FROM THE ADAMA JOURNALS:

One day, when there was a lull in the war and we were off doing convoy duty for some ships carrying supplies to a fueling station under construction, I noticed Starbuck running down a corridor, muttering to himself and making furious entries in a little notebook. Now, when it came to military matters, Starbuck was the proverbial innocent ensign—if you could take a peep at them, you’d’ve expected his diapers to be as green as he was. But, when it came to money matters, especially when the money could be wagered, Starbuck had been born adult. In his first week on the Galactica he had maneuvered so many people into so many corners that everybody was walking around round-shouldered. By this particular time I thought I was on to the shrewd young man, so I decided to see what he was up to. I figured if I could catch him in the act of some illegal enterprise, I could apply a little discipline and get him to confine his sinning to the proper designated areas.

He moved fast and I had a hard time tailing him, since it’s hard to be a very good shadow when you’re the ship’s commander, but I could soon see he was making for the medical section. Sure enough, when I caught up with him, he was in an empty ward. A bunch of the medics were gathered around him, hollering dates at him, and passing him little slips of paper along with what appeared to be a good amount of money. Starbuck was very busy, somehow managing to write things in the notebook and take the money and the slips.

“What’s going on here, ensign?” I hollered in my best authoritarian voice. “Some off-hours gambling?”

Starbuck began to look very sheepish, very much the green ensign.

“I’m sorry, skipper,” he said in a soft voice. The diabolical louse knew I hated to be called skipper, but I ignored that.

“And what’s the subject of your little swindle this time, Starbuck?”

All the medics began to look apprehensive and I thought Ensign Starbuck might sink through the metal floor.

“Well, sir, we’re betting on—uh, we’re betting on—”

“Out with it, ensign. I want to know what this is all about before I confiscate everything for the ship’s pension fund.”

“Sir, we’re getting together this little bet on, well, on the day you’ll die, sir.”

I have to admit I was taken aback by that reply, and couldn’t speak for a moment.

“You’re—you’re all betting on—on the date of my death?” He nodded. I sputtered a bit more on the subject, then demanded that Starbuck turn over the betting money to me. It began to dawn on me that the money in his hand was fake, the kind of lead cubit used by non-bettors in card games.

“Just as well I got caught,” Starbuck said to the medics. “Skip’s right; it’s a swindle. The fix was in.”

I felt a little unsettled in my stomach.

“Fix?” I said, choking a bit on the word.

“Yes,” Starbuck smiled. “I was gonna win. No doubt.”

“You were going to win? You know the date of my death?”

“Yep.”

As he stood before me and smiled smugly, I felt like strangling him.

“All right, Starbuck. Tell me your winning bet. I’m especially interested in the part about the fix. When am I going to die?”

Smiling, he handed me a betting slip that he’d been holding.

“My prediction,” he announced.

I opened it up. It said, “Never.” Then Starbuck started laughing and handed me a neat pile of fake cubits.

“Never,” he said.

I’d been suckered. Standing in the middle of an enormous empty sickbay ward, I was backed into a corner. I joined in the laughter and ignored the insubordinate character of the whole episode. Starbuck showed me all the slips. They all said, never. I never tried to catch Starbuck out again.