Foxchaser

By Nicolas Ensign

Humanity has amnesia, and Aenea is on the run with the only cure.

The galaxy once burned within the flames of war, leaving billions dead and twisted by the horrors of genetic drift, and billions more stranded without the relay system. Now, a thousand years later, the Orthos Alliance emerges, fueled by a relentless desire to resurrect the fallen empire and rekindle the forgotten relay system.

Aenea Eilertson is on the run with the only thing stopping Orthos from succeeding, and her planet is under siege. Forced to trust Ebon Jayce, the strange captain of the Foxchaser, Aenea learns there are three vital rules to the ship:

1. Chaser, the centuries-old housecat, was impossible to kill, no matter how hard past captains have tried.
2. Toasty the homicidal toaster was relatively harmless if you weren't a slice of bread.
3. Death from traveling faster-than-light was only temporary, as long as the resurrection pod was working.

Aenea and the Foxchaser race through the cosmos, unaware of the abyssal perils within ancient research facilities, unhinged corporate masterminds, and the relentless pursuit of Ebon Jayce's former-special forces team.

In a journey fraught with self-discovery, Aenea must confront her own hidden truths and embrace the unlikely family she has inherited if she hopes to survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nicolas Ensign
• Release date: Sep 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798988688105

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Ebon Jayce stood beneath a violent storm, contemplating his violent thoughts. Each lashing of wind and rain withered away Jayce’s patience until only desperation remained in his chest. It had been two weeks he had been trapped on Krotoa, and whatever moral questions that might’ve sprung into his mind about killing this nameless man began to fade. The familiar feelings of stalking and planning a kill returned, which terrified Jayce.

He stood across the street from Janet’s Bar and Fishery, a long-standing establishment within the Fishing Quarter of Krotoa’s capital city. The rain had provided a good camouflage, a faint haze raised by the raindrops hiding him from the foot soldiers who roamed the streets—after dark, the archaic Fishing Quarter turned into a ghost town. What had initially been a first contact between Krotoa and the Orthos Alliance had turned into chaos within three days. Following the orbital shelling, the city’s shadows stretched much further than before, almost daring in their aggression. The scents and sounds of cozy bakeries and crowded bazaars were smothered beneath the spent ammunition. Although fatalities were minimal, none suffered as much as the royal family. Once the King and his family died, it seemed the soul of their city perished with them. Only tiny sparks of the city’s spirit survived, sheltered inside small sanctuaries like Janet’s Bar. These sanctuaries created a sense of normality amidst the foreign occupation, and that sanctity was why Jayce decided he wouldn’t kill this man.

A fresh gust of wind carried itself from the shore and cleaved against Jayce, showering him with a new blanket of rain. It’d been an hour since the nameless man walked inside Janet’s; plenty enough time for a soldier to lose his wits at the bottom of the bottle. Jayce turned up his collar and forged ahead where wormwood stairs led into the bar, each ancient step slumping beneath his weight. He pushed aside Janet’s doors and began surveying the crowd.

Few voices spoke, and those that did belong to the foreign soldiers. Corralled against the horseshoe counter were brilliant white capes pinned to armored shoulders. Each cape dipped into the growing pond of alcohol spilled beneath their feet and became a staunch yellow, similar to the mouths of the several regulars Jayce knew. At the center of the group was the nameless man, an Orthos Lieutenant prominent in stature and gold embroidery next to his subordinates. He wasn’t tall and skinny like the enlisted men next to him, the common signs of being an orbital dweller. Instead, his shoulders and chest were broad and layered, the marks of being born planetside.

The Lieutenant slammed his mug against the counter and flipped around, rolling his dark eyes amongst the crowd, almost daring them to meet his gaze. Taunting them like this was an insult without words, but the sailors would do nothing. Not while his hand sat on the edge of his belt, mere inches away from his holstered pistol.

The Lieutenant laughed a snarl as the sailors looked down and away. He turned around and grinned at the soldiers who corralled around him before shoving his hand into the nearest bucket of peanuts. A few of the regulars shook their heads and looked toward Jayce. He stood out amongst the crowd, dressed in foreign clothes and ashen hair. It starkly contrasted the Krotoan’s sturdy builds and dark hair, but they’d hardly treated him any different from their own. The old sailors would say every captain was cut from the same cloth. They called him sailor of the stars, explorer of the far beyond. Romantic, he thought.

Jayce patted the backs of those familiar to him and a few who weren’t. He winked at Janet as he reached the counter. She was cleaning a mug inside a sink, sparing only a glance and nod towards the soldiers listening to their Lieutenant. Jayce listened.

…stuck my foot onto his head and held it down, he said, jumping off his bar stool. A devilish grin spread across his face as he brought his boot onto an imaginary head. The soldiers leaned forward, hanging onto each of his words. He waited until the bar was entirely silent. Only the peanuts slipping from between his fingers onto the floor made a sound.

With surprising speed, he ripped out his pistol from its holster and recoiled it, firing an imaginary bullet into the fictional head beneath his foot. His soldiers laughed and clapped his back as insulted sailors rose from their seats behind them.

Put that away! Janet said. Her hands had dropped the mug and held onto something beneath the counter.

From experience, Jayce knew it was a shotgun she held, and he supposed the Lieutenant had a similar idea. The Lieutenant shoved his pistol back into its holster and surrendered his hands into the air. A serpent’s grin remained on his face.

Apologies, miss. He said.

Janet held her grasp momentarily before releasing and returning to the sink. The corner of her eye remained fixed on the Lieutenant. Jayce turned his head and watched as the crowd of sailors drilled malevolent stares into the soldiers’ backs. The Lieutenant’s story was about defeating the Krotoan’s King’s guard, a tale Jayce knew to be false.

Regardless of facts, most of the sailors were old-timers, many tides having passed since the prime of their lives. Even so, they were eager to defend their home and the memory of King Fredrick. Their eyes held onto Jayce as he held his hand up and shook his head.

Janet tapped the counter next to Jayce and leaned forward. Her mouth and unkempt eyebrows were drawn into a frown.

Don’t start causing any trouble, she said.

He grinned. Promise I won’t break anything.

Leave them be, we don’t need you fighting our fight. They’ll leave soon enough. She dropped the mug into the sink and turned the faucet on. We don’t need more of them coming round here anyway. Just take a free drink, Jayce, and let it be.

Afraid not. quit drinking after that last mess. He said, flicking a peanut shell off the counter. He rapped his knuckles along the counter and stood up.

Janet sighed, Don’t make a mess.

Add it to the tab. He said, reaching over the counter.

He plucked a used mug from the sink and gave it a deep whiff. Krotoan beer tastes like piss to an avid traveler like himself. It would do.

Boys, he said, meandering towards the soldiers in an exaggerated treading across the bar. He bumped a stool into the leg of a soldier. You talking about King Frederick’s guard, fighting, yeah?

The Lieutenant’s ears perked, and he pushed the soldier out of the way. He stood a foot taller than Jayce and carried a grace that the other soldiers hadn’t. Jayce was familiar with it, an aspect of confidence earned only in battle. The others might’ve been fresh from the simulations, but not him. The Lieutenant leaned forward and spoke; the smell of cheap beer lingered on his breath.

Fighting, killing, what’s it to you, little man? He looked down at Jayce’s leg and spat a glob of cloudy mucus onto his leg. The soldiers laughed and turned back to their drinks. The Lieutenant continued to stare.

Oi, not very friendly, Jayce said, shaking the trickling mucus free from his leg. I heard that you let all the flyboys and bombs do all the heavy lifting like cowards.

The air inside Janet’s bar shifted. Laughter erupted from the sailors who hurled insults toward the foreign occupiers. The soldiers who’d been drunkenly laughing now looked severe and ready to kill Jayce on the spot. The Lieutenant’s smile faded as he stared deep into Jayce’s eyes. Within a blink, Jayce’s eyes had changed. His ordinarily pale blue cortex had shifted to a deep gold as the familiar primal pangs began to grow.

Fearful of the hair rising along his neck, the Lieutenant looked toward the crowd that had begun shouting around them. His hand dropped to his belt and tapped his gun. Call off your dogs before this gets violent, he muttered.

Jayce grinned and stepped away from the counter. Why don’t we settle this the old way, huh? Loser buys the bar a round.

The soldiers surrounded their Lieutenant. Some said to kill him, some to take the deal and earn them some drinks. They stopped as he raised his hand and stared at Jayce. Behind his bitter grin was a layer of uncertainty now that he knew something was off about Jayce, even by Orthos standards. The Lieutenant dispelled these fears and began unclasping his cape to great applause from his men.

Turning Janet’s bar into a fighting ring took only a few moments. She looked dissatisfied at him but knew that he’d probably stopped a riot or worse. He entered the ring and tossed his outer coat onto the nearest chair. The crowd hadn’t stopped cheering, and even some money had changed hands as bets formed. Jayce began stripping his shirt off, and the voices suddenly hushed, leaving only the sleeting rainfall and gasps as they glanced upon his damaged body.

From neck to buttocks were scarred valleys of deep lashings. Pocket marks from stab wounds and multiple lashings. Surely they’d heard rumors about his body from the few lovers Jayce had taken. Here you are, he thought. Enjoy the scuttlebutt.

Jayce began wrapping his hair into a tight bun and watched as the Lieutenant prepared for battle.

The soldiers grabbed his coat, armor, and gun and stuffed them away, the gun into another soldier’s waistband. Freckles pocketed along his arms, chest, and dimples. To most, they would’ve assumed they were just birthmarks, but in reality, they were the telltale signs of gland manipulation, not all that uncommon within the Orthos military. They could’ve been adrenaline accelerants, pain neutralizers, or ecstasy-inducing agents. Either way, this man was primed and optimized for fighting. Jayce swore to himself - he should’ve just murdered him in some alley.

The Lieutenant leaped forward without warning, tackling Jayce around the waist. Jayce instinctively constricted his arm around the man’s massive neck before falling to the ground. His veins bulged as Jayce tightened his grasp, probably pumped full of chemicals.

Jayce weaved his legs around the man’s waist and whispered, Idiot, charging head first.

The Lieutenant growled as he stood up with Jayce still wrapped around his neck. He was frighteningly strong, even for his size. Gravity demanded Jayce return to the ground, and the Lieutenant obliged by dropping backward and smashing Jayce into the wooden floor.

His breath exploded out of his chest and was replaced by an electrifying pain that shot through his body. The Lieutenant weaseled out from his grasp and poised himself over Jayce. He could spare only one glance as the Lieutenant prowled above him, a predator looming above an injured animal, and like an animal, the Lieutenant pounced down, his arms reaching for Jayce’s throat.

Jayce shot his legs into the Lieutenant’s chest, launching him backward into the crowd. His breath hadn’t returned, but he managed to stand before the group shoved the Lieutenant back toward him.

He threw a wide and arcing punch towards where he thought the Lieutenant’s jaw might’ve been and instead struck the bridge of his nose, sending a fountain of blood into the air.

The bright crimson struck the light, and time froze for Jayce as that primal feeling returned. The faint pain turned into an animal’s claws ripping and tearing inside his chest. His sight honed in on the Lieutenant’s broken nose and dwindled towards his bulging throat. The feeling inside wanted to rip out the man’s throat, the same as a thousand times previous for a thousand different men. Each time, it terrified him.

The Lieutenant dropped to his knee and grabbed his bleeding face. His nose was misshapen, and his upper lip had split, cut between Jayce’s knuckle and his canine tooth. The blood continued to ooze, seducing Jayce enough to become oblivious to the soldier about to strike him with the butt of his pistol.

He felt only pain and the feeling of suddenly lying on the ground. Chaos had erupted inside the bar, and his mind began analyzing. The pain in his face was a branch of broken capillaries and cartilage. Janet’s shrill voice was amongst the sea of shouting, screaming for the bar to calm down, but it was too late. A flurry of stools, tables, and anything else that wasn’t nailed down was already being thrown indiscriminately across the bar. Janet was going to be pissed.

An unknown face pulled him up, and another clapped his back. The sailors had piled onto the Lieutenant and his soldiers, delivering long-awaited licks onto the men.

Jayce pinched his nose and moved through the crowd until reaching the Lieutenant’s belongings. He slipped a hand into the outer coat pocket, rooted around until finding the data drive worth killing for, and slipped it into his own pocket.

He could see the Lieutenant at the center of the pile of bodies, bloodied, beaten, and howling with laughter as he punched madly up at those who kicked him. Jayce couldn’t help but chuckle as he grabbed his clothes off the ground, thankful he didn’t have to keep fighting that nutcase.

Janet wrestled herself onto the counter with her shotgun and continued shouting and waving the gun at the crowd. Dressed in old clothes and her eyes glowingly mad, the scowl she sent towards Jayce frightened him more than the Lieutenant, unsure if she would shoot at him.

He left out the back door before she did.

Halfway down the alley and thoroughly drenched again, Jayce leaned against the wall and looked towards the night sky.

Perched just above the storm clouds was Krotoa’s moon, the nightly reminder of his place amongst the stars. Sheets of rain whipped against the street, and Jayce’s heartbeat beat louder and more assertively, rhythmically matching the violent storm.

He closed his eyes and drowned the ensuing rioting sounds with his heart, counting each pace with a finger tap against his wrist. If it got too out of control, the primal would take over and release itself onto Krotoa. Jayce wouldn’t let that happen, at least not until safely inside his ship.

He reached into his folded coat and pulled out the last syringe he’d brought tonight. Three others sat next to the stolen data drive, each empty already. He flicked off the syringe’s cover, stabbed the needle into his thigh, and injected its contents. The chemical concoction traveled through his veins and into his heart, slowing it to a comfortably low rate. He sighed and reached for the pocket where his cigars usually sat but found nothing.

He looked to the Moon one last time before fastening his coat and entering the night.

CHAPTER 2

Water trickled down through weathered cobblestone onto a partially clogged drain at the corner of Prince James’s prison cell—or former prince, depending on how you saw it. It had been the only water he had drunk in the past three weeks and was of decent quality, he had found. With as much disdain as he held for the chamber walls, at least they were familiar.

Before his deposition, James had served his public service tenure as the face of Krotoa’s police force, often interviewing within the same walls he was now held between. Had he known he would become a prisoner one day, he might have ordered some more comfortable beds, perhaps even a window.

Light flickered from beneath the doorway as someone approached with keys to unlock his cell. It would be Colonel Hammond again, visiting on behalf of the Orthos orbital station hovering above his planet. He was the only person seemingly allowed to see James, but the word ‘visit’ was gentle for what they did to him. Torture was closer to the truth.

The iron door swung open, and Hammond entered, carrying a lamp in one hand and a folder in the other. He wore an atypical officer uniform—ballistic armor covered with white fabric that glowed from the artificial light he carried. Centered on his chest were three intertwined circles, the golden symbol of the Orthos Alliance or Hegemony—whatever they called themselves now.

James dipped his hand into the drain puddle and splashed his face until the depression disappeared. They would soon grow bored with him if he appeared solid and unaffected by their treatment. Small battles won large wars.

Colonel, how are you doing this fine morning? He looked around the dark cell, frowning. …Or perhaps evening? Dreadfully hard to tell."

Hammond ignored James and instead waved at the soldiers standing outside. They ushered a small wooden table and two chairs into the otherwise empty chamber. James leaned into the light and tried to make eye contact with the soldiers.

Yes, yes. Some decor really spruces up the interior, don’t you think, lads? he said, clasping his hands together with a bright smile.

They paid him no attention; they hardly ever did. But James knew that his bright and annoying self would unsettle the soldiers, and he reveled in unsettling the enemy.

The soldiers backed away, and Hammond tossed his folder onto the table. He gestured towards the empty chair, and James obliged. Standing up, his cloth trousers slipped to his hip bones, hardly held by his loose grasp upon the fabric’s fringe. Hammond stood as James slid into the chair, his cold eyes judging the strange prince.

Won’t you sit as well, Colonel? The silent treatment is bothersome and won’t help with any answers you hope to tear from me today.

Hammond smirked. His eyes had always pierced whatever veil of annoyance James raised in defense. Beneath his cruel smile were scarring resembling claw marks that dragged down his neck and disappeared behind his chest plate. James hadn’t asked about them, fearing what response he might get. As if the scars weren’t enough to intimidate him, Hammond’s sharp features resembled that of a predatory hawk, and James was a simple field mouse.

James crossed his leg, pulling at the loose strings dangling from his shirt. ‘You know, in all the many things I had heard of the Orthos diplomatic process, I never knew assassination was the preferred method of first contact, although I suppose annexation never starts with warm talks just as your corporate overlords w-’

‘Shut up, James,’ Hammond finally responded.

His voice could’ve cut ice.

He opened his folder and plucked out three photographs, setting them face down on the table. He tapped the photos - slowly - three times with three fingers. James hated this man. Could a demon be called a man?

‘James, we’re short on time today, so I will ask only once. How many keys are there?’

It was the same question over and over and over again. Sometimes it varied in how he asked it - before or after the beatings - but the answer had remained the same for weeks.

I’ve told you before; only my father knew what the keys were for or even how many there were. Are his remaining body parts from your bombs not able to be interrogated?

Hammond flicked one of the photos across the table, perfectly landing it beneath James’s skeletal fingers. It was a photo of four prisoners kneeling in a cage like his. It was the rest of his family, except for his youngest sister. In her place was a vaguely familiar face that looked astonishingly similar but surely wasn’t Aenea.

‘What’s this about, Colonel?’ James whispered.

His voice was no longer bold. The small squeak that tumbled from his throat bordered on somber. A small part of him had hoped his family was relatively safe. That he was the eldest and the only one to be punished, he was wrong.

‘It’s quite simple,’ Hammond said, leaning forward and pulling the photo away. He held the image up and peered at each of their faces. ‘I had your mother, brother, and sisters lined up. Your youngest sister - I believe Aenea was her name - didn’t have the heirloom with her or even in her room. Not anywhere. So naturally, we tortured them in front of her, all of them. And you’d be proud to know that even after all of this, they never gave it up.’"

James’s stomach dropped as the word torture left his mouth. Hammond continued.

I didn’t want to hurt them. I even explained that to them. I said, ‘We just want to help humanity, don’t you?’

James backed away from the table and knocked over his chair. You’re sick. They’re just children-

No, James! Hammond yelled, slamming his fist against the table. He removed another photo and another photo, tossing more photos across the table towards James. There are planets and technologies leftover from the Empire that could help us, but your family squandered it away! Forcing your people to live in filth on this shithole of a planet.

The brief glimpses of the photos inflicted permanent wounds onto James’s mind. Even with his eyes shut, the images of his dead family remained, seared into his memory. James squeezed his eyes shut as hard as he could, holding back his tears.

When I sat in the room with your family, I realized something…. Hammond pulled one of the photos away and looked at it with leisure, almost curious. She screamed out for her mother but didn’t look towards her actual mother, only a few feet away… she looked out the window.

Hammond dropped the photo onto the ground and walked around where James stood. His hands were shaking. They wouldn’t stop.

Hammond’s breath flamed over his face as he whispered, That girl wasn’t your sister, was she?

A flicker of pride swelled from the overwhelming despair that James felt. If Aenea was anything, she was defiant, even to the all-powerful Orthos assholes. This is for you, Aenea, he thought.

Screw you, he said, spitting into Hammond’s face.

The broken prince disappeared, and the annoying prisoner smiled and talked too much in his place. Hammond sighed and wiped the spot off his face before rolling the sleeves of his uniform up. This was going to be dirty.

James sat in the chair and made peace with himself as Hammond motioned over a soldier carrying his black bag and began laying out his tools. James began laughing.

You’re laughing a lot for a man about to die.

James held up his skeletal hands. Sorry, sorry. I know this is super serious and all, but it’s just amazing that a super high-tech government couldn’t catch a little girl. I mean, who pays you guys?

Hammond walked over with electrical diodes that’d send waves of pain throughout his entire body. They were his least favorite.

Oh, don’t you worry, James, we’ll find her, he said, applying the first set of diodes to his temple. James chuckled again.

His death wasn’t quick or painless, but Prince James died just how he’d hoped to—laughing and pointing out how incompetent they all were.

CHAPTER 3

Jayce vaulted across another raging river that surged from storm slits carved into the buildings. Torrents of rainwater cascaded from the rooftops, streaming down a network of makeshift aqueducts that prevented Krotoa from slipping into the sea. However, these once vital conduits had been ravaged, resulting in vast lakes forming amidst the city’s towering structures. Jayce skillfully navigated this watery labyrinth, jumping and dancing between the ever-growing bodies of water. Whenever the storm momentarily relented, he gazed ahead at his destination, witnessing the starry night’s reflection—an enchanting mirage of a thousand moons adorning each puddle.

During Krotoa’s dry season, when the precipitation was not absurdly chaotic, the planet revealed its genuine beauty—a tranquil sea with a smooth cadence. However, it wasn’t the allure of its natural beauty or hospitable environment that brought the late Empire to Krotoa. Instead, the planet’s central location within occupied galactic space attracted humanity to establish a foothold here, and a mere tragic consequence of a devastating war left their descendants stranded here today, a millennium later.

Spaceships lay in disrepair, their once gleaming hulls now tarnished and worn. Satellite debris scattered across the sky, a testament to humanity’s abandoned ambitions. With no hope of assistance from the past, they turned their gaze to an uncertain future and embarked on a new beginning.

Amidst this backdrop, wooden sails adorned with iron reinforcement braved the monumental waves that relentlessly surged, aptly named the world-tide. Fishing vessels, resilient and determined, navigated the vast seas. A monarchy arose, firmly establishing its dominion over the archipelago continents. Successive generations of kings commanded fleets into the turbulent waters. With its powerful surges, the world tide heralded great swells and massive migrations of pink fin tuna—the lifeblood of the Krotoan people. Those fortunate to escape the sea’s grasp returned with countless injuries and disfigurements. Yet, despite the precarious nature of their existence, this way of life became their cherished cultural identity. Even as the age of technology loomed, and visitors from distant star systems occasionally arrived, the Krotoans remained steadfast in their monthly voyages, setting sail upon the endless sea.

Centuries of navigating treacherous maritime realms, they had transformed surgery into one of Krotoa’s most lucrative industries, mainly plastic surgery. Clinics specialized in mending, restoring, and replacing limbs, enabling sailors to return to their vessels only to seek treatment again the following month. And now, Jayce stood outside one such establishment—an unassuming single-story brick