The hit had been perfect. The Grand Vizier of Ethquafar, a middling little planet on the edge of Unionist space, had dropped like a sack of Parthmen excrement. The exploding head spraying bits of purple brain and orange blood all over the Vizier's pampered family was a bonus. The Media Ports had been flooded with graphic replays for hours. As far as Huxhert was concerned, this had been a complete publicity overrun for the Revolutionary Brigade of Oorth.
Huxhert herself had chosen the antique munitions that had done the job. A single 13mm round did not come cheap. But the hollow-point slug, long banned by any civilised world, had made its point (no pun intended). Now that she was being grilled by the single most useless individual in the entire RBO, her patience was wearing thin.
Reyrarth III of Tulethna poured over the charts that showed it what the hit had cost and the little squirming Gillthex Worm had the gall and temerity to question Huxhert's choice of termination. Nevermind the clamouring youth who suddenly wanted to join the cause. Nevermind the increased fear and terror among the ruling bourgeoisie maggots who leeched of their workers. The little Turd of Tulethna was quibbling over a nine million credit round of pure, hollow-pointed lead. The creature had no class.
Sadly, after seven attempts on the accountant's life, RBO leadership started executing anyone who lifted a finger against the worm of a creature.
Huxhert smiled. Her gift, by way of apology, had been gratefully accepted, as she knew it would be. Reyrarth's love for old Earth confections was legendary. She had bought the 250g pack especially for him. The gold wrapping had not been changed in centuries and the company still operated from its island home in the South Pacific there. Huxhert dared not smile outwardly, but maintained a suitably chagrined appearance. Smiling would come later.
Roughly seven minutes after Reynath tried the gift.