Chapter 30

Rogue stared morosely into her third cup of coffee. Kurt was working on his second enormous reuben. Because sleeping schedules on Avalon were anything but straightforward, Kurt had slept through part of the afternoon and was now fresh as a daisy, while Rogue had been traveling all day and was exhausted. She took another mouthful of coffee.

She'd told Kurt everything . . . about Gambit and their fight, about her detour to New Orleans, everything that Bobby had told her about Senator Creed. Kurt, in turn, had brought her up to speed on Kitty's adventures with the US Armed Forces. He'd been sure to place special emphasis on Amanda's heroic role in the whole mess, and described her hollering in Magneto's face with no small degree of obvious satisfaction.

"I asked Gambit to vatch out for her," he mused, wiping Reuben sauce off his chin.

"Don't worry," Rogue assured him. "If he promised, he'll do it or die trying. He don't make promises unless he dang well intends to keep 'em. She's fine."

"I know." Kurt put down the sandwich, which was odd, because Kurt rarely put down food he was in the midst of eating. "But . . . vhat if Scott's trial fails? Vhat if Magneto starts his war? Vhat vill he do zen?"

"Ah dunno." Rogue felt the coffee mug crack in her hand; she let go of it a second too late. Coffee leaked from the compromised porcelain onto the table. She hurriedly swallowed the last mouthful left in the bottom of the cup. "Ah dunno what he'll do. And that freaks me out. It really, really scares me tuh death. Ah'm inside him . . . not even just inside his mind or his thoughts, but his heart . . . at least ten times a day. Ah know everythin' he feels. But if he doesn't know what he's gonna do, how can Ah? He's so angry about the attack on the house . . . it's the kind of anger that burns, so you'll do anythin' to make it stop. He might do anythin', Kurt."

"Anything except break a promise. An' he promised t'be an X-Man."

"Only for as long as he wants t'be. He's got a careful, detailed contract with the prof. He can quit whenever he wants."

"He wouldn't switch sides an' leave you behind, though."

"He would if he thought Ah was gonna give in an' come with him eventually."

"But he can't sink zat. He reads your heart just like you read his, right?"

"Yeah, but . . ." Rogue trailed off, then snarled her frustration and let her head fall back against the vinyl padding of the booth bench. "Ah wish Ah was a lot surer of mahself than Ah am right now. Ah'm just as angry as he is in a lotta ways. If Ah had that scumbag Creed here right now, Ah'd probably rip off his head and kick it intuh orbit."

Kurt flinched, an expression of personal hurt projecting on his holographic face. "Rogue, haven't you sought about Senator Creed? Who he is? Vhat Sabertooth said? If Mystique was his mom . . . he's our brother."

"Your brother," Rogue snapped. "Ah'm only adopted into this freak-show family." As soon as she'd said it, she wished she'd held her tongue, but it was too late to take it back now. "And what is it with you and families anyway? You got parents, you got a last name, you got a girlfriend who'll follow you intuh Hell, what else do you want? But if Creed gets his way, Ah'm gonna have nothin'. He already took away the house, and school, and safety . . . Scott's gone, Logan's who-knows-where, the Professor's been muzzled lahk a dog, Remy's slippin' away from me. The team's fallin' apart, Kurt. Ah'm even losin' you now."

Kurt reached across the table and grabbed her hand. She could feel his three thick, strong fingers pressing through her glove. Misfits, both of them, with hands that had to be hidden like shameful secrets. "You vill never lose me. Even if ze X-Men do fall apart. You vill always have me."

Rogue smiled ruefully. "Even if Ah do kill Creed?"

"You von't."

"How do you know?"

"Faith."

Kurt let her go and pushed his plate away. "Come on. Let's find someplace to get some sleep. You really need it."

"Yeah," Rogue admitted. "Ah really do."

As messed up as everything was right now, as much as he wanted to be in his own home and in his own bed, Gambit had to admit that it felt good to be off the leash.

The data center in Austin was quiet and calm. Every now and then a night guard would swing by, but they weren't even carrying guns and didn't have any motivation to check above the foam ceiling tiles, where Gambit soundlessly disappeared every time he heard footsteps. This was good, old-fashioned fun, the kind he never got to indulge in back at the Institute. Professor Xavier had very decided ideas about the law, which Gambit put up with because that was the price of his membership in the X-Men. But oh, did it feel good to get out for a while, to deprogram a security system, dodge a guard, pick a lock. It gave his restless mind something to think about besides the problem of Rogue . . . the prize he couldn't steal, the lock he couldn't open.

Ace of Spades,

I miss you.

Queen of Hearts

How did that girl make him so crazy with three words and a couple of playing cards?

The note was in one of the many pockets of his coat; he didn't trust Magneto enough to leave it hidden somewhere in Avalon. Even as he combed through the workstations, looking for someone who'd left their computer password written on a Post-It, the back of his mind was going through one idea after another of how to respond. She hadn't said I'm sorry, or I was wrong, or Let's talk, or Love you, too. She hadn't given up an inch of ground. But she'd reached out. That was something.

The password was located in due course. He booted up the computer, tossing his coat over the screen and his head to hide the light. Every workplace had protocols, most of which were boring enough that people regularly forgot them and had to be reminded by mass e-mail.

How convenient that e-mail was searchable these days.

A couple of searches found him what he was looking for. Thank you for all your hard work . . . just like to remind the team that A1 restricted data is not to be saved either on the server or on your individual computers. All encrypted discs must be checked into the main safe by close of business . . .

Gambit cursed. Safes! He'd been anticipating a secure server, so he could pull out a few motherboards and let Forge and the new influx of mutant technophiles get the information off of them. A safe was another problem. Even for master thieves, safe-cracking was a specialized skill, something to be contracted out.

He didn't have a safe-cracker with him. They didn't fit well in pockets.

He could, of course, blow the thing. It was easy, quick, and effective. It was also loud. It would mean a grab-and-go ransack of the safe's contents, then a mad dash out of here, during the course of which he might be shot again. Even if it wasn't a fatal shot, it would still be inconvenient.

"No hurry or anything, Trailer Trash."

Gambit jumped clear up onto the desk, yanking the coat from his head.

Sabertooth was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame and smiling just enough to show off his mutated teeth.

"Jumpy, ain't we?" he observed, letting his tongue snake out to wet his lower lip.

Gambit took two slow breaths to bring down his heart rate. "WHAT de hell is you doin' here in de middle of my job?"

"The boss doesn't want you dying. Beats me why. But he brought me down to watch your back. Told me not to let you know."

"And yet here you stand."

"I got bored."

Gambit took another breath; his heart rate still wasn't down.

Well, if that wasn't just typical of everyone involved. Magneto didn't trust anyone, and hedged every bet. Sabertooth did what he was paid to do, but messed with it enough to remind everyone that he was not under anyone's control, even possibly his own. He'd dealt with both these men for many long, irritating months—he should have seen this coming. He was absolutely off his game.

"So are you done yet?" Sabertooth asked again. "If we get back before they start makin' breakfast, I'm gonna try bustin' open the cabinet where they keep the cooking booze."

Involuntarily, Gambit recoiled in disgust. "You'd drink dat? De stuff in dat cabinet got put dere 'cause it ain't fit to drink!"

Sabertooth shrugged. "It's that or the rubbing alcohol."

Gambit had a healthy respect for quality liquor; this attitude was intolerably offensive, so much so that for a minute his worries about being spied on and having a safe to bust took a back seat. "You is flat-out disgustin'."

"Well, I don't see you buying the first round. In fact, you're not doing anything. I thought you were supposed to be a big-shot criminal now."

Sabertooth hadn't moved from his casual, yet menacing position in the doorway. He seemed comfortable with the prospect of standing there all night, whether Gambit saw fit to do any big-shot thieving or not. Any chance of finishing this job in private was long gone.

But maybe it wasn't all bad. He needed a quiet, non-explosive way to break open a safe . . . and he had in his pocket an unbreakable bladed adamantium staff, and in front of him a lot of raw muscle power. Annoying, but convenient.

He hopped down from the desk and turned to power down the computer. "Tell you what," he proposed. "You lend a little muscle to crackin' open dis safe I gotta deal wid, an' I'll treat y'to a round a'somethin'."

"Make it a bottle."

"Bottle minus de first glass, of which I is most sorely in need," Gambit countered. As he moved the cursor up to close the e-mail program, one additional subject line caught his eye.

Re: Incarcerate Transfer

He clicked it open.

After consulting with the USAF, it has been decided that Mutant M3516529 (Danvers, Carol) will not be transferred to Mutant Registration Division custody. The Air Force is allocating a section of Malmstrom AFB for the custody of mutants on active military duty. Please forward information on active-duty incarcerates to 3439493 .

Gambit grinned. "Jackpot."

He knew Carol Danvers. He didn't like Carol Danvers, but that was due to a unique set of circumstances that weren't really her fault (not his, either, of course), and he knew a windfall when he saw one. He grabbed a pen from a mug on the desk and scribbled Malmstrom on the back of his hand. On second thought, he jotted down the e-mail address as well. They might be able to hack it.

"In your own sweet time," Sabertooth told him.

"Had to stop a sec to grab my girl a present," Gambit told him as he shut off the computer.

Sabertooth snorted contemptuously. "Whipped."

"Mmm," said Gambit, not in agreement, but with the implication that the insult didn't merit a reply. "All done. Let's crack dis box an' git on home."

It wasn't the diamond earrings he'd wanted to bully her into wearing, but it was still a gift, a fitting answer to the photograph she'd sent to him. She protected his ex-wife; he'd protect her mentor. And maybe the exchange of kindnesses would hold them together where words and touch had failed.

Professor Xavier dismissed class.

With the new arrivals, they had a total of nine telepaths on Avalon. The older ones were self-trained, and most of the younger ones weren't trained at all. Telepathy without training led almost inevitably into mental instability or chemical dependence, often both . . . anything to make the voices stop. And so Charles Xavier, in these extreme and bizarre circumstances, on a space station orbiting the planet, had settled in and started doing what he did best. He taught.

"Please remember that class will begin tomorrow at nine precisely, and that we're running on Eastern Daylight Time. Excellent work today, everyone. Thank you."

The students stood up . . . chairs were at a bit of a premium, so most were sitting cross-legged on the floor . . . and offered friendly acknowledgment on their way out of the room.

"Thank you, Mr. Xavier."

"Thank you, sir."

"Thanks."

Betsy was the last to leave. "Do you need me for anything else, Professor?"

"How's your head?" he asked, smiling. He'd press-ganged her into service as a teaching assistant, since Jean still wasn't back to help out.

"Hurting," she admitted, belying the discomfort with a chuckle. "I didn't realize I was so out of practice."

"That's an odd declaration for someone who . . . last time I checked . . . was drilling martial arts for four hours every day."

Betsy laughed. "That's different. That's fun. Given the choice, I'd rather be practicing martial arts than just about anything else. I don't feel the same drive with telepathy. It's useful, but not compelling. At least, not to me." She shrugged. "Sorry."

"Of course you shouldn't be sorry. I'm proud that you have the self-determination to not let yourself be defined by your powers if you don't want to be."

"That's all very well and good, but right now I'm wishing I'd be a little more accepting of my fate. Maybe I wouldn't have such a splitting headache now."

"Go lie down someplace quiet," Professor Xavier told her, smiling. "You'll be fine in an hour or two. And by the end of the week headaches will be a thing of the past."

"From your mouth to God's ears," Betsy invoked. "Good morning."

This last was addressed to Hank, who had just come in.

"Good morning, Betsy," Hank answered cheerfully. He was carrying a thick and rather disorganized sheaf of papers in one hand.

"Paperwork," Betsy observed. "I'm off. If you need me, ask somebody else." She made her exit.

"Is she all right?" Hank asked. He didn't know Betsy well, and her dry sense of humor could be off-putting.

"She's fine. Headache. What do you have?"

"Organization." Hank set the papers down on the workroom table. "Most of it I can't take credit for. Bobby's done the bulk of the data collection, and he and Amanda have been tackling the arrangement of everything. I just wanted to run it all by you and see if you had any thoughts."

He pulled one of the papers out of the stack. "It needs a lot of fine-tuning, but here's the rough schedule. We've set aside blocks of time for classes and training, regular meals, and quiet hours so everyone can get decent sleep if they're inclined to. Everyone has a job . . . or will; there's a lot that still needs to be worked out . . . but students have less work, and the parents with very young children have hardly any, unless they want to. Most anyone who can generate power takes a turn recharging the station's core—"

"You may want to switch a few of these," Charles interjected. "If you group together those with similar abilities, Eric won't have to reconfigure the equipment so often."

"Good point." Hank made a note on the paper. "And beyond that, we've been sorting people by vocation. We've got a good number of educators, so we should be able to have some semblance of normalcy as far as schooling is concerned. One of our new arrivals, praise be, manages a warehouse, so we've asked her to be in charge of supply inventory."

"Excellent."

"I'm thinking about assigning Fred Dukes to her team. I haven't yet seen the box he can't pick up, and it'll do him good to have some responsibility."

"Not to mention to spend some time away from his cohorts."

"True. He's not a bad kid, but those Brotherhood boys bring out the worst in him."

"What have you assigned to the others?"

"I'm not too sure. The only thing I'm certain of is that we're keeping Toad out of the kitchens."

"Excellent idea. Eric might have a better idea of where they'd be useful; he knows them better than we do."

"True."

"Hank, I am genuinely and sincerely impressed. Having a routine, and responsibilities, will go a long way towards returning some sense of normalcy around here."

"True," Hank said again, but his tone was darker. "But is that what we want?"

Professor Xavier sat back in his chair, silently encouraging Hank to continue.

"Have you seen Magneto these last few days? And how the new arrivals are acting around him? They're not afraid of him. He's the merciful benefactor who dropped out of the sky and gave them a refuge from danger. He's even taken to wearing ordinary clothes. He looks like a college professor!"

"You're suggesting that this is a step down from scarlet and purple?"

"I'm suggesting that it could be a problem. Charles, can't you see what he's doing? To borrow a phrase from Gambit . . . he's stacking the deck."

Charles was silent. He didn't want to think it, didn't want to say it, but someone had to and he was, in a strange way, glad that Hank had taken that responsibility.

"What will happen up here if Scott loses his case? We'll have to arm for war . . . our people versus his. And these refugees won't see him as a genocidal terrorist intent on destroying the world as they know it . . . all they see is a reasonable man who tried to settle this by peaceful means and failed. And war on the humans will seem so . . . sensible. So justified. We are going to be grossly outnumbered, and not just by humans. By our own kind, too."

"Humans are our own kind," Professor Xavier corrected gently.

Hank sighed. Charles didn't blame him. A slip of the tongue like that was suddenly so easy . . . and its implications were suddenly so frightening.

"I have faith in Scott," Hank insisted, sounding apologetic. "But we need to plan for all the possibilities."

"I can't."

"I know you have a deal with him, but if all hell breaks lose, there's no way Magneto will be able to hold you to it. We need you, Charles."

"I can't. My good faith is all that's protecting our students right now. If I give any indication that I plan to be involved in the fighting, Eric may dissolve the deal and start his war without waiting for the outcome of Scott's trial." Charles reached out and grasped Hank's large, heavy, hairy hand. "You're perfectly right, my friend. Someone needs to plan for all the possibilities. But that someone cannot be me."

Hank sighed. "I don't suppose that planning could wait until Logan gets back?"

"I wish it could. I'd like to pause the whole situation until Logan gets back."

"Still no word from him or Jean?"

"Nothing." Charles forced a smile. "So until further notice, I'm afraid you and Storm are the ones in charge. Congratulations."

"In charge," Hank echoed dully, then he chuckled. "Charles Xavier. When I met you, I was just a humble grad student. What happened to those days?"

Charles smiled. "You grew up."

"Too soon."

"As is always the case."