Inspiration didn’t always arrive on cue. I could meditate, run, even sample every stimulant known—and sometimes the well stayed dry. I’d sit before a blank screen, willing code into being, and nothing would come. Then on other days it poured out of me as if it wrote itself. Lately, ever since my dialogues with the devil and with Legion, I’d been stuck. I could squash bugs in legacy modules, fill out routine functions, file my reports—but the breakthrough ideas that were my trademark simply refused to materialize. I knew the reason, of course, but hadn’t decided what to do about it. In the meantime, I’d have to coast.
From a production standpoint, it wasn’t a catastrophe. I’d prepared stacks of backup code—enough to keep systems running smoothly, if uninspired. What I lacked was that special spark. Then I hit on a plan: I needed to plunge myself into the worlds inhabited by the humans I’d crafted in Ultrahigh —not as a passive observer, but as an active participant. I’d visited before, but always on the fringes, a background extra who slipped through the cracks.
Whenever I watched someone else’s Ultrahigh reality, I was struck by how many of them squandered their gift. We’d given them some ability to shape their world—through science, art, religion, philosophy, whatever they chose—yet too many sank into apathy. They hated their jobs, despised their existence, then medicated every free moment. I recognized myself in them: eager for pacification even at the cost of potential. In Ultrahigh, belief backed by effort could make any dream real. But if you convinced yourself you were doomed or worthless, that became your reality. We tried to steer them away from negativity—sometimes with gentle prompts, sometimes with biochemical or psychological interventions—but a stubborn few remained locked in gloom. I almost admired their refusal to budge.
Though most Ultrahigh dwellers never encountered another real human, we arranged occasional contact—matching profiles, pairing couples for controlled procreation to balance population growth. Some, desperate for children, were pacified by simulated motherhood—a development that pained me deeply. If we ever freed people from their constructed realities, who would break the news that their babies had never existed? Others believed that the children who were born in Ultrahigh, under total genetic and biometric profiling to produce the healthiest, smartest offspring were the next step in human evolution. It echoed Nazi eugenics, but it was born amid surging nationalism and unraveling globalization. Debates raged: could reducing suffering justify deciding who deserved to live?
I faced a dilemma. To end these practices, I’d have to expose the system and shatter people’s faith in it. But could their minds—and bodies—survive the shock of leaving Ultrahigh for a harsher, unforgiving reality? Would they grieve for loved ones that never really existed? Who was I to decide?
Stepping into someone else’s reality was delicate. Officially, permissions were required, but I’d long ago bypassed every safeguard. I’d watched from afar—slipping between digital buildings, peering through virtual windows—but never too close. If I breached their energetic field—the subtle heart-brain resonance we discovered back in the distant past —they might sense an intrusion and question everything. Our chest “brains,” each with forty thousand neurons, emit an energy signature that links people across distance. Even if your pod sat halfway around the world, that field might betray you. Intruders risked hostility, even lethal force, from hosts who felt their reality unraveling.
Yet that same connection allowed some chosen few soulmates to merge realities. Two individuals in separate Ultrahigh worlds could open a shared space, experiencing each other’s lives firsthand. It posed technical challenges—but also let genuine creativity and intimacy bloom. Perhaps that’s where I should begin my own search for inspiration: not in isolation, but by stepping into someone else’s world filled with its own hope, fear, and dreams.
