Tamed By the Alien Pirate by Celia Kyle Page 0,45

wall—too small for my frame and clearly intended for humans—is adhered too tightly for me to dislodge it.

I do have a commode, all one piece and welded to the floor as well. Clearly, no one bothered to clean it after the last occupant, and both the moldy feces stains on the side and the repugnant smell turn my stomach to the point where I could barely bring myself to use it.

Other than that, my room is featureless. The recessed lighting panel is protected by an electrical mesh grid. I found that out the hard way when I tried to pry it loose and was knocked across the room by the sudden jolt of energy.

Once I’d recovered from my nasty tumble, I scoped out every inch of the cell—a difficult task given the low amount of illumination in the dimly lit chamber. Then my fingers had scraped over the edges of a metal panel screwed into the wall.

I reasoned that the panel has been screwed over the lighting controls, making me think perhaps this wasn’t intended to originally function as a prison cell. Welded bedding and toilets are common on star ships, after all. You never know when a stray gamma ray burst is going to take out your gravity drive or your inertial dampeners, after all.

So they screwed this metal plate over the lighting controls so the cell’s occupant couldn’t access the ship’s systems, I suppose. Though from what I can tell, there’s just electricity coming to this room, so I doubt I could hack into the ship’s computer from here even if I could get the panel off.

This ship is clearly of human design, but the bolts holding this panel are of Kilgari manufacture. That doesn’t bode well for me since I don’t have any tools to unfasten them. When I try my fingernail, I wind up cracking it down the middle, a painful reminder that I’m not an Odex.

Sucking on my finger, I regard the panel screws. We used to call this model of screws bites because the ridged indentation for a driver to fit so closely resembles Kilgari teeth. You know, I bet one of my teeth would fit right into it.

There’s no one looking at the moment. Might as well give it a try. Opening my mouth to maximum gape, I attempt to fit one of my front teeth into the bolt’s indentation, but to no avail. Damn, this panel isn’t even secured all that well. Just a little purchase, and I could get it loose.

Then I get an idea. Not a pleasant one, but clever nonetheless if I do say so myself. I decide I can always get an implant to replace my third incisor.

I do the calculations in my head. It takes eight pounds of pressure per square inch to dislodge a tooth roots and all, and I need to make sure it doesn’t get busted off at the gumline. The roots will be my handle for my makeshift driver. I should generate more than twenty pounds of pressure per square inch just by falling forward from a standing position…

Sighing, I stand near the corner of my bunk, and lower myself slowly to line up my shot, effectively doing a push up. Right about there should do it.

I almost lose my nerve. This is going to hurt, a lot, and there’s a good chance it will take more than one try. Then I think of Thrase and our zesty encounter in the lab. She refused to admit her feelings for me. I can’t let myself be killed until we get to affirm our love. Perhaps I’m just being stubborn, but it gives me the courage to proceed with my plan.

Trying to relax my body as much as I can, I take a deep breath, stand in the appropriate position, and let myself topple over.

The impact causes stars to burst behind my eyes, and in spite of my desire to maintain stealth a cry of anguish escapes my now bloody lips. Hopefully they will think it’s an aftereffect of my earlier “torture” at Thrase’s hands.

I stick my finger in my mouth and groan in agony as I investigate the gum line. I got it, roots and all. But where did it go?

Getting on my hands and knees, I pat about the blood-stained floor until I feel something small, sharp, and hard. Picking up my tooth by the roots, trying not to focus on how much it hurts, I go to the panel and thrust the