Chapter 40
"State your name and occupation for the record, please."
"Tyler Zibetti. I'm a computer programmer, specializing in high end security systems. My company contracts with the federal government to handle security in most of the major government facilities in D.C."
Kurt fidgeted in his seat. He'd been sitting for way too long . . . he wanted to hang from the ceiling for a while, or at least stand up. He was losing feeling in his tail.
Royal handed Zibetti the little black flash drive. "Tyler, what can you tell us about this?"
"We received it from your office about two weeks ago. The drive contains copies of video footage taken by a specialized network of security cameras installed at the Xavier Institute in Bayville, New York. It also contained some college student's homework assignments, but I don't think they have much bearing on this case."
Kurt grinned, and saw several other people do likewise. Gambit's leftover homework . . . it was such a comforting, homey thought.
"Can you be sure that the cameras were in the Xavier Institute?"
"Absolutely certain. These files have five separate levels of encrypted supplementary data overlying every frame of video, specifying what machine it was recorded by, when the record was made, where the machine was . . . everything you could possibly want to know. There are GPS coordinates embedded in the data. This was unquestionably recorded in the Xavier Institute on March 3rd between two and five a.m."
"Could the images have been tampered with or corrupted?"
"Not without leaving a mark. Two of the encrypted overlays are specifically to prevent tampering, and not a byte is out of place. The video was cropped from a longer recording, viewed four times, and copied twice before it reached me, but it was not altered."
"And that's your professional opinion?"
"Yes, it is."
"Would you be so good as to show the court these recordings?"
Zibetti reached down and pulled up a laptop computer he'd brought to the stand with him. He plugged in the drive while the bailiff dimmed the court room's lights and turned on the projector installed in the ceiling. An image of Zibetti's desktop appeared on the plain white wall across from the jury box. Then it was replaced with a full-screen presentation of the video viewer.
"This is the footage taken by a camera installed over the door of the library," Zibetti explained before hitting play.
The library looked normal, beyond the green tinge to everything that came from the camera's low-light mode. The normalness only lasted a few seconds; the image shuddered as explosives detonated against the exterior wall. Books toppled silently off the shelves and onto the floor, and the wallpaper between the windows bowed in and split as the steel DEFCON barrier gave.
Logan was the first on the scene. The explosion seemed to have thrown him off his feet, because he was scrambling back onto them as he came into the frame. There was a blink of muzzle flash in the hole in the wall; Logan recoiled, but didn't fall. He met the approaching soldier in the middle of the room, and there was a scuffle. The soldier's firearm landed on the carpet in pieces. The soldier himself followed a second later, knocked unconscious by a single solid blow from Logan's adamantium-reinforced scull.
Four more soldiers were inside the room by that time, but Colossus barreled two of them over on his way to block the bottleneck at the smoking hole in the wall. A tight beam of blinding light indicated that Scott was also in on the mess now. Gambit was last to show himself—he slunk along the edge of the room, probably invisible to everyone but the camera, before striking with his quarterstaff at the back of a soldier who was sheltered behind a sofa and taking aim at Scott.
It was perfectly clear when Logan saw which way the wind was blowing. He even hesitated a second to take in the mess around him, to see how outnumbered and outgunned they were. Then he stalked straight up to the nearest marine, his shoulder recoiling from a bullet like most people reacted to a horsefly bite, and stabbed both fists straight through the other man's torso. The points of his claws were clearly visible protruding from the marine's back.
Kurt felt vomit rise up in the back of his throat. He'd never seen Logan kill anybody. He clamped a hand across his mouth and around his jaw.
The video only lasted about seven minutes. It ended when Gambit left the room and, if Kurt remembered right, blew up the main staircase. The camera's view jerked sideways, dropped onto the floor, and exploded into static.
Zibetti closed the viewer window and pulled up another. "This is the feed from a camera placed in one of the corridors of the basement level."
The brightly lit hallway was blank and uninteresting until Jean ran down it as fast as her long legs could carry her. A few seconds later, Bobby followed her. He stopped in full view of the camera to count off the other underclassmen as they ran by. When Jamie passed him, he turned and ran towards the bottom of the frame.
It happened all in a second: a sliver of a black form appeared around the far corner, Bobby recoiled backward, and suddenly he was lying on his stomach with dingy dark ooze spreading out from him in every direction. There was a unified flinching gasp from all two-hundred-some people in the courtroom. Kurt saw movement out of the corner of his eye: a couple of reporters were slipping out into the hall where they could make phone calls.
Kurt winced and fidgeted, unable to take his eyes off the screen as he watched Bobby belly-crawl agonizingly slowly through the pool of blood. He should have been there to help. He had been sitting in the Blackbird, freaking out and not doing anything useful. Why hadn't he teleported back when he heard Bobby scream? He could have had him out of there by now, if he'd known what was going on . . . if he'd known exactly where to 'port . . .
But he hadn't known. This isn't your fault, he insisted to himself. You did the best you could with what you knew. You did the job you were given. And Bobby is okay now.
The sniper was watching from his cover behind the wall, not shooting, not advancing . . . just waiting, rifle at the ready. It was blatantly obvious to everyone in the courtroom that this was not an arrest.
The rescue happened very fast. Jamie charged into the frame, one copy after another rushing towards the sniper. The rifle discharged over and over again, and with every blink of muzzle flash another Jamie disappeared. In the midst of all the bustle, it was easy to miss Sam shooting in, grabbing Bobby around the chest, and shooting back out. Just as suddenly, all the Jamies were gone.
The sniper, confused, leaned out a bit to get a clearer view down the passage. When he was sure it was empty, he rose from his crouch and ran down the hall after them. Zibetti ended the feed.
"There are recordings from four more cameras," he added, "But they didn't catch anything much. Just soldiers sweeping the house once the mutants were gone."
"Thank you very much, Mr. Zibetti." Royal's voice was solemn, echoing the mood of the shocked courtroom. "I don't have any more questions for you."
Nervous murmuring began to ripple through the courtroom as Royal took his seat again. Kurt saw Senator Creed share a significant look with his assistant.
DA Braddock stood up, took a moment to collect her thoughts, then asked, "Mr. Zibetti, how many mutants do you know?"
"Personally, none. Well, maybe. But no one I know has ever admitted to being a mutant."
"Does your company employ any mutants?"
"Not that I know of."
"So you've never worked with a mutant in the context of security programming?"
"No."
"Have you ever met the mutant known as Forge?"
"Never have."
"We've established that the digital video footage you examined was recorded on equipment installed by Forge, and recorded with programming he created?"
"Modified, from what I could tell."
"Modified how?"
"To make it tamper-proof. A lot of systems claim that their recordings are tamper-proof, but this is the first I've ever seen that lives up to that name. If the kid's ever allowed back into the United States, I'd like to give him a job."
A few people laughed.
"So the modifications placed in this recording system outstrip anything that you've seen done by a human designer?"
"Yes."
"With such an advanced level of programming skill (as Forge's work seems to indicate he has), is it possible that he could have modified these recordings and then erased the record of his having done so?"
"I don't see how."
"But you don't see how he could have programmed a system that good in the first place, do you?"
Zibetti admitted that he didn't.
"Can you guarantee that it is impossible for someone with mutant abilities to have modified this recording?"
"I'd be extremely surprised."
"Can you guarantee it?"
"Well, um . . . as I said, I've never worked with mutants. I don't have any idea what the limits of this kid's abilities might be."
"So he could have modified the record in such a way that you would never notice the tampering?"
"I doubt . . ."
"Is it possible, Mr. Zibetti?"
"I guess so. We still know so little about human mutation, and I'm no geneticist. At this point, pretty much anything's possible."
"Thank you. No further questions."
Kurt slouched in his seat. "If ve lose zis because ze whole vorld is too scared of Forge . . ."
"The irony would certainly be noteworthy," Magneto observed dryly.
There was a party on Avalon that night. As the news endlessly recapped Scott's testimony and the reports of the video footage, the exiled mutants busted open bottles of soda and sparkling cider to toast Cyclops, the U.S. justice system, and the chance that they would all be going home in a few days. Forge, to his bewilderment and pleasure, was alternately being hailed as a genius and teased for being the most super-powered reality-bending mutant in America.
Kurt, despite being exhausted from a long day of sitting in court riding an emotional roller coaster, joined in the festivities with gusto. While he and Pietro gave a play-by-play of the day's developments to the general partying population, Betsy and Magneto disappeared into the conference room with Charles and Hank to do much the same thing, minus drinks. Sabertooth just disappeared, period.
"I'm telling you guys, you should have seen the look on Creed's face when the Ice-kid got shot," Pietro was saying. "Deer in headlights. Like this." He let his jaw go slack and bugged out his eyes. The result looked nothing like Senator Creed, but was entertaining nonetheless.
"And here's to Bobby for getting shot on camera!" Roberto raised his glass of Diet Coke to an answering chorus of "Cheers!" from the people around him. Bobby indulged in a triumphant fist-pump to acknowledge the tribute.
"And here's to Gambit, for stealing all the drinks!" Tabitha chimed in. Gambit, hanging back from the main body of the party, bowed his head in gracious acknowledgement.
"And here's to baby Michael!" Kitty cheered. Karen, sitting in the only chair in the room, grinned. Michael was too focused on nursing to care that his health was being toasted.
"To Michael, and to all the new mutants that come after him," Carol agreed, raising her glass and taking a swig. "And here's to going home."
"To going home!" the enthused chorus echoed back at her.
The noise was riotous, and the mood was effervescent. Gambit watched the party from the sidelines, but didn't join in. He wasn't ready to celebrate just yet. Instead, he slipped off to the conference room, where the meeting was just breaking up.
"Y'all better hurry if y'want a drink 'a somet'in," he informed the adults as they emerged from their conference. "We brought up 'bout six cases a'stuff, but de way t'ings is going down dere, we might be out by mornin'."
"Warning appreciated," Hank told him. Gambit watched as he, Professor Xavier, and Betsy disappeared down the corridor. Magneto didn't follow them.
"Closing arguments tomorrow?" Gambit asked without preamble.
"Yes."
"So we could have a verdict by lunchtime."
"Very likely. I doubt the jury's deliberations will take long one way or the other."
"Den I'm comin' down' wid y'."
Magneto raised one polite eyebrow. "Indeed."
"Just in case," Gambit added.
Just in case of what, he wasn't sure. Days of thinking and pacing and thinking some more hadn't brought him any clearer an idea of what he was going to do. But staying on Avalon would mean that he couldn't do anything. It would be a decision. Planetside, he could at least delay his choice a few more hours.
"Very well," Magneto told him. "Will you require pickup as well?"
Gambit shook his head. "Quoi qu'il arrive, I ain't never comin' back here again."
Rogue.
Yes, sir?
Are you well?
Yeah, Ah'm okay.
I need you to do something for me.
Yeah?
I need you to go out to Calverton and stand guard over Senator Creed's home.
What? Why? No!
Please, Rogue.
Ah don't WANT to. He could hear the whimper in her mental voice; she sounded sixteen again.
I know that you don't. I'm not feeling too charitable towards him, either. But he is a human, and we protect humans.
That thing ain't no human.
His life may be in danger. If the jury rules against Scott, Magneto will want him dead.
Finally, somethin' he and Ah agree on.
I know that it's a lot to ask of you, Rogue. I wouldn't give you this task if I could think of a way around it, but everyone else is effectively trapped here on Avalon. They cannot leave without Magneto's assistance. Beyond that, there's the problem of what you may be up against. Most of Magneto's known associates are up here, but we never did find Pyro.
Ain't he Australian? He's probably in Australia.
I can't guarantee that. And no one on the team is as well-equipped to deal with Pyro as you are.
Rogue hesitated. Don't make me do this, Professor. Ah HATE Creed . . . Ah want him tuh DIE . . . he stole mah whole life from me. Please don't make me do it.
Hush, Rogue. It's all right. Of course I'm not going to make you do anything. We'll think of some other way.
No, Rogue responded. Charles heard a catch in her voice that was as close as he'd ever seen her come to crying. His chest ached in response. No. Ah'll do it.
Are you sure?
Ah'm an X-Man. Ah'll do it.
Thank you. I'm sending you the location; can you see it?
Yeah, Ah see it. Man, Ah don't wanna go upstate.
Charles smiled; he could hear the change in her voice. Her whimper of genuine pain had faded, replaced with the familiar whine of a belligerent teenager. I appreciate this more than I can say.
You'd better. When we get home, Ah want a car.
A car in addition to your ability to fly?
Uh-huh. A nice one.
Well, we'll talk about it.
Quoi qu'il arrive: Whatever happens.