The steering of the Prize gave the pilot much leeway, theoretically allowing him to fire thrusters even individually, and program maneuvering patterns of his own. Though - most of them did not come with any safety warranty. But then, nothing on Hollen's Prize did.
"Listen up. A friend of mine sent me a distress call - a code red, meaning s**t hitting the fan all over the place, and SNAFU beyond compare. As he is a lovable scoundrel and iconic scalawag, we'll sidetrack from our cargo delivery run, for farming equipment won't spoil, and the growing season on Rinea ain't coming anytime soon either. Serves them right for picking a planet with such idiotically long orbit. Now, before you ask me - there ain't no official emergency service out here - just goodwill and connections. Yeah, there's the occasional Solar League cruiser, but they're as likely to nuke you our of space as to help you. Why? Because we ain't all shiny and proper."
Yulo pointed out into space, as if he could pinpoint their target by eyesight alone.
"We'll be hitting the system's edge in ten hours. Then, it's off to Severus, apply boots to (yet unspecified) butts, and then to drop combine parts and flower pots off at Rinea. Get to know the ship. Get to know the lads and lasses. Get your gear in shape."
"Next time sound a G-force alert..." the com barked.
"Yeah, that. Strap yourselves in when she's bound to fly."