then

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