Max Collins - Skin Game

“I wanted you to have a nice view,” she said. “But when I turn on the lamp, we won’t be able to see outside.”

“But your snipers will be able to see their target,” Clemente said, “just fine.”

“Then maybe we won’t turn on the lamp,” she said. “Doesn’t bother me none — I have pretty good night vision.”

Which of course was an understatement.

“Cozy is fine by me,” Clemente said.

Max walked around the desk, and waved for the detective to take the seat across from her.

“You want that coffee I promised you?”

“Kind of late for me,” he said. “I may want to get back to sleep someday.”

“Whatever — but we may be here awhile.”

He considered, said, “Make mine black.”

She poured for them both. She had hers black as well.

Clemente sipped his coffee, and his expression had mild surprise in it. “Hey — this is good.”

“We’re multitalented. I’m sure the outside world would rather we drank blood or crushed insect guts. But we’re people, Detective.”

He drank some more. “Yes — people who are in a lot of trouble.”

“You might be surprised how long we can hold out,” she said. “We’ve anticipated this kind of situation for months. We’ve stockpiled food and water. We’re well-armed.”

This wasn’t exactly true, though with Logan’s tunnel supply line, they could indeed hold out for a good long time.

“Anyway,” she said, “you’re the one that’s risking his health inside Terminal City. Ordinaries can’t stay in here long — this is no-man’s-land, a real biochemical bad trip for everybody but the transgenics.”

“Are you suggesting that I tell the general who called me — it was a general, not the police chief, Max — and say all we have to do is back our troops out, and let you... people inhabit Terminal City?”

“We aren’t negotiating yet... but why not? What good does Terminal City do anyone but transgenics?”

“Max, this is not going to end well.”

She shook her head. “I don’t see it that way. Call me an optimist, but I think this can turn out for the best.”

He looked at her as if she were insane. “How in hell?”

“That’s what you and I are going to hammer out.”

Clemente patted the air in front of him. “Whoa, whoa. You think the two of us are just going to talk this thing out?”

Max sipped her coffee. “Why not?”

“We can’t—”

“We already did it once — at Jam Pony.”

He shook his head. “We didn’t keep the peace there and we sure as hell didn’t talk it out. You jumped White and his goons and kicked their asses.”

She smiled.

“If one little victory makes you smile, fine,” he said. “But us talking... Max, I can’t negotiate this. And nobody else wants to.”

“You have to reason with them, Detective. Encourage your superiors to sit down and talk with us.”

He looked into her eyes in the darkness. “You have two options, Max. One is put your hands in the air and walk en masse through that gate into custody, and hope that in the light of day, given due process and a full-scale public hearing, you’ll get a fair shake.”

“I can’t wait till I hear the other option.”

“It’s a lot worse. Last time, we were lucky — only one person died. There’s a hell of a lot more at stake now, and a lot more emotion on the outside. The media has people all stirred up, crying out, ‘Kill the monsters.’ Most of the military is up for just storming the place and painting the walls red.”

She didn’t break eye contact and her voice remained matter-of-fact. “You know that trying that would be a big mistake.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “Do I?”

“You have the numbers, but don’t forget — this is what we were trained for. Frankly, Detective, we’d wax your ass, then we’d disappear into the night, and you’d never know where we would hit next.”

His expression was grave enough to indicate he’d taken that as the promise, not threat, that it was; but he said, “There’s a far superior force mustering on the other side of that fence.”

Shaking her head, she said, “They’re not superior, Detective — there’s just more of them.”

And now, despite it all, he smiled. “You are one cocky little shit.”

“I’m glad you didn’t call me a ‘cocky little bitch,’ ” she said, “’cause I woulda hated having to kick your ass.”

His smile disappeared, but she chuckled and patted his arm. “Look, Detective Clemente—”

“If I’m going to call you Max, you call me Ramon.”

“All right, Ramon. Look... I’ve been running since I was nine. Most of the residents of Terminal City will tell you the same or something very similar. I’m tired of running, we’re all tired of it. We didn’t bring this on — they made us, then they tried to kill us. All we did was defend ourselves. In that situation, anyone would have done as much.”

“Most people aren’t genetically engineered killing machines.”

“From what I’ve seen, Ramon, the so-called ordinaries may not be genetically engineered, but they kill way more often... and for far less reason than the transgenics ever have.”

“I can’t argue that. But those ordinaries you speak of aren’t going to be able to identify with you, Max — some of you have monstrous appearances, and all of you have superhuman abilities that make you dangerous.”

“We have to make them understand that we have hearts and minds and maybe even souls, too.”

“So, how do we do that?”

She shook her head. “We’re still trying to figure that out. I’m hoping we can get the word out, stop some of this media garbage that—”

“Wait, wait. Max, a battalion is waiting outside your door, and you want to stave that off with a PR campaign?”

“Ramon — I’m looking for answers. I need you to look for some, and seek allies within your ranks, cooler heads that don’t have a hidden agenda served by the blood of my people.”

He sighed. “Fair enough.”

“It’s going to take some time, and you’ve got to do anything you can to hold back the troops — keep them from storming our castle for a while... okay?”

“And if I try to accomplish that, do I have your word that the transgenics will stay inside?”

She gave him a decisive nod. “Those that are in will stay in. The others, the ones that are still out there,” she said, and gestured toward the other side of the fence, “them I can’t control.”

“All right,” Clemente said, and sighed. “How long do you need me to stall this thing?”

“I told you. We’ve got supplies for the next year — how ’bout you guys?”

“Max,” the detective said forcefully, trying to brush aside her glibness. “Just how the hell long do you think I can keep them from attacking?”

“Ramon,” she said, “this is my first transgenics-versus-the-United-States-military siege. I’m making this up as I go.”

Clemente looked as if he were trying to decide whether to laugh or cry. Before he made any decision, his cell phone rang. He looked at her, and she said nothing. It went off again and he pulled it out and checked the caller ID.

“Fed number,” he said.

“Take it — see what they want.”

He touched a button and held the phone to his ear. “Clemente,” he said, but the identification sounded more like an angry question.

Max watched the detective’s face as the caller spoke. Ramon Clemente did not look happy.

“Yeah, I remember you,” he told the phone, his disgust apparent. “Do you have any idea what fucking time it is?”

Clemente listened some more, his face shifting from pissed to serious.

Then the cop asked, “Where and when?”