The Dark Places

by D. Martin

  Evernight Publishing ®

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2015 D. Martin

  ISBN: 978-1-77233-317-6

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: Tricia Kristufek

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  Heartfelt thanks to my family and friends who encouraged me to keep on writing. Special gratitude also to Evernight Publishing and Tricia Kristufek for the life raft when I thought I was sinking. Special mention goes to Jay Aheer for the beautiful cover art that captures the imagination. And thank you, too, Las Vegas, for all the inspiration.

  THE DARK PLACES

  D. Martin

  Copyright © 2015

  Chapter One

  The Lilith, our portside bar, was crammed tonight. It was a conjunction day, the time when Harnaru’s planetary alignment in the Manning System best allowed vortex-leap travel in a pattern that consumed the least energy and fuel. All trader ships and merchant vessels seemed to convene within the only interstellar port in Marnu at times like these.

  My feet ached in the low-heeled, ankle-high city boots that were normally comfortable. My eyes burned from the persistent layers of rank smoke rising from wood pipes and cigarillos. Tonight the smoke lay heavier than usual, despite the frequent opening and closing of the entrance. The hovering smog defied the bar’s air-conditioner, cranked on high to combat another typical, sizzling Marnu day.

  The music box blared, the recordings sounding much more discordant than other nights due to the monthly selection change earlier in the day. And the patrons’ loud conversations made my professional smiles more forced with each passing hour. Everyone bellowed at top volume, like they’d all existed their entire lifetimes inside rock-blasting mining operations or metal stamping plants.

  I wanted to flee to the cheap portside room in a nearby transient hotel that had been my home for eight standard months. But it wasn’t possible to leave purgatory yet. Two more long, noisy standard hours remained in my shift, according to a distant LED clock on the Lilith’s dark wood-paneled walls.

  “Hey, beautiful—gimme another Smasher,” a patron bawled from across the black marble counter.

  I nodded and punched in the drink order on the bar comp’s gleaming panel. The machine crunched ice, which it made itself, and emitted whirring sounds. A few seconds later, the spacer had his Smasher—a cheap combination of five different low-volume alcohol spirits, and all off-planet specialties. No extra garnishes or flaming special effects accompanied it. The Lilith didn’t do fancy drinks, and our patrons didn’t want them.

  The spacer paid up and sauntered off, in what I chose to interpret as contentment, to a table where a rowdy betting game—complete with much swearing capable of blistering the wall paint—was conducted by Harry, the grizzled, proud owner of the Lilith. The place was his lifelong dream, and Harry normally tended bar. His sharp eyes missed nothing, but when I was there, he let me operate alone. I think it was the big, gruff man’s way of showing he trusted me.

  Gambling was legal in Marnu, and gleaming credit tokens formed neat, high towers on Harry’s side. My eyebrows rose. From the looks of things, the house was raking in big profits on this conjunction day, but the losers at the table didn’t appear heartbroken, despite their torrid, cursing outbreaks. Instead, they roared with laughter.

  I pulled my gaze away from Harry’s fun-filled table. Too bad I wasn’t having much fun. I rinsed my hands in the tiny bar sink and glanced along the gleaming counter.

  All my more boisterous customers sitting at the bar still nursed amply filled glasses. A quick check on the status of my less vociferous customers showed they were okay also. Which left the Real Quiet Ones. There were only two tonight: a regular customer, and one I’d never seen before. I called patrons like them Real Quiet Ones because they were the kind who waited patiently for the bartender to notice them when the other kinds had stopped shouting for drinks. I liked the Real Quiet Ones and tried to keep a regular eye out for them.

  However, I’d gotten so caught up with the boisterous customers that it had been a while since I’d checked on my Real Quiet Ones. One of them had fallen into a glazed-eye stupor. The other sat on the opposite end, partially hidden in the unlit corner’s shadows. The two empty glasses before him showed he’d run dry some time ago. He stared at me, but it was an unthreatening stare and didn’t unnerve or set me on edge at all. His dark eyes seemed to smile. I held up two fingers hand to let him know I’d get to him in a few.

  I grabbed a chunky white mug with the Lilith’s trademark logo—a sultry, dark-haired vixen—and placed it under the auto dispenser’s separate hot-works section. That vixen also graced the big blue sign out front, luring the patrons in. Quickly ordering up a steaming drink—minus the liquor—from the bar comp, I tramped over to the Real Quiet who was in a stupor and slapped the mug filled with strong, hot coffee under his nose. “Drink that, Jake,” I yelled over the noise to pierce through his befuddlement. “Drink it up, and Harry or Bilk will get you a cab flitter back to your hotel. Okay?”

  Jake was a regular in the Lilith. The staff had become concerned at the increasing number of beatings and robberies he seemed to incur when he left after drinking himself senseless at our establishment. Harry worried that the name of his bar would soon pick up some ugly connotations with the locals and told us to make good and certain Jake arrived safely to his own front door. After that, our responsibility for the old man ended.

  Old Jake finally responded with a long blink, and then his rheumy brown eyes focused upon me before he nodded. He reached for the mug with exaggerated care.

  I pushed it closer. “Jake—hey, Jake, do you have four quid for your cab fare?” I yelled, because his concentration was starting to slip again, despite the coffee.

  He nodded, fumbled in his none-too-clean gray coverall’s front pocket, and produced the requested credit token.

  As I placed the thin green disk on the counter before him, I caught the alert, blazing orange eyes of Bilk, our burly Caltanian bouncer, and gave him the signal to flag down a taxi flitter. Afterward, Bilk would come back to help the old man out of the bar and into the cab. Since we’d started doing that three months ago, Jake had only been robbed and beaten once.

  Satisfied all was set as far as Jake was concerned, I walked the narrow aisle behind the bar on tender feet to the end where my other RQ sat. Why can’t all the Real Quiet Ones sit together to make serving easier? Whatever the reason, they seemed to prefer occupying opposite ends at the counter.

  The other bar occupants ignored me while they brayed at each other and sloshed their drinks. Despite the mob, no one pressed in beside my other Real Quiet or occupied the lone, vacant seat near him. He didn’t appear muscle-bound or overly tall, but that trim, athletic frame and those dark, watchful eyes must have given the bar rowdies second thoughts.

  “What will you have?” I asked, out of sorts myself. It had been so long ago since I’d refilled his glass that I couldn’t remember what he was drinking anymore. Which was bad, because he’d ordered the same thing for the past two hours.

  “A Crynishan Dawn and a Zyran Kicker. No ice,” he said in a pleasant, low voice that reached my ears with no problem, despite the background music and the bar’s raucous confusion.

  I nodded in slow, awed remembrance. He’d
ordered five servings of that same fatal combination, and his expression was still sane and fairly alert. He looked kind of sad and reflective in the way most of the Real Quiet Ones did, but he didn’t seem anywhere near what Jake looked like.

  “How many more of those do you plan to have before you leave tonight, mister?” I asked, also pleasant-like. I added a big smile because I didn’t want him to think I had no wish to serve him.

  “How many more hours will you be here, doll?”

  His voice sounded warm and amiable. He’d addressed me as “doll” when he’d first sat at my bar two hours ago. A little thrill shot through me at hearing it again. He smiled a little—to show he wasn’t being obnoxious, I think. Even white teeth gleamed briefly beneath nice, kissable lips amid his clean-shaven, tanned face. Dark hair lay in thick waves upon his head, with two intriguing tendrils resting on his forehead, accentuating his dark eyes. That rich, bronzed tan meant he must have spent much time in sunny locales.

  I hoped, for his sake, it was somewhere exciting, exotic, and elsewhere beyond Harnaru.

  “Two more,” I said, and looked—really looked—for the first time into his eyes.

  “I’ll probably have about five more, doll,” he said softly.

  His answer didn’t connect right away. Those eyes. It took several moments for me to remember to breathe. His eyes were onyx black with tiny reflective sparks of green and gold burning at the center of his irises. How did I miss all those fascinating fireworks in his eyes when I served him earlier? They were different and compelling, like him, in a quiet way.

  “I was just thinking….” I paused, annoyed at the slight breathlessness in my tone. I took a deep breath to stabilize it. “I was thinking you could save some credits by just buying a bottle of Crynishan liquor.” The Lilith kept various bottled, off-world distillations on display along the wooden shelves behind me. Most of them went into the bar comps’ auto feeders, but I knew there were two dusty, unopened Crynishan liquor bottles on the shelf. Most spacers were afraid of that particular brew.

  “Would you still be willing to mix up the drinks for me, then?” He intently studied me with those intriguing eyes.

  “Sure—at no extra charge for the Crynishan Dawn drinks.” Concerned he would think I proposed that to keep from serving him, I tumbled into a rushed explanation. “It’s just that—well, the way you’re ordering this, and by the effect it’s not having on you, you could save a lot by just ordering a bottle of Crynishan liquor.”

  “How much would I save in actual credits?” His tone was serious, but his eyes sparkled with silent laughter.

  I actually began racking up the cost of the finished drinks versus measured portions of the pure, high, 96 percent alcohol volume liquor in my head. “You would save about twenty-five credits and still have some of the distilled brew left over to take with you,” I triumphantly announced, but not too loud, because Harry would have tongue-lashed me if he knew I was trying to keep twenty-five credits out of the bar comp’s register. But I liked this Real Quiet One. He looked pensive and downcast about something, and I wanted to help him a little somehow, even if it was only twenty-five credits worth—which was still a lot.

  “No, thanks. I’ll have it the expensive way, doll,” he said with a nice smile. “I feel like throwing away a few extra credits tonight.”

  I nodded, trying not to feel like his smile had special meaning to it—and that his words contained no personal intimations for me. The bar comp’s auto dispenser was several steps away, forcing me to move, verify the reservoirs were sufficient, and then punch up and mix his request. I set two new, freshly filled glasses in front of him and deftly removed the empty ones.

  An engraved, thick ring gleamed on his left hand’s forefinger as he pushed forward four silver octagonal-shaped credit tokens—well over the required amount—toward me, just as he’d done earlier. “Keep the change, doll.”

  “Thank you,” I said with heartfelt gratitude.

  I watched him as he leisurely sampled the deep red liquid in the taller goblet, then set it down to pick up the smaller goblet. He drank the thick, dark brown brew without any visible change in expression and placed the half-filled glass upon the counter. He then stared down at the black marble surface in apparent deep contemplation of some personal problem. Evidently he’d forgotten me.

  I moved away to refill the beer mugs of some boisterous ones who’d started clamoring for service. I sneaked glances occasionally at my Real Quiet, the only one at the bar since Jake had been carted out. His expression was as sober as when he first strolled into the Lilith and sat down. I couldn’t imagine what his physiology was doing with all that liquor—and what a combination it was too! And he was downing it without ice to dilute it.

  Crynishan Dawns laid lesser mortals upon the floor after two libations. Zyran Kickers alone could leave men weak and puking for forty-eight hours after the first glass.

  Amazingly, no one sought to intrude upon him with all that evidence of mind-numbing drinks, screaming, Hey, here’s an easy victim to fleece and rob! No spacer had approached him claiming long-ago acquaintance as a route to weasel free drinks. And no one seemed eager to claim that empty bar stool next to him. Quick, furtive studies of the man found no outward cause to believe he was a danger to anyone—beyond those enthralling eyes—but he seemed to have earned grudging respect from the rougher clientele.

  Before my shift headed into its final hour, my Real Quiet One had downed two more of the same ghastly combo refills. His eyes didn’t look glazed over, and whenever he reordered, he never once slurred.

  I reached for a tray loaded with used glassware that Bilk had dropped off. He often saved me from leaving the bar to scavenge for abandoned glasses. Catching Harry’s attention, I nodded toward the bar comp before dodging through a door behind me into the supply room. I laid the tray aside while I dashed around, checking feed lines and volume indicators on the large kegs and various upended bottles lining the wall. Nothing needed to be replaced.

  I spent the next few seconds feeding the automatic dishwasher with dirty glasses. I washed my hands at a utility sink and grabbed a tray of various-sized, sparkling-clean glasses stacked near the washer. Then I darted back out front, ready for the next customer barrage.

  The crowd within the Lilith had undergone a turnover. Most had left and another wave had swarmed in to replace them. This particular batch looked more festive and had faster-paced music booming throughout our space, which Harry had soundproofed long ago to keep the neighboring store owners from storming the premises.

  Harry was taking bids for a new card game, and Bilk was talking to some garishly made-up, tittering women at a table near the door. Perhaps it was due to his species’ unique vision, but Bilk had a big weakness for fluorescent-painted females. He was almost drooling over the colorful, scantily clad group. And I was desperately weary, with a long litany of complaints revolving in my thoughts.

  I want to sit down. I want to go home. I want my bed. At this point I almost wanted to save up enough credits to buy an intersystem flight-liner ticket back to despised Dearleth. I wanted never to have seen Harnaru in my life. I wanted to be back on icy, cruel Dearleth, at my old part-time job cataloging book microdisks in our colony library, never allowing enticing thoughts about new and better opportunities on a frontier world to enter my desperate little brain….

  “Could I have a refill, doll?” My Real Quiet One spoke up for once, snagging my attention.

  I looked him over, wondering why it was that it only took one beer or ale to get some guys fired up good and loud, and why it took some men eight refills of a hell-and-brimstone brew to get them to speak up.

  I set his request—with no ice—before him and smiled at his nod of thanks as he tendered the silver credit tokens with another generous tip for me. His expression was sharply aware—not a befuddled person recklessly throwing away his money. So I didn’t feel too bad accepting my ninth big tip from him.

  “How are you feeling?” I fina
lly asked. Curiosity and concern overrode the professional distance I’d learned to maintain.

  “Not too bad,” he said with a noncommittal shrug.

  I’d started to turn away to do some long-overdue wiping of the watermarked bar top when he spoke again.

  “You’re not from around here.”

  It was more of a statement than question. What nerve—and neither are you! I quelled the defensive thoughts and forced myself to nod. I grabbed a towel and busied myself with ambitious swipes at condensation that the flimsy napkin coasters provided under the patrons’ drinks hadn’t absorbed. I figured if I kept quiet, he’d go back to his blue study. I had no desire whatsoever to talk about my aspirations and heartaches.

  He took the hint and became quiet again for the next half hour or so. In the last half-hour stretch remaining in my shift, however, he fixed an intent stare on me and spoke. “Would you care for dinner at a Sauran restaurant?”

  No disarming preamble about my looks or charms—or other opening gambits most men resorted to before a meal invitation. Just that dead serious, quiet voice and an intense stare fastened upon me.

  I stared into the green-gold glitter points swimming in those black eyes as I considered the offer. I didn’t accept patron invitations. A lot of unwary—and also very wary—barmaids on Harnaru ended up missing or horribly abused in the aftermath of dinner-after-work offers if their companions turned out to be nut cases. I sighed and folded my hands before me upon the bar top.

  A lot of girls end up with some pretty exciting romantic stuff to hang in their memories, to shake out and smile over whenever life gets grim, desolate, and plain unkind….

  My Real Quiet One unwaveringly met my questing stare. I marveled that he appeared alert after eight—or was it nine?—Crynishan Dawn death brews. Sixteen or eighteen total, if you counted the Zyran Kickers, I absently tallied.