Ok, I've decided to shelve the 'Hostile Destination' as a future project and I'm concentrating on this idea as novel writing practice instead. The whole idea of writing a novel is pretty daunting to a newb like myself, and I'm working on technique at the mo. Please tell me if the following novel opening fails to 'hook' you in any way and why.
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Reed hadn't moved since the lander left.
He sat on a misshapen hillock, chin on fist, watching the wind tease the harsh grass. It seemed to caress it this way and that, as if trying to reveal some life or colour from its otherwise dull monotone.
They'll be here soon, he thought, pulling the rough fur cloak tighter around him. This time I'll get it right.
The fact that he was here showed Reed that the Contact and Guidance division still had some faith in him, but that probably only went so far. If he screwed up this job, he knew what C and G would have in store for him: a life of admin, providing support and logistics with grudging deference to the guys on the front line. The thought made his soul sink. Better dead than desked, he thought grimly. He would damned well make it work this time.
His chin lifted a little from his fist; on the horizon of the wind-harried steppes, several specks crawled ponderously. His C and G optical implants helped him make out a little more detail: men on horseback, at least twenty of them, moving faster than it at first appeared - but still some distance away. They turned in his direction.
Reed sighed, they were going to be some time getting here he thought. He shifted his butt for better comfort on the tough grass, and watched them approach.
Irrationally, he feared that they had seen or heard the lander come and go, but that was impossible, it had been completely stealthed. He couldn't afford for his cover to be blown. All technology except that implanted in his body had been taken beyond his reach when the lander had left. Every other identity-threatening detail had been fanatically doctored by C and G intel. He was dressed in local style: fur cloak, hide pants and linen jerkin that seemed unnessecarily abrasive. An authentic composite bow was slung over one shoulder. The sour smell of his clothing reminded him how diligently C and G did their work. He ignored the discomforting aroma and waited.
Somber clouds slid over the gently undulating steppes, their mottled shadows bringing further gloom to the already subdued hue of the scene. A solitary drop of rain splashed onto Reeds head, as if marking him out as a target for further downpour, but the clouds slid nonchalantly on.
The riders approached swiftly. Reed guessed just a minutes ride away. This was the first time he had seen a horse in the flesh, he realised, and he was impressed. He watched with admiration as their muscled flanks powered tirelessly across the steppe, their hooves beating without respite into the grassland and thrusting it behind them. Their masters looked just as capable. Reed hoped that was so, they would need to be to fit his needs. He appraised them as closely as his implants would allow.
They looked squat and strong, with sinewy muscles like old rope, and clenched expressions moulded by the winds of the plain. The riders were dressed much as Reed, with bows over their shoulders and swords slung at their sides. Reed knew from the intel brief that these guys were born and raised as warriors and hunters of the steppes. That much was obvious from the casual grace with which they rode.
He also knew how violent and short their lives could be, and of their enemy that made it so.
Reed shuddered a little, but not from the probing winds. He knew that enemy only too well himself. He would need these warriors, certainly, and as many like them that would follow. He grinned fatally at the thought that, if they knew what he had planned, they would probably gallop just as fast in the opposite direction.
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Reed hadn't moved since the lander left.
He sat on a misshapen hillock, chin on fist, watching the wind tease the harsh grass. It seemed to caress it this way and that, as if trying to reveal some life or colour from its otherwise dull monotone.
They'll be here soon, he thought, pulling the rough fur cloak tighter around him. This time I'll get it right.
The fact that he was here showed Reed that the Contact and Guidance division still had some faith in him, but that probably only went so far. If he screwed up this job, he knew what C and G would have in store for him: a life of admin, providing support and logistics with grudging deference to the guys on the front line. The thought made his soul sink. Better dead than desked, he thought grimly. He would damned well make it work this time.
His chin lifted a little from his fist; on the horizon of the wind-harried steppes, several specks crawled ponderously. His C and G optical implants helped him make out a little more detail: men on horseback, at least twenty of them, moving faster than it at first appeared - but still some distance away. They turned in his direction.
Reed sighed, they were going to be some time getting here he thought. He shifted his butt for better comfort on the tough grass, and watched them approach.
Irrationally, he feared that they had seen or heard the lander come and go, but that was impossible, it had been completely stealthed. He couldn't afford for his cover to be blown. All technology except that implanted in his body had been taken beyond his reach when the lander had left. Every other identity-threatening detail had been fanatically doctored by C and G intel. He was dressed in local style: fur cloak, hide pants and linen jerkin that seemed unnessecarily abrasive. An authentic composite bow was slung over one shoulder. The sour smell of his clothing reminded him how diligently C and G did their work. He ignored the discomforting aroma and waited.
Somber clouds slid over the gently undulating steppes, their mottled shadows bringing further gloom to the already subdued hue of the scene. A solitary drop of rain splashed onto Reeds head, as if marking him out as a target for further downpour, but the clouds slid nonchalantly on.
The riders approached swiftly. Reed guessed just a minutes ride away. This was the first time he had seen a horse in the flesh, he realised, and he was impressed. He watched with admiration as their muscled flanks powered tirelessly across the steppe, their hooves beating without respite into the grassland and thrusting it behind them. Their masters looked just as capable. Reed hoped that was so, they would need to be to fit his needs. He appraised them as closely as his implants would allow.
They looked squat and strong, with sinewy muscles like old rope, and clenched expressions moulded by the winds of the plain. The riders were dressed much as Reed, with bows over their shoulders and swords slung at their sides. Reed knew from the intel brief that these guys were born and raised as warriors and hunters of the steppes. That much was obvious from the casual grace with which they rode.
He also knew how violent and short their lives could be, and of their enemy that made it so.
Reed shuddered a little, but not from the probing winds. He knew that enemy only too well himself. He would need these warriors, certainly, and as many like them that would follow. He grinned fatally at the thought that, if they knew what he had planned, they would probably gallop just as fast in the opposite direction.
