Discretion is the better part of valor...and running the fuck away is the better part of survival!

Considering the fact that growing your own sex **** is a grossly illegal thing to do, you have a feeling that the client that had ordered this Chlorophyte wasn't exactly the most understanding type. Actually, you figured that this client was probably the type to toss somebody that crossed him out of an airlock to make an example of him. And, as you like to breathe and not have your head explode from sudden decompression, you think that maybe not showing up at the coordinates you're expected to and finding a place to hide might be a good idea.

That being the case, you, again, push the petite plant girl away from you and give her a crooked and strained smile. "Uh, look, sweetheart, I, uh, I gotta take care of somethin' so, y'know, hold all of those thoughts about 'pleasing master' for a bit and I'll get right back to ya, okay?", you say as you give her a pat on the head and then, after righting your boxers again, head out of the crate and the cargo bay to head for the cockpit.

You all but leap into the pilot's seat, your fingers flying over the navi-computer's console before your ass even hits synth-leather. You're quick to put a stop to your current course, causing the ship to slow to a hovering stop in a rather empty expanse of space. You then consider your options in regards to your new course. You're definitely gonna have to lay low so it's gonna have to be a backwater planet. You have a few contacts on a few places. Of course, there are also a few uncharted moons and worlds you know of, having been a part of a few shady deals that needed to happen on such places to be away from the prying eyes of the law. That could also be an option.

Whatever you decided, you knew you were going to have to make it quick because you didn't want to linger any longer than you had to with the sort of high-grade illegal and, now, stolen cargo you had on your hands.