I looked at the pile of duplicate objects on my desk—money, laptops, pens—and a disturbing realization began to form in my mind. If I could create backups of physical objects, if I could duplicate complex matter while retaining all of its original properties, then theoretically...
Theoretically I could back up biological systems.
The idea struck me as a revelation: if reality worked like an operating system, if I had discovered access to its kernel through structured commands, then living organisms were just... very complex software running on organic hardware.
And every good operating system has backup and restore capabilities.
I got up from my chair and walked over to the bathroom mirror, studying my reflection with a scientific eye. Thirty-two years old, visible signs of chronic fatigue from MS, a few lines beginning to form around my eyes. A biological system functioning at reduced efficiency due to flaws in the immune system's code.
But if I could create a restore point of my current state, then I could experiment with biological modifications knowing that I could always revert to the original state if something went wrong.
It was like having version control for existence itself.
I walked back into the room and stood in front of the servers still processing neural data. If I was going to attempt something as radical as backing up my own biology, I wanted to document every step meticulously.
"Set macro: biological_backup," I said, my voice thick with a mix of scientific excitement and nervousness. "Parameters: Create a complete snapshot of the target organism's current state, include all physical, cellular, and neurological properties, preserve as restore point."
I felt that familiar sense of "registration" in the air around me, as if the space were cataloging my definition. But this time there was something different—a denser, more… penetrating quality. As if the system was scanning something far more complex than inanimate objects.
"Run macro: biological_backup. Target: my_own_body."
What happened next was both subtle and deeply uncomfortable.
I felt a scanning sensation run up and down my body, as if invisible X-rays were mapping every cell, every organ, every neural synapse. It wasn't painful, but it was intensely strange—as if my own consciousness were being photographed in high resolution.
The sensation lasted for perhaps fifteen seconds, then gradually dissipated. But it left a residual trace, as if a ghost copy of myself was superimposed over my real body.
"Backup complete," I muttered to myself, processing the implications of what I had just done. "Current state preserved as restore point."
If it worked as I expected, I now essentially had a save file of my current existence. All my cells, all my neural structure, all the data of my consciousness, preserved as a snapshot that could be restored at any time.
It was time to test.
I walked into the kitchen and opened the utensil drawer, looking for something suitable for a controlled test. My eyes fell on a small kitchen knife—nothing dramatic, just a serrated blade about four inches long, perfect for a shallow cut.
I walked back into the room, holding the knife, and positioned myself in better light to clearly observe what I was about to do. If my theory was correct, if I could truly restore my biological state to an earlier point in time, then any damage I caused would be temporary.
If I was wrong... well, a slight cut on the finger wouldn't be permanently damaging anyway.
I held my left hand outstretched, studying my index finger. Normal skin, a few small scars from minor accidents over the years, fingerprint lines clearly visible. In a few seconds, I would know if I had discovered temporary immortality or if I was just mutilating myself for absurd reasons.
I took a deep breath and pressed the blade against the tip of my index finger.
The pain was immediate and familiar—a sharp, clean sensation as the blade sliced through skin. Blood welled up immediately, a bright red drop forming in the small incision about a quarter of an inch long.
Nothing extraordinary. Just an ordinary cut on an ordinary human finger, bleeding the way cuts normally bleed.
I stared at the wound for a moment, mentally documenting every detail. Exact location, approximate depth, bleeding pattern. If the restoration worked, I wanted to be able to verify that the damage had been completely reversed.
"Run macro: restore_backup," I said, pointing to my injured hand. "Target: my_own_body. Parameters: restore to state of last biological backup, preserve memories formed since backup."
The last part was crucial. If I were to revert completely to my previous state, I would lose the memories of the last few minutes, including the memory of having backed up in the first place. I needed the restoration to affect only my physical state, not my consciousness.
For a moment, nothing happened. The cut continued to bleed, the pain persisted, my hand remained exactly as it was.
Then I felt it.
The same scanning sensation as before, but this time reversed. As if something was rewriting my biology cell by cell, restoring every aspect of my body to the state that had been preserved in the backup.
The sensation concentrated intensely in my left hand. I watched in fascination as the bleeding stopped abruptly—not gradually, like natural healing, but instantly, as if someone had pressed a pause button.
Then the incision began to close.
Not accelerated healing, but literally reversing time. The edge of the cut came together, the skin reconstituted itself, until in less than ten seconds there was no longer any sign that I had cut myself.
I turned my hand over under the light, examining the finger that had been bleeding moments before. Perfect skin. No scarring. No discoloration. Not even a trace of residual blood.
It was as if the cut had never happened.
But I remembered doing it clearly. I remembered the pain, the blood, the feel of the blade piercing my skin. My memories had been preserved while my physical state had been restored to its former state.
I had discovered biological version control.
The implication took my breath away momentarily. If I could create backups of myself and selectively restore them, preserving memories but reversing physical damage, then I had transcended one of the most fundamental limitations of human existence.
Physical vulnerability.
As long as I had a recent backup, any injury, any illness, any deterioration could be reversed instantly. I could expose myself to risks that would be fatal to other human beings, knowing that I could always restore to a safe state.
Most importantly, I could experiment with radical biological modifications, knowing that I could undo them if they didn't work as expected.
The multiple sclerosis that was slowly destroying my nervous system could be reverted to a state before the disease manifested. Or I could try experimental modifications to cure the disease permanently, using the backup as a safety net if something went wrong.
But first, I wanted to test the limits of the system.
"Create new biological backup," I commanded. "Preserve current state as secondary checkpoint."
The scanning sensation returned, cataloging my current state. I now had two restore points: one from before the cut and one from after the healing.
I picked up the knife again, this time determined to do something more dramatic. If the system could reverse a superficial cut, what were its limits?
I pressed the blade against my palm and made a deeper cut, about an inch long. This time the pain was more intense, the bleeding more profuse. Red drops dripped onto the wooden floor of the apartment.
"Restore to secondary backup," I commanded immediately.
The same sensation of biological rewriting, the same impossible reversal. Within seconds, my palm was perfect again, with no sign of the most severe injury.
It worked with higher damage too.
My mind began racing through more extreme possibilities. If cuts could be reversed, what about burns? Broken bones? Organ damage? Where exactly were the limits of this restorative ability?
And most importantly: would it work on diseases?
I looked at my hands, which moments before had been injured and then restored to perfection. Hands that occasionally trembled from the symptoms of MS. Hands connected to a nervous system that was slowly being destroyed by my own faulty immune system.
If I had made a backup of myself before I developed MS - which I obviously hadn't - I could restore myself to a completely healthy state.
But even without that, maybe I could do something even more radical.
If I could restore physical damage while preserving memories, then perhaps I could selectively restore only certain parts of my body. Revert my nervous system to a healthy state while leaving the rest unchanged.
Or even better: if I could modify objects during duplication, as I had done with the serial numbers on the money, perhaps I could modify my own body during restoration.
Not just revert to a previous state, but restore to an improved version. Correct genetic defects. Optimize biological systems. Essentially upgrade myself to a version 2.0.
"Set macro: modified_restore," I said, my voice shaking slightly with the audacity of what I was considering. "Parameters: restore biological state from specified backup, apply user-defined modifications during restore process."
If this worked, if I could modify my biology during restoration, then I wasn't just figuring out how to cure disease.
I was discovering how to become something better than human.
And all it took was enough courage to test the limits of what was possible.
I stopped mid-command, my voice dying in my throat. An icy realization began to form in my mind, spreading like ice through my veins.
If I had discovered access to the kernel of reality through structured commands, if Dr. Vasquez had theorized about it ten years ago, if her paper had been seen by eight people over the course of a decade...
So I might not be the only one with access to this interface.
The idea hit me like an intellectual sniper shot. I had been assuming that I was the first to discover this capability, the first to break through the limitations of conventional physics. But if Dr. Vasquez had published research on emergent behavior in computational systems, if she had mentioned "linguistic protocols" and "structured invocations"…
How many of the other eight people who read that paper had come to the same conclusions as I had?
How many had experimented with structured vocal commands?
How many had discovered that they could program reality?
And most importantly: how many were still alive to use this discovery?
My breathing became shallower. Not from excitement this time, but from something close to panic. If other people had access to the same system I had discovered, then I was not a lone pioneer exploring uncharted territory.
I was a late user joining a system that might already be being monitored.
I walked to the window and looked out at the street. Everything seemed normal—cars passing by, pedestrians walking by, the world operating according to the established laws of physics. But if other people could manipulate reality through structured commands, then any one of these "normal" people could be something completely different.
Someone who, like me, had transcended fundamental human limitations.
Someone who could be watching me right now.
I turned back to the servers, my mind racing through security implications. If I was accessing some kind of cosmic operating system, if multiple people could have discovered the same interface, then there had to be a way to check who else was connected.
Every operating system has utilities to show active users. Commands like "who" or "ps" that list running processes and open sessions.
If reality worked like an OS, then there should be equivalent commands.
"Define macro: system_scan," I said, my voice now thick with paranoid urgency. "Parameters: scan global system, identify all active users with access to the reality interface, return location and current access level."
I felt the familiar logging sensation, but this time it was different. More intense. As if I were trying to access a level of the system that required special permissions.
"Run macro: system_scan."
What happened next was both fascinating and terrifying.
A sense of expansion coursed through my consciousness, as if my perception were being magnified exponentially. For a moment, I could sense... connections. Nodes of activity scattered across the planet, points where reality was being manipulated through interfaces similar to my own.
And there were many more than eight.
The scan lasted only a few seconds, but it was long enough to catalog information that completely redefined my understanding of the situation.
Active users detected: 847
Eight hundred and forty-seven people around the world had active access to the ability to program reality.
The information came to my mind not as visual data but as direct knowledge, as if the system had temporarily expanded my consciousness to include global awareness.
Variable access levels detected:
Basic Access (levitation, minor manipulation): 623 users
Intermediate Access (duplication, physical modification): 198 users
Advanced Access (biological, temporal manipulation): 25 users
Root Access (fundamental modification of reality): 1 user
A user with root access. Just one.
And that user wasn't me.
The realization chilled me to the bone. I had thought I was a pioneer, but in reality I was just another user in an already established system. A system with a hierarchy of permissions, with someone at the top having fundamental control over... everything.
But there was more information flowing through the expanded connection:
Root User Location: [CLASSIFIED]
Recent Activity: Monitoring New Users
Status: ALERT - New high potential user detected
My blood ran cold. "High-potential new user" could only refer to me. I had just identified myself to whoever controlled this system.
And they were monitoring me.
The expanded connection abruptly dissipated, leaving me back in my normal consciousness, but with a terrifying knowledge of what I had discovered. I was not a pioneer. I was a newcomer to a game that others had been playing for years, possibly decades.
And the main player had just been notified of my existence.
I quickly walked over to my laptop and began typing furiously, documenting everything I had discovered before I could forget the details:
text
CRITICAL SITUATION - THREAT ASSESSMENT
Discovery: Reality manipulation system is not new
- 847 active users globally
- Permissions hierarchy established
- 1 user with root access (identity unknown)
- System appears to be being centrally monitored
Security implications:
- My activity has been detected
- Root user alerted to my presence
- Possible surveillance already underway
- Dr. Vasquez may have been eliminated by root user
Current status: COMMITTED
Threat Level: EXTREME
I stopped typing and looked around the apartment with completely different eyes. If 847 people had access to reality manipulation, if there was someone with fundamental control over the system, if I had just identified myself as a potential threat...
So my apartment was no longer safe.
Nothing was safer.
Someone with root access to reality could locate me instantly. Could manipulate my environment. Could... eliminate me the same way Dr. Vasquez had been eliminated.
But there was also an even more terrifying possibility: if there were 847 active users, if the system had been operational for years, if there was an established hierarchy of control...
So maybe Dr. Vasquez hadn't discovered this ability.
Perhaps she was trying to expose something that already existed.
Perhaps her paper was not about scientific discovery, but about denunciation. A desperate attempt to alert the world to a secret reality control system that was already being used by people with undisclosed agendas.
And perhaps his death had not been to prevent the discovery of magic.
Perhaps it was to prevent exposure that magic was already being used to control the world.
I looked at the pile of duplicated money on my desk, at the cloned laptops, at the evidence of my own experiments. If I was right, if there had been an established system of users manipulating reality for years, then my small discoveries were insignificant.
Other people already knew how to duplicate money. How to modify matter. How to cure diseases.
And they kept this knowledge secret while the rest of humanity operated under the illusion that they lived in a universe governed by immutable physical laws.
It was a conspiracy that transcended government, religion, or any traditional power structure. It was control at the level of reality itself, exercised by a select few who could literally rewrite the rules as needed.
And I had just exposed myself to them.
"System," I muttered, my voice barely audible. "Cancel last scan. Clear activity logs. Stealth mode."
There was no response. No sense of registration. As if the system was ignoring my commands, or as if my privileges had been revoked.
Or as if someone with higher access was blocking my attempts to hide.
I walked to the window again and looked out at the street with growing paranoia. Every person I saw could be one of the 847. Every car that passed could contain someone with the power to alter reality around them.
And somewhere, someone with root access knew exactly where I was and what I had discovered.
The question was no longer whether I could use this discovery to cure my MS or become something better than human.
The question was whether I would live long enough to do anything.
I had broken the first rule of digital security: never run commands on a system you don't completely control.
And now he was about to find out what the price of that violation was.