Read Drakon for Free Online Page A

essential to everyday life. She had several sets from the warehouse, but they'd be useless—whatever passed for a Security organization here would be watching for them. Some clothes that might be handy. A little more of the currency, but she already had a large bag stuffed with that.
    Thoughtfully she transferred it to a zippered carryall she found in a closet; the original was rather heavily bloodstained. So was the top layer of . . . 100 dollar bills; she discarded those, too.
    "I will need a base. I've got to learn my way around here, and not be conspicuous while I do it. I'll need help."
    A quick inventory of her assets. The currency. Her plasma gun, layer knife, and belt unit, tucked in with the money. Too conspicuous here; evidently the locals didn't carry weapons on the street. One set of walking blacks, one set of underwear, one pair of boots. The transducer in the mastoid bone behind her ear; useless for connection to a nonexistent Web, but it also held the basic memory-store and comp functions linked to her brain. Without that, she would be crippled. Luckily it was quasi-organic, powered from her bloodstream and self-repairing.
    And herself. One four-hundred-sixty-year old Draka female, capable of passing for human if nobody did a scan on her body, capable of a good deal else these humans would have trouble imagining.
    Myself most of all. She went to the window she'd used to gain entrance half an hour ago and bared her teeth at the world.
    Time to go hunting.

    ***
"It's Puerto Rican beer," Jesus Rodriguez explained. "That Anglo stuff, it loses something on its way through the horse's kidneys, patron. "
    Henry grunted and lifted his own Coors. There wasn't all that much noise in the cop bar at this late hour—some, since they were mostly shift workers, after all. A fair haze of cigarette smoke, which made him itch for one himself. He took another swallow of the beer and a handful of salted peanuts. The percentage of smokers in the force was a lot higher than in the general population, just like the share of messy divorces and alkies. It came with spending your life staring up society's anus.
    I really should go home. There ought to be half a pizza in the refrigerator, if it hadn't gotten moldy. His stomach turned slightly. The death stats on divorced men were probably caused by stuff like that; men just had too high a squalor tolerance to live well on their own. What was it Angela had said about him, back in his bachelor days?
    "Men don't live like human beings. You live like bears with furniture."
    "What?"
    "Something my ex-wife said," Henry replied, and repeated it. It was only six months since the papers had come through, but he could joke about it now.
    Jesus shook his head, grinning; but then, he was a newlywed with a kid on the way. Thank God Angela never wanted kids, he thought. Carmaggio had, but he'd never pressed it—something for which he was now profoundly grateful.
    "You should find a good woman," Jesus said.
    "The only women I meet are cops, suspects, relatives of the deceased, or in body bags. Or waiting tables." The waitress came by and collected their empties. "Hey, Myrtle—Jesus says I should meet a good woman. What about it?"

    Myrtle looked at him and started laughing; the chuckles faded across the room as she walked away. They redoubled when she got behind the bar and told her friends . . .
    Thanks, partner, Carmaggio thought sourly.
    "Could be worse. Think of the ones you'd be meeting on the beat, or in Vice." Jesus prodded at the heap of newspapers on the table, covered with dark rings from bottles.
    "How does it feel to be famous?" he said, admiring one shot of himself.
    "If I catch you on Good Morning America, your ass is grass," Carmaggio said. "Plus those vultures will eat your liver. And watch what happens when we don't catch the perp. Even the ordinary civilians will decide we're not heroes anymore."
    "Don't be negative, patron. I still think two of Marley Man's boys got away. If we