Jamey Maxwell remembers driving by a Church of Christ in Ft. Worth many years ago. The sign in front of the church said this: HELL IS REAL. At the time, he laughed out loud and muttered, "Well, that's a great thought to start the day." In his mind now the sign appears. This time, he does not laugh, nor crack a smile, nor move a muscle. Jamey Maxwell is catatonic.


My name is Alphonso and I look after Jamey Maxwell. As much as an orderly can look after a temporarily insane and currently catatonic convicted mass murderer. In my case, that's quite a bit. I have been assigned to Jamey Maxwell by the head of this hospital and by the Head of the universe. I am a black man and I am the angel.

My job as an orderly is to keep Jamey Maxwell from killing himself when he awakens. My job as an angel is to explain his life to him; how he has been used and manipulated. Most importantly, my job is to help him escape and begin his penultimate job on Earth: track down and kill the angel Azazel. Azazel is bipolar, psychotic, and psychopathic. And he has serious issues.

In his current incarnation as a man, Azazel seeks a suitable woman, or women, with whom to mate. He wants a son...or a daughter. Maybe both. He is not choosey about this. Either one could become the new Messiah.

Sarkos heteros, "strange flesh," is what the ancient Greeks would have called Azazel now that he has descended to Earth as a man. God calls him an abomination.

I am assigned to Ward D, second floor. I am responsible for six very crazy humans. Only one will be cured. Only one will leave.

Although Jamey Maxwell is in no condition to hear any of this just yet, he will be soon. I will make it so, with a little help from my Friend. Then I will slowly bring him out of his state of catatonia into a new state...paranoia. It is a process. It is required. An evolution, so to speak.

God experienced billions of years of sensory deprivation before He said, "Let there be light." What happens to humans when they are deprived of their senses for just short periods of time? They go insane. They were created in God's image. Something to consider.


Michael Moore Malicky is twenty years old now, as is his twin brother. His twin brother resides inside Michael's intracranial cavity. No one knows about the twin brother, as he is a fetus-in-fetu…a parasitic twin that never fully developed and is now encapsulated inside Michael's brain.

Fetuses-in-fetu are increasingly present in humans. Evidence of environmental degradation? Evidence of genetic breakdown? You humans are not taking very good care of the beautiful planet He made for you. In fact, you are destroying it. Evidence of God's anger? I know many things, but I do not know the answer to this.

Michael's twin began growing slowly about nine years ago. Up until then, Michael had been your typical teenager, interested in girls, cars, video games, sports...and girls. As the fetus-in-fetu began to expand inside Michael's head, his personality changed. Michael's behavior became increasingly erratic. Mood swings from euphoria to rage and back again. The cycles became more frequent and more extreme with each passing day. Michael's parents took him to their family physician. He was a good, if too busy, doctor, who could not get Michael out of his office quickly enough to suit himself and his staff.

From there, Michael saw a neurologist, then an endocrinologist, then a psychiatrist. Some lab work was done. Some questionnaires were completed. Throughout it all, Michael never complained of headaches.

His chief complaint was always this: somebody is inside my head. No one took him literally.

All the physicians consulted concluded that Michael was bipolar. Various medications, mostly anti-psychotic drugs, were prescribed. For short periods of time, the drugs masked his symptoms. That didn't last.

Michael was given more and higher doses of medications. Pills to treat the side effects of pills. Successful surgery may have been possible once, but no longer. Michael Malicky will be dead soon. His final diagnosis in the Skyview records will read: Dementia, etiology unknown.

There is no more room inside Michael's head for any rational thoughts: his uninvited lodger is growing rapidly now. Michael should be getting plenty of medication for his pain, for his wacked-out ways. But there are caregivers who borrow it. Use it. Sell it.

When Michael Malicky was eighteen, his parents took him out of high school.

He had spent the first semester of his senior year sequestered. In School Suspension for fighting, disrupting the classroom, uncontrolled profanity, and just plain weird behavior. Come Christmas his parents could not take the constant embarrassment and school conferences any longer. Michael's school days were over. No one was sorry to see him go.

Michael's mother began taking medication to deal with her increasing anxiety and sorrow. Guilt and worry were her constant companions. She could not sleep. She could not concentrate. She could not understand what had happened to her son. Her sweet, sweet son.

She spent hours looking through the scrapbooks that she had carefully and joyfully created and filled with photographs of her beloved boy. Family vacations. Birthdays. T-ball games. His best-of-show award for an elementary school art exhibit. An 8th grade dance. A tennis tournament. A science project. The day he got his learner's permit. His beautiful smile.

She thought she had failed as a mother. She thought if she could just think of the right thing to say to him…find the right doctor…find the right drug…he would be okay. He would be happy. He would be safe. In the end, she thought Michael's problems were all her fault.

Michael's father began working longer and longer hours. Taking on extra projects. The medical bills, even with insurance, were mounting. Deductibles, co-pays, non-covered items. He needed to make more money. That is how he explained his absences to his wife.

Michael scarcely seemed to notice - that is what Michael's father told himself. The truth though: Michael's father did not want to come home. Did not want to encounter the irrational stranger that his son had become. He knew that was not fair; knew that his wife needed him there. That his son needed him. He felt helpless. Hopeless. He wished he were a better man.

However, Michael's biggest misfortune was that in the house next door to his lived a pedophile. A banker by the name of Guy Hoffman. Deacon in his church. Vice President of the Chamber of Commerce. Volunteer at the local food bank. Pillar of rectitude in his community. Monster in his household.

Guy Hoffman had two daughters, ages 2 and 7. He began molesting his oldest daughter when she was 2. He told her she was his "special girl." But when she was seven, Melissa began to realize how wrong this was.

She had learned at school about "good touch" and "bad touch" and that she could say…should say… "no"…even to her Daddy. She began to worry about her little sister, Megan.

One day Melissa found the courage to tell her Daddy that if he did not stop she would tell her Mommy. Her Daddy promised he would never do it again and begged her not to tell. Melissa sighed with relief and smiled as if she had been given a gift. She still believed that daddies are supposed to love and protect their children. She still believed that her daddy would not lie to her. She believed that she had done what she needed to do to protect her baby sister.

And deep down, she also believed that she was a bad girl…that she had made her Daddy behave badly. Of all the evil people in the world, God hates child molesters most of all. Especially child-molesting fathers.

Guy Hoffman knew Michael quite well, having lived next door to the Malickys for more than ten years.

He had seen Michael's transformation. He had seen the disintegration of his life from normal kid to run-when-you-see-him-coming. He knew Michael was a very sick boy.

He knew that video games somehow calmed Michael. Focused his unruly brain. Guy had nurtured a neighborly relationship with Michael. Just in case. He knew that Michael could be used. He knew that Michael could solve his little problem.

The day after Melissa threatened to expose her Daddy, Guy invited Michael over to play a new video game, appropriately titled Denizens of Evil.

Guy knew from rambling conversations with Michael conducted over the backyard fence that the original Denizens of Evil 2 video game was Michael's favorite. A quick trip to Walmart provided Guy with an unexpected bonanza: the latest version at Walmart's everyday low price.

The main feature of Denizens of Evil 2, the "partner control" system, is unique to the series. Instead of choosing a single character to play, the player controls both the main characters…Jessica Chalmers, ECHO team's medic from Denizens of Evil, and Bobby Cowan, an escaped ex-military convict…throughout the entire game.

As Michael began playing Denizens of Evil 2, instantly unaware of any and all outside stimuli, Guy Hoffman began his own debased scheme of "partner control." Guy was now controlling his main characters: Melissa and Michael. His perverted version of Denizens of Evil 2 was sickening in its perfection.

The Nintendo GameCube just happened to be in the traitorous and unappreciative daughter's bedroom. And it just so happened that by the time Michael left Guy Hoffman's house, his fingerprints were all over Melissa's room.

That night, when Guy came into her room "to hear her prayers," he put his hand over Melissa's mouth and nose, and as his seven-year-old daughter struggled, he cried. He was very sad that she had given him no other choice. It was all her fault.

The police, with Guy Hoffman's sly and sometimes subtle/sometimes not-so-subtle assistance, came to the rapid conclusion - a rush to judgment, if you will -that Michael Malicky was a child molester and now a child killer.

Medical professionals examined the Hoffman's surviving young daughter, Megan, and found that she too had been recently molested.

There was no DNA evidence linking the molestations to Michael Malicky. There was, however, DNA evidence linking Guy Hoffman, if only the authorities had taken one extra step. But why bother? They already had their killer.

While Michael was in custody, he was alternately combative, helpful, and completely out of touch with reality.

He thought the police were his friends. He thought they were asking him about the new video game that he had played at Mr. Hoffman's house. The one that was particularly graphic and violent.

Michael obligingly confessed to the rape and murder of Melissa Hoffman, parroting each and every lurid detail provided by his new friends.

Michael's parents, grief-stricken, exhausted, and nearly bankrupt, were virtually powerless to help their son.

Like the police, they were convinced of Michael's guilt. Horrified by what they believed Michael had done, their only wish was to keep Michael from being executed.

As if the burgeoning pseudo-twin inside his head were not bad luck enough, execution of the mentally ill in the state of Texas had become commonplace, demanded; even amongst humans who profess to value above all else God's great gift, life.

We Watchers do not understand their logic.

Michael's court-appointed attorney was harried, harassed, and doing the best she could with an impossible workload.

She reviewed all the discovery evidence available. She pictured herself sitting on the jury listening to and looking at the evidence…the terrible, sad photographs; the freely given admission of guilt; the lack of remorse; the court-appointed psychiatrist saying, "Many studies have concluded that people who play violent video games are more aggressive, more likely to commit violent crimes, and less likely to help others. But critics argue these correlations merely prove that violent people gravitate towards violent games, not that games can change behavior."

She even said Michael's full name out loud over and over again, wondering just how it would sound to a jury hearing a child molester/child murderer case: "Michael Moore Malicky, Michael Moore Malicky, Michael Moore Malicky." Michael had not chosen his parents well.

Muttering 'oh sh*t' to herself, the young attorney advised the Malicky family without reservation, in the strongest of words, that Michael Moore Malicky should plead guilty.

Everyone involved believed it was the best thing for Michael. The best thing for society. As part of a plea bargain agreement, the judge arranged for Michael's confinement at the Skyview Unit.

Guy Hoffman, hanging his head and hiding his face behind his hands in a gesture that approximated grief, smiled when he heard the news. He thinks he has gotten away with it. He feels omnipotent. Untouchable.  Home free.

He does not know it yet, but he is mistaken.


I escort Jamey Maxwell out of the Skyview Psychiatric Unit in Rusk-fucking-Texas. I walk him into the dense piney woods. I tell him where to go first in his search for Azazel. I give him some clues. Not many, for my intervention is limited by the laws of God. I give him a chain with a crucifix attached. We Watchers are not Christians, of course. Neither is Jamey Maxwell. But, as a talisman, it is better than nothing. And, who knows? God may, in fact, be a Christian. Your guess is as good as mine.

As I hand Jamey the crucifix, I realize that Watchers, most angels really, lose faith in God from time to time. Not like humans, though.  Angels never doubt His existence. How could we? Our loss of faith has more to do with our fears. We are afraid He has lost interest in some, or all, of His creations. We are afraid He may have abandoned this universe and started anew. Somewhere far, far away.

Sometimes we ask, "God, are You still there?"  "No" would be the second best answer.


As Jamey Maxwell arrives in Fort Thornton, his thoughts wander to 1968. He had just turned 19, not that there was anyone around to notice.  Certainly not any of the hardworking and harder drinking men he worked with.  He was living in a cheap motel in Fort Thornton while working on a Sunoco seismograph crew. He had dropped out of what was then known as Southwest Texas State University to replenish his bank account for tuition and, more importantly he thought, to get his bottom teeth fixed.

Late at night, too exhausted to fall asleep, Jamey would sit alone in his room at the Sands Motel listening to his most prized LP album, Changes and Rewind, on one of his few possessions…a portable record player.  Over and over, he listened to his favorite "blue-eyed" soul singer, Johnny Rivers.  The Tracks of My Tears.  Baby, I Need Your Lovin'. By the Time I Get to Phoenix. Poor Side of Town.  After a few beers, he would look in the mirror, pulling down his bottom lip. Teeth still crooked. After a few more beers, he would quit looking. Jamey remembers wondering why, even though he was lonely, he did not miss his ex-girlfriend, Claudette.

It was fall. Then winter. It was Jamey's first time in West Texas, and the older guys on the crew told him that winters could be…would be…brutal. In mid-December Jamey was laying cable from a hundred pound spool strapped to his chest when the first blue norther of the season hit. In less than an hour, the temperature dropped 40 degrees as the wind blew 50 miles per hour.  Sand, dirt and debris of all sorts tore at his face and filled his eyes.  Tumbleweeds large enough to knock over a full grown heifer raced across the bleak and barren plain. Jamey was wearing a long-sleeve shirt and a down vest. He put on a heavy coat. He crawled into the truck. He turned the heater on high. Still he shivered. At that moment, Jamey decided to return to college… ASAP.

I am Jamey's GPS navigation system. The streets in Fort Thornton, like most West Texas streets, are flat, straight, and unusually wide. Lots of space in West Texas. Might as well use it. Jamey Maxwell pulls up at the curb of Guy Hoffman's sprawling 1970s white brick home with its white trim. A genuine white bread home, Jamey thinks. At some point in the decade the houses in this neighborhood were built, someone performed mass psychic lobotomy on Texas landscapers. Then visions of carpet grass and wax leaf ligustrum hedges were implanted into what remained of their frontal lobes.The result? The generic West Texas lawn: St. Augustine, aka carpet grass; and across the front of the house the mandatory ligustrum japonicum hedge.

Both the real grief and the fake grief have subsided in the Hoffman home. Although Karen Hoffman will always carry the burden of losing her child and although she never speaks of it, Karen blames Guy and does not know why. Megan, two years old when her sister died, is now five years old and attending kindergarten. She hardly remembers her big sister, Melissa. The big sister who died trying to protect her.

It is a school day. Karen Hoffman has gone shopping in Midland. Guy Hoffman will soon be home for lunch. First Street State Bank, like many small West Texas banks, closes for lunch. Guy Hoffman is a creature of habit. Guy has eaten the same lunch, at the same time, every workday for the past 17 years. He loves his peanut butter and blackberry jam sandwich…on white bread of course…with a glass of cold milk. Whole milk.  No 2% for him. None of that wimpy bluish skim milk. He thinks he is a real man. He will soon be disabused of that misconception.

Jamey Maxwell walks through the unlocked back door and stands by the fireplace in the Hoffmans' den. He is looking at family photos on the mantle. The requisite family picture taken at the Walmart Photo Studio in Midland shows the mythical typical semi-perfect American family: two pretty little girls, a slightly above average attractive wife, and a fairly good-looking monster.

Jamey picks up a picture of Melissa Hoffman, probably the last photograph taken of her. She will always be as she is pictured: a seven-year old, with an innocent smile, in a frilly white dress. Jamey thinks of Michael Malicky. Then he thinks of his own beautiful daughters. For all those who believe that life is fair on Planet Earth; that there is a silver lining in every cloud; that good things come to those who wait; that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger; that you should make lemonade when you are given lemons; that God has a plan for us, mysterious though it may be; Jamey Maxwell would like to say to them: little girls die, so stick all of your clichés up your Pollyanna asses.

Like corrupt clockwork, Guy Hoffman pulls up in his driveway. It is 12:09PM. He notices the old beat-up blue S-10 on the street. He figures it belongs to a neighbor's Mexican yardman, here to cut some carpet grass, trim some ligustrums. Guy Hoffman is close to correct. Wrong house.  Wrong yardman.

The truth: Jamey Maxwell is here to cut Mr. Hoffman's incorpereal carpet grass, and trim Mr. Hoffman's metaphysical ligustrums.

Guy Hoffman opens the back door and walks through the utility room into his den. He stops in his tracks and suppresses a squeal when he sees Jamey Maxwell standing there.

"Wh…what the heck?" Guy asks primly.

Jamey Maxwell stares at Guy Hoffman, not yet saying a word. The silence is so unnerving that Guy feels compelled to fill in the noiseless void. "Can I help you with something?"

"Yes," Jamey Maxwell replies, and continues to look at Guy Hoffman without blinking.

Guy Hoffman was hoping for a more detailed answer, but he doesn't get one.

Guy thinks he must be in the wrong house, in the wrong town, in the wrong state, in the wrong country, on the wrong planet…that this cannot be real…that this cannot be happening to him. He wishes Scotty could beam him up. But Scotty is not here. Just Jamey Maxwell.

Guy Hoffman cannot make his feet move.  Disconnected thoughts stream through the pathways in his sorry, perverted brain.  What he wishes he could do, more than anything, is rewind time, retrace his steps, take back his wave in the direction of the yardman he never saw, and slip back into his Acura MDX. Drive back to the bank.  Pretend he has just had a bad daydream.  

"You know I'm here to kill you," Jamey deadpans.

Guy opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He closes his mouth just in time to catch the rising vomit.

Holding Melissa's picture in front of him, Jamey takes three strides and is standing in front of Guy Hoffman. Jamey holds the photograph up to Guy's increasingly pallid face.

"This is for Michael. This is for your little girls," Jamey says before stepping behind the frozen-in-place lump of evil. He reaches around and hands Guy Hoffman the silver framed photo of Melissa. "Look at it," Jamey says quietly, just before he covers Guy Hoffman's nose and mouth with his right hand. With his left arm, Jamey wraps Guy's upper arms and pins them. "Do not drop Melissa," Jamey whispers.

For a moment, Guy stands still, submissive. He looks at the face of his dead daughter. Tears form and begin to trickle down his cheeks. Not tears of sadness. Not tears of regret. Tears of fear. Guy panics, and the struggle begins.

Guy drops the image of his dead daughter. Glass shatters as the frame hits the white tile floor. Guy Hoffman is 3 inches shorter than Jamey Maxwell and fifty pounds heavier. Jamey tightens his constrictor-like grip around Guy's chest and lifts him off the ground like a repulsive supersized rag doll.

With his right hand, Jamey pinches Guy's nose while still covering his mouth. He pulls Guy's head back, pinning it against his shoulder. Even though Guy is struggling, he is not fighting back.  No fight. No flight. All that is left is for Guy to die.

Unlike portrayals on television and in movies, it takes a very long time to suffocate a man. Or a little girl. Guy Hoffman knows. Incredibly, even during the horror of dying, that is what he is thinking about now. How long it took him to smother his daughter. It is Guy Hoffman's last living thought.

Jamey Maxwell continues to hold Guy Hoffman off the ground, even though the struggle has ended. Seven minutes have passed. Guy Hoffman, Vice-President of the First Street State Bank; Guy Hoffman, Vice-President of the Fort Thornton Chamber of Commerce; Guy Hoffman, deacon in the Second Baptist Church; Guy Hoffman, the husband; Guy Hoffman, the father; Guy Hoffman, the predator; Guy Hoffman, the pedophile; is dead.

Karen Hoffman, upon returning from a successful shopping trip in Midland, finds her husband on their white tile floor, dead from an apparent heart attack. Although she will never tell another living soul, Karen's first and only emotion is pure, unadulterated relief.

Daughter Megan, when told of her father's death, will second that emotion.

You could never really trust the sky to do its job.  

All Julia would have asked, had she had a direct line to whichever god took care of those things, was for a nice overcast to hide her from the eyes in the sky.  After all the coast of Spain was nearby.  They were in international waters, but who would truly give the Euros any grief if they "accidentally" shot down a privateer?

At least they were moving away from the mainland at a speed that would make them look like a cargo vessel making its way towards the Balears on legitimate business.  Hopefully, the controllers wouldn't look too closely.

Ironically, bad weather had caused them to drift towards the coast in the first place.  Seven cloudy days in a row had depleted their batteries to the point where they'd had to turn the props off and drift wherever the wind took them.

She'd spent the last two of those days fighting a desperate battle trying to keep her ship at the right altitude, attempting to judge the wind direction at every strata.  Because if they'd been blown over land, they were all as good as dead.  A pirate airship wasn't much use against jet fighters who knew where it was.  Missiles and hydrogen just weren't a good combination.

"How are we doing, Alex?" she asked her first mate.  It was obvious everything was perfectly all right, but she wanted to re-establish a sense of normality, make everyone forget the anguish of the last couple of days.  Status reports tended to make people forget they were nervous.

"Power at twenty percent, batteries charging.  We're heading nearly due south."

"Good.  Carry on."

The man nodded.  He knew what she was doing, but wanted to look professional in front of the captain, as did the rest of the bridge crew.  Which was just what she wanted; people sucking up to their superiors weren't thinking about the fact that they'd been one strong gust in the wrong direction from dying.

Due south was where she wanted to be.  Tenerife.  A couple of days would bring them to a place where the hunting was good and the law enforcement negligible.  The Atlantic shipping corridor had gotten a little too hot for her taste.


"I call it the Flytrap."

"Very funny," Julia said sourly.  But then again, Henning was decidedly technology-oriented.  What else would he call an offensive weapon carried by an airship named Venus? "What does it do?"  From where she was standing, it looked like a huge pile of string and netting – nothing even remotely functional.

"Can we stop?  If we can hold our position a while, I'll show you."

She nodded, and commed the control room.  "Alex, can you hold us in place for a few minutes?"

He acknowledged and Julia felt the airship decelerating under her feet.  She'd been able to tell to the millisecond when an aircraft came to a halt ever since she was an orphaned pirate brat and her uncle ran the airship.

"Grab a rail," Henning warned.  As she passed her hand through a safety line, looping it over her wrist, the engineer pressed the big red button on the hatch controls.  The massive bomb-bay doors that made up most of the floor began to open, slowly but surely.

The pile of cords dropped out of the opening and down towards the sea below.  Suddenly, two thick ropes, connected to a pair of structural pillars on opposite sides of the bay tautened.

Henning looked down at his handiwork.  "I think you'll like this," he said.

Julia looked over the precipice.  "It's a net!"

The tangled mess had expanded and now hung open beneath the airship.  It was quite clearly a net designed to snare some kind of small craft, and it was held taut by two weights on the extremes.

She studied it.  "Will it be able to pull anything up with it?"

"Look at this," he replied, tossing her a piece of cord.  "Hyperelastic Kevlar.  When something hits it, it expands quite a bit, and then it contracts and grabs hold.  Stronger than steel, too, but not sharp, so it won't damage the merchandise."

"And what do you propose to use it for?"

"It seems like a great way to grab speedboats and jet-skis, don't you think?  All we have to do is make sure we manage to drop the net in front of them."

Speedboats and jet-skis had always been a sore point with the crew.  While a good airship could outrun them in a straight line, the more maneuverable surface craft were nearly impossible to catch, short of sinking them with missiles.  And there was not much of a market for ransoming dead millionaires.  If Henning's net worked, they could increase their profit while decreasing the risk.

"Won't they see us coming miles away?"

"They might, but if we're just holding our altitude steady, they might not realize we're pirates."

"Not many cargo companies fly black airships, Henning."

"Not all black airships are pirates."

Yeah, but most of them are , she thought.  Out loud, she said, "All right.  We'll give it a shot.  It has to be safer than hijacking oil tankers in the middle of the night or exchanging volleys with merchant airships." Especially now that the price of helium means that some of our bags are filled with hydrogen .

"Thanks.  I won't disappoint you."

"I'm certain of it."  And besides, even if it didn't quite work on speedboats, there was another idea she wanted to try.  Riskier, and it meant getting involved with a partner – making it riskier still – but potentially incredibly profitable.


The boat, more a luxury yacht than anything you would describe with the word ‘speedboat' shot through the water at an amazing clip.  Julia ordered the crew to lower their altitude and called Henning.  "Standby with the Flytrap," she said.  "I'll let you know when to deploy it."

"Roger."

"Full speed ahead."

The bridge crew complied and the Venus shot towards the bright blue surface of the ocean, attempting to intersect the large boat's path in a place where they'd be able to tangle it in the huge nets.  They'd tried this a few times on smaller vessels and jet-skis with no success – it always seemed that they were detected at the last moment and the craft would veer off.

This time, though, there was no one on deck, and whoever was driving seemed to be more concerned with avoiding the larger swells than in what might be bearing in on him from his upper left-hand side.

Julia knew that in just a few seconds more, they would be at the point of no return, beyond which the boat would be unable to turn away from her nets.  Her heart beat as if counting down to a momentous occasion.  If they moved too soon, everything would be ruined.

But if they left it too long, they might miss completely.  Julia held her breath and watched.  Waiting.  Waiting. "Henning, now!"  The airship shuddered slightly as the huge bomb-bay doors opened and the miles of netting fell out of the belly of the ship.  "Keep us level, Alex!"

She watched the scene unfold on a series of monitors which gave her the feed from cameras mounted on the bottom of the airship.  The dark grey mess of interconnected holes that was her net dropped and expanded, the two end-weights hitting the water with a splash.

At the very last moment, the pilot of the yacht seemed to realize that something was amiss, and attempted to break away from the curtain that had suddenly appeared out of nowhere in front of him.  The boat skidded over the waves as he desperately attempted to change course.

It was much too late.  The speedboat hit the net at an angle and spun into the curtain wall, twisting the flexible strands until it was cocooned.

That was all Julia saw.  A huge shock went through the Venus, which was suddenly pulled down and to the right by the force of the impact on the netting.  Julia was actually thrown off her feet, and her head bounced against the roof of the control center.  She landed against the rear bulkhead and was pelted by what seemed to be everything else in the bridge which wasn't nailed or tied down.

Fortunately, the crew were belted to their seats, which were firmly bolted to the floor, and two of them were immediately attending to her.

"I'm all right," Julia told them, and tried to stand as she brushed them off.  She needed to see what their situation was, and whether the shock had damaged her command.  She could worry about the bruises and possible concussion later.

Alex was already giving orders, and the airship's nose, which had been dangerously close to the surface, slowly leveled out.

"What's our status?" She asked him.

He held up a hand, and when the floor finally became horizontal, he turned to her. Updates flashes across his screen. "A few snapped lines, some bruises and at least one broken arm.  But other than that, the old boat held up extremely well."

How the hell could he already know about the broken arm? she wondered.  But that was why she employed Alex.  It certainly wasn't for his combat prowess.  "And the net?"

"It held up better than we did, we've already started to winch it up.  The boarding team is on its way to the hangar."

"Tell them no one is to board until I get there."

"Yes, ma'am."

She shot through the door and headed towards the rear of the airship, cursing the all-enclosed construction.  On an open-plan airship she would have been able to use a rope to swing from deck to deck.  But open-plan airships, bitterly cold, had gone out of fashion when she was just a little girl, except for some sightseeing vehicles.

Still, even with the precious seconds she lost navigating the twists and ladders that led to the cargo deck, Julia arrived well before the entangled boat was anywhere near the opening.  She found her assault team leader, a huge blond man with a fine network of scars on his face and arms, peering down over the edge.

"Hey Rajiv, You really should use a safety line."

"Hey Sis.  So you're going to join us in the bloodshed and pillaging?"

She scowled at him.  Her half-brother knew perfectly well that the mission called for the gentlest possible extraction of the hostages, and the greatest respect for their virtue, such as it might be.  Rape the wrong heiress, cut off the wrong millionaire's finger, and a whole bunch of dangerous people got paid lots of money to shoot you out of the sky.

"Just want to make sure you knuckleheads know what you're doing."

 "Good point.  Wouldn't want us to just charge in and try to tackle them, would you?"

"Exactly.  So what are you going to do?"

"We're going to charge in and try to tackle them, of course."  He grinned at her.  "And I don't want you anywhere near the front.  These people have had plenty of time to get their bearings, and they might be armed."

"So, are we going to have a shootout?"

"I hope not.  I have a plan."  

That was all she could get out of him, but when the yacht neared the floor, he commanded his team, as well as Julia and Henning, to hide.

Soon enough, the craft had crossed the threshold, and was suspended nine feet above the closing bomb-bay doors.  Rajiv's predictions were borne out: two men in sailor's whites could be seen at one of the smashed windows, pointing weapons at the seemingly empty hangar.

"Now, Henning," Rajiv said.  "If you would be so kind?"

The old engineer began to move two levers, seemingly at random, and the suspended speedboat began to dance in midair, throwing the two sailors – and anyone else who may have been inside – around violently.

"All right.  They've had enough."

The netting, complete with speedboat, dropped to the floor with a hollow boom and Rajiv's team appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, to swarm over the cracked hull.  Julia's heart jumped to her throat as her brother led his men through the tangled netting and into any openings they encountered.

They were out of sight, but she could hear the shouting coming from within.  It seemed to her that an eternity had passed, but it was actually nearer to thirty seconds.  Rajiv's blond head poked out a porthole.  "All clear, sis."

She exhaled.  No one had said that being a pirate was going to be easy, but watching her family put their lives on the line on her orders never got any easier.

She pulled some ropes aside and climbed onto the warped remains of what had once been extremely expensive wooden decking.  Further contortions gained her entry to the motor yacht itself.  Even if they'd only captured a transport crew, some of those fittings might be worth their while.  The nav and engine systems would definitely be useful, once Henning had removed all the GPS locators.

A small group of people, bruised and battered to different degrees, sat on their hands in the lounge.  Four of them were clearly hired help, three African sailors and a mestizo cook, but the casually-dressed couple in the center had oriental features – they clearly hadn't been recruited from nearby towns to help transport a yacht.

A fourth sailor lay to one side of the group, breathing shallowly.  He had a deep cut in the forehead and one of his arms rested at an unnatural angle.  She wondered in passing whether he'd been injured in the crash, or by her brother's gentle ministrations.  

But she had more pressing concerns.

"Don't even pretend you don't speak English," she said to the oriental couple.  "I'll just throw you overboard if you do.  You won't survive the fall.  Now, you have one minute to tell me how much you're willing to pay for your freedom, and who I have to contact to get my hands on the money.  Just keep a couple of things in mind before you start.  Running an airship costs money, and keeping you on board is a risk.  If I'm not making a profit with this, you go overboard."  She smiled at them.  "Now, I'm listening."


Serge was not happy.  There was no need to be particularly good at reading people to see it.  His face showed enormous suspicion, his eyes darted here and there, and the his expression made him look as though he'd been force-fed something unpleasant.  It was obvious that, given a choice, he would have preferred to be anywhere else.

But he really didn't have a choice.  Pirates who agreed to swing between airships a few thousand feet in the air to hold a meeting on the other captain's turf were clearly pirates who'd reached the end of their line.  Men who were willing to take any risk if it meant keeping their airship afloat and their crew loyal.

His darting eyes drank in the surroundings.  

"Like what you see?" Julia said.

He started, as if unaware that she was watching him.  "Yes.  I've never seen an independent ship in quite such good repair."

"It comes from having a female captain.  We like everything just so."

Serge shook his head.  "It takes money to keep things this nice.  I see the rumors about your big score are true."

"Oh, come now.  It doesn't take all that much to keep an airship and its crew happy."

"I must be the world's most incompetent pirate captain then.  We seem to spend all our time attacking armed merchant airships and fishing boats, and yet it's all I can do to keep the most basic supplies on board."

He wasn't incompetent.  She wouldn't have asked him here if he was.  Of all the other captains, he was one of the steadiest.  Sadly, this only meant that he wouldn't intentionally fly his airship into a hurricane unless there was a huge payoff on the other end of it.  He would probably feel the same about stabbing an ally in the back.

"I'd say unlucky, more than incompetent.  But, unless you add ‘unwise' to that list, your luck is about to change."

Serge glanced back at her, studiously ignoring the two large sailors standing behind her with looks of contrived innocence on their faces.  "And I suppose saying no to whatever you have to offer would be unwise?"

"Oh, yes.  Very," she said sweetly.

"No surprise there.  All right, I'm listening."

Julia outlined her plan and watched his eyes grow ever larger.  Only the fact that Julia had a reputation for being both honest and averse to needless bloodshed kept him there until she finished.

"It's pretty risky," he said cautiously, after she'd had her say.

"We're pirates in the sky.  I don't think risk is something we can avoid.  At least this way there are two airship crews to fight back if we have any trouble."

"There are also twice as many witnesses and twice as many people to betray me. Not to mention twice as many mouths to feed."

"Look around.  Does it look like I'm having trouble feeding my mouths?"

"No, but you didn't make your money doing this.  I don't know what you did, but it wasn't this.  If you'd been working with a partner, we'd all know it by now."

"There's more money in this than in what I've been doing.  Or I wouldn't even think of roping you in."

"All right.  We'll try it once and then we'll discuss how we go on from there.  And since it's you who need me, we'll split it fifty-fifty."

Julia smiled.  "Don't be silly.  You get thirty percent."

"Forty."

"Done."  She spat on her hand and held it out.


Six months later, the partnership was still afoot.  Serge's ship had slowly gotten better as the cash poured in, and his loads of cheap but insanely dangerous hydrogen had gradually been replaced with helium.  They could now risk flying a little closer to land, confident in the knowledge that a single missile wouldn't turn his entire airship into a ball of fire.

The coast of Iceland wasn't far, but the clouds hid them well.  Their target was a transport run carrying mafiya money from St. Petersburg.

Serge's voice came over the wire – they'd thrown a cable between the tow dirigibles to allow them to communicate without using easily overheard radio or cellphone devices.  "The Blaugrana is in position, Julia."

"Perfect.  We'll lower the netting, then."  Five hundred meters separated the two craft.  It took a much wider net to capture airplanes than boats, not only because it was nearly impossible to pinpoint where they'd be, but because the wider net allowed for the much more progressive damping needed when dealing with the kinetic energy of a plane.  The original system would have torn the blimp apart and turned the target's occupants into jelly.  "Henning?"

"Releasing now."  Henning's voice was excited.  The entire crew was thrilled about this one.  A plane full of money, and no messy hostage negotiations.  Perfect.

The airship swayed slightly as the nets swung into position.  It had been tied to the bottom of the Venus, but was anchored to both airships.

"Nets in position," she told Serge.  He clicked the comm twice to acknowledge.

The crews were used to what came next.  They'd wait a few minutes for the sudden yank – all extremely well strapped in – and then wait some more while Henning's people hoisted the catch onto the boarding deck.  After that, it was just a question of going in and pulling out whatever the airplane held inside.  It was very rare for them to meet resistance, but they'd purchased tear gas for those situations.

As soon as the initial tug subsided, Julia was undoing her belts and running towards the loading bay.  Her function was to meet with crew of the plane, explain that they were now under her command and also to make certain that Serge's envoy got access to the information he needed.

As always, she arrived long before the catch did.  This one would be a bit less emotional than the usual.  She didn't expect any hysterics: all she would tell them was that they were going to be lowered onto the sea in a lifeboat.  Her own protection lay in the fact that couriers who had their mafiya money stolen were not treated well if they returned, so these guys would lie low and pretend to have gone down with the plane.

The fuselage came into view, cracked along several lines, and wingless, but otherwise intact.

It had no sooner cleared the large opening in the floor than Rajiv's men were all over it.  Two of them worked to open the doors on the side of the plane while a third took a blowtorch to the metal around the cockpit glass.  What had once been an expensive business jet quickly filled with holes.

The team was in, and less than a minute later Rajiv was back out, dragging a stumbling form with him.  "We've got a whole load of trouble," he spat, and let the figure drop to its knees in front of her.  The face of Elena Matinyeva, darling of the tabloids and daughter of one of the most powerful men in Russia, looked up at Julia through dark blue eyes.

Rajiv knew what this meant – one could tell by his hooded eyes.  Likewise, the avaricious glow emanating from the face of Serge's lieutenant, a look of having hit the jackpot beyond his wildest expectations, told her that he, too, had recognized the girl.

"Rajiv, please tend to the prisoners," Julia said.

"What should I do with them?"  

"Lock them up for now.  I need to talk to Serge."

His eyes flashed.  He knew what Serge would say, knew it would be much too dangerous.  But he complied, too loyal to his sister to question her commands in front of the crew.

Ten minutes later, Serge was seated across from her in the main conference room, a windowless enclosure about ten meters by three.  

"It's too dangerous," she insisted.

"Nonsense.  This could be our biggest score ever.  That girl is worth millions.  We could both retire and never have to worry about whether a merchantman is armed or not as long as we live."

"We'd be dead long before we had a chance to enjoy it."

"So what do you suggest we do?"

Julia sighed. "They have to die.  All four of them.  The pilots and the courier.  And especially the girl."

"And here I thought you were the honorable pirate."  Serge laughed ruefully.

"Honorable doesn't mean stupid, Serge.  If we try to ransom her off, her father is going to put a price on our heads so big that I'd turn us in myself.  And if that doesn't work he'll buy up every airship on the planet and come looking for us.  We'd be dead in weeks.  She has to die.  We got more than three million each from what the courier was carrying.  We don't need much more than that."

Serge pounded the table with his fist.  "No.  This is the strike that can finally get me out of this business.  There's no way I'm going to let it pass.  You told me we were equal partners in this."

She held his gaze.  "We were, but if you insist on going this way, our partnership is over."

"So, it comes down to that.  Are you going to tell your crew to throw me overboard?"

"I'm too honorable for that."  She smiled ruefully.  "Look, won't you reconsider?"

"No."

"Then take all of it.  The money and the girl.  I don't want my share, because they're going to be coming after it."

"Oh, come on.  Every major government has declared us their enemy.  We're shot at on sight if we come near their coasts.  Do you really think one man is going to make that much difference?"

"The governments follow the law, and they don't come after us over international waters.  Matinyev will."

"You really should retire.  You've grown soft, Julia.  Piracy is a business for people with balls."

She held out her hand.  "It's been a pleasure working with you, Serge.  If you're still alive in a couple of years, we can do it again.  Now take your money and your hostage and get the hell off my airship before I remove your balls and put them in a jar."

She gave the orders that the girl and the money be given to Serge, and he walked back to the hold.

Raviv entered almost as soon as he left.  "All the money, sis?"

"He wouldn't let me kill them.  He thinks the girl is worth a fortune."

"The girl is worth a slow death and an early grave."

"I know."

"So what are we going to do now?  The crew are going to want their cut."

"Leave the crew to me.  I'll buy them off somehow.  What happened to the pilots and the courier?"

"He left them in the hold."

"Let's go talk to them."  She led the way.

The three men had their hands bound behind their backs, lashed to rings welded to a support column.  Their eyes were downcast – they knew they were dead men.

"Good morning, men," she said in English.

None answered.

"I know you can understand me, but it doesn't really matter.  You're going to be set free."

One of the men spat.  "What good will that do us?  Matinyev will find us no matter where we run.  I'd rather let you kill us than face what he's going to do.  Just make it quick."

"Matinyev won't kill you.  You'll be bringing good news."

"Hah.  I can imagine it now.  He'll thank us when we tell him that his six million Euros and his daughter are in the hands of pirates.  He'll thank us very slowly."

"No.  He'll thank you when you tell him that it was a mistake, and that we want to give him his money back.  And his daughter as well.  We were actually targeting a different plane.  I've sent Serge in the Blaugrana off to contact him with instructions to give back the girl and the money.  I am going to let you three off in a lifeboat with a message for him: I'd be willing to replace the airplane, as a sign of good will.  Serge will take care of the rest."

"Why don't you just let her off with us?"

"We didn't want anyone to get greedy and fake an accident to cover up their failures."

The men nodded.  In their world, the double-cross was a way of life, and the life of one girl, no matter how pretty, was always worth less than a chance of surviving."

A little bit of hope shone in the men's eyes.  "Are you really going to do this?"

"I told you.  Serge is already on the way with the girl.  I'm not stupid, I wouldn't want to cross Matinyev.  So you guys will probably be all right, once he understands that this won't cost him any money."

They still looked doubtful, but not as hopeless as before.  She had two of her crewmen lead them to the boat deck and ordered Alex to take them down.

"That was cold, sis," Rajiv told her approvingly.  "Those three are going not going to enjoy it when Matinyev realizes that Serge has no intention of giving him what he wants."

"I know.  But it was the only way."

"Do you think Matinyev will believe us?"

"I hope so.  When Serge contacts him, he'll assume that Serge double-crossed us as well as him, especially if I go through with my offer of paying for the airplane."

"Can we afford it?"

"Yes.  But more to the point, we can't afford not to.  He has to be convinced that Serge is acting against orders."

Rajiv shook his head in admiration.  "These are the times when I'm glad I backed you up for the captain's chair.  You have balls of solid rock."

She smiled.  "Not so solid.  Once we've wired Matinyev the money, we're going to run for it.  I think the Pacific, somewhere near Easter Island would probably be nice this time of year."

"You know, I think you might have a point.  So we sail south."

"South it is."