Confession, Part 2

 Month 14 Day 25 (day before wedding)

1909 Hours

Smythe

 Previously: He helped her sit up, moved her over so she could lean against the foot of his bed. "I'll be right back." He went to the bathroom and got a towel, realized he had blood on his hands. And she's got blood on her face, as well as her hands. I'll need a wet washcloth, as well.

He hurried back, was alarmed to find her eyes closed, afraid she had lost consciousness. But her eyes were clear when she opened them upon his arrival. He placed the towel between her hands, then twisted the towel around them both, almost as if he were trying to incapacitate her, but he wanted some pressure on those open wounds. Having accomplished that, he took the washcloth and wiped blood and tears from her face. "How do you feel?"

"Foolish," she whispered. "Scared."

"There's nothing to be afraid of," he told her softly.

"I haven't told you yet."

She is trying to confess. That's all it can be. It can't be easy, telling your fiancé that you're pregnant, and obviously not with his child. If I had a brain in my head, I would have told her it didn't matter long before now. Right now, she's got herself into such a tizzy, she's injured herself, and still I'm waiting for her to say something that doesn't matter!

She swallowed and raised her towel-coated hands to gently push his hands away. "Smit, I'm—"

"It doesn't matter," he told her hurriedly. "I already know, and it doesn't matter."

She blinked and stared at him for a long moment. Obviously, she was having some trouble believing him. "What?"

"I said—"

"I know what you said," she interrupted, as joy sprang to her face, despite the red line going down her cheek. "I hoped and I hoped..."

"But you were afraid it would matter, that I'd call off the wedding." He leaned forward and kissed her gently, although passion quickly coursed through both of them, despite the ball of toweled hands that sat between them. He forced himself to break it off. "You're in no shape for any of that right now. Besides your cut hands, you've got this thin mark down your cheek that I suspect may become a bruise in a day or two. And what do you mean, your leg gave out?"

"My right leg," she answered. "I jammed it pretty badly against the desk when you startled me, racing across the room when I stupidly cut my hands."

"Okay. Forget MacGregor. I've got to get you to sick bay, and get you checked out."

"No," she told him. "Please. Not yet. Let me just rest for a while, and I'm sure I'll be fine. I'm sure I've done worse damage to myself fighting a pool table."

Not sure what she means by that. She's pretty decent at playing pool, from what I've seen. But I suppose I can give her a few minutes to get her wits composed. "Let me check your hands, see how badly they're bleeding."

"Well, help me get off the floor, okay? I'd be more comfortable."

He lifted her up so she could sit on the end of his bed, considered the distance to cross his living room to the sofa. "Do you think you can walk to the couch, with my help?"

She leaned forward to look at the distance herself, sat back again. "No, let's not bother with that," she told him. "This is fine. Computer, bedroom lights on." The bedroom remained dim, the only light coming from the living room.

"You don't have the right voice," he told her. "Bedroom lights three quarters." The lights came on soft enough that there was no glare. "Now, let me see your hands again." The cuts seemed to be seeping a little blood, but it was no longer flowing. He suspected there would soon be scabs forming, if she avoided using them long enough. He told her as much.

"Good." She made an awkward effort to get him to sit next to her without flexing her hands.

"No, now, I told you, you're in no shape for that. And if I got you in my arms again, I'm not sure I'd remember that."

She looked disappointed. "But I'm not as injured as you thought I was, when you said that. Certainly there's no permanent damage done."

"Colleen, you have to take care of yourself." She's been through a lot this evening, and I sure don't want to add any more trauma. Well, not trauma, I suppose, but exertion.

"Smit, why don't you want to... talk?"

Why is she still trying to play the innocent? But the sight of her lovely face, despite its temporary blemish, made him smile down at her. "Colleen, what we've been doing in the evenings hasn't been talking."

"I know that." She smiled back. "But you said you wanted to help me calm down, and—"

"And you said 'calm' was not what you feel when I hold you."

"That's true, but it is an enjoyable feeling, when you hold me, and frankly, I could use the distraction."

She was driving him to distraction, as she always did when they were together and not on duty. He had impatiently been waiting for their wedding day—which was scheduled for tomorrow— but didn't know if he could resist his urges, here in his bedroom, under these circumstances. "Colleen, we aren't married yet."

"I know." Her fingers tugged at his sleeve. "I'm having second thoughts about waiting that long," she whispered.

She's picked a fine time for second thoughts. He reluctantly sat down, but warned her, "If we get started with our usual activity, I don't know if I could stop. This time."

There was a moment's silence, and then her green eyes glinted. "Really? I thought it was just me."

He didn't have time to think about that, for she leant forward and kissed him. For a moment, his mind said he should stop, before he aggravated her injuries, but then he pulled her closer, and the matter was settled. When he realized he was pulling open her uniform tunic, he managed to pull his mouth from hers to ask, "Are you willing?"

"Have been for months," she answered breathlessly. "Keep going."

At least he had enough wits to say, "Computer, lock my doors," before he completely got lost in the joy of their long-anticipated activity.

Confession, Part 1

Month 14 Day 25 (day before wedding)

1825 Hours

Smythe

 This was hardly what Smythe had had in mind whenever he thought of getting his fiancée to his quarters, alone together. But from the trembling she was doing in his arms, a cuddle on the sofa was about all she could deal with. How often has Bugalu caught her alone somewhere and distressed her with threats of telling me her secret? I thought I was keeping her too busy, that I had warned him off strongly enough. And now to threaten to tell another crew member! So what if he got her pregnant? The real problem—which reflects poorly on him, if he'd only realize it—is that he's not man enough to own up to it, and he's too self-centered to let her go when she turns to another man for help.

A butterfly of a touch on his chest made the arm around her pull her a centimeter closer, his only thought to give some sort of comfort. Any kind of comfort. "Smit?"

He had barely heard her, she had spoken so softly. But if she was able to speak, perhaps she was beginning to calm down. "Yes?"

He could actually feel her swallow, and his free hand came up to caress her hair, which was flowing free, the way he liked it. "Could I... have a drink?"

"Of course, my dear." He let go of her to rise and head for the liquor cabinet. Half way there, he remembered her condition, and thought better of the idea. He grabbed a glass and turned to ask, "Would you like water?"

She blushed. "Actually, I could use a whiskey."

She's a heavy drinker, I know that. And I wouldn't mind, if not for... Has she been drinking despite her condition? I hope not. "I really think water would be a better choice."

She sighed, possibly in frustration, and looked away, rubbed her hands down her thighs. "Okay."

He got her the water and brought it to her. As he sat down again, she surged to her feet and walked across the room to stand next to his desk. "Darling," he protested.

She raised a hand to signal him not to get up, not to follow her. "No, stay over there."

"But why? All I want to do is help you calm down."

Her eyes downcast, her mouth twisted into a wry smile. "I'm afraid 'calm' is not what I feel when I'm in your arms. Or anywhere near you. No, I need to be able to think, so, please, let's keep this distance between us."

"I haven't noticed you having any difficulty thinking recently," he remarked.

"Not about engineering," she agreed. "Because I finally figured out you appreciate a person who has a working knowledge of engineering. But I need to be able to talk coherently about something that has nothing to do with that."

Talk? Not about engineering? What she usually means by 'talk' always makes me want her in my bed. And except for actually coming to my bed, she's always been amenable to the foreplay. Unless... Is she actually going to confess her condition? Cutting it close, isn't she? He sank back into the sofa cushions. "Okay. I'll stay here. For now."

But she didn't speak, not right away. She sipped from her glass and made a face at the unaccustomed taste. She looked anywhere in the room but at him. And she twisted her glass between her hands over and over again in a show of great distress. "This isn't as easy to say as I thought it would be," she muttered.

"Just take a deep breath and say it," he encouraged.

She took a deep breath, let it out. "Smit, I—" He plainly heard something crack, saw water pour over her hands and cascade to the floor. She stared at the 2 pieces of her glass, at blood seeping from her hands.

Smitty bolted across the room, startling her so that she rammed her thigh into his desk in surprise as he approached. The desk threatened to move, but was bolted to the floor. He took hold of her hands to look at them, carefully removed the 2 pieces of glass and laid them on his desk. Each hand had a line of blood across the palm. "I'll get MacGregor," he stated, and headed for his bedroom, the closest path to MacGregor's quarters.

"No, don't," she called after him, and moved forward as if to stop him. As he approached his bedroom door to the corridor, he heard a thump from behind him, and turned to see her falling to the floor as she crossed the threshold to his bedroom.

He turned back in renewed consternation, knelt beside her. "What happened?" he asked as he raised her head. He could see a thin, straight impression down her right cheek, but the skin wasn't broken.

She gazed at him with a confused look for a moment before her countenance cleared, somewhat. "My leg gave out," she remembered, and raised a bloody hand to her cheek. "I hit my head on something. Maybe the doorjamb."

"That's what it looks like," he agreed, tracing the line down her face with his gaze, through a smear of blood. "Your hands are still bleeding, I've got to get MacGregor."

"No, not right now," she insisted. "Just bring a towel. I've got to get this said tonight, or I won't get it said."

"But—"

"Please, Smit."

He took another look at her palms. The cuts didn't seem to be deep. "Alright. But I reserve the right to change my mind, if you keep bleeding."

"Just give me a chance to get this said. Tonight."

He helped her sit up, and move over so she could lean against the foot of his bed. "I'll be right back." He went to the bathroom and got a towel, realized he had blood on his hands. And she's got blood on her face, as well as her hands. I'll need a wet washcloth, as well.

Pre-Wedding Trouble

 Month 14 Day 25

1710 Hours

Bugalu

 "You can't do it! It isn't right! You have to tell him, Mac!"

It was a male voice coming around the corner ahead. Someone is taking Mac to task, and it isn't me. And it wasn't Doc MacGregor, either. Unless— Is there anybody else on the ship who goes by 'Mac'? I can't think of anyone. Bugalu hurried to the corner to see Oakhurst reach out for Mac's shoulder, an attempt to stop her from walking off.

"Don't touch me!" Mac declared, and whirled back to face the computer specialist. The movement had rolled her shoulder out of his grip. Surprisingly, her hands were not balled into fists. "That was private research! You shouldn't have looked at it!"

"And I wouldn't have, if you'd deleted it when you were done. Or even if you'd sent the results to your own computer and deleted the program. You not only left it on my computer, you left it open! I had to do something with it when I got to my office this morning, and with the kind of results you got, it's only natural I glance at what you were doing. I'm only human."

"You could have just closed it down and kept your mouth shut!" Mac insisted. Her flashing eyes veered past the computer specialist to see Bugalu, and she abruptly turned away. Bugs could hear her swearing in Gaelund under her breath.

Well, that's a fine way for her to act, after I've been a dutiful brother all these years. "Mac!" he called out, thinking maybe this would be his last chance to talk some sense into her. He took a step forward. "Wait a minute!"

"What's going on here?" came an angry demand from behind Bugs, and he stopped short, recognizing the voice. Just like he had happened upon Oakhurst and Mac, now Smythe had happened upon the three of them. Not only would Mac not speak any more to either lieutenant, but Smythe would quickly send them on their way. There would be no talking any sense to Mac, even at this late date.

"Come on, Rags." Bugs reached out and took hold of the other man by his elbow. "She won't listen. Her mind is made up."

"But, Bugalu, she—"

"I know," the helmsman stated. If I don't get him out of here before he says too much, he'll wind up on Smythe's bad side, also. "You're just going to make her mad. Madder. And that would only make her more stubborn. So forget about it and let's go do something more enjoyable."

"But Bugalu, she—"

"None of our business, Rags," Bugsy broke in. "Like she said. Just forget you ever even saw it." Whatever it is. What kind of program did she run on Rags' computer and 'forget' to turn off before she left?

"I thought you were better than that, Mac," Rags said over his shoulder.

Bugs shushed him, tugged his arm a little harder. "She's feeling desperate, Rags," he whispered to the other man.

"Are you alright, my dear?" Smythe asked solicitously behind them. "I know I told Bugalu to leave you alone. To not upset you again."

"I'm... okay." But there was a quiver to her voice that revealed just how upset she was. "I think... Could we go to your place, Smit?"

"My place?" He sounded surprised by the suggestion. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. I... think that would be a good idea."

"Of course, Colleen. Whatever you want."

Presumably they turned and took a different direction, headed for the lifts or something. Bugalu didn't look back to see.

Before long, the two men arrived at Bugalu's quarters, and Bugsy poured his guest a drink. Then poured himself one and took a good swallow. "What was the program Mac left on your computer for you to find?"

Rags looked up in surprise, then hurriedly took a drink from his glass. "You think she deliberately left it for me to find?"

"I don't know. I don't know what it was."

Rags frowned. "If she didn't want me to find it, I don't know if I should tell you about it."

"Rags, I've been trying to keep Mac out of trouble since she arrived at the Academy my junior year. My roommate was her brother, and sometimes it took both of us to look out for her. She's my adopted sister. If you can't tell me about it, then obviously it is too much a secret to tell anyone about it."

Rags nodded very slowly as he considered that. "But she's marrying Smythe."

"Is that who you wanted her to talk to? About the program she ran?" He watched the other man consider the question and whether or not he should answer it. "I've been her brother for almost 10 years, Rags. I know her better than any other person on this ship, even Mr Smythe. I've known she wanted to be an engineer since the Academy, and he's only recently figured it out."

"Well, maybe that's so, Bugalu, but this is about something really, really personal."

"So personal, even her family shouldn't know about it?"

The specialist let out a long sigh. "From the looks of it, she doesn't even want her future husband to know. I mean, the program results should have shown her how wrong-headed that idea was, but... well, you saw how she reacted when I confronted her about it."

"Like I said, her mind's made up," Bugalu said. "From what I've seen of her lately, nobody and nothing is going to make her change her mind."

"Sure looks that way," Rags agreed sadly, and took another drink from his glass.

Oakhurst wouldn't tell Bugs anything about the program she'd run, her 'special project'. But she's basically an honest person. She might not admit it, but I think her deception is taking a toll on her. Maybe she was trying to figure out the best time and way to tell Smythe the truth. Space, I hope that's true.

Rumors

 Month 14 Day 24

1710 Hours

Drake McGregor

 Counting the groom and himself, Drake only managed to round up 5 players for Smitty's bachelor party. Surprisingly, none of the 3 he had talked into coming had been invited to the wedding. Can't imagine who he has invited. But at least everybody brought booze, so there should be enough of that.

Truth to tell, these are probably not people Smitty feels very close to. But then, who does he feel close to, except Anna? And I didn't think it appropriate to invite a woman to a bachelor party.

It was a mixed bag of officers in attendance, and Drake wasn't sure what to expect of the evening. Dr Fong was the ship's psychiatrist, and didn't get invited to many small parties, not that Drake knew of, anyway. Commander Moor, First Officer, was usually on duty during the evening shift, but was off duty today. Drake didn't like his attitude toward women, particularly underlings, so he only invited him from sheer desperation. And Lieutenant Commander Ngu of Security—Winthrop's replacement—hadn't been aboard long enough to make friends. Drake had been thinking for some time that he should at least introduce himself to the man, on a non-professional level.

Everybody was seated around the table, having congratulated Smitty on his upcoming nuptials, and Drake made sure everybody had a drink as Smitty shuffled the cards.

"So," Ngu said after sipping his drink. "What rule variations do you follow on the Fireball?"

"Depends who you're playing with," Smitty answered, and then proceeded to enumerate the variations he played with when he was dealing. Since dealing would rotate around the table, it would be up to each man to declare what variants were in play during his deal.

They played a couple hands while Drake tried to figure out how to introduce the subject he had in mind, but it turned out Ngu beat him to it. "I've been hearing mutterings of the silliest rumor since I came aboard. I could almost think I was still assigned to Mars."

"There's always rumors," Moor stated. "I long ago learned to ignore them."

"I'd rather track down the person who started them and give them a tongue-lashing," Smitty stated with a frown. "At the very least, remind the person I caught relaying the rumor that such habits are discouraged on the Fireball."

Dr Fong added his take. "Unfortunately, rumors are gossip, and gossip seems to be a normal part of human society."

"What rumor has you thinking you're back on Mars?" Drake asked. He did want to discuss rumors, but not Martian rumors.

Or so Drake thought. "This rumor is that some poor crew member finds herself in that age-old position of being with child, without being married."

Drake choked on his sip of whiskey. This was the exact rumor he wanted to discuss, but he hadn't been going to tackle it head on. He coughed and asked, "Why does that make you think of Mars?"

"Mars has trouble keeping the anti-pregnancy shots effective. They don't seem to know what the problem is, but one young lady came up pregnant only 6 months after she had her shot. They're trying to keep the whole thing quiet, but it's getting to the point where women don't want to be assigned there."

"I can't blame them," Fong stated. "That always has been a burden that lands squarely on the woman."

Smitty drank his entire half-glass of rum in one swallow and began to pour himself another. "I thought the shots were effective for 2 years."

"They are," Drake told him. "At least, I haven't gotten any official memo stating anything different."

"Oh, it's only on Mars," Ngu stated. "And only the last 3 years or so. At least, that's the only place I've heard about it. That's why I'm bringing it up here. It surprised me to hear that rumor on a spaceship."

"Well, I'm not aware of anybody being pregnant on the Fireball," Drake said deliberately, and was aware that Smitty gave him a long glance. "I certainly think somebody would have told me if something that unexpected happened to one of our crew." There, that should settle the matter.

"What if she's hiding it?" Moor asked. "No husband means she'd be drummed out of the service by 3 months. She may be trying to find a husband, or just trying to figure out what she's going to do."

Blast Moor. I just wanted to make a blanket statement and move on to another subject.

Fong rearranged his cards. "So you think this particular rumor might be true?"

"Well, not necessarily," Moor said, his cards temporarily forgotten. "Just considering the possibility. It seems I did hear about one such pregnancy on a spaceship a few years back."

"I didn't," Drake spoke up. "There would have been a big study about why the shots failed, and some kind of remedy—or at least a warning—would have been circulated. Officially. I just flat don't believe it. According to statistics, that would be a rare case on a spaceship. I don't know what's happening on Mars, but the efficacy of the shots is 99.9% for men. I bring that up because it takes 2 to start a pregnancy, and it's only 1 man in 1000 who would be capable. That's about 1 man for every 3 to 4 spaceships."

"It would only take one man," Smitty commented, still rearranging his cards.

Is he even paying attention? He knows math better than that! "Well, the efficacy for women is even better; only 1 woman out 5000 will have it fail. That's about 1 per 10 ships. Now, what's the chances that one fertile man and one fertile woman will be on the same ship, and get together to produce a pregnancy?"

Ngu gave a low whistle. "Well, I knew the odds were low."

"But not impossible," Moor added.

Smitty folded his cards and lay them on the table face down to regard Drake. "Actually, that question should be, what are the odds that one of 5 fertile men and 1 fertile woman get assigned to the same ship and get together in a way that could produce a pregnancy."

"The odds are still blasted low," Drake insisted.

"Statistics are tricky," Smitty returned. "Then don't preclude the possibility that all 5 fertile men wind up on the same ship as the 1 fertile woman." He took a sip from his rum. "Now, can we get back to playing cards?"

The subject was changed after that, and Drake couldn't be sure if Smitty believed Mac was pregnant or not. Nor did he know if the statistics had made any impression on the engineer. But after a few more hands of cards, and a few more drinks, he ceased caring. At least for that night.

Cold Feet

 Month 14 Day 24

1608 Hours

Della Harris

 When Della entered the quarters she shared with Mac, she grimaced at the realization that Mac was already home. I swear we leave Engineering at the exact same time, and she always beats me home, even if I manage to get on the first available lift. She eyed the form-fitting, short-sleeved shirt and oversized coveralls the redhead had put on. "Are you wearing that for tonight's date with Smythe?"

"Wearing what?" Mac turned from returning her red curls into a tight top-knot. It never seemed to stay tidy for a full shift. She glanced down at her attire. "Oh, no, we're not seeing each other tonight." She tried to pull her top-knot even tighter.

"You're not? This will be the first night you aren't since you got engaged."

"Umm. Yeah, I guess. Pretty much."

"You two haven't fought over something, have you?" They haven't even gotten married yet!

Mac gave her a funny look. "No. He's got his bachelor party to be at tonight."

Oh, right, he's got to get that slipped in somewhere. It's only a couple days until the wedding. "Speaking of parties, when are you having your bachelorette party? Will I be invited?"

Mac tossed her engineering uniform down the laundry chute and sat on her bed to put on a pair of socks and tie-down shoes. "I told Yellow Dog not to plan one for me. I can get drunk anytime, I don't need an impending marriage as an excuse. And none of the other activities she suggested held any interest for me. So, no there won't be a bachelorette party. But if there were, then yes, you would have been invited."

This just doesn't sound right. "Is something wrong, Mac? You don't seem to be getting into the joyously anticipatory mood that most brides experience. I heard you haven't even gone to Fabrication to order a wedding dress."

"I plan to wear my usual uniform," Mac answered.

That definitely is not right! "You're kidding!"

"Why would you think that?"

"Mac, you've barely invited anybody to the ceremony! You won't have a special dress to commemorate the day. You're not having a party! What are you doing?"

The redhead tied her 2nd shoe and looked up. "I'm getting married. All that other stuff you mentioned is nonsense, it isn't necessary. Or wanted, in our case. We both want a simple, small wedding ceremony." She skewed her mouth to one side for a moment. "Is that so awful?"

Della bounced down on her own bed. I've heard of people who want a tiny, simple ceremony and nothing else. I always thought they were nuts. "My family always has a big wedding, with 5 or 6 bridesmaids and a couple hundred guests. It's what I always expected for myself, if I ever get married."

"We have that kind on Gaelunde, too," Mac told her. "Fathers are usually very happy to get their daughters safely married off, so they put up with the expense and all the traditional nonsense. I expect my father would insist on a big wedding with all the trimmings, if he were here to give me away. Since he's not, and I don't care about any of that, I choose not to bother with it."

"And Mr Smythe is okay with that?"

"He encourages me to think small. After all, if we did invite a couple hundred people to witness the ceremony, that would require more than a full shift of people to be there. It would almost be 2 full shifts. Between that and those who were sleeping, there would hardly be anybody left to man the ship."

"I think you're exaggerating."

The redhead canted her head to one side for a second, and decided, "Not by much." She stood up.

"So, what are you planning to do tonight? Go to the gym and catch up on your weight lifting?"

Mac smiled patiently. "Weight lifting isn't something you can give up for a couple weeks and then do a double- or triple-dose in one evening. No, I got some information from Oaks the other day, and I plan to do some research."

Instead of having a party? "You're always working on some sort of research. What is it this time?"

"Oh, I haven't been keeping up with my various projects very well this past couple weeks. I hope things settle down after we get married so I can get back to them. But tonight's research... is personal." She headed for the door to leave.

"You can do it here," Della offered. "Just let me change for my date, and I'll get out of your way."

"That's okay. My computer is working on my regular projects. Besides, I'm not sure a personal computer has the power I'll need. Oaks is letting me use his office. And since I think that's who your date is with, I'd better go get situated so he can get ready for you. Have fun." Then she waved good-bye and was out the door, and Della was alone.

That girl is something else. She works as Smythe's protégé, has 3 or 4 career projects she's working on, spends all her off-duty time with Smythe planning their wedding, when she isn't sleeping. And now she's starting a personal project that requires a more powerful computer? I can't hope to keep up with that. I don't even want to keep up with that. Sometimes I regret ever letting Smythe see what I was capable of, because now he expects that much of me, all the time!

Wait, the real question is, when did she find the time to work out a deal with Oakhurst? Smythe's got her on a very short leash, these days.