Free Frankenstein's Legions by John Whitbourn

most amusing, don’t you think?’
    Julius knew she hadn’t been drinking, for he’d been with her all the time. Therefore this must be the madness of the British aristocracy he’d heard about—doubtless a function of inbreeding and lack of mental exercise. It would make a fascinating medical study for a student who gave a damn.
    ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t,’—and dragged her on.
    Once past the island of Ada’s obsession, Frankenstein headed for another concentration of cover. At the fringes of the park, where they wouldn’t be in the way of their betters, a crowd of Revived clerks and menials were gathered round a street-preacher on a soapbox. Since the established church barred Lazarans from its places of worship they had to meet their spiritual needs as and when they could. In practice, this meant during those rare occasions when anyone deigned to address them and their masters didn’t know where they were. Therefore the throng was avid, their yearning palpable.
    And the preacher was fit to meet it: his eyes were as wild as his hair; his voice powered with passion.
    ‘… Souls?’ he was shouting, all the time looking round for the Park Police who’d inevitably move him on. Or arrest him. Or truncheon him. ‘Of course you have souls!  Let no man tell you otherwise: least of all the venal prelates of the lickspittle state church!  ‘Archbishop of Canterbury’?  ‘False shepherd of Babylon’ more like!  What does he know?  Can mere Man burgle the Afterlife?  Can the created steal from its Creator?  Rubbish!  Purchased dogma!  Bought-and-paid-for Blasphemy!  No: I tell you most solemnly: you all—all—have souls. Somewhere... in some inexpressible form known only to God...’
    ‘Testify!’ the recalled dead cried out, inspired by their own version of joy and urging him on. ‘Testify!’
    A smattering of living supporters present, eccentrics and/or idealists, approved more measuredly. Some bore banners. Julius saw one that read:
     
    ‘ARE THEY NOT
    AS WE
    SHALL BE?’
     
    A sort-of truth which only prompted him to think ‘God forbid!,’ and stunned all sympathy.
    ‘Therefore,’ the preacher continued, waving his arms, ‘I assure you, dear brothers, dear sisters, that you are far more than cannon-fodder!  Better than mere meat machines!  You are alive again—and thus basking in Divine love—for better reasons than accountancy!’
    That got a cheer. Some masters had no mercy and drafted their Lazarans into the drearier professions. Likewise the sad fields where their already cold hearts came in handy. Lawyers now employed more undead than living.
     ‘Wherefore, you deserve the dignity that comes with those Divine origins. Are ye latter-day Gibeonites: those whom Scripture says the Israelites enslaved to be forever ‘hewers of wood and drawers of water’?  No, You are men: children of God and made in his image!’
    Here was a weak point in his thesis, for many of those images gathered round him didn’t look very god-like. Rhetoric demanded he either get louder or more daring.
    He did both. The Preacher looked about, even more haunted than before, and bellowed:
    ‘Nor are you beasts!  Mere vermin to be hunted for perverse pleasure!’
    This was pushing his luck. Lazaran blood-sports were forbidden (a waste of war material for a start) but everyone knew it went on. It was a melancholy fact that hardcore hunters found former-humans so much more challenging, more mettlesome and miles-for-your-money than a fox or deer. However, those who (allegedly) indulged tended to be both addicted and aristocratic: that is to say committed, well-connected, people averse to the limelight. The ‘Earl of This’ or ‘Lord That’ didn’t care for loose talk which might spoil the fun. There was even rumours of a Parliamentary Pack. It most certainly ‘didn’t do’ to go public about it.
    And sure enough, soon afterwards someone must have ‘told’ on all the subversive talk. A