Ex Yuin

By Simon Carter

The eagerly anticipated follow up to Simon Carter's X67 Marceline. Ex Yuin continues the epic retro sci-fi tale of one mans fight against an alien species... But this time the fight is on home turf and our surviving astronaut is not alone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon Carter
• Release date: Mar 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463742921

Simon Carter

A business analyst by day, an electronic music producer and author by night... That's when the dreams start to come alive!

Book preview

EX YUIN

Simon Carter

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER ONE

I woke to the song of a masked hawfinch. The tune was replicated and cold, an alarm bell to raise me from my slumber. That damn bird flew about my head in circles, its animatronic wings soaring through the dust. Warm sunlight flooded in through torn curtains, an otherworldly glow bleeding into the dark space. The outside world glared at me, the heat settling on my bones. Finally the song stopped, the bird flying off down the hall. Once again I was alone, a strange being laying in a chamber of sweat, wood and glass. I was earthbound, alive, every part of me aching.

My mouth was dry, the taste of merlot stuck onto my lips like sandpaper. Throwing the covers off the bed, I jerked upward in one single motion, sending an empty wine bottle rolling to the ground. The loud smash echoed down the hall. I sat there pathetically, waiting for a moment, naked and human, glaring at the round sensors that watched me from the walls.  My old heart thudded quickly, the same feeling I always had on waking. My brain span slowly, trying to gather its bearings.  These days I lived in a strange sort of panic, my ears pricked for an invisible enemy. No amount of time - nor domestication - could change the person I’d become. The lights of all the sensors flickered above me, burning like so much fire, watching me roam down the corridors of my house.  I walked like a jaded celebrity, imagining the governmental agents watching me from monitors. I shrugged them off. There was little I could do about it.

With hazy, hungover steps I glanced at the images scrawled all around me, breathing in the white spirit through my nostrils. Here the faded wallpaper was covered in wet symbols, strange patterns and extensive maps. The images, pictograms and hunting scenes were still dripping with wet paint. The works were the product of many ceaseless hours, my last true connection to the spirits of the snow. But soon, I knew, I would be acquainted with those beings again, face to face with the horrors that lurked behind my eyes. My body buzzed with anticipation, my steps heavier than lead. All I needed to do was get dressed and leave. I looked away from the walls and following my paint spattered feet. Learning to be human again, with all the rituals it entailed -- that was the hardest part. The floorboards creaked beneath me, the loose one moving as my metal foot pressed down on it.

Looking up, I saw the rope hanging from a lightbulb in the hall, its twisted end tethered into a noose. I remembered tying it in a state of despair. The noose swayed there slightly, the little finch using it for a perch.  I passed by the rope with a face of shame, walking briskly into the bathroom. The golden chamber filled up with steam, my body disappearing into the mist. True, I felt guilty to have almost taken my life, ashamed to have struggled with this ‘comfortable’ existence. But inside I was still the cave-dweller, a burnt out survivor; nothing here appealed to my senses, nothing at all. I can tell you that conversations with anyone were difficult, practically impossible, words melting into a haze of banality. I felt better left alone, isolated with my artwork. For some time that isolation had kept me alive. Now, as fate would have it, I would have to face the city, confront the beings I felt so distant from. But at least it would give me purpose.

Standing beneath the hot water of the shower I stared into the abyss, white fog drifting like milk over my skin. Under my breath I chanted to myself, noises spilling out in rhythms. Though I was far away from the planet, far away from the snow and the blackened trees, the glaciers and the cold were never far from my thoughts. I looked down at my hands, hot water raining down, ringed black tattoos staring back at me. I was still living in the cycles, trapped in the dark of my own crooked cavern. I tried to remember all my survival techniques, moving my hands as if they were grasping a spear. I hoped it would all come flooding back, the spirits filling my heart with memories.

Grasping a razor from a sink, I raised it up to my face and stared into the foggy mirror. My metal wrist whirred and twisted around with ease, the surface of the arm covered in dried paint. I stared at my haggard body, now technically almost four hundred years in age. My blind eye looked like a pearl set into my skull, a bald head bearing the many scars; some of battle and others of surgery. My left leg was another