Destiny: Quantic Dreams Book 3 by Elizabeth McLaughlin (books for 20 year olds .txt) 📗

inside the virtual world, Dad had stepped up considerably in being a role model in his grandson’s life. The discovery of the tablet and a shard of mirror hadn’t altered the course of the colony and Dad was determined to mentor Marcus into a man he could be proud of. The rapid transitions our lives had gone through were a little surreal. I had gone through a rough patch in my younger years, and I convinced Eliza and myself that the only way to keep surviving was to plug ourselves into the virtual world. Dad had visited us a couple of times but ultimately chose to stay in the shelter. The result was that our son grew up largely without a grandfather. Their relationship had improved significantly since then but I knew that Dad was still worried about it.

I told myself that there was nothing I could do about it then and headed back to bed.

I found Dad later in the day sitting on a pile of concrete waiting to be fed into the 3D printer. He was deep in thought, his lunch sitting beside him as he rested his chin on his hand. “That bad, huh?”

He jerked out of his reverie and stared as if he hadn’t even noticed me approach. “Huh?”

“I said, it went that badly, hm?” I sat next to him and took a spoonful of the stew that was lunch. Our diet was becoming slowly supplemented with what could be found in the wild but there wasn’t nearly enough meat to feed a thousand people. Along with the housing, preference was given to the elders. I didn’t mind, really. Being a shelter-raised kid, I was used to the 3D printed food. The few times I got to taste real meat or vegetables the flavor was strange on my tongue. Gabriel did a fine job of approximating what real food tasted like, but reality was still different.

“Yeah. Kid practically threw his tray at me for suggesting that he should wait a couple more years before taking on the responsibility.”

I shrugged. “Don’t blame me, blame Eliza. She’s the reason he’s such a bullheaded—strong willed young man.”

Dad raised an eyebrow at me. “I seem to remember your teenage years weren’t exactly the definition of pacifism, young lady.”

“Ha! It’s not my fault that you were such a tyrannical dictator. I had to fight for my freedom!” We both laughed. “Okay, so Marcus’s temper might be the smallest bit my fault too. I’m glad you went to talk with him; as much as I’m sure I’m going to hear about it later, he really does respect you. He’ll stew about it for a while, but he’ll get over it.”

I looked away from Dad to see a little girl peeking out from behind the legs of her older brother. “Pawter” Jones, whose real name was Eleanor, stared at the two of us cautiously. Dad was well familiar with her. He had always been great with kids, and since Pawter was having some anxiety about adjusting to this new way of life Dad had taken her under his wing. “Well hello there!” I beamed in the little girl’s direction. She couldn’t have been much older than eight or nine years old, but her slight build suggested an even younger age. I liked her well enough. Just as I had, Pawter preferred running around and getting her hands dirty to the more traditional “girly” activities. Shannon McNair mentioned to me that the two of them had been working together on some therapeutic interventions, but it was still rough going.

Pawter waved. Martin, her big brother, tried to step aside but she mirrored his footsteps and remained hidden. “Go on, show them,” he urged gently. Slowly the little girl stepped fully into view, her hands clasped around something. She stared at Dad, unsure if whatever her gift was would be met with approval. Pawter’s own father had been lost to the virus that ravaged the shelter and even the most delicate connection to her newfound father figure seemed tenuous.

“What have you got there, Pawter?” Dad leaned forward, wiping his hands on his knees. “Another one of your brilliant inventions?” The girl beamed at him underneath bright blue eyes and opened her hands to reveal an oddly shaped piece of wood. “That’s fantastic!” He took the carving from her hands and held it close to his eyes. “What an excellent carving of…a lizard.” I chuckled to myself. This was an old routine, and it always worked.

“It’s a panther.” Pawter put her hands on her hips defiantly, the ‘ther’ of ‘panther’ coming out with a lisp. She had lost her front teeth a couple of weeks ago and delighted in showing off the gap in her smile.

“Oh, yes, a panther.” Dad ran his thumb over the carving appreciatively. “I’m sorry, Miss Pawter. You have to forgive an old man. The eyes start to go at my age, you know.” Pawter giggled and reached out her hands to take the carving back from my father.

“Did you do that all by yourself?” I beckoned her closer to get a better look at the whittling. It was decently done-I could even see the rudimentary shapes of fangs in the panther’s mouth.

“You bet I did!” Pawter raised her chin in pride. From behind her I saw Martin hold up a hand and wiggle it side to side. It was good to know that Pawter hadn’t been left alone with a pocket knife.

“You’ll have to teach me how to make such beautiful art sometime! Do you like the animals we find out here?”

“Yeah.” You had to admire the courage she had. Faced with an extreme alien world and missing the security of the quarters she had spent her whole life in, Pawter was able to find awe and delight in the one animal she should have been afraid of. “Would you like to go out and help the scientists document them?” I flinched a little as Martin shot me a look. “With grownups,