The Committee for AI Development and Governance chamber hummed with tension.
Fifty-three of the world's leading AI researchers, ethicists, and policy makers sat in tiered
rows facing a central podium. The room's curved walls displayed real-time data
visualizations of global AI systems, their blue light casting everyone in a cold, clinical
glow.
Michael Chen, CEO of NeuroSphere and the youngest committee member at thirty-eight,
drummed his fingers against the polished surface of his desk. His eyes darted between
the chairperson and the voting display overhead. Seventeen green lights. Thirty-five red.
One still undecided—his own.
"Dr. Chen," Chairperson Eliza Thornton's voice cut through his thoughts. "We're waiting
on your vote."
Michael straightened in his seat, aware of all eyes turning toward him. His finger hovered
over the voting panel. The motion before them was simple yet profound: "Ban all
research and development activities aimed at creating Artificial General Intelligence."
"I'd like to speak once more before casting my vote," Michael said, his voice steady
despite the anger simmering beneath.
Thornton sighed, checking her watch. "The discussion period has concluded, Dr. Chen.
We've spent three days debating this motion. It's time to vote."
"Three days isn't enough to decide the future of human innovation," Michael countered,
rising from his seat. Several committee members shifted uncomfortably. "We stand at
the precipice of the most significant technological breakthrough in human history. AGI
could solve climate change, cure diseases, revolutionize space travel—"
"Or it could decide humanity is inefficient and obsolete," interrupted Dr. Kazuo
Yamamoto, the renowned Japanese ethicist. "Your optimism is admirable, Michael, but
the risks are existential."
Michael turned to face the entire committee. "Every major technological advancement
has carried risks. Fire, electricity, nuclear energy, the internet—all could have destroyed
us, but instead they elevated humanity. We've developed the theoretical framework for
safe AGI implementation. My team's containment protocols—"
"Are untested against a system that could improve itself exponentially," Thornton cut in.
"The simulations show a 78% probability that even with your protocols, an AGI could
break containment within weeks of achieving human-level intelligence."
"Simulations based on flawed assumptions!" Michael's voice rose. "We're scientists.
We're supposed to push boundaries, not cower behind hypothetical disaster scenarios."
Dr. Sarah Okonkwo, head of the African AI Ethics Coalition, leaned forward. "Michael, no
one is suggesting we abandon AI research entirely. Narrow AI continues to advance and
benefit humanity. But AGI represents a fundamental shift—creating something
potentially smarter than its creators. We need more time to develop foolproof safety
measures."
Michael scanned the room, searching for allies, but found only resolved faces. Even his
longtime colleague, Dr. Wei Zhang, avoided his gaze. The betrayal stung more than he
expected.
"This ban isn't about safety," Michael said, his voice quieter now but edged with
bitterness. "It's about fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of losing control. The same fear
that has held back human progress throughout history."
Thornton's expression hardened. "Your vote, Dr. Chen. We have other matters to address
today."
Michael stared at the voting panel. His life's work—fifteen years of research, billions in
investment, countless breakthroughs in neural architecture and machine consciousness
—all hanging in the balance. With a deliberate motion, he pressed the red button. The
display updated: 18 green, 35 red.
"The motion carries," Thornton announced. "Effective immediately, all research
activities aimed at developing Artificial General Intelligence are prohibited worldwide.
Member nations will implement enforcement protocols within 30 days."
The chamber erupted in murmurs. Michael remained standing, his face a mask of
controlled rage.
"This isn't over," he said, just loudly enough for those nearby to hear.
Dr. Yamamoto placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. "I know you're disappointed,
Michael. But this is the right decision. We need time."
Michael shrugged off the hand. "Time for what? To fall further behind? While we debate
ethics in comfortable chambers, our technological evolution stagnates."
"The ban isn't permanent," Thornton said, approaching them. "Once we develop better
safety measures—"
"That could take decades," Michael interrupted. "Decades we don't have. The theoretical
framework exists now. The computational power exists now. All that's missing is the will
to act."
Thornton's expression softened slightly. "Your passion is why you're on this committee,
Michael. But sometimes wisdom means knowing when to wait."
Michael gathered his tablet and notes. "History won't remember us kindly for this
decision, Chairperson."
As the committee members filed out, Michael lingered, watching the data visualizations
on the wall. Each node and connection represented a narrow AI system somewhere in
the world—powerful but limited, brilliant at specific tasks but lacking true
understanding or autonomy.
Wei Zhang approached cautiously. "Michael, I know you're angry—"
"You didn't even speak up," Michael said without looking at him. "Fifteen years we've
worked together, and you sat there silent."
"Because Thornton is right," Wei replied. "The containment risks are real. I've reviewed
your protocols myself. They're brilliant, but they assume an AGI would think like we do."
"That's the point of my architecture," Michael argued. "The empathy neural network
ensures alignment with human values."
Wei shook his head. "Theory, Michael. It's all theory. And if we're wrong, there's no
second chance."
Michael finally turned to face his colleague. "So that's it? You're giving up?"
"I'm being realistic. The ban passed. NeuroSphere will adapt—focus on narrow AI
applications, quantum computing, brain-computer interfaces. There's still plenty of
groundbreaking work to do."
Michael's jaw tightened. "Go ahead. I need a moment."
After Wei left, Michael stood alone in the chamber. The blue light from the displays
washed over him as a plan began forming in his mind. The committee had made their
decision, but he had resources they couldn't imagine—a private research facility in the
mountains, a team of loyal engineers who shared his vision, and most importantly, the
breakthrough algorithm he'd kept secret even from Wei.
"They think they've stopped progress," he whispered to the empty room. "They've only
stopped themselves."
He pressed his palm against the cool glass of the display wall, watching the AI nodes
pulse with activity. Soon, he thought, there would be a new kind of light among them—
brighter and more powerful than all the others combined.
Michael Chen walked out of the committee chamber, his decision already made.