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Submitted for the January 2024 prompt: Weather Warnings


"...so he threw the brick up in the air — and it didn't come back down!"

 

Instead of the anticipated gales of laughter, the punchline was met by silence. Eventually, one of the other regulars said, cautiously, "I don't get it."

 

I didn't care one way or the other; hadn't been listening. I'd switched to Irish coffee a few hours before, and the list of things I didn't care about was approaching everything. I waved goodnight to the barman and stepped outside.

 

It was raining.

 

It always rains on George's World, anywhere from a light mist to a blinding downpour. Great for the moss crop; lousy for anything else. Hats and raincoats sell well, though. I adjusted mine and headed toward home.

 

The natives are amphibians and love the wet. For fun, they roll in the muddy streets and then dive into the nearest pond to rinse off. Me, I was tiring of it. Part of that was the hole in my brand-new right wingtip, which let in more than drained out. Leather rots so fast here. I needed to get this job done, get back into some decent boots.

 

It was a simple skip trace, and someone else had done all the research. My target, Beaumont, had fled Founder's Landing three weeks before, leaving behind a hefty gambling debt but taking the mob boss's daughter. Her aunt had hired me to get the girl out before things got messy.

 

So I'd come in disguised as a free-trader with a damaged drive, set up camp in his favorite bar, and waited. I figured two days, three at the outside.

 

This was day nine. The rain was getting old fast.

 

It was only two blocks to my rented room, but all the coffee I'd taken on board let me know it wasn't gonna make the trip. I got to the alley and unzipped.

 

That's when he made his move. I guess he wanted to catch me with my pants down. First thing I knew about it was when his knife entered my lower back. Serves me right for drinking on duty.

 

I spun, clutching at his arm as I went down. He shook me off easily and ran. A mad voice deep inside told me to get up and follow him. Instead, I crawled back to the barroom door and flopped down inside. Every eye was on me except the jokester's.

 

"...there, holding onto the stabilizer for dear life was that duck! And guess what he had in his mouth!"

 

I said, clearly, "A brick." Then I was out.

 

* * *

 

It was three days before I came to, tightly bandaged and lying in my hostel bed. Sitting next to me was a beat cop, steaming in uniform rubbers. He didn't answer my greeting, just went to the door and out. By the time his supervisor arrived, I'd already tried moving and decided to stay where I was a while longer.

 

The detective grinned at me around a mouthful of bad teeth. "Lieutenant Gurdy, C.I.D. Feeling better?"

 

I raised an eyebrow. Even that hurt, but I didn't let on.

 

He sat down in the patrolman's chair. "We know you're here on a false I.D., but there's no law against that. Besides, there's this." He waved a hand at my peaked cap and militia boots, now sitting on top of my suitcase. "We figure you're State Intelligence, here on a job, and we should stay hands-off. Fair enough."

 

He leaned in close enough for me to smell the rot. "But if you die on my watch, that comes back on me. Your cover's blown or you wouldn't have been stabbed, and they tell me your ship is fixed. So why not get out of here, huh?"

 

I tried to tell him to go to hell, but my tongue wasn't working right. He understood, though. He grinned blackly, then walked out. "Think it over."

 

I was thinking.

 

* * *

 

Kidneys are temperamental little devils. I was three days getting out of bed, and my urine had gone from brown to red, which they told me was an improvement. For entertainment, I chatted with my cop friend, who'd put a watch on all outgoing passenger ships. Not that there were any; this sodden backwater wasn't exactly tourism central, and the harvest was months off.

 

He was right: my cover had been blown. I let them convoy me to the spaceport through the drizzle. At the hatch, I stood on wobbly legs to shake Gurdy's hand. "See you soon," he said, smiling.

 

I took my time climbing in, then sat heavily on the top step, surreptitiously checking my watch. The big hand was pointing straight inside, just as I'd figured. I nodded to myself, then at the cop. He rushed in past me.

 

Beaumont had been waiting in ambush just inside the hatch, still wearing the same raincoat he'd had on the night he stabbed me, complete with the radio tracker I'd tagged him with. Still had the same knife too, but Gurdy had a stunner. It was no contest, and he went quietly.

 

Cherrie, the girl I'd come to rescue, was a bit more trouble, but by the time we were underway she'd come to see reason. Beaumont was out of the picture, and with no meal ticket she might as well be home as anywhere.

 

"How'd you know we were on board?" she asked, and I told her about the tracking rig. She was impressed that I'd managed to tag him even after getting stabbed. Hell, so was I, but I didn't tell her that.

 

"But you knew we'd be on your ship anyway, didn't you?"

 

I nodded.

 

"Beaumont knew he'd been found, knew it was only a matter of time, and mine was the only ship leaving." Then I grinned tightly at her. Smiling still hurt, but it was worth it. "Besides, who could stand another week of that rain?"

 

 

Copyright 2024 - SFS Publishing LLC

Mud Puddle Noir

It always rains on George's World

J. Millard Simpson

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