Read Online The Nervous System by Nathan Larson - Free Book Online

’80s bodega coffee, illuminating no more than the last six feet of the hole I’m in.
    And not for the first time in my raggedy life, I marvel at my breathtakingly stupid ability to overvalue my own acumen. For, unsurprisingly, a pair of bodies are parked at the head of the egress, just outside the gateway, sporting the future-ninja signature dress of Cyna-corp soldiers.
    Always in twos. I sigh and click the penlight off.
    The Maker would perhaps at this juncture have me hearken back to the last such situation, the similarities too glaring to sidestep, a desperate Dewey Decimal on the run with a gun, careening into a duo of soldiers standing point, blocking passage, at least from Dewey’s altered perspective, between the darkness and the light.
    Perhaps we have here a cosmic test of sorts. To see if a less messy solution is achievable. Or indeed desirable.
    But fuck the theology. I bring my good knee down on the clay to stay out of sight and give myself a moment, part of my brain veering immediately into concern for my pants—yeah, but this is vanity and vanity is weakness. Scope the two bruisers for possible nonfatal target points.
    Hmm.
    What makes these cats so freaking intimidating is primarily their vastly superior kit. Featherweight, powered exoskeletons (brought to you by General Electric), sexy custom A-15 machine pistols, drool-inducing smart headgear, 360-degree selectable view, built-in GPS, etc. And most relevant: voice-activated com systems, making it virtually impossible to disable the wearer quietly without a high-impact headshot. And even then the helmet sends an alarm to a central location.
    So what’s a simple fella of modest means like me to do? I wash down a pill with some bottled water. Look at the hands: steady as she goes.
    In sharp contrast to the cyborgy cock-extensions in which these prim donnas swish around is the soggy cardboard crapola Uncle Sam issues its own in the field. Hell. I conjure up another (mind you: possibly implanted) memory of trying to keep sand out of my mouth, as my entire patrol and I struggle to bang corrugated scrap metal into a shape that might conceivably protect us from antitank fire.
    Slapstick stuff. Physical comedy.
    I pause at the notion of kicking this motherfucker off. There will be nasty and hasty blowback. To the extent that a man can, I know my own murky heart. I am foresworn to protect this building and its contents. But the ignoble truth breaks down like this: I’d rather risk watching everything implode than be confronted with my own name.
    Dig me, I think I got this, with some help from the System. Think I can get over. And what’s more, somebody’s gotta get these fuckers away from my library, even if it means burning a few books.
    Now here I squat, a mini–limpet mine burning a hole in each jacket pocket about the size of a late-twentieth-century nine-volt battery. I finger them, leave my gun in place.
    Remember this well, people: unless you employ maximum violence with these psychos from the jump, they will kill your ass faster than you can spit.
    So let’s opt for the head-on approach. Rising with a grunt, I send up a prayer to Shiva that we can do this with a minimum of mayhem.
    They’re talking quietly, two beetles on their hind legs, perhaps chatting with each other (or perhaps not, given the headwear), one of them with his/her back to me, leaning against the sealed gate, the other idly rubbing a polymer forearm.
    Slacking. I shake my head at this, for shame. Snap to it, earn that pricey gear.
    Call to them now: “Hey, yo! Letting you know, I’m unarmed!” My voice thick. Thirsty.
    Lowering my surgical mask, I limp their way, overdoing my legit handicap, gloved hands in the air.
    The soldiers jerk around, one steps awkwardly and stumbles slightly, laser sights swing my way, the other saying, “Hands! Let’s see ’em!”
    Jiggle my hands like, duh, Al Jolson, jazz hands. “Already