This summer was unforgettable. July struck hard, with 62 recorded heatstroke fatalities in Seoul, compounded by a disgraceful failure of a GS-100 security android that collapsed outside the Unified Chosun Bank. A street cleaner swept the remains into a pile, leaving behind its head, which continued chirping warnings about the heat.

Then came the monsoon season. Undeterred, hundreds of Red Devils supporters packed the World Cup stadium, waving flags of a unified nation, only to have their hopes dashed in the first round: Mexico triumphed 7-0 over the Republic of Korea. The following day, the sun reemerged, casting a white glow over a salvage yard as an aged Grumman A-1 bomb disposal unit maneuvered in a figure-eight pattern. It made way for a young girl named Louisier, who exuberantly threw her arms back as if celebrating, while dragging a woman by her ankles.

This woman, once enchanting with her pink lips and shimmering blonde hair, had seen better days. Her visage was a mosaic of ruins, held together by one cloudy blue eye, while her torso resembled a translucent bioplastic vest. Ruijie pressed the power button on the woman’s neck, but alas, the robot was lifeless.

Yet, those legs—so exquisitely beautiful—caught Mr. Louisier’s attention, and he intended to take them home.

She paused to check her robowear’s battery. Two hours remained. A cutting-edge, battery-powered titanium brace was affixed to her leg, designed to enhance her mobility, a testament to the love that surrounded her.

Nearby, Japanese pampas grass swayed at the edge of the collection lot. Abandoned war machines from the Unification War lay dormant, resembling ancient beasts. Among them rested the SADARM-1000, notorious for its terrifying legacy. Once active, it unleashed a barrage of bladed robots that sliced through the air with abandon.

Decades later, SADARM remained dormant, lying on its side as if in a deep slumber, its gut torn open and robbed of valuable parts. Louisier pulled on the woman’s leg, but when her head struck a piece of buried metal, one blue eye popped out. Cursing, he chased it through the grass until it finally slowed to a crawl at the base of SADARM’s belly.

Ruijie paused for a moment, her heart racing as a swarm of wasps stood still, their wings flickering. From the melted remnants of another machine, perhaps there lay the remnants of a golden drone, or a yellow jacket awaiting to pounce—real or virtual, which posed a greater threat?

Real entities displayed no restraint.

She aspired to achieve perfection, to become as still as a robot. Yet, robots require no enhancements to move. They are discarded when they outlive their utility.

In that instant, a hum emanated from deep within SADARM. The hornets rustled, their wings buzzing with rising indignation, but a unique sound submerged their anger. It was a melodic hum, oscillating like the tide, echoing the gentle rhythm of a temple bell. Hmm, hmm. The vibrations disrupted her robowear and sent chills across her arms.

Silence enveloped the hornets.

Someone is inside. Even her thoughts lowered to whispers, and this must be a person of wonder to be lulled to sleep by the drone of a wasp’s nest.

RUIJIE was treasured by both sides of her family. Her relatives in Fuzhou lovingly called her Rui Rui and Mingzhu, particularly her father, who saw her as a priceless gem.

Her symptoms first arose in fourth grade while her father proudly shared Ruijie’s award-winning science project, “The Great Silence and Why I Think We’re Listening,” during dinner, leading her mother to jest that the table itself could benefit from some silence. Amidst laughter, Louise inhaled pungent shacha sauce through her nose, reaching for a glass of water when it slipped from her grasp.

Days passed, and she dropped her chopsticks. They crashed to the floor, dragging slippery noodles along. Her father commented on her clumsiness. Ruijie, shy but rebellious, remembered those moments and often felt trapped within her own body.

The tremors intensified. Her fingers resisted the urge to clench. Embracing this, she found strength to fend off annoying classmates, yet simple tasks like holding a pen became insurmountable. Hospital visits escalated, tests unveiled potential scares—ALS, PMA, MMA, but they were no martial arts to her. Sleepless nights came, gripped by an iron band tightening on her body. In despair, her parents would sneak in, kneeling beside her as they wrapped sandalwood beads around her hands and prayed for relief.

Thereafter, she was fitted for her first robowear. A rectangular ivory disc was affixed to her hip—a sensor and motor guiding her movements like a gentle nudge on a swing. Louisier stood unassisted for the first time in weeks. Her father praised her as “super,” while her mother captured the moment, touching the photo delicately as if to save its fleeting worth.

Doctors maintained a somber tone—preparations were in order. But Ruijie, a triumphant presence in science fairs, remained optimistic about miracles. She believed in the intricate connections between beings and the universe. She was one with everything. Matter and spirit melded, resembling a swimmer’s fluidity within the sea and the precision of an archer’s shot. With this belief, she envisioned waking up, walking forward, and inhaling the luminous energy of a universe alive with fluctuating light—her body undergoing decay, yet thriving, igniting her internal cosmos, where stars flickered in radiant harmony.

This is an excerpt from Bright, written by Sylvia Park, published by Oneworld, May 2026. Join the New Scientist Book Club and be part of our discussions on Discord.