Llumina's Youngest Author

Every once in a while a darling emerges from the crowd. He stands out from the rest, surprises us and gives us hope. We are suddenly imbued with confidence that the world, no matter how shaky it seems on a daily basis, can still amaze us. There is nothing better than discovering an individual who astonishes us with first-rate talents, well-honed skills and a generous heart.

Daniel Neumann is such an individual. Young, only 16-years-old, still in high school, but surprisingly mature – with a grasp of writing that is well beyond his years.

Below is an excerpt from his first book, OMA - One Man Army:

***

Working for the Celestial Guard requires you to sleep for only three hours. It is something I have always brought to the attention of RIG (Representatives of Independent Governments), but they always countered my pleas with something like, ‘Even civilian scientists are expected to embody the spirit and unity of the Celestial Guard.’ Bull. Anyways, automated everything takes the fun out of being tired. So, I’ll be on time as usual…” was hastily scratched into an ancient, canvas-lined notebook, the kind only sold in gift shops, at museums. Tom wrote down everything he thought inside and knew it would be safe from anti-terrorism systems. Besides, it didn’t take up any of his precious memory. In the 31^st century, memory is gold. Everything is digital, and memory is standard among the IGs (independent governments).

Tom stretched and mumbled, “Everything is standard since the Jerusalem Convention.”

Although it had been at least thirty years, that convention had unified the human race longer than had any other. Every one of the original countries of Earth now had at least one planet and one war ship named and partially owned by it. However, that was probably only because of the attack from the Surculus.

Tom walked into the office, where he was painfully reminded of the institutionalism within which he had to work. Cameras, microphones, and other sensory equipment surrounded his environment. As soon as he walked into the prison in which he was forced to reside, lights flickered and turned on, and programs on his monitor began to open.

There could be no chance taken when the fate of the human race was at stake. Tom’s job was to create a super exoskeleton with a high-density metal not yet labeled on the periodic table—element 678, code-named hocium, which meant “hope” in Latin.

The suit was the work of a deceased scientist, dead due to an assassination by the enemy. The suit was originally designed to protect commanding officers in ground engagements, but that project had been scrubbed to make way for a Special Forces program. Tom did not care about the reasons for his work, though—only that the Surculus would be looking for him in their rock-like ships.

“Hi Martha,” he whispered as he sat down. He glared into the eyes of another antique, a picture in a frame, and then he heard a loud thump. Seventeen clinks sounded. His building was digging deeper into the planet to conceal him from possible enemies. It was time to get back to his important assignment.

He created the frame of the armor to look like a gladiator suit, for the intimidation factor. Chest to midriff was covered with ribbing, and the helmet seemed to be part human and part insect. He decided to complement the arms of his creation by tattooing Latin inscriptions of hope and the names of war heroes on the cuffs of the wrist. Tom was obsessed with the dead language. Worn out, he decided to take his breakfast break, and the screen went blank and flashed the words “Project: OMAHA is to be classified.”

“I know!” he shouted, but no one was there, not even Martha.

OMAHA was an acronym for “One Man Armies Halting Attack.” Tom’s undertaking was to turn the element hocium into a viable augmenting armor. With its near indestructibility, one man could decimate entire armies. Hence, the suit would be named OMA (One Man Army).

***