Space station of the sluts
“Your first suggestion is beyond my price range,” she told him. There was no need for either of them to quote a figure. Oxygen was incredibly inefficient to ship; cheaper by far to generate at home. As long as you could retain enough atmosphere to generate more atmosphere, of course, a usually-theoretical paradox that Megan was not enjoying in its practical application. “Your second — how much weirder are these daysuit glitches going to get?”
She flexed her hand unconsciously, watching the skintight sheath flex with it. Daysuits were vastly preferable to bulky pressure suits, though less protection in a truly catastrophic failure. You were as close to naked as you could get and still be environmentally secure, right down to the flexible, perfectly-fitted sheaths that wrapped each external follicle of hair. People even had sex in them, the suits stretching internally or externally as needed, though Megan preferred true nakedness for her own encounters (in a safely-shielded cabin, thank you very much; risky fun meant ropes and paddles, not radiation poisoning or explosive decompression).