Tamed By the Alien Pirate by Celia Kyle Page 0,47

be unrealistic, readouts from the screen. Who needs Fiona, anyway?

I do, actually because she could probably hack the ship’s controls from here and I could take it over.

Once the sample is inert, and my faux readouts fully prepared, I set about trying to figure out a way of getting a signal off the ship. The shuttle I rode up here was windowless in the passenger compartment, so I don’t even know the model of vessel I’m currently incarcerated upon. I did hear Dr. Mal refer to it as a warship, which doesn’t bode well for the Ancestral Queen even with her recent upgrades.

One thing I do have to say about the Interstellar Human Confederation; when it comes to warfare, they certainly get the job done. I’ve heard other sapient races describe IHC craft as overgunned, overpowered, and overwhelming in combat. Perhaps we, as the smallest and physically weakest sapients in the galaxy, have overcompensated.

Unfortunately, I can find no means of getting a signal off the ship. It would take a quantum entanglement console, which is probably only to be found on the bridge.

Wait a moment… no, there’s another. The room where I had my extremely creepy meeting with the high-powered Earth First leaders. It must have instant communication capabilities, or we wouldn’t have been able to have that meeting in real time.

I have the run of the ship, so there’s nothing holding me back. But when I press the button to open the lab’s sliding metal door, I run right into Dr. Mal, almost literally.

“Thrase?” He blinks several times. “Where were you off to?”

Shit. How do I explain this?

“To tell you the truth, I was feeling a bit peckish. Now that I’m in the fold, as it were, I was hoping to visit the ship’s galley.”

Dr. Mal laughs, and puts his arms akimbo.

“There’s no galley on this vessel. Every square inch of space has been dedicated to two things—warfare, and scientific discovery.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. So there’s no food on board?”

“Oh, there’s sustenance. Most of the ship quarters have a dispensary for a kind of watery gruel made of synthetic proteins. Tasteless and bland, but highly nutritious. All stamina, no fat.”

“You don’t make the prospect sound very appealing.”

Dr. Mal grins.

“I’m only being truthful. But my position in the movement has its fringe benefits. There’s a full working kitchen space in my private quarters. Perhaps… I could cook dinner?”

His eyebrows arch in loaded query, and his leering grin makes it clear that if I accept his offer, he fully expects me to be his dessert. I’m not an espionage agent, but fortunately for me men are dumb. They always believe every woman is interested in them, even if they don’t know it yet.

“That sounds like a capital idea.” I smile widely, trying to keep any ounce of disgust off my face. Dr. Mal is not unattractive, but his dark heart and rotten soul are positively repugnant.

He gestures broadly for me to follow, and I accompany him through the twisting corridors to the lift. Then we ascend to the top deck, where the bridge and his personal quarters are located. The top-most deck is roughly disc shaped, with the bridge taking up one half of the circle and his quarters the other.

When the door slides open, I gape in open appreciation. Mal’s private quarters are just as well appointed as his office had been on M’Kal in the Starcorp building. Plush carpet—blue and green, of course, a terribly tacky pattern if you ask me—velvet upholstery on his furniture, and the aforementioned kitchenette. Dr. Mal takes off his lab coat and dons an apron with the unfortunate phrase “Kiss the Cook” emblazoned in stark white letters across the breast.

“Please.” He gestures at a wine rack protected by its own personal force bubble. “Select a good vintage that pairs well with oyster mushrooms and pasta.”

“I’d love to, but the field…”

“Of course. The pass word is one, two, three, four, five.”

I can’t help but shoot him an incredulous look. That’s the kind of combination any idiot would have on his luggage.

Mal notices my look and laughs cheerfully.

“I know, it’s so simple, but who would suspect a vast scientific intellect such as my own to pick a pass code like that? Besides, if someone makes it into my quarters, it’s because I want them here.”

I’m no vintner, but my parents did run that successful café on Mars. I select a white Pinot—from Earth of course—and take the chilled bottle to the kitchen counter as Mal