"Revenge is like a margarita: salty, with a twist of lime."
—Leon Jester
"Mr. Calan!" a voice greeted him as he left through the back.
"Yes?" he replied. The man was well dressed, but Calan didn't recognize him. "Do I know you?"
"We have mutual acquaintances," the stranger said. He stepped closer. "Kendra Pacelli and Marta Hernandez."
Calan stiffened at the names as Rob grabbed him. He slammed Calan into the wall, turned him around and jammed his hand onto the sensor. The door opened. Rob shoved him through into the silent office and let the door close behind them.
"You hurt a lot of people, Mr. Calan," Rob said, sounding coldly angry and disappointed.
Calan stood shivering, trying to remember the basic martial arts he'd studied so many years ago in school, as he backed behind the imported cherrywood desk. But his opponent was clearly a master, younger, in better shape and mean. "I did what I thought was right," he tried to explain. "I was sure we would lose and I thought—"
"Horseshit," Rob replied as he approached. "You were looking for credits and trying to hurt Kendra because she wouldn't let you pimp her." The word was a gross insult in the Freehold.
Calan said nothing. Rob stepped forward, holding him against the wall with one hand. He shifted slightly and began.
Calan gulped and turned purple as the first blow paralyzed his diaphragm. He tried to scream as his elbow was shattered, but the pain reinforced his inability to breathe. More blows followed, until he passed out.
He snapped awake from the whiff of an inhaler under his nose and tried to scream, but there was tape across his mouth. He snorted air through his nose, until the inhaler was stuffed against his nostrils again. He gagged, eyes watering, and rolled his head. His entire body was on fire, from toes throbbing from being crushed, to shoulders stabbing in pain from fractured collarbones. His brain somersaulted and he tried to vomit, choking when it couldn't escape, and swallowed as much of the sour, bitter fluid as hadn't burned his lungs into a paroxysm of coughing. He was barely conscious from oxygen deprivation again, and the inhaler was a mixed blessing as it scorched his nostrils.
"My first thought was to leave you alive," Rob said. "But you can afford regeneration, and even that pain isn't enough for shit like you." He pulled out a long, slim, deeply hollow-ground dagger. It was the work of a true artist in metal. Calan snorted for breath and stared in paralyzed fear at the glinting steel. "Then I decided to cut you, let you bleed to death slowly, thrashing around in pain. But you might live until morning and then we'd have the same problem—your survival." The blade twirled through Rob's fingers idly. He'd spent so many divs handling knives that it was unconscious. "So I've decided to tweak your pains a bit at a time, until you pass out. Then I'm going to wake you. Then I'm going to kill you." The look on his face was utterly emotionless.
Kendra saw the news that morning. Calan had died in a particularly grisly fashion. His family had hired an investigator, but very diplomatically admitted there were tens of people who might want him dead. The cost of a detailed forensic investigation wasn't really warranted, since none of his inheritors had accused any other. It was assumed to be dealings from the war that had gotten him killed, or perhaps some data he held from his association with the UN had been covered up. If nothing obvious turned up, it would be dropped shortly. Just chalk it up to the war.
Rob came downstairs then, looking tired but cheerful. "Calan is dead," she said to him, gauging his reaction.
"Oh?" Rob replied, looking genuinely surprised. "I assume that's okay? You aren't bothered by his loss?"
"Rob!" she said, demanding.
Rob shrugged. "I didn't want him sliming out of things. It would be hard to quantify damage and he'd probably try to claim it was all a ploy to discredit him. The evidence is too slim."
"That was murder, Rob," she said.
"I killed an enemy agent who was still a threat. Do you deny he was?"
"Dammit, that's not the point!" she shouted, beginning to cry. "I've seen enough suffering to last several lifetimes. Whether he deserved it or not, it was my choice as to how to punish him."
Rob looked a bit guilty. Just a bit.
"Do you need more therapy?" she asked, half as a threat.
"I'll never fly again, partly because of data that shitball gave to the enemy as a bargaining chip. You were put in a position where you were hunted like a dog, then thrown into a vicious battle. And Marta . . . and this bottom feeder was profiting from it! I think it was excellent therapy," he finished. They stared at each other for long seconds.
Marta opened her door and came down to see the tableau. "Hey, what's up? I just heard that someone sliced Calan to pieces. I guess you weren't the only one with a grudge, huh?" she said to Kendra.
Kendra sat still for a few measured seconds, then replied, "I guess so." She looked at Rob as Marta eased by him. Then she looked away.
Marta swung past Rob as she headed for the kitchen. Unseen by Kendra, she winked at him, a grin flashing for just a second and then gone. She hummed softly in the kitchen. "So, who wants eggs?"