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The betting pool, like all poorly kept secrets on the Vat, started because of Olesya Ilyukhina.
You see, when saving the world was an everyday occurrence and the work was rather menial, people tended to get bored even in the most high-stakes situations. Especially people like Ilyukhina, who seemed to have no brakes whatsoever.
Which was why on a Thursday, as everyone in the Deck 5 Cafeteria took their turn to fill out the Thursday spreadsheet with whatever extras they were craving for next week, Ilyukhina climbed onto a table and clapped.
Every head turned towards her. Every face lit up. They knew that if Ilyukhina had something to say, they were in for some brilliant entertainment.
“Everyone,” she announced, her voice somehow carrying through the crowded room, “I have decided we must bring order to the chaos.” The dramatic pause was definitely intentional. “We must predict the future,” she said, and then motioned for someone behind her.
Everyone stared as Dubois rolled out a whiteboard.
“I present to you,” Ilyukhina said somehow even more dramatically, Dubois slowly flipping the board to reveal something written on it, “The Stratt’s Vat Betting Pool!”
Everyone erupted in cheers.
Ilyukhina’s grin was wider than a well-fed cat’s as she motioned for the people to come closer. Everyone abandoned the line to the Thursday Spreadsheets. “Our first official event at the Stratt’s Vat Betting Pool,” Ilyukhina announced, not even bothering to climb down from the table, her grin only getting wider, “Is the bet on When Will Stratt Lose It.”
Another round of cheers, because the possibilities were infinite and probabilities were low and everyone could have a chance to weigh in.
“Currencies accepted as bets are,” Ilyukhina continued, as Dubois used magnets to pin two pieces of paper to the board, “Money,” she made a pause, letting it sink in, “Cigarettes,” another pause, everyone nodding, “Candy,” another, very long pause, “Information.”
That caught everyone’s attention. All the previously mentioned items were valuable in and of themselves. Information had never been used as currency on the Vat before.
Ilyukhina held the pause for a few seconds more, before she finally said, “Information that will lead to profitable Bets will be evaluated by my committee based on the criteria of novelty, verifiability,” they could all heard Ilyukhina curse to herself at the word, “and gossip potential. If your information is found to be acceptable, you will be entitled to 10% of overall winnings shall your bet win.”
That caused another round of cheer. Yes, the people loved gossip. The only thing they loved more was winning. And combining the two was the infallible recipe for success.
“Now, everyone, please welcome my Betting Committee! Martin Dubois, the man I’m going to die in space with!” She clapped her hands and Martin climbed onto the table with her. “Annie Shapiro, the woman I’m going to die in space with shall Martin die on Earth!” Everyone laughed as she clapped and Annie climbed onto the table, saluting the crowd. “And, of course, “Ryland Grace, our Director’s favorite lap dog and the man who will die on Earth while waiting for us to send back whatever brilliant solution we find in space!”
Ryland fumbled climbing onto the table, his salute to the crowd far less confident. At least he didn’t pull a Jennifer Lawrence, though that was probably only thanks to the fact he wasn’t wearing a ball gown.
From then on, all four of them acquired a second job. While not saving the world, they were keeping track of the bets, evaluating the information people tried to bet — most of it was common knowledge, but there were juicy things too — and, most importantly, ensuring the Betting Pool was kept a secret from Stratt.
It wasn’t that she would be mad or anything. It was more of a habit, really. Stratt had enough to worry about as it was, and betting on the ship wasn’t exactly allowed. So, to keep the peace intact and the operation running, it was agreed Stratt didn’t have to know.
So far, by the end of the week after the announcement, there was just over 300 dollars’ worth of bets in many different currencies — Shapiro was handling the conversion, though the debate as to which currency to use as the baseline had been long (the three Americans won over one very disappointed Ilyukhina) — over a kilogram (Ilyukhina won the measurement units debate) of candy and over a hundred cigarettes.
The options on the When Will Stratt Lose It bet were a generous variety. Some bet on certain Presidents and Prime Ministers, some bet on certain people on the Vat — Ilyukhina was the most often mentioned name, Grace a close second — and some even bet on the coffee running out.
“This is weird,” Ryland said as they sat on the floor of Dubois’s cabin, “Did we really need to kick this off with a Stratt bet?”
Ilyukhina rolled her eyes, “Come on, Lover Boy,” she threw more betting slips towards him, “Stratt will never know, and it’s good for.. what do you Americans call it.. team spirit!”
“Yeah, and it’s not like we’re being assholes about it,” Shapiro added, “We’re concerned for her mental health, you know. The woman’s been running on fumes for the past three years. She’s going to lose it at some point. And maybe we’ll donate some of the candy to her.”
Ryland shook his head, “The cigarettes are a better bet. She’s not a candy person.”
Ilyukhina’s grin got wider, “Yeah, we trust you on everything Stratt, Lover Boy. Now get sorting or we will never be done with this.”
Ryland rolled his eyes but picked up the stack of slips and started sorting. Cigarettes, Candy, Money, Information.
The information bets were mostly evaluated by them all as a team, though Ilyukhina and Shapiro had the final say. Ilyukhina’s argument was rooted in something to do with lack of gossip experience. Ryland hadn’t fought it, and neither had Dubois. It wasn’t like the argument was unsound, in the end.
By the one month mark, there was more than one bet going on simultaneously.
Most were localized and contained to a couple days’ time before the result was evident and the winners were awarded their prizes in accordance with the system the Betting Committee had developed, which included people getting a combination of Money, Candy and Cigarettes roughly equivalent to what they had bet and multiplied by the coefficient indicating the probability of their win, which was rather arbitrary but unquestioned.
Of course, a percentage always went to the Committee. And a smaller percentage was always, without question, tucked away into a secret stash.
The Stratt Stash was born out of a conversation the four of them had one night, while working the slips, about the probabilities of Stratt eventually finding out. It had been decided they would need a safety net fund that might have their sins forgiven.
The Stratt Stash, expectedly, did not include much candy. It mostly consisted of cigarettes, and some vodka they had exchanged cigarettes and candy from the stash for.
The bet currently running them the most profit was Who Will Lokken Fuck Next. There was a total of a hundred and forty seven bets — the number only ever beaten by the Stratt bet — and over two thousand dollars’ worth of money and merchandise.
It was closed on a Wednesday when Dr. Margaret Elliot presented proof it had been her, earning 7 people their generous winnings.
Ryland had to leave the ship — together with Stratt — for some sort of conference followed by a gala dinner on Saturday at 1400 hours.
He was in the cafeteria at 1300 with Olesya, Martin and Annie, the board out in the open as it was officially the Saturday betting hour. Calculated to have the lowest probability of Stratt coming out for coffee.
Even the best calculations had flaws.
When they heard the familiar footsteps, everyone jolted up. Dubois attempted to block her view of the board with his rather broad back. Shapiro had a rather panicked look on her face. Ryland was frozen. Hell, even Ilyukhina’s grin was gone.
Stratt grabbed two coffees from the machine, her phone pressed up between her ear and her shoulder. And then she walked towards them.
This was it. They should have kept the Stratt Stash on hand any time they put the board up. Stupid, stupid idiots.
Stratt placed her two coffees on their table, saying something into the phone as her right hand reached into the back pocket of her jeans.
She pulled out a wad of cash, counted — shit — at the very least 400 dollars and then placed the money on the table. “Put me down for Gala Dinner as the cause of my mental breakdown,” she said, her left hand pressing mute on her phone call, and then she had her coffees back in her hands and was walking away like nothing happened at all.
She stopped midway to the door, turning around, “I expect that vodka from your stash on my desk by the time I return tonight. You can keep the cigarettes,” then she made eye-contact with Ryland, “Dr. Grace, I expect you to meet me at the Flight Deck in,” she looked at her watch, “fifty minutes. Do not be late.”
Everyone stared, dumbfounded, as Stratt walked away, talking on her phone in a language none of them could really place despite 3 years of arguably the most international exposure anyone in the world ever got.
Within the following 4 hours the remaining cigarettes were exchanged for more vodka. It took Olesya, Dubois and Shapiro three trips to and from Stratt’s office to deposit all of the liquor on her desk.
The idea of returning the money was brought up, though it was quickly decided she would take it as an insult.
Stratt and Grace returned onto the Vat by 0100 Vat Time.
Everyone was, of course, waiting in the cafeteria.
When Grace walked in, the three of them stood. The energy almost matched that one time they heard about the possibility of the American President coming on board and half the crew requested medical leave.
“Nothing happened,” Grace said, a chuckle on his lips, “Just like I told you.”
Ilyukhina rolled her eyes immediately. “Yeah, sure, we totally believe you.”
“No, I mean it,” he said, sitting down at the table, sipping from Ilyukhina’s cup of coffee, “It was perfectly normal, she didn’t mention anything. She threatened a few senators and prime ministers, but that’s par for the course.”
Shapiro leaned back in the booth as she sat down, “So we’re in the clear?”
“Yeah,” Ryland said, “I think so.”
The nervousness slowly dissipated as Ryland recounted the incredibly satisfying tale of Stratt dressing down the American President.
The bets continued on.
The rumors of Stratt knowing spread, and so did those of her betting on herself. Eventually someone from Security pulled the footage from the cafeteria and spilled exactly what she bet on. People started betting the same. They had to ban it, at one point.
Stratt seemed rather calm, for once. It was probably the vodka supply making her feel secure she wouldn’t be running out anytime soon. Or maybe she was just putting more in her coffee. Either way, she seemed more grounded.
Maybe it was spite. Maybe she didn’t want any of them to be right.
That would fit according to Dubois and wouldn’t according to Ryland.
Ilyukhina was getting candy, cigarettes and entertainment and didn’t give a shit who was right or wrong.
No one ever found out what it was that Made Eva Stratt Lose It. No one ever found out it was their very own Ryland Grace’s voice pleading with her for his life. No one ever found out it was her desperate desire to grant his wish, and her inability to do so.