Capture (3 page)

Someone else in the background of the video said, “Everyone, please, for your own safety turn off all electronic devices.” The flight attendant apparently.

Distracted, I looked down at my own phone again. Where was the number for Frank, Dad's aide?
Wait, there it was. I hit the Send button to make the call, held the phone to my ear, then glanced back up at the TV.

“
Hey, mister, are you okay?” Cell phone girl asked someone not yet visible in the video.

She turned the phone's camera to show a man seated between her and the window.
The camera was shaky at first, making it hard to see a lot of detail. Then her hand steadied so we could see how the man's face was beet red all over as he turned away towards the window, his breathing fast and harsh as his upper body rocked forward and back.

“
My baby brother. He's gone!” he murmured as tears rolled down his cheeks.

“
Your brother was down there?” Cell phone girl asked. A hand appeared from behind the phone to touch the man's shirt sleeve in comfort. “Oh my God, I'm so sorry. But maybe he wasn't hurt. He could still be okay—”

The man shook his head.
“He's gone. I know it. I should have been there to stop him. But I was too late, and now all those people...”

“
Ma'am, please, your phone,” the flight attendant said off-camera.

Cell phone girl ignored her.
“Your
brother
blew up the White House?”

“
He didn’t mean to!” the man in the window seat shouted. “I know he didn’t. He probably just lost control again. But what do you expect when the descendants keep punishing us for being outcasts?” He paused, his eyes widening. “Oh God. An attack on the president... And the Clann will see it and know... They’re going to come for all of us now, aren’t they? They'll never let the outcasts keep our abilities outside the Clann now. They'll hunt us down and strip us of our powers, or worse,
kill
us just to keep their precious secrets!"

“
Sir...” The flight attendant again. “Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to calm down or else the air marshal—”

“
It’s too late to calm down,” the man said. “Don’t you get it? My brother’s dead, I’m dead, we’re
all
dead once they start hunting us!” He jabbed a finger, its nail black with dirt around the edges, at the glass window. His eyes narrowed a second. Then he grabbed the cell phone and began to scream at it, “Outcasts, take back the power that was rightfully yours from birth! The Clann has no right to hog all the money and power in this country just because we don't want to play by their rules anymore. Stand up, end the lies and show the world what you really can do! Make it so that
everyone
knows about the Clann so that we can all share the wealth equally again. It's not the one percenters who are our enemy, it's the Clann hiding behind their masks and controlling everything from the shadows. Help each other, help yourselves, band together so we outcasts are too strong for them to wipe us out or deny what is ours anymore!”

In the background the flight attendant shouted for help.
A man in plain clothes shoved past the holder of the cell phone camera, attempting to grab the nutcase by the window and drag him out into the aisle.

“
Don't be afraid, outcasts!” the man continued to shout. “There's more of us than them now...thousands, maybe even millions! If we stick together, they can’t wipe us out—”

The air marshal managed to flip the man face down in the aisle, apparently knocking the wind out of him because he stopped shouting with a loud “oomph”.
The cell phone must have fallen out of his hand, because the video's view flipped around for a few seconds before its owner picked it up, righted it once more and began a fast running commentary on the mid-flight arrest.

But I could no longer hear the girl on the video. All I could hear were the echoes of what the man had shouted.

The Clann...

Outcasts...

Descendants...

Where
had I heard those phrases used together before? And why did they make my heart pound?

Suddenly the memory of a hard hand gripping my upper arm made me flinch and freeze in my desk
.

You are never to
discuss the Clann or anything else you just heard,
the memory of a voice echoed through my mind.
Do you hear me, Hayden? Promise me!

I must have been really young when
it happened, because I couldn't even fully remember the moment beyond that one bit of shouting and the feeling of that hand on my arm. But I recognized that voice. How could I not? Dad had yelled at me hundreds of times over the years when I screwed up, which was way too often.

But why would he get so upset about my
overhearing
those
specific terms? What did they even mean, and where would I have heard them before?

Frowning, I glanced
down at my desk, saw my phone still in my hand, and remembered something else. There were way more important things to focus on right now instead of some lunatic terrorist's ravings on TV. Dad. I had to get a hold of Dad and make sure he was okay.

Dad's aide wasn't answering.
Time to try reaching Dad directly. He didn't usually have his phone on while Congress was in session, but I'd run out of other options. I started to hit Send, but my shaking fingers, normally able to pass a spinning basketball from tip to tip without fail, fumbled and nearly dropped the too small gadget.

Calm down, Shepherd,
I told myself.

After a few deep breaths, I managed to dial the number, only to hear yet another recording, this one tell me the lines were busy and to try again later.
I slammed a finger on the End button to stop the call, then hit Send to redial.

And then the sound of an explosion on TV made my head jerk up again in time to see the screen go red then fill with static.
Just like the video of the White House explosion.

Thankfully my muttered curse was lost beneath the louder reactions of everyone else in the room.
Even Tarah turned back towards the front of the room to see what had happened.

“
Hayden Shepherd,” Principal Thomas called out from the doorway. Was he yelling at me about my phone? We weren't supposed to have them out during class.

Though I hadn’t moved, my desk wobbled again, nearly dumping me out onto the carpet.
In my ear, the same recording told me my call couldn't go through to Dad.

Gotta calm down quick before someone notices.

I looked over at the principal. He jerked his head towards the open door and the hall beyond.

Maybe he had news about Dad.
Someone from Dad's office might have called the school.

I jumped to my feet and joined him at the door.

“Did someone call you or...?” I asked as we stepped into the hall and he shut the classroom door behind us.

“
No, not yet. But under the circumstances, I assumed you'd need to be excused early.” He gestured down the long hall towards the front entrance, and we headed that way.

“
Right. Thanks. I'm trying to reach my dad now, but I haven't been able to get through yet.”

I hit Send again to redial, and finally the phone began to ring.
Once. Twice. Three times.

“
Hayden,” Dad answered.

I had to stop walking.
“Dad! Are you all right? Where are you?”

“
I'm okay. They're moving us to a secure location.”

“
Is this a terrorist attack? I just saw on the news that the White House and a plane blew up in D.C. Were y'all hit too?”

“
No, we're all okay here. It could be another terrorist attack. We just don't know yet.”

“
Are you coming home?” My voice echoed in the empty hall, bouncing off the walls of red lockers and slippery, freshly mopped linoleum floors.

“
As soon as I can, son.”

“
They're saying…the president—”

“
I know, son. I know. It's going to be an organizational nightmare around here for awhile.” He sighed, and I could practically see him running a hand through his hair, its once black color died silver for years now to help add to his image of experience and wisdom. When he spoke again, he sounded more steady and sure. More like a Shepherd. “Listen, go home and take care of your mother for me, all right? She's going to be upset.”

“
That's an understatement.” Mom was a first class worry wart. But she'd had reason to over the last few months. First my brother Damon. Now Dad…

I could hear the hint of a smile in his voice as he said,
“Exactly. So try to keep her calm for me. Let her know I'm safe and I'll call with updates as often as I can.”

“
All right, Dad.” I hesitated. “Be careful, okay?”

“
I will.”

Principal Thomas had already signed me out of school.
So I headed straight home, and as expected Mom was a mess. As soon as I opened the front door, she lunged off the lower steps of the staircase and ran across the foyer into my arms. It was like catching a panicking bird.

“
It's okay, Mom. He's safe. I talked to him.”

Leaning back, she opened her mouth as if to argue, froze with wide eyes, then buried her face in her hands. "I thought this was all over." Her words came out in a muffled whisper.

At the time, I thought she was referring to the 9/11 terrorist attacks on Washington D.C. And once again I wished my older brother were here. Damon had always been the funny one, always quick with a joke or just the right thing to say to make everyone around him calm down and lighten up.

E
xcept for on the one night that had mattered the most to him.

After a couple of minutes, I managed to get Mom calmed down enough so we could go sit in the entertainment room.
While we waited by the phone for hours that night and watched the news for updates, Mom stayed pale, her eyes red and swollen, her hands trembling hard enough to make her heavy rings clink against each other. It didn't help that the airports were shut down for the next two days. Dad’s phone calls didn't help calm her down much either. She wouldn't until he was home safe.

In the days of waiting that followed, it seemed like I said and thought the same things over and over.

If Damon were here...

“
Everything's going to be all right, Mom,” was what I said, trying my best to sound strong and confident.

But I had no idea then how wrong I was.
Nothing was all right. It hadn't been since Damon died, and it wouldn't be okay again for a long time to come, despite Dad's finally coming home safely a week later.

Th
at day's explosions, which had resulted in the president's and hundreds of others' deaths, was just the beginning. From that moment on, none of our lives would ever be the same.

CHAPTER 2

Sunday, November 22nd

Tarah

“
T
arah, hurry up, it’s on!” Dad yelled from the living room.

“
Okay, okay, I’m coming,” I yelled back, rolling my eyes at the dish towel as I dried my hands. A few days ago, Dad been interviewed by my parents’ favorite show,
20/20
. Ever since, he’d been as eager to see it air tonight as a little kid waiting for Christmas morning.

Dad had paused the show’s beginning so we wouldn't miss a single second of it while I got settled into the black leather armchair beside the loveseat he and Mom had curled up together on. Frozen on the flatscreen TV was an all too familiar image of a silver rhombus divided vertically into two, the show’s logo.
We watched the show every weekend, no excuses allowed. My parents believed its ever-changing lineup of interviews with politicians, celebrities, and rebel leaders was the perfect choice for weekly family time because, as Mom liked to say, “it inspired deep, intelligent debate relevant to our times.”

Which would be fine if that debate didn’t
usually turn into near shout fests between my always practical, psychology PhD-wielding mother and my theoretical science professor father.

Maybe if I’d been smart enough, I could have played mediator and kept things calmer around here, like my older brother Jeremy used to do before he hightailed it off to college and then various war-torn countries in the name of modern journalism.
Unfortunately, not only had Jeremy gotten all the book smarts from our parents, but he’d also taken all the peacekeeping skills with him, leaving me alone here to watch our parents go at it every Sunday night like a couple of seasoned lawyers in a courtroom without a judge. When you added in my mother’s hot Latin temper and my father’s equally hair trigger Scottish ancestry, it was a wonder they’d stayed married a year, much less twenty-six.

Tucking my bare feet up in the chair's seat with me, I wrapped my arms around my legs and rested my chin on my knees.

Just a little while longer
, I told myself. In a few short months after graduation, I would follow in Jeremy’s footsteps, making the best escape possible in this overly educated household…I would run away to some far off college to get a degree in journalism, get a job that required me to live overseas somewhere, and then weekly family night with all its "thrilling debate" would become a thing of the past.

Seeing that we were all settled in and ready, Dad hit the Play button on the remote.

“Tonight we're talking with Simon Phillips,” the young but silver-haired reporter began, his voice smooth and even. “Simon Phillips is the father of Eli and Caleb Phillips, who government officials earlier this week implicated as the suicide bombers behind the White House and Flight 3233 explosions that left 347 people, including President McFadden, dead.”

I sat up straighter, making the leather beneath me creak.
Okay, now
this
was interesting. It wasn't every day that the father of a presidential assassin was interviewed on TV. “Dad, you didn’t say this was about—”

“
Because I didn’t know,” Dad replied, leaning forward. “They never said this was the focus of the episode when they interviewed me. They just asked me about my research.”

The camera view switched from the
20/20
reporter to a man in a button-down flannel shirt and jeans. Both men sat facing each other in matching dark brown armchairs in what looked like a dimly lit hotel room somewhere. Though Simon had probably been cleaned up for the interview, the makeup and low lighting still couldn't hide the gaunt shadows on his cheeks or the trembling of his weathered hands now clasped in his lap.

“
Simon, why have you agreed to do this interview?” the reporter asked.

“
To clear my family's name, of course. Everyone wants to make out like my boys were terrorists or something. But they weren't. They were good, hard working, honest Americans. They just tried to bring some honor and respectability and equality back to the outcasts and lost control of their abilities.”

“
Their...abilities?”

Simon nodded.
“You see, you only think that each country's government runs the show there. But the truth is, all over this world right this very second it's really the Clann who are secretly the master puppeteers, and they have been for a long, long time."

"The Clann?" the reporter repeated in encouragement. "Tell me about this Clann. Is this in any way related to the Ku Klux Klann?"

"Lord, no! It's Clann spelled with a C and two N's. It's Gaelic Irish for 'family' or 'descendant'. The Clann is a huge group of families that began in Ireland and formed together around the time of the druids so they could safely work together to develop their powers, or what you might call special abilities."

"So it's a religious organization."

"No, because you see, there ain't no worshipping pagan gods in the Clann. At least not for as long as any of them can now remember. We all have our own individual choices of religious beliefs to follow."

"I see." You could tell from the reporter's tone that he really didn't. "And these special abilities you mentioned?"

"They start showing up when a descendant hits puberty, and then you've got to be trained up on how to control it all. Or at least that's what my grandpa told me when my abilities started showing."

The reporter frowned. "Wait. So you're saying everything you just told us about this so-called organization is just something you heard about from your grandfather?"

"Well, yeah. I had to hear about it secondhand from him because my family are all outcasts." At the reporter's slow blink, Simon added, "My grandpa left the Clann when he was a teen. He didn't want no part of any of it, and once you know how to control the power, you can decide to leave the Clann if you want. But it's permanent, and once you're out, so's all your kin from then on. Your choice cuts off the rest of your whole bloodline, and you're not even supposed to tell them anything about it."

The reporter cleared his throat. "Mmm hmm. Okay, so what happens when you leave the Clann? Do they strip you of these...uh, abilities?"

Simon shook his head. "Your abilities are supposed to be like a muscle. Once you learn to control them, you can decide not to use them anymore and then they atrophy. The Clann elders thought that also meant your heirs would be born without any abilities. But they were wrong."

"So now you're saying there are hundreds—"

"Thousands," Simon corrected him. "Maybe even millions."

"Okay, so you're claiming there are
now thousands or even millions of these outcasts running around with special abilities and they don't even know it?"

"Yep."

"Then why haven't we heard about these abilities before?"

"Oh you have
. Circus show performers, traveling magicians—the real kind, not just those fancy illusionist types—even as far back as Merlin in the days of King Arthur and Camelot. Stories about us have been a part of humankind's history for ages."

The reporter
gave one long, slow blink and sat back in his chair. His eyelids lowered halfway, as if he were looking down at his notes in his lap either in desperate search of some way to save this doomed interview, or maybe out of boredom. Finally after a long pause he sighed. "Mr. Phillips, you called my producers because you claimed you could reveal the truth behind what happened in Washington D.C., not to discuss fairytales and fantasies—"

Simon's eyes narrowed as he grabbed the armrests on his chair and leaned forward. "
Fairytales and fantasies! You think I'm
lying
? Fine, I'll prove it to you! Here!"

Simon held up his left hand, and a ball of fire
the size of a grapefruit erupted on his open palm.

"Holy
—!" Dad gasped, making me jump.

On TV t
he camera wobbled, making the view shake for a second as the reporter jumped out of his chair and yelled for a fire extinguisher. The sound of running footsteps broke out in the background of the video as the camera person fought to refocus the camera on Simon.

At our house, Dad
fumbled with and then dropped the remote.

"Seen enough?" Simon barked at the reporter.

The reporter nodded quickly.

Simon stared at the fire on his palm and the flame went out with a poof of smoke. “And that’s why I told you guys to turn off the smoke alarm in here.”

“
I knew it,” Dad whispered, rewinding the show to the point where the flame burst into life on Simon’s hand then playing it again in slow motion. He did it twice more then paused the show. "Haven't I been saying it for years now? I told you these abilities were out there!" He rubbed a hand over his mouth, his gaze glued to the TV. "Oh man, the physics that's got to be behind that... What I wouldn't give to have him in my lab for a few tests!”

I bit my lip and tried to look shocked too, like I
never watched a whole bunch of my friends doing some variation of this exact same thing nearly every weekend in the woods.

He should see them call down lightning. That would
really
freak him out.

My only
question was...how the heck was Simon controlling his abilities so well?

Mom paused in the doorway to the dining room, full popcorn bowl in hand, and sighed.
“This guy’s still on? You two do realize that fireball in his hand is completely fake, right? Chris Angel and that Damon Blade kid were pulling stunts like that on TV years ago!”

“
You mean David Blaine,” I automatically corrected her.

Mom waved off the correction.
“Whatever. The point is it’s obviously a trick, and an old one at that. I can't believe they’ve stooped this low just for ratings! Whatever happened to hard hitting journalism? If Jeremy were here—”

“
If Jeremy were here, he’d have the good sense to know when to be quiet and watch history being made!” Dad muttered as Mom flopped onto the sofa beside him. “This show’s producers never would have put on a simple parlor trick. This is real.”

Mom rolled her eyes
then stuffed a handful of popcorn into her mouth and glared at the TV.

Dad pressed P
lay on the remote.

As everyone both on TV and at my own house settled down
again for the rest of the interview, the reporter's voice said, “As you can see, Simon's display of abilities was more than a little shocking to everyone who was present at this interview. But I and the producers of this show can all attest that this was
not
CGI effects, nor was it any kind of illusion or trickery that we could detect.”

They replayed in slow motion the fire as it erupted in Simon's palm.
“As far as we can tell, this was a real display of spontaneous combustion that Simon Phillips seemed to have total control over. Furthermore, his hand sustained absolutely no injuries from the fire.”

The interview continued with the reporter asking,
“How did you just do that? That was magic, right?”

Simon
nodded. “But like I said, it's not like the magic you see in the movies where you've got to call on some pagan god's name or sacrifice a chicken. It's more like working with energy and willpower, though I expect science will figure out a much better explanation for it all someday. Especially if all the descendants and outcasts finally come out of hiding once and for all and let the world accept us for who we really are."

The reporter glanced
down at his notes. "A transcript from that airplane video taken moments before its explosion over D.C. shows your eldest son saying, and I quote, 'It's not the one percenters who are our enemy, it's the Clann hiding behind their masks and controlling everything from the shadows.' What do you think he meant by that?"

"Simple. Like I said, it's really the Clann who are controlling everything behind the scenes. They've got their
greedy little fingers into everything, and they make sure all that money generated in Washington funnels right back into their pockets to keep them sitting pretty while the rest of us, outcasts and regular citizens alike, starve to death. My boys believe..." He stopped, swallowed hard and started again. "My boys believed same as me that if this country knew the real truth about who was in power, we'd all be working together to make things equal again."

"So you're saying this nation's top one percent are all—"

"No, of course not! But a good portion of them are Clann. And a sizeable chunk of the rest of them have their friendly ties with the Clann to thank for their riches too. The Clann pays its secret supporters well. It also makes sure its outcasts don't suceed financially."

The reporter frowned. "Do you have some evidence to support this? Some sort of paper trail or something?"

Simon scowled. "No. But all you have to do is look at how consistently my family's crops have had to struggle year after year, even in seasons and areas where everyone else's are doing fine. They clearly put the curse on us when my grandpa left them, and we've been feeling the sting of it ever since. If not for our abilities to conjure up a few rainstorms and drying winds at the right times every year, we would have gone bankrupt ten times over before now."