Express Delivery

Author's Notes: This will be my submission for Literotica's "Geek Pride Day 2020" event. Special thanks to my lady love for inspiration and critique, bikoukumori for a tight editing job in the face of impossible deadlines and my Patrons, especially Fireball, for support and helpful input. I couldn't have done it without you guys!

Please note: It should go without saying, since I'm posting this to an adult fiction site, but a fair warning to all: This story tackles adult themes of gender, morals and strange sex. There will be tentacles, futanari and aliens mixed up in hot, messy tangles. Also, tentacle on male and male on futa. If that's not your cuppa, please go read something else.

All participants in sexual acts are adults. No shapeshifters have been harmed during the creation of this story.

* * * *

"Consuela, please hold your position."

A small pit of anxiety opened up inside my stomach. When Flight Control demanded to "hold position," it usually meant trouble. Unity's Landing was Earth's biggest space port, with enough capacity to handle at least six vessels at any one time. My contact scanner showed just two others nearby. The first was the Zeloria, one of the sharp-edged Zuthrian diplomatic vessels which looked like obsidian splinters flying through space point-first. The other one was one of the UNSF's boxy Nakami-class carriers, the Thomas Hoffmann. None of these tubs would land, instead they'd send shuttles down, which would make the Consuela the next one in line for landing.

"What's the holdup, Control?" I asked, trying to put as much charm into my voice as possible. I was sitting on ten tons of deep-frozen Sand Dragon meat and about a million credits worth of Dragon's Milk spirits. My clients weren't keen on delays. And the replacement parts for the city's water treatment plant were kinda important too.

"Classified, Consuela. Hold position until further notice please."

That did not sound good. I quickly replayed my journey through the Sol system, from the moment I exited the TransNet. My ship was scanned by the everpresent Nor battlecruiser -- this time it was the NRS Kairi -- with nothing to object for once. Then I made my way deeper into the system, taking a detour until I could receive Titan's broadcast. The supermax prison built on Saturn's icy moon always needed something and with my current run nearing its end, it didn't hurt to scout for future income opportunities. Too bad they had to deal with another riot and the area was already locked down by the United Nations' Space Fleet, to stop any possible breakouts. Nothing but automated "keep out" broadcasts on the channels. So, past Jupiter, through the Asteroid belt and straight back home to Earth. Even with the detour, my trip from the TransNet portal beyond Pluto's orbit back to Earth didn't take much more than two hours. Hard to think my grandfather had taken that same time to get from his hacienda to the nearest city and here I was, blasting through space in my own high-speed smuggling vessel.

Fifty years ago, a Nor science vessel had stumbled into our solar system and found it inhabited, unlike every other system in a five-hundred light year radius. So, after a few months of clandestine spying and analysis of our broadcasts, they decided to make contact. What they didn't expect was a fractured planet with over two hundred nations suddenly vying for the newcomer's attention. So, instead of offering a straight-up invitation to join the Galactic Community, the Nor began to help unite the planet by eliminating such concerns as hunger, poverty and illnesses. They started by founding a city in the most inhospitable place imaginable -- the arid depths of the Mojave Desert. Unity's Landing was supposed to be a showcase of what Nor technology could do for Humanity. Two other cities followed, Barron Road in Australia's Outback and Wellspring deep in the Congo. Many nations were skeptical, especially the so-called First World was shocked that instead of primarily dealing with them, the poorest of the poor suddenly had access to unlimited water, food and healthcare.

Of course, some nations tried to exert influence over the budding alien outposts but that lasted only until the Nor called in reinforcements. What was Earth against a fleet of eight Battlecruisers, especially since our own space programs had barely progressed past Earth's orbit? The ground-to-space weaponry we had was woefully underpowered in comparison to what our benefactors could muster. So, after one tense weekend, everyone sat back down at their negotiating tables and project "Civilize Earth" went ahead. There are still over two hundred countries but the United Nations had been given far-reaching authority when it came to negotiating with the aliens.

Thirty years ago, the first struts for our very own TransNet portal had been put into place, and five years later, the switch was thrown and Sol was connected to a strand of the Nor-created hyperspeed transit infrastructure which allowed any vessel equipped with the right hardware to cross incredible distances in a matter of weeks instead of centuries.

Within the next decades, the Nor doled out bits and pieces of their advanced technology to slowly bring Earth to the civilization level of a Republican world. Without a truly unified government, the Nor were reluctant to deploy everything they had, especially milspec items for fear that Earth's small-minded, "me-first" governments would tear each other apart should they get access to truly devastating, next-level alien weaponry.

The Nor still keep a military presence in Sol, arguably to protect us from the more unsavory elements of the Galactic Community, but there are enough people clamoring for them to go away. In the years since the opening of the portal, we've met other spacefaring races too, the black-skinned and heat-loving Zuthrians (whose exports I was about to deliver), the enigmatic and machine-like Silicians, the towering, red-skinned and muscle-bound Gravon and of course everyone's favorite, the big-headed, grayskinned and anal-probe loving Gray. They were actually the first to discover Earth but who believed the tales of abductions and medicinal experimentation back then?

So, no one had detected the contraband I was carrying, huh? I used the sensors for another quick check but everything was as before. The Hoffmann hadn't launched an angry swarm of Hellcat fighters to reroute me and the Zuthrian diplomatic cruiser simply hovered in a geostatic orbit above Unity's Landing.

"Consuela, querida, is there anything on the news in regards to Unity's Landing?" I asked aloud. In response, my shipboard computer system activated the VRNet display built into my HUD, showing a live feed from below. I recognized the obelisk-like building of the Nor Embassy stabbing at the sky in the background. The more concerning details were right up in my face though -- the spaceport was shrouded in a noxious blueish-gray cloud. I saw the tell-tale pinions of plasma fire leak through the haze, also dozens of people in hazard-protective exosuits lugging heavy equipment around. Too many ambulances for my liking.

I activated the comms channel. "Control, you could have told me you're having a nice little barbecue down there. Any ETA on a free landing pad? I can always divert to Kinshasa or Barron Road if it's inconvenient. I won't pay the emergency freight fees though. If you want your spares, I'll need someone's signature."

"I said 'hold position,'" the Flight Controller snarled. "We've almost cleared the back row of pads. Wait five fucking minutes, will you?"

"Copy." Another glance at the inferno on my screen. That looked much worse than some maintenance gone wrong.

"Sound, please," I ordered my ship.

The AI dutifully turned up the audio. "... authorities are not yet clear on who could have perpetrated this heinous attack." A soot-covered Gravon wearing a half-melted power armor scowled into the camera. "No interviews!" The translated sound bite didn't sync up with his still-moving lips. I grinned. Seems like someone had hand-translated that particular quote. Too bad my Gravon was pretty decent. "Replay past ten seconds and filter out the translation."

"... can't tell you if the Terran Liberation Army was involved. Please leave."

I sighed. That explained a whole damn lot. Even if it wasn't the Terran Liberation Army, the biggest and most radical anti-alien terrorist group aiming to kick any aliens off our world, there would be at least five other three-letter syndicates gunning for our extra-terrestrial neighbors. Hardly a week went by without another attack. Suddenly skin color or religion were completely irrelevant as far as the extremists were concerned. The only thing they seemed unified in was their dislike towards anything not born on Earth. Of course they still want to keep all the shiny new tech which had made life so much better. And they probably wanted to watch all the uncensored alien entertainment, the BattleDome finals with their blood and shock and awe, "Fading Stars" with all the drama and inter-species sex and space battles.

And now these stupid fucking xenophobes were about to derail one of the most lucrative jobs I had in recent memory. If I played my cards right, I could give Neira the next rate. Which would spare me all kinds of inconveniences. My fingers drummed a nervous rhythm on the thrust lever.

After what felt like a small eternity, my comms crackled to life.

"Consuela, you are go for landing pad eight. Please be aware of visual hazards during re-entry and connect your auto-pilot to channel five for landing assist."

Finally! I powered up the engines, told my avionics package which guide beam to connect to, pushed Consuela's nose down by about thirty degrees and fired up the engines for re-entry. Payday, here I come!

* * * *

I had to hand it to the terrorists -- they knew what they were doing. A sixty-meters wide crater in the middle of the spaceport's main field was the epicenter of the inferno and the eight landing pads surrounding it had been struck the hardest. There were few things on a civilian spaceport which could cause this much havoc, like the fuel cells most ships required for conventional, non-TransNet FTL propulsion. Though they were heavily shielded and built to withstand considerable abuse, with enough brute force they could be made to rupture -- and ruptured they had, going by the half-melted appearance of what remained of the pad's occupants. Even worse, the initial explosion had caused secondary malfunctions as the affected ships broke down, their own plasma circuits blowing out and immolating everything in a much wider area. Only the fringes of the spaceport had been spared, a handful of smaller pads for ships such as mine and most of the storage units seemed to be untouched. With most of the spaceport ablaze or under lockdown, Unity's Landing had been robbed of its most vital connection to the outside. Not for long, going by the amount of manpower at work, but the terrorists got their message across nonetheless.

With a few minute adjustments I brought my ship down onto my assigned pad and turned off the engines.

"This is Consuela. Landing successful, all systems green. Thanks for getting me down in one piece. How long until I can have a loader team?"

"Unless absolutely vital, all cranes and loaders have been assigned to clean-up details. You'll need to find your own."

"Will do, Control. Consuela, out." Sighing, I writhed out of the body-hugging pilot's seat. As if I could carry three ten-ton containers under my arm. Even with the set of repulsor discs I had in the cargo hold which would reduce their weight by seven-eights, I was still looking at several hundred kilos. No chance to move them unless I had either a Gravon helping out or a loader.

Thankfully I knew someone who could lend a hand, even if it would cut into my profits.

I squeezed through the narrow passage which led from the cockpit into Consuela's crew facilities. The ship was built for high-speed long range courier jobs, not passenger transport. There was a small bench, built to accommodate two Gravon, so three or four normal-sized humans could easily fit and eat at the permanently attached table. I had a small synthesis engine, a microwave, fridge and old-school coffee maker built into the Armorgrade bulkheads. No matter how advanced the Nor claimed their food-replicating tech was, coffee made using the synthesis engine always tasted like sewage so I preferred to make mine the old way. Ground beans and hot water.

Beyond the kitchen came the only luxury aboard this ship -- a passenger module I had bought on a recent run to Norwan, the Republic's home world. The cabin was a stark contrast to the rest of Consuela's Earth-made, industrial chic, built from faux wood and cream-colored wall paneling. It had room enough for a comfortable bed, a desk and a small bathroom with water and ultrasound shower which I used to get the trip's sweat and grime off me. A quick look in the built-in mirror showed an rather thin latino male, not quite one meter and eighty tall, with long, dark curls, green eyes and a pronounced five-o-clock shadow. No matter when I shaved, an hour later the efforts were undone. I sported a flyboy tattoo on my right shoulder, the double chevrons over a stylized Hellcat interceptor inked into my skin a reminder of my UNSF rookie days -- and a remnant of a pretty wild night I'd rather forget.

I exchanged my flight suit for a set of street clothes, brushed my dark curls out of my face and tied them into a loose ponytail before wrapping my personal communicator around my left wrist. When flying, I had access to space-range communication systems anyway so the small personal device could recharge in its cradle.

The communicator was barely wider than a sweatband but it packed more high-tech into its unobtrusive shell than ten smart phones half a century ago. Think "personal assistant" with a full communication suite for audio and text messages, access to the global information network, data storage and so forth.

I tapped the display and scrolled through my contact list until the grinning face of a shades-wearing Zuthrian popped up. Another tap and the communicator initiated a video call.

A moment later Ventras, my local fixer, appeared on screen. Like all Zuthrians, he had coal-black skin and silver hair. Unlike most of his kin, Ventras had taken an instant liking to Earth's gangsta culture so he sported a strip-thin mohawk, wore a Public Enemy t-shirt which allowed a good view at his colorful tribal tattoos running up his arms and was hung with more gold than some Christmas trees.

"Sal, bro. How you doin'?" He offered me an expansive, pearly white grin.

"You need to work on your New York accent, Ventras. I'm back and I have the goods."

"Awesome. Zeeris will be all over you the moment you pop your latino ass into our shop."

"Tell your sibling I won't drop my pants for her anytime soon. I don't sleep with business associates. Or their Marked siblings. Listen, I have a small problem."

"Let me guess. You need someone to help get that sweet, sweet loot off your hands, right?"

"Thereabouts. Control won't spare any loaders until the spaceport is cleaned up."

"No worries, I've got ya covered. How was that?"

"You may have skin blacker than any brother's but no matter how hard you try, you'll probably never make a real gangsta." I offered him a grin. "Keep trying though. As long as it's only me you do this with, you won't run the risk of acute lead poisoning. So, about that loader?"

His grin seemed to double in size. "Yo, Zeeris!" he called. A moment later, his long-haired, long-legged and curvy sibling stuck her head into the conversation.

"Oh, hello Salvador," she purred. She was Marked, which sent a whole lot of conflicting signals my way. Zuthrians, after suffering through a horrible nuclear war during their pre-space flight history, developed not only resistance to heat and radiation but a third gender -- the Marked Ones. They were as tall as Zuthrian males, had curves many women envied -- and sported cocks most men would die for.

Zeeris obviously was smitten with me but I wasn't quite sure if I wanted to spread my butt for her just yet. I considered myself rather open-minded, especially after some rather... adventurous flings with the likes of a certain Gravon woman or a Silician stripper, but the idea of someone else's cock drilling my behind didn't appeal to me, no matter who offered. Maybe I haven't been drunk enough yet.

"Sal here was asking for a loader crew," Ventras explained. "You just got your mech license, didn't ya?"

Zeeris beamed as wide as her brother. "Absolutely." She held up her comms and displayed the "Licenses" page. Along with a pilot's license for freight vessels up to two megatons and several ground vehicles, I saw a long list of weapon licenses and one for the common Hercules biped loader mechs, issued three days ago. "I'll be over in five. You could put some of that special black brew on for after."

"Coffee."

"Exactly. Hot coffee." Zeeris waved and ducked out of the picture.

"She won't give up, will she?" I asked Ventras.

"Sal, bro. We're hunters. We won't stop until we've felled our prey."

I sighed. "So much for me having a say in that. Thank you. How much?"

"We'll figure something out. A couple percent off the profit, if at all."

"Not too much. Neira is itching to get the next rate. I'm two weeks overdue already. I had to wait for the water pump spares to be made."

"Sucks to be you, bro. Let's talk when I have eyes on the stuff." Ventras waved and cut the connection.

Alien commodities were highly regulated in Sol. Earth's industries were just beginning to build their own plasma engines, neuron computers or repulsor systems and they were horribly expensive and not quite as advanced as the stuff the Nor or Zuthrians were using. So, to avoid unfair competition, big trade tariffs had been placed on alien tech products which made them unpleasantly expensive for Average Joe.

Alien foodstuffs, beverages and other non-tech imports were still "under review for long-term effects" by the WHO which, again, limited the quantities available on Earth. That's where enterprising entrepreneurs like me came in. Consuela had two compartments, big enough for the standard ten-ton freight container, which had been fitted with ablative shielding and sensor baffles as to appear as part of the ship's superstructure under normal sensor scans. The only way to find them -- unless someone was really thorough -- was to actually open them and have a look inside. So far, it had only happened twice.

I made my way aft, past the cabinets housing the ship's AI system, past the life support system and past most of the engine guts until I reached the narrow cargo hold. It would take both me and Zeeris to get the containers out, especially since the two containing contraband had to be lifted from their hiding spots. Using a control panel in the back, I lowered the ramp.

The desert heat blasted right into the cargo hold. The area around Unity's Landing had been terraformed over the past forty years. Gone were the endless sand dunes and salt flats, replaced with vineyards and grassy hillsides, even the occasional lake and a clever network of irrigation canals had been built, which also doubled as a transportation network for dozens of emission-free skiffs. The heat remained though. With the heat came the noise. Inside the brushed metal shell of Consuela, it was easy to forget that a terrorist attack had just taken place. As I stepped onto the specially reinforced panels making up the landing pad, I could take a close-up look at the catastrophe. Armed securities were milling about enforcing a constantly withdrawing perimeter while the tell-tale yellow-and-black hazard crews worked their ass off moving irreparably damaged craft or dousing the still-raging plasma fires.