The pair pushed through the busy streets of Pod 5, neon lights casting multicoloured palls over master and pupil.
“But you keep telling me magic doesn’t work like this. You cast long. There are no instant combat spells.” The pupil struggling to keep up with his longer legged teacher.
The Master had seen the signs. They had been under magical attack for some time and it was ending today.
The Mage had refused to show deference to an established Sorcerer when he moved into Pod 5. The attacks were a prelude – a nod to the old ways of duels and formal rituals. The real battle would occur when they were face to face.
“How long have you been my pupil?”
The student thought. “8 months.”
“8 months, 2 weeks, 3 days,” the Master finished, smiling grimly. “Why do you suppose,” he continued. “That you know everything there is to know?”
He checked his watch. 23:37.
Still time.
The magician walked into a bar, ordered a couple of drinks and sat at a table. He breathed deeply, calmed himself and spoke.
“In every glass there are a series of minute imperfections. With the right focus, and the right training, it is possible to exploit this. To, in an instant, cause those cracks to widen, to become more volatile.”
He picked his glass up to drink, the student did the same.
“So, with a flick of the wrist…” The magician moved his hand. “It becomes weak and breaks.”
Nothing happened.
The student lowered his glass, both amused and horrified. His teacher had been wrong. Nothing had happened.
He put his glass down it and shattered into many pieces, his drink spilling into his lap.
***
“Is that how you’re going to do it? Exploit his weaknesses?” The student was scared. He had never been in a fight, let alone a magical fight.
They were outside again, heading towards the Meat Market.
“Watch and learn. But,” the master turned to face his companion. “When we enter the Meat Market you say nothing. You empty your mind. He must not know we are coming.”
The Meat Market. Pod 5’s Red Light District. Many limbed whores, some half-borg, some half alien – none as young as they looked – plied their trade. The pair moved through them without a second glance. They had a target.
The Brothel, built on the site of a Temple of some forgotten Love Goddess. At the back of a brothel was a fire escape. At the top of the fire escape, on the roof, waited the Sorcerer.
The Sorcerer was ready, and adopting an attacking posture, lips moving through the words of a spell. The mage, barking out a manic laugh, strode across the roof, and reached into his jacket.
The sorcerer’s eyes widened. The hand cannon roared. Volley after volley of high calibre plasteel ripped through the air, and then through his body.
The sorcerer lay, bleeding twitching. The mage turned to his pupil. The young man’s face twisted in horror.
“Here’s your Lesson. You never take a banana to a pear fight.”
