~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The Gamble *I ruined my reputation for this?* That lone thought sprang to Lieutenant Starbuck's mind a nano-micron after the blade pierced his back, just under his left shoulder blade, and before the blinding pain seared through every nerve. Muscles clamped in spasms as he collapsed to the floor. He was vaguely aware of gasping for air as a suffocating tightness swelled in his chest. ***** He had known it was dangerous, a gamble, from the start. They had all known and accepted the risk. All other options had failed, and no others seemed even remotely plausible. Except the one they had reluctantly chosen. "Starbuck," Adama said quietly, "to make this work, everything must look and sound 100% authentic and official - in other words, it has to *be* official. "I understand." The lieutenant gave a wry smile. In less than a centar, his reputation would be in shreds; he would be dishonorably discharged from the Colonial service for "gross misconduct" with regard to excessive gambling, embezzlement, and falsifying official records. Although not confined to quarters or the brig, he would be under tight restrictions, pending the outcome of the tribunal to be held in one secton, after a full accounting of records could be made. One such restriction would be the prohibition of any gambling, even at the chancery aboard the Rising Star. The discharge would be issued through official Colonial channels, with notification transmitted to the Chief Opposer and the head of Council Security. No public announcements, just official military business - with the barest of "leaks" to the IFB. Starbuck had offered a bet that it would take them less than two centars to leap at the story and the seeming attempt to "keep things quiet" about the discharge of one of the service's most honored and respected warriors. Everyone declined the bet, knowing - even hoping - that he was correct. The sooner it became Fleet knowledge, the better. Lieutenant Boomer frowned at his friend's amused look. "Just don't lose this," he said, handing him the tiny transmitter. Starbuck flipped the thin patch over, marveling at its innocent appearance and fully aware that it was probably his only assurance that his backup would be there when needed. "Well, I guess that's it," he said with a sigh. The faces gazing at him were grim, and it made him uncomfortable, antsy, to say the least. Adama, Tigh, Apollo, Boomer, Sheba, and -- at his insistence - Cassiopeia would be the only people in the Fleet who knew the truth. Everyone else, including the rest of his own squadron, would be slapped with the "official" story. Of course, even the small group who were his "backup" would have to act as if the whole sordid mess were true. He glanced at Cassie. She looked close to tears. This would not be easy for her, he knew, but, at least, her concern for his safety could easily be concealed and expressed as disbelief and grief at the "truth." Even the fleeting glimpse of her face tore at his heart. He hated having to put her through this. Loathed it. He could handle it; it was probably his biggest bluff, and he could not care less what anyone - especially the IFB reporters - might say about him. But to know that Cassie would probably be drug through the dirt with him . . . that hurt. Immeasurably. And he vowed with a vengeance to get the ones who'd made this deception necessary. Whoever "they" were. They were elusive but deadly. A cunning gang of unscrupulous thieves who sucked in the unsuspecting and gullible, usually operating, they suspected but could not prove, through the chancery on the Rising Star. So far, all attempts to find that proof had failed. In the mean time, petty theft had evolved into five robberies and vicious beatings. And two terminations. They had to be stopped. And to do so, Adama had figured he needed to both catch their attention and throw them off guard. But how? It had been Starbuck's own idea to dangle the irresistible bait of a dishonored, disgraced, and desperate ex-warrior who was famous - infamous? - at gambling and scheming. One way or another, whether to recruit or exploit him, he didn't see how they could possibly ignore him. Adama had vehemently rejected the idea. Repeatedly. It took every bit of the lieutenant's powers of persuasion to convince the commander and the others to do it. When the second body had been discovered, however, Adama, with no other option to consider, had agreed to Starbuck's idea with great reluctance. Still, it was with a feeling of foreboding that the commander wrote up the charges and set the whole plan in motion by tapping the key that sent them through the official channels. Starbuck had been overly optimistic in his prediction of 1-2 centars. Not more than 50 centons had passed before the IFB broke into their regular programming to announce that "according to reliable sources, honored hero Lieutenant Starbuck - who has an almost spotless record - has just been expelled from the Colonial Service. Details to follow as soon as they become available. . . ." ***** Starbuck tipped the glass high but took only the smallest of sips as he glanced around at the myriad of faces throughout the Rising Star's entertainment lounge. Seated at a lone table in a corner, he absently pulled at the collar of his tunic, wriggling slightly against the unfamiliar feel of the civilian clothes. That, more than anything, had put him in an appropriately irritated mood. He hated civvies and had only worn them when on missions that precluded wearing a standard uniform. The sideways glances, the furtive looks, even the outright stares he could handle; the scratchy feel of his shirt was liable to drive him to distraction. He took another slow, exaggerated sip and studied the faces. A few he recognized, but most were strangers. And all seemed what they appeared to be -- either tired yet amiable employees or patrons happy, grateful to have a few centars to escape the realities of life in the Fleet. None looked to be a ruthless killer, twice over. Starbuck's gaze paused on a form dressed in black as it ambled through the lounge doors. Council Security, he noted, then groaned inwardly. Sergeant Reese. Of all possible people, it would be him. He took a long, deep draw from his glass of ambrosa, this time savoring the burning feel as it slid down his throat. Reese was the last thing he needed right now. And sure enough, the guard spotted him and strolled through the crowd in his direction, a smug look plastered on his face. Starbuck fixed his gaze on the bottom of his nearly empty glass. "You know," said a voice a moment later. "Everyone seems so shocked by what happened. But I'm not." Starbuck, ignoring him, downed the last of his drink and waved at a passing waiter for a refill. Reese walked around to stand in front of his table, cutting between Starbuck and the approaching waiter. "Enjoy your freedom, flyboy, because after the tribunal, if you're not locked away on the prison barge, you'll be lucky to be scrubbing floors on the sanitation ship." Then again, he mused, he did need to create a distraction, draw some attention his way, since sitting around for the past two centars had achieved nothing except a slight buzz, despite drinking carefully. Starbuck let his gaze shift to the leering face in front of him. "Yeah, you'd know about that, blackshirt." He paused as the waiter exchanged glasses with him, then took a long slow sip. "All I know is that you'll finally get what you deserve, and I hope I have the pleasure of escorting you to your new home on the Prison Barge." Starbuck stood up slowly, drink still in his hand. He'd brushed off the IFB reports that were - predictably and thoroughly - gobbling up every tidbit of gossip they could find, and distorting it as far from the truth as they could. They'd even dug up and "reevaluated" his previous trial for the termination of Ortega, questioning if there couldn't be some truth behind that old accusation, even though Charybdis had confessed, and he'd been exonerated. Perhaps the man had lied in his eagerness to kill Baltar . . . "Just back off," Starbuck growled. He could tolerate just about anything or anyone. Except Reese. The security guard crossed his arms. "You're a security risk, didn't you know?" His words just oozed smugness. "We're supposed to watch you." Starbuck smashed his glass against the table. The shattering crash caught everyone's attention, and all eyes focused on the two. The lieutenant was oblivious to the momentary silence. "Well, watch this!" He swung and connected squarely with the guard's jaw. Reese stumbled, tripped, and toppled to the floor. Starbuck glared down at him. "Stay out of my face!" He turned and marched towards the exit, only vaguely aware of the surprised murmurings from the crowd and the incredulous stares. He had almost reached the lounge doors when a hand grabbed his arm. "You're under arrest!" Starbuck wrenched his arm free and swung around, fully intending to fight. But Reese took a step back and pulled out his laser. "Don't. Move," the guard said. He was panting and blood was streaming from his nose. Starbuck started to take a step forward, but a strong grip on his shoulders from behind stopped him. "You've caused enough trouble here," said a different voice. "Let's go." He took a deep breath and turned around, grinning slightly as he sensed Reese's annoyance at the intrusion, even if it was his own partner. Seargent Castor stood a head taller than the lieutenant and was watching him with a bemused expression. "Fine," Starbuck said. "I'll go." Castor stood squarely in front of him but didn't move. "You'll need to come with us back to the Galactica, I'm afraid," he said quietly. "Striking a security guard is still not permitted under Fleet regulations." From Reese, those words would have been sarcastic, but as he gazed into Castor's face, he sensed something else. Regret, maybe? Whatever it was, Starbuck felt the adrenaline subside, to be replaced by a weariness and a headache from the ambrosa. And the sudden realization that he might have just pushed things too far. "Fine," he mumbled and let Castor guide him towards the docking lounge. ***** "What were you thinking?" Adama's quiet but stern voice did more to chastise Starbuck than if he had yelled at him. The lieutenant sat in the commander's office staring at the floor. Adama continued. "I have no choice but to confine you to the brig until your tribunal in three days." "But -" Starbuck looked up, the full implication of the commander's words hitting him. Three days locked up when he was supposed to be making connections on the Rising Star. Adam cut him off. "It is by the good grace of the Lords of Kobol," he said curtly, his anger still quite evident, "that this situation may actually work in our favor." Starbuck gave him a puzzled look. "I have met with Chief Opposer Solon, and he is now involved in our plan." Adama paused, studying his warrior as the anger receded, to be replaced by concern. "I know that this isn't easy, for any of us, but most especially you. Officially, you will have to be confined to the brig until the day of the tribunal. Chief Opposer Solon will meet with you on that day and offer you the following terms for a plea of guilty to all charges - which, by the way, now include felonious assault." "I -" Starbuck stopped, too ashamed to say anything and knowing that his actions were indefensible. "In addition to your dishonorable discharge and ban from the Colonial Service, you will receive a two-yahren probated sentence, to be served through community service assignments at the discretion of the Council, under the supervision of Council security. It will carry the stipulation that any further involvement in illegal activities will result in an immediate transfer to the Prison Barge." Starbuck finally looked up and found, to his amazement, that the commander was actually smiling, if only slightly. "Your little scene is already the highlight of the IFB. If anyone anywhere had any doubts - for whatever reason - I think you sufficiently dispelled them. Although I regret having to do it, your brief stint in the brig might be just what it takes to make you appealing enough to the true criminals." Starbuck let out a deep sigh and grinned in return. "Ah, well, it'll give me a three-day 'vacation' and the IFB more fuel to concoct even sleezier stories." TBC . . .