leather super-mocks made for commute walking. Nate elected not to.
Traffic and weather were not variables on Mars. The canopy regulated pressure and temperature. The pedestrian lanes were separated from the vehicle lanes. The clinker had already measured and catalogued his average walking speed. If he walked his normal walk, he could rest assured it would take twenty-two minutes, give or take thirty seconds on either side. Precision wasn’t aspirational here; it was structural.
He still didn’t know exactly what he would be doing. Junior Beam Erection, Alignment and Seating Technician Level One sounded important, or at least technical, but the phrase had made Darla laugh when he’d told her about it. “Beam erection?” she’d said. “That sounds soooo pussy. You better not let them catch you polishing them fuckin’ beams at work.” He hadn’t giggled. Much.
Tyler was already gone when Nate emerged from the bathroom. His roommate’s shift started at 0830, and he apparently preferred to move without ceremony. The one-hitter machine sat clean and empty on the counter.
Nate opened his side of the refrigerator and pulled out the container of fake egg protein and the pack of ground pseudo-beef. He chopped a handful of vegetables—green peppers, onions, a tomato—and tossed everything into the small skillet. The induction surface came alive instantly, heat distributed evenly without flame or smell. He stirred the mixture until it set into a loose scramble, then spooned it onto a hemp-paper plate and dumped a generous line of salsa across the top. The salsa was real enough to sting his nose when he leaned in.
He tore a piece from the loaf of fresh baked bread he’d bought at AgriCorp the day before and used it to scoop the first bite. The texture was good. The protein passable. The salsa did most of the work.
He ate standing at the counter, glancing once at the wall display out of habit. 0821 NT. Plenty of time. UT scrolled in smaller font above it, irrelevant to his stomach.
When he finished, he folded the hemp-paper plate once and dropped it into the recycle chute built into the wall beside the counter. It disappeared with a soft mechanical swallow. Somewhere below, in the building’s basement, sorting machinery would separate fiber from residue, grind it, pulp it, reprocess it. Nothing wasted. Nothing romantic about it.
Mars was efficient.
A minute later, he was out the door and on his way. The first of his bloodline to head for an honest day’s work in more than ninety years.
Nate stepped out of Tower Eight at 0827 NT and let the canopy light settle over him. The pedestrian corridor was already populated with workers moving at a steady, uniform pace. No rush. No wandering. Just forward motion.
He walked his normal walk.
The clinker tracked it without comment. His stride had been measured during his first exploratory loop of the neighborhood two days earlier. Average pace locked. Variance minimal. The route to 23rd and 12th was straight, then angled slightly through a cross-concourse, then straight again. No intersections required guessing. No traffic signals to interpret. No delivery trucks cutting lanes. The pedestrian lanes were isolated from vehicle corridors. Everything was engineered to reduce unpredictability.
He’d been told it was a twenty-two minute walk. Innie had said it. Snark had confirmed it. The AI had even displayed an arrival time down to the second, like that was a normal thing a world could promise and deliver.
Nate didn’t trust it yet.
On Earth, he had rarely had to be anywhere at a named hour. Off-rec installations and side repairs had operated on a loose system of intention. “Sometime on fuckin’ Tuesday” was a valid arrival time. Showing up at all had often been sufficient. Precision had not been expected because precision had not been structurally supported.
So he’d built in a ten-minute window anyway. Seemed cautious. A little cushion, just in case Mars turned out to be full of the same bullshit Earth had been full of.
When he reached the rez-hue building that housed the training center, his clinker vibrated once. Arrival: 0850 NT. Walk duration: 22 minutes, 26 seconds.
Exactly what the AIs had told him. For the first time since he’d landed, he felt a small shift inside his chest—not excitement, not pride. Trust. A little faith in the system.
He was ten minutes early.
The lobby doors parted and he stepped inside. The space looked almost identical to his own building’s concourse. The layout was modular—retail ring around the perimeter, free standing shops that sold prepared food, jewelry, and other trinkets in the center, overhead display panels cycling civic updates and job postings. The grocery store here was Western Hemisphere Grocers instead of AgriCorp. There were two intoxicant clubs instead of a single intoxicant shop, and a furniture outlet occupied the slot where Caldwell Electronics would have been in Tower Eight. Different logos. Same logic. Same polished composite floors. Same filtered air.
He bypassed the elevator and took the stairs. It wasn’t a moral decision. He just didn’t feel like waiting. The stairwell was wide and clean, lit in neutral white strips along the railing. On the third and fourth floors he passed a high school. The door stood open for morning intake, students in standard gray academic wear drifting through with half-focused expressions. An armed security guard stood just inside, scanning derm entries as each kid passed. No shouting. No bells. Just logging.
He continued upward.
The fifth floor opened into a broader commercial corridor. Two large entries dominated the space before the are-hue levels began above.
BRIGGS CONSTRUCTION BASIC INTAKE TRAINING FACILITY
Across from it:
CORBAN/MEYERS ADVANCED TRAINING DEPARTMENT
The second name meant nothing to him. He paused, considering whether to pull out his clinker and ask Snark what Corban/Meyers did. He could already imagine the response: a concise answer followed by three targeted product suggestions, two subscription services, and a limited-time offer on something that promised to enhance his solitary pleasure and clean his disgusting butthole better than any manual method.
He decided not to ask.
He turned toward the Briggs Construction doors instead. He pressed his right index finger to the derm panel beside the frame.
The doors did not open.
A soft tone chimed overhead. A neutral voice—not Snark, not personable, not irritated—spoke from an unseen speaker.
“Your appointment is scheduled for 0900 New Pittsburgh Time. Entry access will be granted no sooner than 0858. Please return at the appropriate time.”
Nate pulled his finger back. “Sorry.”
The system did not respond. There was no acknowledgment, no reassurance, no sarcasm. Just silence. The door remained closed.
He stepped away and paced the corridor once, then again. The floor display panels showed 0855 NT. Five minutes early. He had never been denied entry for being early before. On Earth, early had been a courtesy, not a violation. Here, it appeared to be a sequencing issue.
He stopped near the opposite wall and leaned against it, folding his arms. Across from Briggs, the CORBAN/MEYERS ADVANCED TRAINING DEPARTMENT lettering sat in the same clean industrial font. The doors there were sealed as well.
He decided he had to know. He pulled out his clinker and spoke into it.
“Snark,” he said, keeping his voice low. “What does Corban/Meyers do?”
There was a brief pause, then her voice answered.
“Corban/Meyers specializes in nitrogen extraction from Martian regolith,” she said evenly. “They refine it for use as inert atmospheric buffer gas in the New Pittsburgh air supply. They also produce nitrogen-based fertilizers for interior landscaping in municipal parks and recreational areas.”
No upsell. No subscription offer. No limited-time enhancement packages.
Nate blinked once. “That’s it?”
“Fuckin’ A,” she replied.
“Huh.”
He looked back at the sealed doors. Nitrogen. Buffer gas. Fertilizer. Parks. He had expected something sharper. Something dangerous. It sounded like industrial gardening.
“Boring,” he muttered.
“They make necessary shit though,” Snark said. “You gotta acknowledge that, mofo.”
“Yeah.”
He pushed off the wall and glanced at the clock again. 0858 NT.
He returned to the Briggs doors and laid derm once more. This time the panel flashed green. The doors parted smoothly.
The waiting area beyond was simple and functional. Six other greenies sat in molded composite chairs along the perimeter. Four males. Two females. Late teens to early twenties across the board. Same lack of recent haircuts or styles. Same inexpensive mocks. Same quiet posture of people who had not grown up expecting to sit in rooms like this.
Former vermin. No question. And not long off the ship, just like Nate.
At the front of the room, hovering just above the intake counter, was an AI holograph. Only her upper torso existed—head, shoulders, arms resting lightly on the surface as if she were leaning against it. She was young and conventionally attractive, rendered with deliberate clarity. Nate noticed, cynically, that she had been given particularly nice tits. Not exaggerated. Just intentional. And showing a bit of cleavage too.
Her eyes shifted to him the moment he stepped inside.
“Nathan Stoner,” she said pleasantly. “Thank you for arriving on time for your 0900 appointment.”
Her voice was warm, controlled, not flirtatious. Professional, but tuned to engagement.
“Please lay derm to verify that my visual sensors have identified you correctly.”
He stepped forward and pressed his index finger to the pad on the counter.
“Verification complete,” she said. “Thank you.”
She smiled—polite, contained.
“Please have a seat. You will be called in shortly.”
Nate nodded once and turned toward the row of chairs.
Shortly turned out to be twenty minutes. All four of the men and one of the women were directed by the AI receptionist to two different rooms down a corridor. That left him and a brunette female the only two in the room. Nate did not open conversation with her. He still had a fundamental shyness to him. The woman, however, did not let his silence stand.
“Hey,” she said. “I’m Lissa.”
“Nate,” he said. “Nate Stoner here on Mars.”
“Greenbud is my Martian last name,” she said. “Used to be Jackson back on Earth. Where you from?”
“Sacramento area,” he said. “A pee-hue in Roseville. One of the outliers.”
“I’m from Omaha in the Nebraska region,” she said. “Did you test high on the assessment?”
“Yep,” he confirmed. “You?”
“Fuckin’ A,” she said. “I’m the only one from my group on the Green Horizon that got sent to NP. I guess it’s a fuckin’ honor, huh?”
“I guess so,” he said. “I didn’t see you on the ship. What section were you berthed in?”
“UE deck of course,” she said. “Fuckin’ B-section.”
“We were shipmates then. I was in the A-section of the UE.”
“They never let us out of the fuckin’ deck without escort,” she said sourly. “Good weed and hooch though.”
He then looked at her with a male eye. She was pussy—or cute, as his grandparents would have said. And then he remembered what Roxy had asked him. A kind of code phrase. “Did you ... uh ... make any friends on the trip?”
“A few,” she said with a shrug. “Nobody I keep in touch with now though.”
He nodded. Question answered. She hadn’t made a special friend on the trip like he had, like Roxy apparently had. A pity.
The AI receptionist turned her head slightly toward the two of them.
“Nathan Stoner. Melissa Greenbud,” she said pleasantly. “Your training room is ready.”
A door along the far wall slid open at the same moment she spoke.
“Please proceed through that door and follow the corridor to Room 193. Your training instructor will be waiting for you there.”
Lissa stood and glanced at Nate. “Both of us going to 193?”
“Fuckin’ A,” the AI replied cheerfully. “Both of you are being trained as beam erection specialists. There is a great demand for the position with all the construction on the north side of the city.”
That seemed to settle the matter.
They crossed the waiting room and stepped through the doorway. The corridor beyond was quiet and brightly lit, the floor marked with directional arrows and room ranges. At the first intersection they paused long enough to read the wall display.
ROOMS 190–210 →
They turned right.
Three doors down, a clean black panel beside one of the doors read 193. Lissa stepped up first and pressed her index finger to the derm pad. The door slid open immediately and she walked inside.
Nate moved to follow her.
A voice from the ceiling stopped him.
“You must lay derm before entering so your presence may be logged.”
“Right,” he said.
He pressed his finger to the pad. The panel flashed briefly.
“Entry logged,” the voice replied. “You may enter the room.”
Inside were two long tables arranged classroom-style. Each table held four holo terminals spaced evenly along the surface. The room was empty. No instructor. No other trainees.
A sign mounted beside the front terminal read:
LAY DERM ON A COMPUTER TERMINAL TO LOG INTO THE SYSTEM
Lissa glanced around once and shrugged. “Guess that’s us.”
They took seats in the front row, side by side. Each of them placed a finger on the terminal pad in front of them. The holo displays flickered to life a moment later.
The Briggs Construction logo rotated slowly above the surface.
A Division of Triad Steel, read the smaller text beneath it.
Another line of holo text appeared below the logo.
PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT WITH THE TERMINAL UNTIL INSTRUCTED.
Lissa leaned back in her chair and looked around the empty room.
“Instructed by who?” she asked. “We’re the only motherfuckers in the room.”
Before Nate could answer, a soft chime sounded from the platform at the front of the classroom.
A woman appeared there.
She materialized from the feet upward, resolving into full scale in less than a second. She looked to be in her mid-thirties—attractive, poised, dressed in tailored shorts and a crisp button-up business shirt. A construction helmet bearing the Briggs Construction logo rested neatly on her head.
And she was not real.
She was a holographic instructor.
Nate recognized the format immediately. Vermin kids learned their lessons from teachers like this in public school. Kindergarten through 12th grade if they chose to hang in there that long. Human instructors had never been part of that system. Nate Stoner (still going by Whitney in those days) had never taken a lesson from an actual human being in his life.
At least some things on Mars were familiar.
The holographic woman smiled, professional and composed.
“Good morning,” she said. “My name is Teacher Connie. I am a construction safety specialist and will be completing your intake and Basic Exterior Workforce Training Module.”
Her eyes shifted between them with precise calibration.
“I believe I am speaking to Nathan Stoner and Melissa Greenbud, both newly hired by Briggs Construction. Is this correct?”
“Correct,” Nate said.
“Fuckin’ A,” Lissa added.
Connie nodded once. “Thank you. Before we proceed, how do you prefer to be addressed?”
“Nate,” he said.
“Lissa,” she said.
“Fuckin’ A,” Connie replied evenly. “Noted.”
Nate hesitated for half a second before asking, “You said ‘exterior workforce.’ Does that mean we’ll be going outside?”
Connie’s expression did not change. “Both of you will be assigned to a construction site where a new high-rise structure is being erected. A Beam Erection Alignment and Seating Technician, or ‘BEAST’ as you will be commonly known, is a position that requires a human being to coordinate with AI bots and align each beam precisely with the receiving studs as it is placed.”
The room felt smaller.
Nate felt something cold slip into his chest.
“You mean ... we’ll be up on top of the buildings being built?”
“Fuckin’ A,” Connie said calmly. “AI bots are not sufficient for this task. Gentle human hands and human hand-eye-brain coordination remain superior in micro-alignment under dynamic conditions.”
Lissa’s posture stiffened. She looked slightly pale. “You mean ... like, a hundred fuckin’ floors up on new construction?”
“Fuckin’ A,” Connie replied brightly, as if she were confirming that yes, you would get dessert after dinner even if you didn’t eat it all the fuck gone.
She folded her hands lightly in front of her.
“You will be issued biosuits and full fall-arrest harness systems. You will be tethered at all times. The work environment is statistically safer than unregulated ground-level labor.”
Nate swallowed once. “But it’s still four hundred meters above the fuckin’ ground, right?”
“The position will require work from ground level to approximately six hundred fifty meters in height,” Connie said. “No structures higher than that are currently in the construction phase in New Pittsburgh.”
Nate stared at her. “That’s more than half a fuckin’ klick in the air.”
“Yes, it is,” she confirmed.
Lissa leaned back in her chair. “Do we get fuckin’ hazard pay or some shit like that?”
“No,” Connie replied without hesitation. “While hazard pay is offered for certain positions within Briggs Construction, the position of BEAST is not classified as hazardous under corporate policy.”
“But it’s more than half a klick in the air and we gotta wear fuckin’ biosuits,” Lissa said.
“The biosuits are certified and redundant,” Connie said. “You will be harnessed at all times. The risk index does not meet hazard compensation thresholds.”
Lissa exhaled sharply. “Ain’t that some shit?”
“Fuckin’ A,” Connie agreed.
Connie gestured lightly toward the holo terminals in front of them.
“For the next hour,” she said, “we will complete intake documentation, employment verification, safety certification enrollment, and your formal job acceptance with Briggs Construction. This process is required before you may be assigned to an active construction site.”
The Briggs Construction logo shrank to the upper corner of the display. Lines of text replaced it, scrolling slowly enough that both of them could read them comfortably.
“First item,” Connie said. “Employment offer.”
The text stabilized.
BRIGGS CONSTRUCTION (A Division of Triad Steel)
Position: Beam Erection Alignment and Seating Technician—Level 1
Location: New Pittsburgh, Mars
Employment Status: Full Time Exterior Workforce
Below that, the compensation section appeared.
Hourly Wage: $37.00 WHD
Scheduled Hours: 40 hours per week
Overtime Availability: None
Gross Pay Per Paycheck (80 hours): $2,960.00
Lissa leaned forward in her chair. “Fuck my mama,” she said quietly.
Nate stared at the numbers. Thirty-seven dollars an hour. An hour!
He had never seen a number like that attached to his own name before. And that made the gross paycheck figure—two thousand nine hundred sixty dollars every two weeks—look unreal. That was real money. That was the kind of money people on the Green Horizon had talked about in quiet voices.
In his head he began subtracting. Six hundred for the no-burn loan. Two hundred for the advance payment on the Green Horizon trip.
$2025 a month rent. Three hundred a month for the clinker service plan.
Even after those deductions it was still an assload of money. Just a hair or two shy of two thousand dollars per month. More than he had ever controlled in his life. More than he had ever dreamed of controlling in his life.
Taxes did not occur to him. He had never had a reason to think about them. No one in his family or circle of friends back on Earth had ever discussed them either. Nor had any of his fellow UE passengers on the Green Horizon. Vermin didn’t talk about taxes because vermin didn’t have wages to tax. Vermin lived because of the working people’s taxes. They had a vague notion that there was such a thing as income tax, but they had no concept of what that meant. Had someone suggested to Nate that taxes were something he was going to have to deal with now, he would have dismissed them. Surely the employer was the one to pay those taxes, right?
He couldn’t have been more wrong. But that would become a surprise for another day.
Right now, he felt like a rich motherfucker.
Connie continued speaking as the rest of the offer terms scrolled past: standard safety compliance language, workplace conduct policy, the requirement to maintain certification for exterior labor assignments.
“At the bottom of the screen,” she said, “you will see the employment acceptance field. Please review the terms and lay derm on the terminal to accept your position with Briggs Construction.”
Lissa didn’t hesitate. She placed her finger on the pad.
“Melissa Greenbud,” the terminal said. “Employment accepted.”
Nate followed a second later.
The terminal flashed briefly under his finger.
“Nathan Stoner,” the system replied. “Employment accepted.”
Connie smiled.
“Congratulations,” she said. “You are now officially employed by Briggs Construction.”
Nate sat back in his chair for a moment, letting that sentence settle in his head.
Officially employed.
Connie raised a finger slightly, as if remembering something.
“One clarification regarding timekeeping,” she said. “Your workday began when you laid derm at the entrance to this facility.”
Nate blinked once.
“That means you are currently on the clock.”
“Fuckin’ A,” Lissa said.
“At your assigned construction sites,” Connie continued, “your workday will begin when you access the airlock that leads to the exterior construction platform.”
She paused briefly.
“You will be expected to arrive dressed in your biosuit and all required safety gear prior to clocking in for the day.”
Nate nodded. That seemed reasonable enough. Getting dressed for work had never seemed like something someone should be paid for. He didn’t notice that the corporation had just quietly claimed twenty minutes of his morning routine for free.
Connie brought her hands together lightly at waist level, and the holo displays in front of Nate and Lissa shifted. The Briggs logo dissolved and was replaced by a rotating diagram of Mars beside a simplified human figure standing on its surface.
“We will now discuss gravitational environment,” she said.
The diagram stabilized.
“Natural gravity on Mars is approximately 0.38g, or thirty-eight percent of the standard one-g environment most humans inhabit the majority of their lives.”
A second figure appeared beside the first, labeled 1g.
“Long-term habitation studies have determined that sustained living in significantly less than one g produces measurable deterioration in human health over time. Bone density loss, circulatory inefficiencies, muscular atrophy, and neurological complications are the most common outcomes.”
She lifted one finger.
“Fortunately, artificial gravity exists. It is the technology that made permanent interplanetary habitation possible.”
The display shifted again. A simplified diagram of a city block appeared, sections of it highlighted.
“All residential, commercial, and interior civic structures on Mars operate under artificial one-g conditions. Your rez-hue, the concourse, grocery facilities, and most indoor workplaces are maintained at this level. Static shit, right?”
Another diagram appeared: a skeletal framework of a high-rise building under construction.
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