“This hunk of junk isn’t going anywhere again once we land,” Darleton kicked the hull plating in frustration.
“It’s not meant to,” pointed out Twzimbe. “It’s a colony ship. They’re a one shot item, meant to be taken apart for power plant and metal by the colonists. Our luck it was the only ship ready to lift besides the one to the penitentiary.”
“So, gentlemen,” Pears was a pursed-faced, precise killer, “We have exchanged one prison for another.”
“Without guards,” pointed out Twzimbe, “And the Colonisation Authority isn’t allowed to sell rights to planets as bad as the penitentiary. Of course, we’ll need to become farmers to keep eating.”
“Mr Twzimbe,” corrected Pears, “I am a predator. I do not farm.”
“If we do nothing but prey on each other we won’t last more than a couple years.” Twzimbe continued, “I suggest you work out a way to sell your services to help those who do farm grow enough food to feed you too.”
“Big game?” The suggestion came from the embezzler Rostov who had hacked the ship’s computer, “There are supposed to be animals on this new world that might want to eat us or sheep and cattle.”
“That may be acceptable,” Pears conceded. “Are the original owners of this ship likely to follow us?”
“Don’t think so,” Rostov again, “Looks like they had a one use only autopilot from the Colonisation Authority. Guaranteed not to be reissued. Lucky them, looks like their insurance policy covers immediate replacement in this situation.”
“Why lucky?” Darleton stopped regarding the ship’s hull as if it were a personal affront.
“These guys, The Second Reformed Congregation of the Friends of Jesus, are certain Ringface will win the election. They want out before that.”
“Can’t blame them,” approved Pears. “So we’re colonists now.”