See Part One for Disclaimers

Cold, deep and penetrating, suffused his body.  Shaking uncontrollably, Marcus felt his whole body tremble, even as his head burned.  Opening his eyes the grey green orbs danced erratically, not landing on any one thing for more than a second or two.  And he ached, my god how he ached.  Every limb, every joint.  His stomach twisted and turned and he forced himself over trying to disgorge the fire in his belly.

And then there was a supporting hand on his forehead, soft words in his ears.  A cool damp cloth replaced the hand as he was gently turned back.

"Lie still, boy.  There, don't worry now, I have you safe."

In his delirium he heard her, the voice somehow comforting and familiar from his dreams so long ago.

"Maggie?" he murmured, one hand reaching for her blindly.

Margaret's eyes opened at the unfamiliar appellation.  She had not been called that since she was a young woman; her daughter held that name now.  Taking his hand she patted it gently.  "Yes, dear, I'm Maggie."  He ceased his anxious turning almost at once, then his eyes flew open and for a brief minute seemed calm and focused.

"Is she safe?"

"Syrea is fine -- a little shaken up that's all.  Her mother has put her to bed, to sleep and recover, just as you should do."  She removed her hand from his grasp and smoothed it gently across his cheek.

"Sleep?" Marcus suddenly began to chortle, his body heaving with mirth until tears rolled down his cheeks and his laughter turned to distress.  "I don't want to sleep.  I don't want to sleep ever again."

Margaret, alarmed at his sudden mood swings, sat herself on the bed and reclaimed his hand in both of hers.  Her compassion moved by his obvious distress.  "My dear boy, if you don't wish to sleep then talk to me.  Tell me what troubles you."

Marcus felt the soft touch as his hand was cradled between her lined fingers.  Her clasp anchored him, brought him back to the here and now.  She had the softest grey eyes he had ever seen, her face so like and yet unlike that of his grandmother.  He had nearly spoken of his terrors to Delenn, barely able to contain his needs then, the warmth and understanding this stranger offered was his undoing.  He had to share his turmoil or he would drown in his nightmares.

"I suppose it started at Christmas.  I was shot doing my good Samaritan bit.  There had been a series of raids on the Zocalo, I happened to be in the wrong place at the right time.  I stopped the raid on the jewellers I had just been in, only to get shot for my troubles.  Then things get a little fuzzy around the edges for me.  " His hand had relaxed under her fingers, as though the telling of his story was in some way releasing the unbearable tension that had filled him.

"According to Steven I was unconscious for nearly a week but...  Maggie, I swear by all that's holy, I spent best part of the week searching for that bastard Shaker.  He had contracted to provide children for desperate couples.  Stealing them from Down Below, from the poorest and most desperate, those he thought wouldn't kick up a fuss.  And I got him, at least you did, you and your boys."

Margaret had stiffened at Shaker's name.  Marcus picked up on her sudden stillness.  "You know him?"

She nodded, her lips thinned as she held back her words with difficulty."  Yes, but continue your story, we'll talk about Shaker when you are done."

Even with the sledgehammer headache blurring his senses, Marcus could still feel the anger and fear the old woman generated.  "Maggie..."

"Finish you story, then we'll talk."

That same firm unyielding kindness, the same strength that his dream Maggie had possessed, was this real or was he still lying in Franklin's medical facility?  It did not really matter, he had to tell his tale or go insane.

"There was a little girl, Naomi, she was my main worry.  You, I mean the Maggie of my dream, had found her, taken care of her.  Susan and I had been searching for her when two of Shaker's thugs set on us.  I thought we'd beaten them but I was hurt, seriously hurt by one of them.  The next thing I remember was you, I mean Maggie.  Apparently I had been stabbed in the back; she had patched me up.  Between us we decided to put Shaker out of business."

"Were you successful?"

The twisted smile on Marcus' face told her all she needed to know.  "Oh yes, we stopped him alright, found the kids and got them home.  And then I went looking for you and you weren't there, I had no wound on my back, Susan...  well, it seemed I dreamed the whole damn thing while I was unconscious."  He sighed and moved uncomfortably on the bed, the ache in his limbs making rest almost impossible.

"But it didn't end there, about a week or so after getting out of Med Lab I started dreaming; terrible nightmares that I could not latch onto.  I'd wake in the middle of the night filled with...  I haven't had dreams like that since my brother was killed.  I couldn't remember them you see, I only knew that something bad was going to happen, I didn't know to whom or from where the danger was coming.  At least not at first.  Last week I kept seeing Shaker's face, in my nightmares, in the Zocalo, everywhere.  The Minbari have a deep respect for prophecy, dreams are analysed for the truth of their content.  I found that a little difficult in training, having your innermost thoughts turned upside down."  His mind drifted idly for a while as he remembered those intense sessions.

Margaret sat quietly, waiting, watching, her hands still clasping his reassuringly.

Marcus pulled himself back.  "I lost it then, totally, went on a drunken binge that landed me in the lock-up and then I had to present myself to the Ambassador."  Gently, he disengaged his hand from Margaret's touch.  "I would never hurt her, never.  I have sworn to serve and die if necessary, to keep her safe and yet I deserted her to go on some mad quest to find Shaker, to get these bloody dreams out of my head.  She'll never trust me again, none of them will."

"Maybe your quest is not so far fetched.  Shaker is here on the station; my granddaughter is his child.  About three days ago he came here, ostensibly to talk to Maggie, that's my daughter's name, and to see Syrea.  He hadn't been in touch since the child was born.  He wanted to arrange for her education, or so he said.  My daughter would have none of it, well you know her, and you know how determined she can be.  Anyway, yesterday Syrea went missing, she's a good girl, always comes right home if she is visiting, so we went looking for her."  Margaret's hands trembled as she recalled that terrible day, searching fruitlessly through the dark and dangerous corners of her world.  "Maggie enlisted the help of some of her patrons at the bar, that's when they found you."

Marcus had been listening intently; suddenly this 'Maggie' came to life in his thoughts.  The bar he used for meetings, a tall elegant woman, dark-haired, lovely figure.  She always had a nice word for everyone; the men at the bar never tried to take advantage, well not often.  She had many champions among the clientele, and none wanted to see anything happen to her.

"I thought I recognised one of the men who attacked me, he was straight from my dream, the one who stuck a knife in me.  He really did work for Shaker then?  I am so bloody confused."

"We'll sort it out.  If there is anything my family can do for you, we'll do it.  I am more grateful than I can say young man.  And I think the first thing is to get you a doctor.  I can get in touch with your people; let them know where you are."

"No.  Maggie, please, not yet.  I need time to think, time to sort out what is going on.  I feel a little stretched right now.  You are real, aren't you?"

"Last time I checked," she smiled at him.  Standing, she leant over him, smoothing a stray lock of damp hair away from his still fevered brow.  "I'll get you something to drink, try and rest."  With a quick movement she placed a soft maternal kiss on his forehead and left him to his thoughts.

***

It was the end of a long arduous day and Ivanova was grateful for the dim lighting and familiarity of her quarters.  With the conference on Minbar only two days away and the loss of Marcus Cole, security details that had been in place for a month, suddenly had to be re-jigged.  There was always the chance, however slim, that Marcus would part with those details.  The state he was in right now, anything seemed possible.

As Susan slipped off her jacket, her finger caught on the fastening that held Marcus' Ranger pin in place.  She had forgotten about it as the day's complications had taken precedence in her mind.  Even the strained visit to Ambassador Delenn's quarters had not reminded her.  Franklin had parcelled up Marcus' belongings and had presented them to the petite Minbari.  Her features had shown nothing of the hurt that sparkled in her eyes, but it emanated from her like a physical thing.  Delenn had always held Marcus dear, his humour not understood but appreciated, his loyalty never questioned.  He was always there when she needed him, always, and now he needed her and she could not help.

Susan slumped back onto the sofa, the ornament held lightly in her fingers.  She had never seen him without it.  Hell, she had never seen him out of Ranger uniform for that matter.  The vid of him, dressed all in black seemed unreal somehow.  Laying the pin down on the table she let her head fall back against the cushions as she reviewed her knowledge of him.  He had become one of them without any fuss, as though he had been with them all along.  He had slid into place unnoticed it seemed.  And yet she knew so little about him, despite his humorous map of where he stood in the whole scheme of things.  She smiled at the image that rose in her mind, unaware of it twisting awry at the thought of his loss.  Almost without volition her fingers sought and found the Wolf's head necklace he had given her bare weeks ago, tracing its contours with soft strokes.  That receipt, so many credits! He must have used up virtually all his money on that one item, for her.  His room attested to his lack of materialism.  He owned pretty much what he stood up in, and that was all.  The Minbari government rented the space; they also took care of his food.  He must have had some personal allowance but there was nothing to show what it might be spent on...  except for the tangible reminder of him that was clasped about her neck always.

Late that afternoon, two corpses had been found in Down Below.  Men that Garibaldi had immediately identified as known thugs working for Shaker.  Their method of dispatch had pointed to someone highly trained, or extremely lucky.  With a Ranger on the loose, Franklin had gone for the former.  Autopsy reports had shown that one man had had his skull smashed against a bulkhead, the other had his neck snapped, killing him instantly.  And then there had been the blood, a small pool close by the victims.  Stephen's analysis had proved it to be that of Marcus Cole.  Either he was injured in the fight, or...  well, Susan was not going to think of that right now.  But it seemed Marcus' nightmare visions were based somehow in fact.  Garibaldi's men were even now starting a search for the criminal, but Babylon 5 was a huge area and Shaker had evaded them time and again.

In the morning she would set about the new arrangements for Delenn's transfer to Minbar.  Marcus should have been the Ambassador's escort, taking his own small White Star and a handful of security men that Captain Sheridan had insisted on sending along.  Now it was going to fall to her to ensure the Ambassador reached her destination safely.

***

When Marcus next woke he was alone.  For the first time in days he had slept without dreaming, the relief he felt did much to ease his mind.  And he felt physically much stronger.  Apart from the nagging headache that still pounded over his eye, and a thirst that would take some quenching, he felt comparatively well.  The ache that had consumed his body had receded to no more than a dull inconvenience, no more and his mind seemed somehow clearer, more focussed.  Tossing back the covers he sat up gingerly, waiting for the pulse of pain to subside.  Someone had stripped him, before putting him to bed, leaving just his underwear for modesty.  A searching glance around the room located his clothing, freshly laundered and folded on a chair.  But first things first, he needed to take care of nature, his bladder felt fit to burst.  The door standing ajar across the room led into a dark space he hoped was the bathroom.  Standing on unsteady legs, he manoeuvred his way around the room, using the wall for support.  As he passed the closed door opposite the bed the faint sound of voices reached him.  He stopped briefly, trying to catch the words but they eluded him, reminiscent of his dreams.  With one hand stretched out for support he continued his marathon trek to the beckoning darkness.  As he stepped over the threshold lights came on automatically, a glaring, uncompromising brilliance that threatened to blast his retinas into blindness.

"Dim lights!" he ordered, and the brightness suffused enough that he could finally open his eyes.  The bathroom was functional but tiny.  A sonic shower cubicle stood in one corner, the usual facilities in another; a round speckled mirror adhered to the wall above the sonic tap.  Marcus stared at himself with something like horror.  Dark circles deepened his eyes, making his grey green orbs stand out against the dark background.  He thought he had looked rough after his drunken binge, this was infinitely worse.  Skin that was normally pale seemed almost paper-thin against his jutting cheekbones.  A veritable deaths-head stared back at him.  The technicoloured black eye stood out in bas-relief, and highlighted the deep red slash that ran over his eye.  Someone had expertly sewn the edges together, leaving a trail of dark stitches that followed the curve of his brow.  His normally controlled locks hung in limp strands where fever and abuse had taken their toll, and once again a faint tang of body odour assailed him making his stomach curl uncomfortably.

Marcus spent a long time under the sonic shower, long enough for his mind to clear.  He remembered much of what had gone before, some of it a little hazy, some of it in startling clarity.  He remembered leaving the message for Delenn, <at least>, he thought, <I had enough sense for that>.  And he got glimpses of a fight, of a young girl in distress.  He could almost feel the impact of the heel of his hand slamming into an unprotected chin.  It was one of the moments that still lay behind a mist in his mind, but he was sure he had killed -- what worried him more was why?

Dressing was harder than he thought it would be, in the end he sat on the bed and managed one piece of clothing at a time.  Reaching for socks and boots proved the most hazardous, as blood rushed to his head each time he bent down.  It did little to improve his headache but at least he felt alive now and somewhat in control.  Something he had not felt for a very long time.  He smoothed one hand down the front of his sweater, the unaccustomed sensation of wool against his fingers felt wrong.  There was no weight at his belt where his denn'Bok normally hung, no Ranger pin on his breast to remind him who he was, he felt like a stranger in his own body.  But he knew he must find Shaker, that he was the threat, a genuine threat -- to whom and why he had not figured out yet, but he would and then there would be a reckoning between them.

He opened the door quietly, every move adding to the ache in his head.  At the small table sat three generations of women.  The older lady he knew as Maggie, her daughter, whom he knew from the bar also called, confusingly, Maggie, and the youngster he had rescued what seemed a lifetime ago.

The older Maggie got rapidly to her feet and bore down upon him.  "Now what are you doing up?  I thought you would sleep a lot longer than this."  Her quick comprehensive glance took in his pale features and the slight sway as he stood in the doorway.  "Sit down before you fall down," she said sternly, catching his arm and steering him to her recently vacated chair.

Syrea leaned across the table and looked at him with the unconscious openness of the child that she was.  "You look terrible.  You've got a horrid black eye!"

Marcus chuckled, then winced as it reverberated in his skull.  "Out of the mouths of babes," he quoted.  "I'll recover, thanks to Maggie here."

"Oh hush.  I did what I could.  It's a long time since I helped at the field hospital and I still think you should go above and be seen by a doctor.  My stitching isn't as good as it used to be."  She looked down at her fingers, now beginning to curl with arthritis.

"I'm more than grateful," Marcus replied, his hand covering hers.  "I'm still a little fuzzy about what happened, and why two of you are called Maggie.  I think I may have been mixing my dreams with reality -- it's been a little rough lately."

"I'll explain," spoke the younger woman whose eyes had not left his face from the moment he had entered the room.  "Although everyone calls me Maggie my name is actually Marguerite, mother is Margaret.  Most folks call her that as no one seems able to manage my name."

"Your father had a warped sense of humour, my dear.  He thought it would be fun to have two 'Maggies' in the family."

"And how does Shaker come into the equation.  Maggie, I mean Margaret, told me that he is Syrea's father?"

Maggie's eyes clouded for a moment, her hands clasped in front of her resting on the table.  "I used to work for him, this would be about ten years ago now.  At that time he owned a bar on Mars colony.  A good quality place, nothing approaching the dive I work in now.  I'd been having a rough time of it and he seemed nice.  He wasn't much to look at but he treated me okay, at least he did for a while.  When I fell pregnant he changed, didn't want the responsibilities that came with being a parent.  He fired me from the bar, evicted me from the flat we were sharing."  Her fingers were white now, where they laced together.  "I came home to mother, and she has looked after us ever since."

Syrea left her seat and came into the circle of her mother's arms.  "We moved here about three years ago.  I had hoped to make a fresh start, somewhere where Shaker couldn't find us.  He had been looking for me for a while by that time.  Seems he changed his mind about his duty."  She snorted her derision.  "I didn't believe it then, and I don't believe it now.  I don't know what he wants with her, but if we have to move on again, so be it."

Marcus' eyes rested thoughtfully on the child, his dream coming back to him in some detail.  It seemed unlikely that Shaker would want to sell his own child, Maggie was hardly a woman to sit back and do nothing as witnessed by the search party she had organised.  "As you say, he's on the station for something, but I don't see him flouting Garibaldi's security to visit a child he has all but abandoned.  There must be a more profitable reason."

"Profit is his god, you're right."

They shared a look over the young Syrea's dark curls.  "Time for bed, Syrea.  Mum, would you?"

Margaret steered the protesting child out of the room, ignoring her "It's not fair, why do I get to miss all the good bits?  And I like Marcus, why can't I stay up..."

Maggie sent a fond glance after her daughter, then turned her attention back to Marcus.

"What do you think he's after?"

"Right now I'm finding it hard to think at all," he replied, one hand reaching for his forehead where the pounding he had been ignoring had suddenly upped its insistence.  Tremors were running through him, setting his hand to shaking where it lay restlessly in his lap.  "I wish I knew what the hell was wrong with me."

Maggie's lips pursed; her gaze contemplative on him.  "I think..."  she hesitated.  "Marcus, don't take this wrong, but do you have a habit?"

Confused he retorted, "Do I look like a monk?!"

She smiled, caught by his real confusion.  "I meant a drug habit.  Booze, uppers, downers, something like that."

His face turned thunderous at the accusation.  "Just what the hell are you implying?" he all but raged at her.

"Don't get upset, it's just that I've seen a few cases...  well when Mum brought you back here yesterday..."

"I've been here a day?" Marcus interrupted.

"A day and a half nearly...  For goodness sake, will you sit down?" She jumped up and put a firm hand on his shoulder, pressing him back into his seat even as he tried to rise.  His body could put up little resistance as she stood her ground.  This time she took the seat opposite him, keeping her hand on his shoulder for a moment longer than was necessary to get her point across.

"When Mum brought you home and I got a look at you I was, well to put it mildly, shocked.  I'd seen you many a night in the bar, and I had never known you do more than sip at a glass of water.  But the state you were in...  Marcus, your pupils were so dilated I could hardly tell what colour your eyes were.  I've seen that before, when we've had to throw out a junkie, or someone high on some illegal dust.  I would never have thought it of you, I still find it hard to believe."

"Then don't," he replied savagely.  "I've never taken drugs in my life, and I am not stupid enough to start now.  Yes, I got drunk the other night, but that was the first time in years and only because..."

Her steady gaze was unnerving.  He had spoken candidly to Margaret, not really believing she existed, but now, now he knew where he was, who he was and this woman was a stranger.

"Nightmares," she nodded.  "Mum told me.  But didn't you ask yourself why?  If you weren't dosing yourself, could someone have been slipping it to you covertly?  I know what you do, Marcus, and you must have enemies."

He nodded, "Yes, but they are more likely to shove a knife in my back, or blast me into little pieces.  I have that effect on people you know."  Even though his head pounded fit to burst and his fingers trembled, he could not help the one liner slipping past his lips.

"But you can take care of yourself.  I saw the results of your handiwork once.  Phil wasn't exactly pleased with the mess.  But what I need to say is, I'm glad you know how.  I dread to think what might have happened to Syrea if it hadn't been you who found her.  I don't think Shaker would harm her but...  She told me how you dealt with those two thugs."

Maggie laid a hand on his dark clad thigh.  "I don't have the words to thank you, but you have to understand how grateful I am.  Anything we can do to help you, just ask."

"You haven't got an aspirin by any chance?"

She laughed softly and rose, "The least I can do for my daughter's dark angel.  That's what she called you, did you know?  It somehow seems to fit, don't you agree, mother?"

Margaret had entered the room unnoticed by Marcus.

"Dark yes, angel...  I'd have to think about that," she replied with a smile.

Continued

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