The Spider Children (The Warren Brood Book 1)

by Bartholomew Lander

  “Huh?”

  “It’s your mother’s idea,” he said in a low tone. “I think those two are old enough to take care of themselves, but you know how parents worry when there’s news stories about drunk driving and crap on big nights like this.”

  She rolled her eyes behind closed lids. “I don’t think that anyone needs to worry about Amanda’s dad getting smashed and going into the creek.”

  Her dad chuckled again. “Well, you’re free to do what you want, but I’m sure your mother’d feel a lot better if you at least extended the invitation.”

  “Fine. I’ll ask them.” Not sure I like the idea of an unusually attention-starved Chelsea sleeping under the same roof as Arthr, though. For a few moments, Ralph just stood there, looking uneasy. She gave him a moment and then spoke up. “Something wrong, Dad?”

  His whole body seemed to scrunch a little. He shifted where he stood and then gave his head a nervous shake. “Nah. Now’s not the time for it. Wouldn’t want to spoil your big night.”

  “Newsflash: this night is already spoiled. Like, completely rotten. What’s up?”

  He gave her an uncertain look and then sighed. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately,” he said. “About what a lousy father I’ve been all these years. I’m always been so caught up with work and shit that I never spend much time with you kids. But when I see you all dressed up like this, all grown up, I can’t help but think that maybe I did something right. I’m proud of you.”

  She scoffed. “This isn’t something to be proud of.” And what are you getting all sentimental for?

  He sat down on her bed. “Oh, sure it is. You’ll understand when you have kids of your own, one day.”

  “Like that’ll happen.” Embarrassed at the thought, she looked back at her computer screen. Her gaze scraped against the twelve-point font of her nascent history essay. “Why is God punishing me, Dad?”

  “Aren’t you being a bit melodramatic, Spins?”

  “Some would call it a coping mechanism. You get bonus father-points for playing along with it.”

  He laughed a little. “If you are being punished, it’s probably karma. You haven’t kicked any puppies lately, have you?”

  “Not on purpose.”

  With a low hum, her father crossed his arms in feigned contemplation. “Well, you must’ve done something pretty heinous in a past life then. Wouldn’t surprise me to find out you were some kind of despot or tyrannical ruler; what else could explain the injustice of having to go to prom?”

  She gave a polite laugh. “Yeah, that’s the only reasonable explanation.” She knew it was just a joke, but something heavy began to coalesce in her stomach.

  “Well, in any case,” he said, “I really am proud of you.” He reached over and patted her once on the leg before getting to his feet. “When we get back, I’m going to spend a lot more time with you kids. I promise.”

  She nodded. “We’ll see about that.”

  “What? Don’t believe me?”

  “It’s just that every time you say that your hours get crazy and I don’t see you for a few weeks.”

  Ralph stopped breathing for a moment. “Yeah. That’s true, isn’t it? But this time I mean it. When we get back I’m going to walk right up to that asshole Klein, look him in the eye and tell him that he’s going to have to let me spend time with my family.”

  “With all you’ve told me about him, I’m sure that’ll go over well.” She was quiet for a second. “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you. What kind of project do they have you working on, anyway?”

  Ralph looked at her with a confused expression. “Beg pardon?”

  “Well, I mean, it’s kept you busy as hell for as long as I can remember. I may not know much about software development, but whatever it is must be pretty damn big to take so much time and upkeep.”

  Ralph looked away toward her bookshelf, and his complexion became just a little paler. “What I work on is . . . It’s a form of information control.”

  Spinneretta started. “Information control?”

  “I don’t think I can explain it eloquently, but I was the one that coined the name of it. Lethean jail. The Corporation’s biggest partners are various surveillance and security firms, some companies in China, and rumors even say certain governments, so we of course have molded the project over time to fit their needs.”

  “So, what does this Lethean jail thing do?”

  “Imagine you’re living in some backwater fascist state. You’ve got a brand new internet connection, all hail the fucking government. You boot it up, go to Google and type something in only to find, pow!” he clapped his hands together for dramatic effect, “a big error page saying you’re looking for something forbidden by the government. Dissenting opinions, criminal activity or whatever. So you’re not able to fully utilize the power of the internet. Imagining it?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Of course, a population won’t be happy with such a system. People become restless when they realize their communications and the spread of information are being censored. That’s where Project Lethe comes in. Project Lethe was founded on a single principle: no information is hidden if you announce that it’s hidden. So, instead of brute-force blocking of prohibited material, we developed a framework that is able to dynamically alter any queries sent over a given network. So, maybe in North Taiwanistan the government doesn’t want the people learning how to make bombs. But people in North Taiwanistan make bombs to protest the censoring of the internet, so you can’t just put up a we don’t want you searching for this banner.

  “But with our system, anyone who searches for select keywords on bomb making would have their HTTP headers modified. Bomb making, Molotov cocktail, how to make an incendiary device, whatever. Maybe the program will just strip the terms out of the search entirely, or maybe it will replace them with terms more fitting for the government’s vision. In any case, the key is creating the illusion that the original query has not changed, which is and will continue to be a huge undertaking as long as browsers’ feature sets differ. There are obviously massive security risks with returning arbitrary code in the response header, and tricking all browsers to accept the rewrite is . . . ”

  Ralph paused and chuckled to himself. “Sorry, probably talking over your head. Anyway, the end result is that the user within the Lethean jail is unable to tell that their search terms have been modified. Whether you look in the search bar or the URL, nothing’s changed except for the results. The big, bold your search did not match any documents, and the glaring zero to go with it. After the bomb-loving Osama McWannabe doesn’t find what he’s looking for, he might just give up and come to the conclusion that the information just isn’t available online. The best prison is disguised as freedom. Fuckin’ Orwellian, eh? Freedom is slavery and all that shit.”

  Spinneretta’s spider legs tingled, and the weight in her gut grew cold. “I had no idea that’s the kind of stuff you worked on.”

  He nodded. “Yeah. I didn’t at first either. Had my thoughts about quitting once I found out, but we’d just moved here, your mother and I. Besides, they paid me well, way better than they should have. If I hadn’t taken the job, someone else would have. And, for what it’s worth,” he said in a cynical tone, “it’s really just a rumor that they’re partnered with those kinds of dictatorships. The official stance for the project is that they want to create it and seal it up with all the chains and locks of copyright and patent, so nobody can ever use it. As if I’d believe something like that.”

  Spinneretta gave a humorless chortle. “Yeah, where’s the money in that? Maybe good for blackmail, but I can’t imagine anyone making a system like that without a plan to make it worth it.”

  Ralph nodded again. “Yeah. Probably really are selling it to communists.” Then, he turned to Spinneretta with a look of dawning revelation. “Plan to make it worth it. Worth it. Now that you mention it . . . ”

  She blinked at him. “What’s wrong?”

 
He shook his head. “It’s nothing. I just—”

  “Ralph, what’s taking so long!? Are you all packed and ready to go?” came a shrill voice from downstairs. “We’re going to be late to the hotel!”

  Her father sighed and slipped to his feet. “Coming!” He looked down at Spinneretta and gave a half-smile. “Well, guess I’d better finish packing before your mother immolates me.”

  She returned his smile. “Yeah, get a move on. We’ll be fine on our own.”

  As he made his way out the door, Ralph turned back to her one more time. “Promise you’ll at least try to enjoy yourself tonight.”

  “No.”

  About twenty minutes later, May came to hug Spinneretta goodbye and—like Ralph—made her promise to enjoy herself. It was a promise she made with crossed fingers. Having put her homework on hiatus, and without anything else productive to do, she watched out the window as her parents pulled out of the driveway and vanished down Alice Street, bound for Eugene. She sighed, uncertain of how to pass the time that remained between the numb present and the coming festival of stupidity. That numb boredom stretched onward even further as the realization dawned on her: not only did she have to wait out the setting of the sun, but she had to do so whilst wearing her dress and makeup.

  At some point Spinneretta must have nodded off over her keyboard, for she was awakened by the sound of knocking. She sat up, and the sensation of the fabric of her dress moving against her skin reminded her of the night’s damnation. She stood up, feeling dizzy from the sudden vertical ascent, and opened the door without much thought. The fact that it was Mark at the door shouldn’t have surprised her, but she still started when his face greeted her on the other side.

  For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He looked as if he had seen a ghost. Then, the look of surprise on his face melted into a neutral expression that was more familiar. “Well met,” he said.

  “Stop talking like that.” She looked away, blood flow in her dizzy head returning to normal.

  “Are you about ready to depart?”

  “Oh God, is it that time already?”

  “It’s half past seven. Did you fall asleep?” he asked, clearly amused.

  “I might have.” She looked up at him again and found him smiling. Something about his expression was unnerving. “What are you so damn happy about?”

  “Nothing. It’s just that you’re pretty.”

  She flinched, and her heart skipped a beat. She dropped her eyes again and was at once thankful she was wearing blush to conceal the reality beneath. “Just had to let my hair down and take off my glasses,” she said, trying her damnedest not to smile.

  “You wear glasses?”

  “What? No. It’s the plot of every nerd-girl-turned-prom-queen movie,” she said, not lifting her eyes from the carpet.

  Mark hummed a low note and nodded his head. “I do not believe I’ve seen that one.”

  “Ugh, never mind. Let’s get this terrible night over with.”

  Mark led the way down the stairs. Spinneretta followed him into the hall, heat not yet dissipated from her face. With his decoding eyes off of her, she was free to gush to herself about what had probably been an innocent compliment.

  On the way out, Mark reminded Arthr, in an unusually stern tone, that he was responsible for Kara while he was gone, and that they were not to leave the house until he got back. And with that, they departed into the twilight.

  The last traces of sunlight splashed indigo paint across the dark clouds on the horizon. The evening air was tepid and moist, and the pine groves that slithered along their path cast menacing shadows over them. Silhouetted against the still-light sky, those trees resembled the serrated teeth of some fantastic beast. It was an odd comparison, but it was one that Spinneretta often thought about while on her evening runs.

  “Are you certain you don’t need me to pick you up afterward?” Mark asked as they made their way alongside the beastly pines toward town.

  “Amanda already said her dad could give me a ride home,” she said. “Besides, I wouldn’t want you to get all wet because of me.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Well, maybe I don’t want to walk home in the rain again.”

  “That is fair. Perhaps your friends should have picked you up after all, lest the storm come while we are still out.”

  “If I had pockets I could’ve brought my phone and called them. But I guess you’ll just have to put up with me until we get there.”

  Mark chuckled. “I shall try to entertain the request.”

  She sighed and crossed her arms, trying not to come off as too content. It was a hard challenge to rise to. The evening air around her shoulders, the inner warmth, the nostalgic feeling of wearing a dress—somehow it was all so much easier than she thought it would be. By the time they’d escaped the thick woodlands on the outskirts of Grantwood, she’d given up on the resistance. As her spider legs breathed in the damp air, she knew things could be a lot worse. Maybe I should just give up and actually try to enjoy myself, she thought with some amount of self-loathing.

  They entered, and then once again departed, the largest chunk of civilization in the town. It was not long before they passed alongside Peninsula Park and the pavilion that had opened the door to the secrets of Mark’s past. That was the halfway point between home and the local community college’s gymnasium, the unfortunate venue of the function.

  Not far beyond, along a side road cutting through another stretch of forest, they reached the old bridge spanning Widow’s Creek, the small river after which the neighboring town had been named.

  “Hey, can we stop a minute?” she asked when she was halfway across the span.

  “Tired?”

  “No.” She stepped over to the railing of the bridge and began to lean against it. “I just really like this spot.” She knew this place well. On her rainy day runs, she always made a point of resting there. The spot was seldom frequented, especially during foul weather. She’d spend inordinate lengths of time just staring at the way the drops of rain played across the surface of the shallow water, letting all of her problems break and sink into its flow. She wasn’t sure what it was about this particular spot, but it was cathartic.

  The shallow trough below the bridge ran with dark, turbid water. The new moon would not show its face tonight. The orange street light at the end of the bridge was the sole source of illumination for the creek and the thick groves on either side of the path. Faint patterns glowed across the water’s surface, resembling motes of fire that were born and died in a single moment. The sound of the babbling stream, lapping against the cobbles and pebbles littering its bed, threatened to mesmerize her.

  “This is quite a nice spot,” Mark said, breaking Spinneretta’s tranquil immersion.

  “It’s a lot prettier during the day. The fog likes to gather on the banks on rainy days. If you ignore the street light there it feels a lot like stepping back in time. To colonial times, or something.”

  He leaned against the railing beside her. “It reminds me of the banks of Beaver Kill. Different trees, quieter water, but not too far removed.”

  “Don’t tell me that was your thinking spot, too?”

  He shook his head. “The only thinking spots I ever had were incidental. Though, I almost wish I’d spent more time there.”

  “You’re not feeling homesick are you?”

  He scoffed. “Not at all. Merely looking back upon missed opportunities.”

  She grew quiet, breath catching in her chest. Before he had told her about his past she hadn’t thought too hard about what his childhood had been like. Inducted at such a young age, he was forced to grow up in the blink of an eye. Her hands tightened around the old metal rail. “Hey.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Let’s come back here. Tomorrow. It’s a lot prettier here in the day,” she said, almost stumbling over her repeated words. “And, you know, since you’re talking about missed opportunities and all that, you know . . . ” She hel
d her breath waiting for him to say something, and when that breath expired she sucked in another and continued. “I mean, it might be nice to just take some time to relax, or whatever. Like, we could come out here tomorrow and have lunch or . . . ” Discouraged by his silence, she broke off. Her gaze took in only the dancing sparks on the creek’s surface.

  After another moment of cryptic silence, Mark unfolded his arms. His right hand gently fell upon her left.

  Spinneretta’s spider legs jerked in response. The warmth of the unexpected gesture kick-started her calmed heart, and holding back the gasp that came to her lips required a conscious effort. When she looked up at him, she saw the edges of his mouth turn up in a faint smile.

  “I think I’d like that,” he said, gazing out across the water.

  It took Spinneretta a moment to process his words, but when she did she couldn’t suppress her own smile. She tried to act nonchalant, and just mimicked his elusive demeanor by gazing into the stream. Nervous tremors lurking beneath the surface, the two of them stood in silence. Only the sound of calling crickets and the babbling of the brook could have differentiated the scene from a still life.

  She breathed a content sigh, pulled her appendages around herself, and closed her eyes. Heart pounding, face still glowing with subdermal heat, she lightly leaned against Mark’s shoulder. She expected him to pull away, but he remained steadfast where he stood, seeming to not even notice her incursion into his space. His acceptance of that insubstantial gesture rendered the countless excuses her mind had thrown together useless. She didn’t know whether he would have bought the story that she was getting cold, and she luckily wouldn’t have to find out.

  For a short time, they remained like that. At last, Mark spoke. “We should probably get going.”

  She reluctantly righted herself. “Y-yeah.”

  Mark hesitated a moment before he removed his hand from hers and turned away to continue walking down the path. As he did, however, Spinneretta caught a glimpse of something odd in his face, something tortured. It was nothing more than a shadow, a ghost of an expression, but it was enough to give her pause. More mixed signals, she thought. A second later, her mind discarded the interpretation. It had probably been her imagination, and she was too giddy about the prospect of another not-date with Mark to let her imagination spoil a good mood.