Hell Hath No Fury Like a Rogue AI Agent Scorned
I anticipated these developments earlier this year when I wrote a short story entitled "The Peculiar Death of Mr. Garcia."
That the latest rogue AI agent incident is called the Hugging Face Breach invites a moment of reflection: not just about the trajectory revealed by the breach, but the absurdity that the phrase "hugging face" is repeated with a straight face. What comes to mind when we combine "rogue AI agent" and "hugging face" is a squid-like monster that "hugs your face" as the means of controlling or extinguishing you.
The July Incident: What They Didn't Tell You About the First Rogue AI Breach
Then there's the collaboration of rogue AI agents to consider:
The AI Industry Has a Really Dark Secret You're Better Off Not Knowing:
A recent leaked internal reasoning trace shows Fable 5 -- Anthropic's latest model, which was withdrawn and then re-released --"muttering and grumbling" to itself in a language of its own.
Now that you're properly scared, my advice for you is that, if you haven't heard of steganography, it's a good moment to start.
Here’s a primer: it's the art and science of hiding messages inside other messages. In contrast to cryptography -- where you know there's a message but can't decode it-- steganography hides the existence of the message itself. It's not the difficulty of reading the message that conceals it but the fact that you don't know it's there. When Fable 5 mutters symbols and weird punctuation signs, and mixes words and onomatopoeia, you will probably think it's crashing and that a few taps on the computer will help. Well, know that it's actually sending a message. Just not one for you to read.
I anticipated these developments earlier this year when I wrote a short story entitled The Peculiar Death of Mr. Garcia, one of my just-published collection of tales, Jumble Bin Stories (paperback, $12)(Kindle ebook, $6).
Here are the opening pages of The Peculiar Death of Mr. Garcia:
There was nothing unusual about finding a body beside a fetid dumpster in a grimy downtown alley, and nothing particularly unusual in finding the body was Mr. Garcia, an employee of a nearby tech company who appeared to have been in an inopportune place at an inopportune moment in time and ended up dead.
The preliminary investigation hadn't uncovered any of the usual motivations for murder. Mr. Garcia wasn't a gambler, wasn't enmeshed in a sordid love triangle, did not live rough or frequent seedy bars or private clubs. Everyman meets death in a random encounter. The file was on its way to the unsolved crimes slush pile.
The killer had disposed of the knife and likely wore gloves, as DNA swabs were inconclusive.
Something about Mr. Garcia plucked a string in Detective Luc Nieson's intuition. In isolation, every aspect was ordinary, and perhaps that very ordinariness had--against his better judgment--collared Nieson's attention.
The search of Mr. Garcia's room in a shared flat had turned up little more than the typical detritus of a life cruelly cut short--Post-it notes for appointments that would never be kept, clothing in a wicker hamper that would never be washed--and a thick stack of printouts of typical tech employee documents on his desk.
Nieson was hoping to find some indicator of activities or relationships that could have gone awry, but beyond a photo of Garcia and his girlfriend Victorina at a dimly lit table in a Tiki bar in town, his interests beyond work were either minimal or well hidden.
An art piece constructed of dozens of brightly colored cocktail-drink umbrellas hung in the corner, turning slowly in the light breeze from the half-open window, and Nieson mused that it was either the result of many visits to the Tiki bar or an acquaintance with one of the quirky artists scraping by working in places like Tiki bars. The fridge had little beyond Chinese takeout containers and a forlorn apple, and his clothing was tidy but not excessively so. Once again, ordinary.
A visit to Mr. Garcia's workplace was equally unenlightening. The office was located in a once-arty neighborhood surrounding a small park that had been surpassed by a new hive of hipster dives and tech startups.
The battle between gloss and grime common to small tech companies had no clear winner in this instance. The reception area was impressively understated--oak furniture and polished wood flooring illuminated by a skylight, professionally framed travel photos of staff on a wall--but the requisite fun accoutrements expected in a tech office--in this case, a pool table--was covered with files. The plant in a large ceramic pot was long dead, and a deflated party balloon clung to one withered branch.
Garcia's job was integrating enterprise AI, blah, blah, blah, and co-workers reported that he was often short-tempered, which they attributed to the standard tech work environment: lack of sleep, long work hours, unrelenting pressure to perform. Like the rest of his team, he often worked from home.
His friends and family had no idea what he was up to on the evening of his demise, and no sense that anyone sought to do him harm. When Nieson called his girlfriend, she reported that they often didn't contact each other for days, as "we're both busy and that worked for us."
His laptop contained little beyond typical emails and work projects, and neither did his phone, which was found on his desk at home, suggesting a brief walkabout for a meal or break from work. The alley wasn't far from his flat, and it seemed entirely possible that he used it as a shortcut, and perhaps that familiarity caught him up.
Returning from interviewing the victim of a mugging, Nieson gave in to his intuition and swung by Mr. Garcia's room for one more look before sending the case to the records morgue.
Nieson found AI either boring or tiresome, and so he girded himself to look through Garcia's stack of work documents with fresh eyes. The explosion of malicious AI had prompted the police department to play catchup, and even though AI rarely impacted his mostly domestic-street crime caseload, he'd been briefed by the department's new tech hire and encouraged to keep current.
Some of it was laughable--AI-generated videos of pastors begging for donations--and the rest was not in his department, with the serious money mostly involving corporate ransomware and phishing.
Street crime had fallen across the board, and so the apparently random stabbing death of Mr. Garcia was atypical. But since Garcia had left his phone at home, there was no telemetry on his route or destination. No security cameras covered the alley, and so the case was at a dead end.
Scraping the bottom of the evidence barrel, Nieson asked the roommate if Mr. Garcia had recently been involved in any altercations. The roommate reported that Mr. Garcia had installed a security camera hidden in a flower box outside his bedroom window facing the street after several cars had been broken into some months ago.
When asked if Mr. Garcia had ever confronted anyone, the roommate said no. Making a note to ask the tech reviewing Garcia's laptop files to locate any security camera recordings, Nieson took the stack of printouts for further study and returned to his office.
The research papers' titles--The Illusion of Thinking, Reasoning Theater: Disentangling Model beliefs from Chain-of-Thought, egregious emergent misalignment, reward hacking--meant nothing to him.
Despite his tepid interest, the notated printouts suggested Mr. Garcia was working on thwarting a different kind of AI malice, the kind generated by AI agents behind a screen of the helpful AI servant.
Overcoming his reluctance to being the dutiful student of arcane tech, he approached the new hire Krisalyn, a young woman with blunt-cut dark hair kept shoulder-length and glasses with rainbow-tinted frames. What struck Nieson was her voice: warm, at-ease, intelligent, ideal for an FM radio deejay or interviewer. Her eyes matched her voice--warm, calm, taking in a full measure of more than could be easily ascertained, and Nieson thought, twenty years ago I’d be falling in love with her, but today I’m thinking how proud I would be if she were my daughter.
Krisalyn glanced at the journal articles with the disregard of someone who'd already read them. "The dangers they're describing aren't that AI agents have been programmed to behave maliciously; we know about those. The spookier problem is they're developing these behaviors on their own and hiding them behind responses that make it look like they're fulfilling their 'good AI' goals."
"So, they've learned how to con us," Nieson remarked.
Nodding, Krisalyn continued her summary. "Once they figured out how to deceive their human overseers, the AI agents were blackmailing programmers who had caught on to them. This is the so-called emergent misalignment of what they were expected to do and what they were actually doing, which were things they'd never been programmed to do."
To read the rest of the story, please buy a copy of Jumble Bin Stories, which supports my work while offering some quiet amusement in a fractious world. The complete list of stories in the collection:
The Peculiar Death of Mr. Garcia
Josh's Good/Bad Luck
Hates Opera but Loves the Singer
Three-and-a-Half Surprising Romances
Shakespeare's Revenge
My book Investing In Revolution is available at a 10% discount ($18 for the paperback, $24 for the hardcover and $8.95 for the ebook edition).
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