Donald Moffitt - Genesis 01

gene sisters, descended from a single genome—though our genotypes vary—and that the purpose of all of us collectively is the purpose of each one of us individually.”
    “Bodyrot!” somebody yelled from the audience.
    The party secretary blinked mildly and went on. “We are always willing to welcome our strayed brothers and sisters back into the fold, but we must make it unmistakably clear that—”
    “Sewage gas!” the same voice shouted.
    Bram looked to see where it was coming from and saw that the heckler was one of Pite’s plants—part of a little group of mono-clad bullies that included Fraz. Fraz was grinning hugely, enjoying himself.
    The party secretary tried to go on, but the orchestrated interruptions came thicker and thicker.
    “Gene brother Penser’s supporters would do well to remember that he is here illegally and that the Nar as yet do not know about his presence,” the secretary said tightly. “But—”
    A chorus of boos and jeers threatened to drown him out.
    “— but,” he continued doggedly, “that can be fixed with the Nar through the good offices of the leadership of this party. Therefore—”
    “No more Accommodationist poison!” the heckler yelled. “We want to hear from Penser!”
    “Therefore,” the party secretary said, struggling to control himself, “in the interests of human unity, the party leadership asks each one of you to vote for this resolution. We hope that it will have the effect of chastening—”
    “No more talk!” Pite rose to his feet from his seat in the front row. Spak and another bullyboy rose with him, pulling concealed clubs out of their monos.
    “You’re all through speaking,” Pite ordered. “Clear the platform, all of you.”
    The party secretary sputtered, but by that time Pite and his two thugs had leaped up onto the platform and seized him by the arms. More of Pite’s mono-clad roughnecks converged on the platform from either side and began pushing and shoving the moderator and other functionaries. One of the younger party officers tried to resist and got himself whacked across the abdomen with a club. He sat down slowly on the floor, his face gone white, holding himself tenderly.
    That was a signal for a surge from the anti-Penser elements at the meeting. But Pite had planned his strategy well. The small, disciplined groups of agitators that were dispersed throughout the rows of seats were in position to stop each surge as it started, sometimes by clubbing an opponent from behind. A dozen small scuffles broke out, and the rest of the audience began to stir belatedly into life like a rippling bed of ocean weed.
    Suddenly there was the crack of an explosion and a bright flash at the front of the hall. Out of the corner of his eye, Bram barely caught the blur of movement that preceded it—an arm tossing a small round object onto the platform.
    All the small struggles in the hall ceased. In the shocked silence that followed, Pite stepped forward with a grin.
    “All right, it’s all over,” he said. “We’re going to hear Penser speak, so everybody just sit down and keep quiet.”
    The bomb had only been a noisemaker, but it had done its job. There was a rising murmur that quickly died down as people settled in to make the best of it. The man who had been hit in the stomach was helped off the platform and given a place to sit. The other party leaders were escorted to one side and kept in a group, surrounded by a small bodyguard of strong-arm men. They took their seats with injured dignitv, but they did what they were told.
    Penser came down the aisle from the rear with his honor guard of Juxtians in their short robes and tights. Bram had not even seen him enter the hall. Penser looked neither right nor left. There was not a flicker of expression on his pasty face; it was as if nothing in his surroundings was worth his notice. Penser himself was not wearing Juxtian costume. He wore a plain, decent gray garment that was gathered at the wrists and ankles and covered any looseness of neck so that all that could be seen of Penser himself was pale hands, pale face.
    When he took his place at the improvised podium, his claque stood up en masse and clapped and cheered. He stared out over the audience, appearing not to hear.
    Bram got a poke in the ribs from the goon next to him. “On your feet.” Bram stood up obediently and cheered with the rest.
    It was not only Penser’s faction that was applauding. Others in the audience joined