Point of Origin (War Eternal Book 4)

Published by Quirky Algorithms

Seattle, Washington

This novel is a work of fiction and a product of the author's imagination.
 

Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by M.R. Forbes

All rights reserved.

Cover illustration by Tom Edwards
 

http://tomedwardsdmuga.blogspot.com

Contents

 
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Copyright
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About Point of Origin

XENO-1
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About the Author

About Point of Origin

A starship lost.

A creator found.

A frantic race to save them both.

For Colonel Mitchell "Ares" Williams, there is no giving up. There is no going back. The Goliath may have fallen into enemy hands, but the war must go on.

After all, he and the Riggers have what they need to locate the Creator, the man responsible for the alien threat and the key to unraveling their unstoppable attack. All they have to do is get to him before the Tetron do.
 

It's no easy task, but nothing about the war has ever been easy, and the Riggers still have a few tricks left up their sleeves.

Oh, the technology!

When the scientists finally got their grubby mitts on her, they were amazed at what they found. It was stuff that boggled some of the greatest minds on the planet. Stuff that we had always thought was maybe possible, but we had no clue how. Anti-gravity? Yup. Synthetic musculature? You bet. Fusion???? Yeah, we got that.

It was amazing, and in some ways terrifying. It was tech that would change the face of the entire world, and the course of human history. It paled in comparison to the one tech to rule them all.
 

Hyperspace.

Want to go to Alpha Centauri? BAM! You're there.

Want to see what's beyond the range of Hubble? Pack a lunch, hitch the wagon, and head on out.
 

Want to find the aliens that built the XENO-1?
 

Let's do it.

- Paul Frelmund, "XENO-1"

Colonel Mitchell "Ares" Williams stood at the front of the large hangar hidden deep within the bowels of the asteroid Asimov. His hands gripped the sides of a makeshift podium that had been slid into place only minutes before.

His brother, Admiral Steven Williams, stood a few feet behind him, flanked on either side by a mixture of United Planetary Alliance officers, the Knife's mercenaries, a Frontier Federation Admiral, and two of Mitchell's Riggers.

Their own Admiral, Mildred Narayan, lay in a makeshift casket to Mitchell's left. Her body had been cleaned, the wounds were covered over, and one of Steven's uniforms had been cut to fit and give her a final dignity. Her bloody fatigues and assault rifle rested on a welded cross behind her.

Mitchell didn't look at her body. Every time he did, he felt a tide of anger wash over him that was so strong he could barely breathe.
 

She was dead because of him, and he knew it.

She would have argued that point. He knew she would have. None of them would have ever guessed that Watson, the meek engineer with the disgusting sexual habits, was really a Tetron. Mitchell didn't blame himself for that part, though. Not really. He blamed himself for his belief that they needed to squeeze everything they could out of people, even when they knew who and what those people were. How broken they truly were.

If he had thrown Watson from the airlock when Millie had wanted him to, she might still be alive today. The Goliath might still be in orbit around Asimov.
 

They might not be a step away from losing the war against the Tetron.

She might have argued that point, too. After all, the Riggers had been fully composed of former military who had been court-martialed for any number of serious infractions. And they had been one of the top special operations teams the Alliance had.
 

She might have said it wasn't about who or what people were. It's about who or what they are. While Watson had continued with his perversions on board the Rigger's ship, the Schism, other members of the crew had gone from monsters to heroes. Shank. Ilanka. Now Millie.

Then there was Cormac. The grunt had done a bad thing on Liberty, and Mitchell had convinced Millie to let him live. Cormac had gone to Hell with him. He had saved Mitchell's life, losing half his face to do it. If Mitchell had airlocked Firedog when Millie had wanted him to, he wouldn't be standing there.
 

He hated that part most of all. It meant that even while he blamed himself for her death because of his decision, he was alive because of the same decision. It only served to heighten the anger. To raise the tide.

He held the side of the podium tightly. He had to look. Just once. She deserved that much. He turned his head, fixing his eyes on her face. She looked peaceful. At least there was that.
 

He clenched the podium even tighter, holding back the well of emotion. He had lost people he cared about before. He had lost people he loved before. He was a soldier. He was a warrior. War was nothing but loss until it was won.

Katherine had warned him that he was going to suffer, and he was suffering.

He looked out at the assembly, another collection of men and women from the different factions. Anyone that could be spared from operating the starships that had survived their attack on the Tetron was here, helping to prepare the remaining occupants of Asimov to get off the station before the enemy returned. They were a ragged, tired-looking but tireless bunch, a group dedicated to doing something, anything, to stop the advancing threat on human civilization. They looked back at him with hopeful eyes. They had all lost so much, so fast. They needed something to believe.

"Admiral Mildred Narayan was different than any of the other officers I've served under," he said, his voice shaking.
 

He noticed Steven shifting out of the corner of his eye, ready to come forward and help him through this. Mitchell made a quick motion with his hand to keep him back.

"You might be wondering what I mean by that. You might be thinking, but you were in Greylock Company. You served with some of the most skilled officers in the Alliance. And don't get me wrong, I did, and to this day I'm honored to have known them. But Millie was different in a way that I think defines what we should aspire to be, especially in times like these."

Mitchell paused, taking a long breath to control his emotions. Slow. Steady. He forced himself to let go of the podium and move out from behind it. He wasn't going to hide from these people or his responsibility.

"Every officer is responsible for order, discipline, strategy. Every CO strives to get the most out of their troops. To motivate them, to inspire them, to raise them up beyond a level they could have achieved on their own. But most officers are given good materials. New recruits, or soldiers that have already proven themselves. What Millie got was the scum under the ailerons. The gunk in the repulsers. Like me."

He got a small laugh from within the crowd at that.

"That was Millie's strength. That was what set her apart. She was dealt the shit hand,
and she learned to deal with it. More than that, she used it. She took the shit, and she molded it like clay into what she needed it to be. The Alliance sent her lemons, and she made the best frigging lemonade in the galaxy. How? She knew people. She knew what made them tick. She knew how to motivate them. You might think, so what, that's what all officers are supposed to do. The difference is that she did it with people who had no way out except to die. No life to live except to fight. No families back home, nothing to look forward to but the next mission.