Chapter 4: At the Reserve, Part 2

"You want to die, you're going the right way." Even then Hank had towered over Trey. "What's your name, kid?" Hank asked as he mopped blood from Trey's face.

"Trey Gauche."

"What kind of name is that?"

"It means Three Left."

"Left of what?"

"No, like left, right."

"Right, Lefty, you'll bunk with me and my mates from now on. Turn those smarts on the teachers and distract them from the rest of us, and I'll keep you in one piece."

The nickname sealed the deal.

Mr. Destir would need more work. After yesterday's eavesdropping, Trey might want to keep an eye out for weapons sharper than the ruler. Trey kept his head down for the rest of the class. He dropped his paper on the desk on his way out. It should give Mr. Destir more heartburn.

Next day, Mr. Destir asked Trey to wait after class.

"I'm surprised at the essay you handed in, Trey. It's a very cogent treatment of the Final Amendment. I am not sure about some of the conclusions you reach. I don't think you can draw a direct line from the medical advances in gerontology to the disenfranchisement of youth."

"Of course there is a direct relationship. Old people started living not just longer, but better. Their bodies didn't betray them to a long, slow decline anymore, and they wanted to spend the money they had saved. The old held on to their money instead of passing it to the next generation. They wanted to keep the world the way they knew it, so gradually laws were enacted forcing younger generations to the fringe of society. Soon only the old were able to hold office, while the young desperately tried to scrabble enough money together to retire."

"But the retirees were just living out what they had earned through their lives."

"Naw, the real power still lay with the people with money. The rich folks could afford the drugs and the treatments. They have the money to live comfortably for decades past retirement. Poor people can't afford health care, so they never make it to retirement. It isn't a big stretch to move the voting age to the retirement age, and to mandate a minimum bank account to be allowed to retire. You know what happens to the poor people if they live too long. Off to the Home - warehoused until they die."

"Trey, what are you doing in this class?" Mr. Destir leaned back and looked at Trey with something dangerously close to approval.

"I'm an illegal - a third. My father wanted to have someone who was a close match in case he needed some spare parts. He had enough pull to have me carried to term, but not enough to hide me for long. So I get dumped in the Youth Reserve. I'll be safe and well fed. If I'm lucky dear old dad will never require any kind of transplant. So I'll just get sent to some dead end job until I die. If he does need my organs, it will only be a matter of time before I suffer an unfortunate accident. His crime wasn't so much having too many children, as being crass enough to get caught." Trey paced up and down in front of the desk, too caught up in his argument to care about the consequences of his opinions. "Do you know what chance I have of surviving to retirement? None, zero, zip. The retirees want it that way. I'm spare parts. My brains are only an unfortunate side effect."

Mr. Destir shook his head and sat behind his desk. "I admit our system has its flaws, but it's not as bad as you say. You have the right facts, but you chose the worst interpretation. What am I going to do with you?"

"Nothing, there is nothing to be done with me. I barely exist. I'll get through this year, get a crappy contract the next, and if I'm lucky will die messily enough he won't be able to use any of my parts to keep himself-" Trey stopped abruptly and unclenched his fists. How could I fall for his dirty trick. He's not interested in what I think, just in shutting me up.

"I think I am going to have to give you detention, young man. You will have to sit here every day after school, and we will talk."

"I haven't done anything to deserve detention."

"Not yet," Mr. Destir dismissed him.