prompt: Start or end your story with a character standing in the rain.
available at Reedsy
The rain came down in sheets. Having given up on keeping the rain from her eyes, Taylor McAllister stood unmoved as the deluge soaked her faster and more thoroughly than the shower stall in the cut-rate hotel. The gloom of the red dwarf sun hidden behind the thick clouds did nothing to lift her mood.
Summons were one thing, finding the executor of a will and notifying them … well, it never got easier. She never knew what to say beyond what her job required. Sometimes they had known it was coming and wept soft and silent. Other times it came as a total shock, resulting in outbursts and clinging to her as sobs tore through them.
She wasn’t certain, but it was likely that the person she was looking for wasn’t human. The will came from the estate of an orange, crab-like alien with a name that wasn’t pronounceable by humans, if the transliteration on the paperwork was anything to go on.
Whoever it was moved around a lot. This was the sixth “last known location” for them. At least this one was on the same moon as the last. She’d been through two planets, a station, a ship, and now this moon. Getting here at the start of the “storm season” was just one of those luck things, she guessed.
A bus stopped in front of her and the doors opened. Taylor stepped in, water pouring off her to disappear through the porous floor. “Does this route go by the Grenthouse Building?” she asked.
“Sure does,” the tall, blue-grey alien driver said. “You want me to let you know when it’s coming up?”
“That would be helpful.” She pulled out her comm to pay. “How much?”
“No charge in the city.” The doors closed behind her as the driver motioned for her to find a seat. “Crazy humans, could be making a lot more by charging for all rides, but whatever, I still get paid.”
“Sounds like us crazy humans are rubbing off on you a little.” Taylor sat in the first empty seat and felt a rush of warm, dry air from an overhead vent, even as any water she shed was pulled through the seat to somewhere she couldn’t fathom. It was as though every inch of the bus interior was designed to deal with dripping, soaked passengers.
Taylor watched the alien pilot the bus using a heads-up display on the windshield. Without it, nothing outside the bus would be visible through the deluge. She was contemplating how good the drainage systems had to be to account for the fact that since landing her shuttle at the port, she hadn’t seen a single puddle.
“Grenthouse Building, Sacker Street, next stop,” the driver called out.
Taylor stood to move to the door. She was almost dry, she realized, and her hands were tingling as the feeling came back to her cold fingers.
The bus stopped and the door opened. “It’s the next building down, on the other side of the street,” the driver said, pointing in the direction of her target.
“Thanks,” she said. She took a deep breath and stepped off the bus into the downpour, marching toward the building with purpose.
By the tenth step, Taylor was again soaked through to the skin. She stopped as the bus drove past her and crossed the street. She saw no sense in rushing, as it had no effect on how wet she would or wouldn’t be.
The building — like all the others she’d seen on this moon — had a dry entryway with an air curtain to keep out the rain and a strong down-draft that helped one shed the rain they carried with them. She pushed the button for flat 4-M. At least this one still had the name of the residence-hopping person she sought, “Pat Smith,” along with the other name on they were identified by on the paperwork, “#*//-+?:’!~.”
“Yeah?” The voice on the intercom sounded distinctly human, female, and either very tired or possibly intoxicated.
“I’m Taylor McAllister from AllWhere Services, looking for Pat Smith. I’ve got some important paperwork concerning, um, ‘asterisk, hash, plus, question-mark, question-mark, tilde, single-quote, dash, slash, colon, slash’ – I, uh, don’t know how to pronounce it.”
The reply was a series of clicks, pops, and ticks followed by, “What happened? Why are you looking for Pat Smith?”
“I’m, uh, trying to find the executor of his will.”
There was long moment of silence, followed by the door buzzing and opening. “Come up.” The voice on the intercom sounded choked.
Taylor followed the green lights on the floor to the lift, then off the lift at the fourth floor to door 4-M. Before she could knock, the door swung open.
“Come in.”
Taylor stepped in as the door closed behind her. She removed her jacket and looked for somewhere to hang it.
“There’s a hook on the door behind you, dear,” Pat said. “Do you prefer coffee or tea?”
Taylor hung her drenched jacket from the hook on the door and looked at the small woman standing in the corner kitchenette of the one-room flat. The woman had light brown hair, greying at the temples, pale green eyes, surrounded by the lines of years and shadowed with rings of sleeplessness, and a complexion of pale brown that spoke of too many years away from a generous sun.
She was in the act of pouring herself a mug of coffee, and Taylor said, “Coffee’s fine, since you already have it made.”
Pat poured a second mug, then picked up a bottle of whiskey and put a splash in her own mug. She held it up toward Taylor with a questioning look.
“Yeah, I could do with a drink.”
Pat placed the mugs on the small table in the center of the flat and sat on the single bed that also served as a couch. Taylor sat in the only chair and opened the case she’d been carrying and cleared her throat. “I, uh, know this is a difficult time for you, but I have—”
“Taylor, right?” Pat interrupted. When Taylor nodded, Pat continued. “I’m a retired probate lawyer so I know what’s involved. But Petey — that’s his human name — I’m at a loss. How … if you know, how did he…?”
Taylor pulled out the copy of the death certificate and handed it to Pat. There wasn’t anything to say, so she picked up her coffee and took a sip. The splash of whiskey was far more liberal than she’d expected.
Pat read the paper and set it down with a shaking hand. She took a sip from her cup, closed her eyes for a moment, and a tear rolled down her cheek. “Petey, you were supposed to let me know.”
“I’m guessing you knew about his diagnosis, but not his choice for euthanasia?” Taylor asked.
“He was supposed to let me know what he decided, but then all contact stopped.” Pat wiped her tears with the back of her hand. “For Ketaikans like Petey, Tarok’s Syndrome is a slow decline into dementia, leading eventually to death. He was diagnosed about eight years ago, but he stopped responding to my comms last month.”
“I’m so sorry.” Taylor took a larger sip of the coffee. “How did you know … Petey?”
Pat drank more of her coffee. “I grew up in the Little Ketaik neighborhood of New Yelm, Mars. I was clicking and mandible popping right along with babbling. By the time I was a teenager, I was babysitting Miss May’s brood. Petey was the only male with eleven sisters, which is pretty typical for them.
“The girls pretty much took care of themselves, and they were already twice his size. He was kind of my favorite. Quiet, a little shy, and determined to speak English without a translator.” She finished her cup and took the three steps to the kitchenette to bring back the bottle of whiskey. She didn’t bother with the coffee at all, pouring half a mug of whiskey for herself, and topping Taylor’s mug with it.
“You kind of watched him grow up, then?”
Pat nodded. “He didn’t think he had a chance to be anything but someone’s trophy breeder. I convinced him he was more than that, and he took it to heart.
“He made it through law school, passed the bar, and came to work for me thirty years ago. When I retired, he took over the practice.”
“Did you know he selected you as his executor?” Taylor took another sip of the now mostly-whiskey coffee.
“No. It doesn’t surprise me, though.” She sniffled. “He was supposed to be my executor. Now I’ll have to change it, I guess.”
Pat read through the stack of papers in silence as they drank. When she finished, she stacked them all neatly and signed the receipt. “He made it easy for me,” she said. “Everything’s air-tight, no debt, a solid choice to take over the practice, and all his liquid assets go to the university hospital in New Yelm for TS research.”
Pat stood and opened the big window. The rain continued to sheet down, the smell of ozone and petrichor wafting through the flat. “I miss you, Petey.”
“I have to ask, did Petey ever manage to speak English without a translator?” Taylor asked.
“Yeah, but you have to listen close, kind of like a parrot.” Pat flopped down on the bed. “I don’t know about you, but I’m drunk. If you want to sleep here tonight, feel free.”
Taylor stood and felt the floor sway under her before collapsing back into the chair. “Yeah, I think I’ll just sit here for a while.”
“No problem. It reclines, if you want.”
Taylor looked out at the rain. “How long does storm season last?” she asked.
Pat laughed. “Is that what they told you at the port? This is just a normal day.”
“It rains like this all the time?”
“Mostly.”
“Why here? You?” Taylor asked. “I mean, why would anyone want to live here? Sorry, I blurt when I’m drunk. That’s not normal whiskey.”
“It’s not. It’s a bottle that Petey gave me when I retired. A special reserve, 140 proof from somewhere in Scotland.” Pat sighed. “Seemed appropriate.”
“Sorry, again.”
“It’s fine. As to why, well, the Aquilarians — the tall, thin, blueish guys — love it; reminds them of home. For me, it’s cheap, and all I can afford these days. I spent my retirement savings on research into TS. It was worth it, though. That research produced the drugs that kept Petey going for the last year and a half, long after he would’ve been gone without it.”