Free The Gospel According to Verdu (a Steampunk Novel) (The Brofman Series) by Emilie P. Bush

twilight, a midshipman stalked up behind Fenimore as he stood watching the miles of empty ocean below. The young man shuffled his feet for a moment and waited, then cleared his throat to catch the Madman’s attention.
    “Pardon me, sir. The commander says that we are close, sir. We should cross over into Tugrulian air two hours past dark. We will drop you in then.”
    Fenimore grunted in the midshipman’s direction, his eyes betraying neither emotions nor any thanks for the report. The younger man carried on, “The commander says you’re welcome to any provisions you need and you have your pick of the armory—yours for the takin’—all you want.” The young man’s nervous tone had turned to one of envy. “I’d cash in there,” he added, mostly to himself.
    Fenimore grunted again, then said, “Show me.”
    “Aye, aye,” the lad said with enthusiasm. He trotted to the closest ladder and slid down one level with Fenimore following him step for step. After several twists and turns, the pair entered the ship’s armory, and the midshipman began to point out the wide array of weapons available. “Here we’ve got your classic standard-issue republic SRE-23K, the finest tasing sidearm of our generation, but who’s gonna be satisfied with that? Over here’s a Bragg and Morrichai Flash-38. It’s weighty but it can actually blast a hole in a stone wall thicker than a man’s arm is long. I have seen that demonstration personally. I’d have me one of them to mow through what-all comes before me. Yonder is a collection of Gracks; we got the long-arm, the mid, and the peewee. There’s trip wire flash-bangs, too, if you want to set a few warning perimeters. Last but not least, there is, to the back there, a Doc Reviere’s Pneumatic Launch Incendiary and Packet Dispersal System. It’s a backpack setup and very snappy, if I do say so myself.” The lad stood smiling like a carnie barker who had just made a convincing pitch for the common folk to take a gander at the exotic tattooed lady.
    Fenimore remained unimpressed with the gadgets and max-kill devices the midshipman was touting, and looked around for a few more practical and less attention-drawing weapons. The lad seemed a bit let down that Fenimore didn’t select anything huge or shiny from the rack but instead rummaged through the bins below. He picked out several boot knives, a handful of small brick-shaped explosives, an assortment of clockwork timers and fuses, a few ropes with grappling hooks and a launcher, a compass, and a pair of sturdy leather gloves. He stuffed the few items into a canvas bag and turned to leave. The midshipman snorted, apparently thinking Fenimore had not chosen wisely.
    Fenimore spun whip fast and grabbed the younger man by the neck, pushing him hard into a rack of Dr. Browner’s Electrofying Projectile Guns, pressing one of his newly acquired boot knives into the young man’s throat. The lad held his hand up in surrender, his eyes as big as pie plates. More unsettling than the knife was Fenimore’s voice when he finally spoke; it was as calm as if he were conversing about the afternoon’s weather.
    “You think it makes it easier, boy? The whizbang and the popguns? That it makes a difference when you use the latest and greatest that the republic has to offer? Blood gets on you, whether you kill up close or from miles away. And then you have to do it again, and again, and the tiny droplets slowly cover you bit by bit until that’s all you can see in your reflection—the stain of every life you’ve ever snatched. So you go on and enjoy your little toys and gadgets, and we’ll talk again if ever you do any killing.”
    Fenimore nicked the midshipman on the underside of the chin ever so slightly with the point of his blade as he took a step back. He slid the blade into his boot and, still looking at the younger man, said with a maniacal half smile, “Besides, what kind of idiot do you think I am? Using one of your high-gloss