For the first time in decades, Joachim wanted a drink.
He sat at the kitchen table in his unit in New D.C., drumming his fingers on the surface with restless energy as he fought the dangerous impulse. He didn’t like having visits from the authorities, and he didn’t like discovering that the Watchful Host knew where he was. He’d never trusted the Republic’s tendency to keep track of all its citizens, and even though he hadn’t really believed that things had changed, it shook him to have his suspicions proven true.
Oh, the commando at his door had been polite and deferential, but Joachim didn’t believe a word of what he’d said. Why would a member of the Watchful Host come to him to find out more about Tupperman? They were all fallen angels and should know more about each other than a mere
