A/N: Babylon 5 belongs to JMS, whom I thank for letting me play in his sandbox.

Chapter 1

"Please," Abbie whispered. "Let me go."

But the big hand kept her pinned against the dirty bulkhead. The man whose face haunted all her worst dreams looked down at her and smiled.

"Let you go? I thought we were friends."

She shook her head so hard her teeth almost rattled.

"That's right. You never were very friendly, were you?"

Her fear froze her now. She could only stare up at him.

"Maybe you should call your daddy? You think?"

He knew! Her heart hammered.

"Tell you what." His other hand moved down toward his trousers. " I'll make you my special friend. Then I'll let you go."

She was too terrified to scream, almost too terrified to breathe. There was no point in screaming anyway. The merchants and customers in the bazaar not ten meters away wouldn't even bother to look. Screams were just part of life here Downbelow, and people who wanted to survive tended to ignore them.

He began to unfasten his trousers. He was looking at her the way Bettina's customers looked at the girls. A wild panic seized Abbie. For a frenzied instant she was able to move, to flail at him with fists and feet.

Useless! She was too much smaller and weaker than he. He gripped her shirt even harder, jerked her forward, then slammed her skinny little frame back against the bulkhead. The breath was knocked out of her and she stopped hitting out and kicking, frozen again, helpless.

Against her will, her eyes were drawn from the horrible face to the hand fumbling at the trousers. It was all she could see; so the voice, when it came, startled her.

"I think the young lady is saying 'No'," the voice said.

And then the hand at the trousers was snatched away in a lightning-fast move by another hand. Abbie's paralysis broke and she was able to look up. Over her attacker's shoulder she saw a black-bearded man in a long, flowing black coat. He had seized the hand by the wrist and bent it behind her assailant's back.

Still, the grip on her shirt didn't loosen. "Listen, pal," the man from her nightmares said. "This is none of your business."

The black-bearded man raised his eyebrows. "Wrong, on all counts." He must have done something that hurt her attacker, because the hand on her shirt convulsed, then loosened just a bit.

"First," Abbie's rescuer continued. "I am not your 'pal'. Second: this is my business."

Little clumps of people were drifting closer from the bazaar. The prospect of a good fight promised better, safer entertainment than the trifling spectacle of a child in trouble.

The bearded man twisted the other's arm behind his back, eliciting a groan. "Mankind is my business," he said. Another twist wrung out another groan. "The common welfare is my business." A twist; a groan. "Charity—mercy—forbearance—" Each word was punctuated by a fresh groan. The hand on Abbie's shirt had let go.

"—and benevolence!" The bearded man flung the other some two meters away in the direction of the crowd. "Are, all, my business! The dealings of my trade are but a tiny drop in the comprehensive ocean of my business!"

He had moved to stand in front of her, like a protective wall. From nowhere, like magic, a long black staff had appeared in his right hand. Abbie crouched down and peered around the concealing folds of the flowing coat, to see her assailant painfully picking himself up, hugging his maltreated arm against his body.

Her rescuer's voice was quiet now as he said, "Have I made myself clear?"

The defeated man stood for a moment, glaring, chest heaving as he gasped for breath. For an instant his glance flickered to Abbie, who shrank back behind the coat.

"Fine," he said at last. (His voice, as well as his face, figured prominently in her nightmares.) "Fine. You want the brat? She's all yours." Still nursing his arm against his side, he turned and walked away.

Still, Abbie's rescuer didn't move, but stood in front of her as though he'd taken root. She was sandwiched between him and the bulkhead. She slid down and sat, pulling up her knees and wrapping her arms around them, making herself small. From behind the coat, she could see the crowd beginning to melt away. Her rescuer stood his ground, swinging the staff in his hand with a casual air, until most of the onlookers had given up on further entertainment and gone back to their own concerns.

Only then did he turn toward her. As swiftly and mysteriously as it had appeared, the black staff was gone. He was attaching a compact cylindrical object to his belt.

He looked down at her. "Did he hurt you?"

She shook her head No. Words were still ringing in her ears: You want the brat? She's all yours.

All yours. Just because he'd bailed her out didn't mean he was nice. People Downbelow didn't do things just to be nice.

But—he didn't look as though he belonged Downbelow. For one thing, he was clean; his mane of black hair shone, the mustache and beard were well trimmed and tended. The black coat, as well as the brown tunic beneath it and the brown trousers, was clean. His clothes were unpatched, with no ragged or frayed edges. The tunic was belted at the waist and across the chest with well-polished leather and gleaming buckles. There was no musty smell of unwashed clothes or unwashed flesh. And her rescuer even wore a piece of jewelry, a shining squarish brooch near the right shoulder of the coat. Much too prosperous to belong Downbelow—but—the way he could fight, the way he'd thrown That Man around—

She found her voice, and the first thing she blurted out surprised them both.

"That stuff you were saying. About your business. That's from a book."

He smiled, as though pleasantly surprised. "A Christmas Carol. Charles Dickens. You know it?"

"My papa used to read it to me."

"Is he anywhere about?"

"He's dead."

The man cast a quick glance over his shoulder. Evidently he knew enough about life Downbelow to watch his back. Then he went down on one knee, coming to her eye level. "I'm sorry about that," he said. "Is there anyone looking out for you? Your mother?"

"She's dead too. She died when I was little." Abbie's stiff muscles began to relax. He wasn't blocking her off any more. If she needed to, she could run.

The bearded face was somber; as though her mother's distant death really mattered. "So, there's no one."

"That's okay," she lied. "I can look out for myself."

He nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I can see that. Look—" he began, and reached out to take her hand.

She flinched back, bunching up small again.

"Sorry," he apologized, withdrawing his hand at once and getting to his feet. He stepped back a pace or two, spreading his hands out at his sides. "See? I'm not going to hurt you. I didn't mean to frighten you." His voice was quiet, soothing. "Let's start over. My name is Marcus. What's yours?"

"Abbie," she whispered.

"Well, Abbie, I don't know that you want to stay around here. That scoundrel may not be far. Whereabouts do you sleep? Is there someplace safe I can take you?"

In that moment, she decided she could trust him. He'd backed off when she'd made it clear she didn't want to be touched. He hadn't made any stupid, grownup comment like telling her how pretty her name was. He didn't use that silly voice some adults used in talking with her, as if she were a baby. In fact, he seemed quite prepared to take her anywhere she wanted to be, and then go on about his own business.

The thought of walking through Downbelow feeling safe for once, with this dark protector at her side, was irresistible. Abbie unwrapped her arms from around her knees and stood up. As long as he was prepared to look out for her for a few minutes, she may as well make the most of it.

"Got anything to eat?" she asked.

Neither Captain John Sheridan nor Commander Susan Ivanova was looking forward to the interview with Trade Minister Questal. Since Babylon 5's declaration of independence from the corrupted government of Earth, the nuts and bolts of station operation and economics had come to assume more importance than either officer was comfortable with. Every report of a fresh attack by the resurgent Shadows made such mundane problems as docking schedules and customs regulations seem petty in the extreme.

But Babylon 5 might prove their best chance against what the Minbari Ambassador, Delenn, called "the Darkness"; and to provide that chance the station itself must survive, physically and economically. Sheridan and Ivanova had hoped for a little breathing time after members from the League of Non-Aligned Worlds had signed new commercial contracts with the independent station.

The way life really works, Sheridan reflected, I should have figured it wouldn't be that simple.

"Minister Questal, sir," Ivanova announced as the encounter-suited figure stumped into the room. Sheridan came forward to greet the visitor; remembering that the Gneissh put little stock in formalities or ceremonies, he didn't offer his hand to shake and confined his greeting to a simple, "Welcome, Minister." Questal's encounter suit was utilitarian, unlike the elaborate constructions worn by Vorlons, and it was easy to see that the Trade Minister was a thick-built, stumpy-legged humanoid. Behind the face-shield of his helmet a flat, grey face with small round eyes, slitty nostrils, and a wide, lipless, frog-like mouth was revealed. By Human aesthetic standards, the Gneissh were not an attractive people. But they were active traders, known to be fair and honest in their dealings, and to demand fair dealing in return. This was the first time one of their Trade Ministers had ever lodged a complaint; the first time, Sheridan readily acknowledged, that they'd had anything to complain about.

"I'm sorry I can't offer you refreshment, Minister," Sheridan went on. Usually Ivanova would have provided an assortment of carefully-selected beverages and snacks. But even Ivanova had never figured out how to feed an encounter-suited alien, who breathed a mixture of methane and God knew what else, in an oxygen-based atmosphere.

"I do not come to eat," Questal replied. Unlike many alien races, the Gneissh didn't rely on electronic translators, choosing instead to use their trade partners' own languages. "I come to talk. It is not satisfactory."

"I agree, sir, that—"

"I do not come to listen. I come to talk. When Babylon 5 is under the Earth government, everything works well. Our ships come and go, our people move freely about. Our quarters are safe; our trade centers are safe.

"Now Babylon 5 is not under the Earth government. Now things do not work so well. Now there are alarms. Our life-support systems go onto emergency backups! It is not satisfactory."

Here he paused, and Sheridan judged the time right for a reply. "As I was saying, Minister, I agree. It's not satisfactory, and we have our best people investigating the problem. In fairness, sir—" (It was a favorite phrase among the Gneissh.) "In fairness, these operational problems also occurred occasionally when the station was still allied with the government of Earth. We have the same technical staff now that we did then."

Questal said, "It is not an operational problem. It is our lives. First the primary systems fail. Do the emergency backups fail?"

It took Sheridan a moment to work out that the question was a speculative one. "Minister Questal, even if they did, we have backups to our backups."

"It is not satisfactory. We wish no further problems. We require your guarantee. Do you value our trade?" the Trade Minister asked bluntly.

Now Ivanova stepped in. "Trade Minister, we value the lives of everyone on this station—Gneissh, Human, Vorlon, everyone. I can promise you that we'll find this problem and fix it."

"I do not ask for that." Questal was not to be deterred. "I ask nothing of you. I ask Captain Sheridan to guarantee no further problems."

Sheridan took a deep breath, weighing whether or not to give that guarantee. " I guarantee that resolving this problem will remain my top priority," he said. If he promised no further problems and one occurred before the systems flaw was found, the Gneissh might easily claim that their contract with the station had been violated.

The helmeted head rotated slightly back and forth. "I leave you now," said Questal. "We wait. We watch. It is not satisfactory." With that, he turned his back on Sheridan, pushed past Ivanova, and stumped from the room. The Gneissh moved with none of the gliding grace of Vorlons. The door swung down shut behind him.

Sheridan felt like swearing, and it didn't help that Questal was absolutely right. Not satisfactory was a mild way to put it. "We'd better have good news for him soon. Get after those techs, Susan. I want updated reports, and I want them in half an hour."

"Right on it, sir," she promised. He knew that a promise from Ivanova was as good as a finished deed. He wished that Babylon 5's systems were half as reliable.

The waiter confused their orders, setting down the soup and half-sandwich at Abbie's place and the full sandwich with double fries in front of Marcus. With a conspiratorial smile, Marcus quickly rearranged the dishes. He wasn't especially hungry and had only ordered a light meal for himself so the child wouldn't feel self-conscious. She plunged into her food with single-minded concentration. He began on the soup, studying her.

Nine or ten years old, he supposed. She had a dirty little triangular face, broad forehead tapering to a pointed chin, under a short, haphazardly-trimmed tangle of dark-blond curls. Tawny-hazel eyes.. She'd rubbed her grubby hands with their close-bitten nails on a paper napkin before the food arrived, and hungry though she obviously was she ate neatly, taking the time to chew and swallow each mouthful.

She wore a faded yellow shirt several sizes too large, a pair of blue pants chopped off at mid-calf, and scuffed sandals. He couldn't recall ever seeing her before.

After most of her sandwich and half the greasy fries had vanished, Abbie looked up and asked conversationally, "Did you ever read a book called The Jungle Book?"

"A long time ago."

"I've read parts of it. All the Mowgli parts. You remind me of Bagheera."

Marcus searched his memory and smiled. "The Black Panther. 'As cunning as the jackal, as bold as the wild bull, and as reckless as the wounded elephant.' Quite a flattering comparison. Thank you." Casually, he went on, "You know a lot about those old Earth books."

The child swallowed a mouthful of sandwich before answering, "Papa had a bookstore. Up on the Zocalo."

"What happened?"

"Those—it was those Nightwatch people. She sucked salt and grease from her fingers. "They made him close it. They said he was doing sed—sed—"

"Sedition?"

"That was it." She hesitated, a finger still in her mouth. "Is that something really bad?"

"Can be. But only if someone's really doing it."

"Well, then." Abbie licked the last of the salt from her hand. "Papa didn't do bad things. So he papa couldn't really have been doing it."

And that was probably all too true, Marcus thought to himself. He'd arrived on the station at the tail end of the Nightwatch's reign of fear. From what he knew of it, false accusations of sedition or worse had flown freely around the Zocalo for awhile.

"Anyway," Abbie was saying, "the Nightwatch people made him close the store. Then there was the fire, and we moved here, Downbelow."

"You said he was dead," Marcus prompted gently.

"That was later. There was this fight. He was—" The child hesitated, biting her lip. "Papa didn't know how to—Anyway." She gave an indifferent little shrug and stuffed the last bit of her sandwich into her mouth.

"No friends or anything looking out for you?"

The look she gave him was pained, expressive of all the exasperation childhood can feel at the ignorance of adults. "When those Nightwatch people close you down, you don't have any more friends. Anyway, I can look out for myself. I'm not a baby."

"That's right. I'd forgotten." He took another spoonful of soup. "I suppose that means you've found quarters, someplace to sleep, that sort of thing?"

Instantly he realized he'd probed too far. The child snatched up a napkin and dumped the few fries remaining on her plate into it. "Gotta go. Thanks for lunch." She was already on her feet, ready to flee.

Before the words, "Sorry, didn't mean to pry" were out of his mouth she'd dashed past him and out of the dingy little café. He half-rose to follow her, then thought better of it. This wasn't a case of prizing information from one of his contacts; it was more like taming a wild little animal who'd learned to be wary. It would take time and patience, if it could be done at all.

Marcus sat down to finish his meal and saw that the half-sandwich had vanished from his plate.

The waiter drifted over to collect the empty dishes and mumbled, "Anything else?"

"Just an answer. That little girl who was with me—have you seen her before?"

The waiter pondered. His round doughy face was set in a dull expression that failed to change. "Dunno. Maybe. Who notices kids?"

"I've noticed that one. Now, if I were to learn that she'd been hurt in any way, or even frightened—why, that would make me very, very unhappy." Marcus met the waiter's eyes. He went on, softly: "I'm unpleasant when I'm unhappy. I tend to do regrettable things."

"Yeah?" the waiter responded.

"Now, if you should happen to have any friends, you might let them know that." A five-credit piece caught the café's dim light, and the waiter's eyes glimmered with an access of intelligence. Cash money was hard to come by Downbelow, and precious. "Understood?" asked Marcus.

"Yeah."

Marcus spun the coin at the man, who caught it deftly.

It wasn't much, Marcus reflected, and for all he knew the waiter would pocket the coin and forget the warning. He paid for the two meals and left the café with an irritating sense of having left business unfinished. Though he kept watch for the rest of the day, the child had vanished as completely as his purloined sandwich.