The impossible rain, p.1
The Impossible Rain, page 1
1st Edition Copyright 2025
All Rights Reserved.
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This book is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser only. This ebook may not be sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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Editing: Casey Wagner and Janusz Pietraczuk
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Cover Design and Photo: https://www.fiverr.com/oliviaprodesign
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The characters and events portrayed in this book are a work of fiction or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Table of Contents
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
A Note On AI
The Impossible Rain
Mars
The Asteroid Belt
Jupiter
Saturn
Acknowledgements
This story has taken a long journey. It began life as a twenty-minute writing prompt at the Iowa Summer Writers’ Workshop about ten years ago. It was going to be part of a larger science fiction concept I’m working on, but I couldn’t get it to work in a way that made sense with the story that I wanted to tell, so eventually Alistair had to take this journey all by himself.
As usual, I owe a debt of gratitude to my primary editor and friend, Casey Wagner.
I shopped this around on r/betareaders and am indebted to the following individuals who were willing to read this and give me invaluable feedback, both good and bad: Janusz Pietraczuk (u/atre88), u/Turbulent_Shoes_6733, and u/ThatAnimeSnob.
If you like what you read and want to enjoy more of my writing, updates on upcoming releases, and book promotions, please check out and (hopefully) subscribe to my Substack: Lit City Blues (https://litcityblues.substack.com/)
Finally, I have to thank my wife, Allison. I promised her a book, and it wasn’t this one, so she’s still waiting– but hopefully, not for much longer. This year has been longer and tougher than I think I wanted to let myself believe, and her constant love and support have made all the difference.
A Note On AI
Full credit to Strange Pilgrims (www.strangepilgrims.com) and Wendy Higgins for giving me this idea, but I feel like it’s worth adapting for my own purposes.
I treat AI like it’s meant to be treated: as a tool for research, answering questions I may have, and in a science fiction context, trying to see if what I’m writing is at least a little bit believable.
It does not now, nor will it ever, write for me.
Every word you are about to read has been written entirely by me. Any emdashes, weird commas, semi-colons, quirky punctuation marks, or grammatical errors are entirely my own.
I don’t know if any of my works have ever been downloaded illegally and used to train AI systems without permission or compensation, but I know for sure it happens to other authors, and that’s wrong.
The Impossible Rain
Tom Nixon
Mars
He could feel the dream start to slip away from him, a half-forgotten memory. “You should come see this.” They were back on Terra. Hot, bright, crowded Terra. Stephen had never told him where he found the typewriter, but Alistair had fallen in love with it, and now it was the only thing he would write on.
“I’m busy,” he replied, fingers flying across the keys.
“You’re always busy.” The reply had a hint of resigned amusement to it.
“I’m writing.”
It was the noise. The clacking of keys, the metallic bings, the thunks of the carriage return, the noise of the smoke alarms. For whatever reason- wait, smoke alarms? There were no smoke alarms here. They were on Terra. On the Amalfi Coast, it was- he brushed the raindrops from his eyes and tried to keep typing. Ridiculous. The sun is shining, it’s not raining. The words were coming fast and furious now, and if he could just keep going he would get one thousand to five thousand words today.
The words were pouring out of him. He was so close to finishing a chapter, he was almost there, if only it would stop raining! He brushed the rain out of his eyes, it splattered across the paper and the typewriter, but he kept going.
“I’m almost done with this chapter, I’d be done by now if it wasn’t for this blasted rain! And can you shut off the damn alarms?”
Footsteps.
Arms snaked around his neck and he felt the bristle brush of Stephen’s neatly trimmed beard against his cheek.
“Alistair. You need to wake up now.”
A peck on the cheek.
“But...”
Another peck on the cheek. “You’re on Mars, darling. How is it raining on Mars?”
~
Consciousness came back in a rush and Alistair gulped in the air, sucking and gasping like a fish out of its tank, cheek pressed onto the grass of the- he coughed. What was that? Couldn’t... he pushed himself upright, still coughing. Noise assaulted his ears. The smoke alarms were screeching. The fire suppression system had activated so the sprinklers were going and water was everywhere. No, it didn’t smell right. Funny...funny smell. Tastes... chemical. Need- it was impossible to breathe. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t-
Greenhouse. You’re in the greenhouse. He began to crawl, hoping that he was crawling the right way. If he could get to the edge of the house, there would be a breather on the wall. He needed a breather. Need to breathe. Need to-
His head rammed into the hard surface of the edge of the greenhouse so hard he cried aloud in pain but scrabbled along the wall and pulled himself up. The smoke was thicker now and some part of his brain seemed to be reminding him to stay low, under the smoke, under the chemical fire suppressants. Under-
No. Need a breather. The smoke was burning his lungs. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t- his fingers closed on the breather hanging on the rack and nearly dropped it; his fingers weren’t working. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t– he slid down the wall and tried weakly to keep the breather over his mouth as everything faded to black.
Consciousness returned in flashes like pictures being taken in a photo booth. Click. Lights. Red and blue, above the greenhouse. Click. Shadows outside. People. Click. Face. In a mask, bending over him. Waving frantically. Click. He was being picked up. Carried. Where were they going? Click. More lights. In a... ship. Ambulance? Face. Bending over him again. Click. They were flying away, on Mars.
~
Then, suddenly, he was awake again.
“Ah, back with us, I see.”
The voice was familiar. He knew that voice. Who was that? There was something under his nose- no, it was in his nose and-
“Don’t mess with it,” the voice said. “Here-” he heard the sound of something being set aside and then footsteps and the familiar face of Old Mrs. Simpkins leaned over him. She pushed his hands away from his face and pressed a button somewhere above him and suddenly the bed was moving upward. “Let’s sit you up a bit, dear.”
He was in a hospital. There was a wide window to one side of the room. The turquoise-green glowing panel of a bioscanner arched above the length of his bed. Behind him, he knew, would be the panel with readouts of all his vitals.
“What-” he croaked. “What happened?”
“You set your kitchen on fire, dear, and nearly burned down your house,” Old Mrs. Simpkins replied. She gave one of his pillows a pat and then walked back over to her seat and picked up her knitting again. “It was lucky for you I was out checking fences in the enclosures, otherwise I might not have seen the smoke.”
“The house?”
“Once the fire brigade put out the fire, the nanobots started the clean-up process and the repair crew deployed nicely from your garage. By the time you’re out of here, it should be patched up a treat. You know how well those repair crews work. Won’t even be a soot stain when they’re done.”
Alistair sagged in relief.
“Did you bring me here?”
“Oh, goodness no,” Old Mrs. Simpkins replied. “I popped over when I saw the fire brigade was there and watched them fish you out. It was a close-run thing, you know. You looked quite a mess.” She nodded at his arms. “Your arms were especially badly burnt.”
Alistair looked down at his arms, noticing the bandages for the first time. “How bad?”
“You’ll have to ask the doctors when they come in,” Old Mrs. Simpkins replied. “You know how treatments are these days. No need for skin grafts or anything barbaric like that. They just slap a stem cell salve on it with a sprinkling of nanobots and let them do the rest.”
“Oh, well, I’m sorry you had to come all this way, Mrs. Simpkins,” Alistair swallowed. It was getting easier to talk, but his throat was still very raw.
“It’s no trouble at all, dear boy,” she replied. “I had to have a liver replacement about eight months or so after Henry died and...” she tugged on the yarn ball to free more wool. “I had no one to keep me company. Even a little bit. I figured you could use some.”
Alistair felt a rush of emotion that threatened t o overwhelm him. Stephen had always liked Mrs. Simpkins. They traded recipes and produce over the years and even went to farmers’ markets together. Alistair, always buried in whatever novel or draft or revision he was working on at the time, had always found her to be something of a prickly old busybody.
“Thank you.”
“You’re most welcome, dear boy.” She glanced up at the door. “Ah, the doctor’s here. I think that’s my cue to go.” She picked up her knitting bag, slipped her yarn and what looked like the beginnings of a scarf into the bag, and stood up. “I’ve got some things to attend to at home. I can pop back later and bring you something if you’d like. Maybe tea?”
“Tea would be lovely,” Alistair replied. He coughed weakly. “With some honey, maybe?”
“Honey it is,” Mrs. Simpkins replied with a grin. She slung her bag over her shoulder and, with a nod to the doctor, made her way out of the room.
The doctor waited until she was completely out of the room before speaking. “Mr. Coney, I’m Doctor Brannigan. How are we doing today?”
“I’m fine...” Alistair said. “Throat’s a little sore and-” his stomach gurgled. “I think I might be a little bit hungry.”
“I can have some food sent up after we’re done here,” Brannigan said. “Medically, you’re doing quite well and I anticipate we can probably have you out of here in a few days, but there is one rather delicate matter I need to discuss with you.”
Alistair shifted uncomfortably in his bed. “Sure, Doctor. Whatever you need.”
“There’s a chance the Garda will be along at some point to ask you some questions as well, so I wanted to hopefully have a conversation before they got here.”
“The Garda? What for?”
“You appear to have attempted to set your house on fire, Mr. Coney,” Brannigan said. “They’re not a particularly busy bunch around these parts as it is and a potential arson is something of a novelty for Mars.”
“Arson?” Alistair was incredulous. “You think I tried to burn down my own house?”
“I don’t know what to think about that, Mr. Coney,” Brannigan said. “What I do know is that when you were brought in, your blood alcohol level was something on the order of,” he looked down at the pad in his hand and swiped over. “Looks like it was about a .251.”
“Is that... a lot?”
“Yes, Mr. Coney,” Brannigan said. “It’s a lot. You were extremely intoxicated.”
“I like a glass of wine with my dinner, Doctor,” Alistair said, defensively. “Is that so wrong?”
“A glass wouldn’t be wrong at all,” Brannigan replied. “But this wasn’t just a nice glass of wine with your dinner and I think you know that.”
Alistair had no reply to that. He could feel himself wanting to deny the doctor’s insinuation. He could feel himself wanting to be angry, to shout, to accuse the doctor of anything and everything to get him to go away and leave him alone. He wanted to go home. Back to the empty house where he could be alone and-
“Mr. Coney,” Brannigan said. “Can you tell me how much you had to drink that night?”
Very slowly, Alistair shook his head.
“I see from your history that your husband died about six months ago,” Brannigan said. “You have a daughter back on Terra. Your agent and your professional contacts are all back on Terra-”
“That’s not true,” Alistair said. “The publishing house has a small office over on Pavonis Mons.”
“Most of your professional contacts, then,” Brannigan said. “Look, Mr. Coney, you’re an intelligent man. I’m not going to beat around the bush with you any longer. Your record shows no indication of any grief counseling-”
“I’m trying to write a book, Doctor. I don’t have time for any of that.”
“You’ve been isolating yourself,” Brannigan continued as if he had not interrupted. “I think you’ve been self-medicating your grief and using the excuse of writing a new book to excuse yourself from seeking even the slightest amount of support after the profound and deep loss you’ve suffered.”
“I’ve got a contract with my publisher, Doctor. I need to write. If I don’t write, I don’t get paid,” Alistair said, peevishly. Part of him knew that the doctor was just trying to help, but part of him didn’t care. “I’m not an alcoholic.”
“I didn’t say you were. I think you suffered a tremendous loss. You’re a professional that has a deadline that’s weighing on your mind and you wouldn’t be the first person to try and self-medicate their way out of a problem,” Brannigan replied.
“So, what, are you going to send me to rehab?” Alistair asked, snidely. “I don’t have time to get locked away to dry out for a month. I have-”
“I know,” Brannigan said. “A book to write. I get that. And I’m surprised a writer who is known for well-researched books could think we’d still use something as antiquated as rehab to treat alcohol addiction.”
Alistair flushed and a slight smile flashed across Brannigan’s face as he realized he had scored a palpable hit on Alistair’s bruised ego. “I don’t have a drinking problem,” he said stubbornly. “I’m fine.”
“Can you tell me how your kitchen caught fire?” Brannigan asked. When Alistair said nothing, he continued. “Because the Garda will be interested in that. They will be asking all kinds of annoying, time-consuming questions that might lead them to inconvenient conclusions.”
“Such as?”
“You burned down your kitchen deliberately.”
“Why would I do that?” Alistair scoffed. “That’s preposterous.”
“I agree,” Brannigan said. “But can you prove it? You know how the local Garda are. There will be interviews upon interviews, and they’ll want to try and get forensic restoration of any video and flame patterns. Whether they find anything or not is immaterial, and we both know it. They will be an annoyance that will last weeks at best and months at worst, and you have a book to write.”
Alistair sighed. “I know when someone’s trying to offer me a deal, Doctor. What are you proposing?”
“A retreat.”
“That sounds a lot like rehab to me,” Alistair said.
“Look, Mr. Coney,” Brannigan said. “We don’t need things like rehab anymore. There are... forms of it out there these days and some of the old ones prefer that model because it’s what they grew up with, but we can treat addiction. We can give you medication right now that will stop you drinking for as long as you like and, if I honestly thought you had a drinking problem, I’d prescribe them right now.”
“So why don’t you?” Alistair flared up. “You think I burned down my kitchen and nearly my house because I was drunk?” (You were, a tiny part of him whispered. And you know it, too.)
“Because the alcohol was just the medication you had at hand,” Brannigan said. “Your real problem was the isolation. This should help with that if you let it.”
Alistair sighed. “Where is it?”
“Not far. Melas Chasma,” Brannigan replied. He swiped a couple of times on the padd in his hand before handing it over to Alistair. “There, see for yourself.”
Alistair, reluctance pouring off of him, swiped through the pictures. It did look idyllic, he had to admit.
“It’s got all the amenities you could ask for,” Brannigan said. “Practically a spa.”
“How much of my time is my own?” Alistair asked, with obvious reluctance.
“I’m going to recommend two hours of therapy a day, one individual session and one group session. There are no narcotics, alcohol, stimulants, things of that nature. The nutrition and exercise facilities are top-notch. The views can’t be beat, and you can write as much as you need to.”
“I suppose I could do that,” Alistair admitted reluctantly. “And this would satisfy the Garda?”
“If you agreed to seek treatment and grief counseling, I could persuade them to leave things alone,” Brannigan said.
“You’re pretty persuasive?” Alistair asked.
“We both know if the Garda dig around, it’ll be more out of boredom than anything else,” Brannigan said. “So, yeah, I can be pretty persuasive, Mr. Coney. I seem to have persuaded you, after all.”
