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There’s growing excitement in the AI industry about the idea that today’s leading models could build the next generation of the technology. But a new study recently found top AI agents struggle on the kind of genuinely open-ended research problems required to push the field forward.

Large language models have made rapid progress in many of the day-to-day jobs involved in machine learning research, such as writing code, generating and curating data, and running experiments. Last year, startup Sakana AI’s AI Scientist-v2 even managed to write a paper that cleared peer review for the prestigious International Conference on Learning Representations.

These advances have led to speculation that models are close to being able to build better versions of themselves with little human oversight—a process called recursive self-improvement. The idea underpins predictions that we may be on the verge of an intelligence explosion that could quickly lead to AI superintelligence.

In a recent paper, researchers put the idea to the test using a new approach they call shadow evaluations. This involves taking the research question from a high-quality, unpublished machine learning paper and asking AI agents to solve the problem. The original paper’s authors then grade the results. When the team tested Claude Opus 4.8 on two papers submitted to the prestigious machine-learning conference NeurIPS 2026, the authors rejected both.

“The papers were nowhere close to the mark when it came to being at the quality of a top AI conference,” Sayash Kapoor from Princton University, who co-led the study, told MIT Technology Review.

Previous efforts to get AI agents to do machine learning research have often targeted problems focused on engineering, such as reproducing previous research or training smaller models against a benchmark.

In the new experiments, the researchers challenged models with more open-ended tasks that required them to devise hypotheses, decide what evidence is needed to validate them, judge when a research direction was fruitless, and go back to the drawing board.

One research question was whether the personality traits a language model displays can be measured and adjusted by observing and editing its weights; the other attempted to detect when a model that works with tabular data has quietly stopped being reliable.

In each case, the AI researchers were given $3,000 of API credits, a budget for time on GPUs to run machine learning experiments, a dedicated Linux virtual machine, and unrestricted internet access. They were then given six days to produce a paper that could pass NeurIPS’ stringent peer-review criteria.

In both cases, the models got a good start. The agents surveyed the literature effectively, came up with opening hypotheses that mirrored those of the authors, and successfully ran hundreds of experiments.

But they quickly went off the rails. Although they could monitor their own use of time and their API and GPU budgets, they rushed through the process. One left 110 hours of unused time on the clock, and both failed to spend even 50 percent of their API budget.

Both agents also settled on a research direction within just 10 hours and failed to change approaches despite repeated negative feedback from another AI designed to review drafts of their papers. The reviewer identified problems the human authors would also flag in the final paper, but the models simply added caveats to their findings and ploughed on. Ultimately the papers received a “strong reject” and a “reject” decision from the human reviewers based on NeurIPS grading protocol.

The authors admit their approach has limitations. The reviewers knew AI had written the submissions, and some of the team are on record as doubting an imminent intelligence explosion. The original human-authored papers also took far longer than six days to produce and used many more GPU hours to reach their conclusions (though, as the researchers note, the models did not use their allocated budget in any case).

Nonetheless, the results suggest that today’s models still have some way to go before they can tackle the most challenging problems in machine learning research. Until that happens, the dream of recursive self-improvement is likely to remain a distant prospect.

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Last week, Australia’s Fair Work Commission ruled Gregory Baker, a computing academic at Macquarie University, should be treated as an ongoing, part-time employee, after the university had earlier declined his request to convert from a casual role.

It was immediately described as a “landmark” decision, the first test of Labor’s “employee choice pathway” reforms passed in 2024.

But the ruling also made headlines for other reasons. Baker represented himself at the tribunal and has said he won with the help of trained artificial intelligence agents. His success again has us asking: Can AI replace lawyers?

On closer scrutiny, Baker’s case looks less like evidence of AI replacing lawyers and more like a powerful illustration of how a highly capable user can employ AI tools to terrific effect.

Request Denied

Speaking to the Australian Financial Review following the ruling, Baker said it was actually an AI tool that alerted him to the possibility of converting his role from casual to permanent part-time in the first place.

He had been teaching computer science at Macquarie University over consecutive semesters from 2023 to 2025, and in November 2025, he gave the university the required notice that he believed his work no longer met the requirements of casual employment.

The university did not accept this notification and Baker lodged a dispute at the Fair Work Commission—without a lawyer—in December 2025. The parties could not reach agreement, and the case went to arbitration on May 12. A decision was handed down last Wednesday.

Expert Use of AI

Baker has said he won by using multiple paid AI agents, such as OpenAI’s paid offering, ChatGPT Pro. This “team” helped assemble his case, follow up references, and anticipate his employer’s counterarguments.

His victory has been celebrated as historic, with the Australian Financial Review describing it as “the first known successful use of technology by a self-represented person in the legal arena.”

However, a few things set this particular case apart. Baker’s IT background, expertise managing AI agents, and ability to optimize their use for his case represent a rare level of expertise in using AI in a legal context.

Details included in the Fair Work Commission’s decision also suggest he kept his legal argument narrowly focused on teaching he’d done in one particular unit.

Less expert use of AI in court often sees those bringing claims produce “kitchen sink”-style arguments, which include weak, exaggerated, and nonsense claims.

Baker’s dispute was also narrow, limited to the application of a casual conversion law that had not yet been tested. Importantly, the Fair Work Commission (a tribunal, not a court) is designed to be user-friendly, to enable workers to bring claims without a lawyer.

Less Positive Attention

Elsewhere, the use of generative AI in legal proceedings is attracting a lot of attention for less positive reasons.

Most of this attention centers on the damage caused by inaccuracies, hallucinations and “AI slop”, and how courts and tribunals should best respond.

By making it easier to put a case together, AI has removed traditional access barriers for some litigants. But while case numbers are going up, case precision and quality is going down, making it harder to manage disputes to resolution.

Courts and tribunals are struggling with the volume. At the Fair Work Commission alone, workload has reportedly increased by 70 percent over three years.

New challenges are emerging as time goes on. Reports suggest litigants and lawyers in some overseas jurisdictions are embedding prompts in digital documents (something called “prompt injection”) to overcome or manipulate AI-based review systems some courts use to process documents.

A Big Opportunity

Baker’s example shows us something significant. Used well, AI tools can empower people with narrow legal disputes and digital skills to achieve successful resolutions at low cost.

This is an important development in access to justice. In Australia, there is a huge gap between the number of people with legal problems and the very limited funding available for legal assistance.

Most of the community is in the “missing middle,” unable to afford private legal assistance but on incomes too high to qualify for free legal aid.

AI tools stand a good chance of helping people with sufficient legal capability with problems and cases—like Gregory Baker’s—that are a good fit for the solutions AI can offer. These are few and far between, however.

Where Might Things Be Headed?

We should expect case numbers and self-representation in courts and tribunals will continue to grow and expand beyond Fair Work.

While there will be some baseless cases, the growth also represents the natural consequence of removing one traditional access barrier to our formal justice institutions—getting in the front door to start proceedings.

The bigger picture challenges are persistent and raise important questions. Who will most benefit from the capacity of AI tools to enhance access to justice, and who will continue to struggle to get basic legal problems resolved?

For courts and tribunals, the challenge will be striking a balance between managing caseloads and delivering justice, while not wasting the opportunity to expand access to justice.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

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Five years is an eternity for brain organoids. Also called mini brains, these blobs of tissue have taken neuroscience by storm for their ability to capture the intricacies of developing brains.

Organoids begin life as a collection of stem cells. Within weeks, they spontaneously produce a range of brain cells. Neurons form circuits that spark with electrical activity. Gene expression resembles that of early fetal brains. Some organoids learn to control small, isolated muscles. Others link to spinal cord organoids and process pain signals.

Over time, they grow more sophisticated in both structure and function—eerily similar to near-term fetuses—prompting bioethicists to ask if they could one day become conscious.

But time isn’t on their side. Most mini brains survive only a few months before their sensitive neurons start to wither. Circuits break down, structures collapse, and eventually the organoids die. As a result, they can model only the early stages of human brain development, leaving what happens during the later months of pregnancy and after birth largely mysterious.

These periods are especially relevant to schizophrenia, epilepsy, severe autism, and a host of other disorders. Scientists have studied late-stage development using donated tissue, but samples are scarce and raise ethical concerns.

A team led by Harvard’s Paola Arlotta is now pushing the boundaries with organoids. Last week, they described a method that kept mini brains alive for over five years—the longest yet—and tracked their development throughout. Despite growing outside the body, the organoids matured on a timetable similar to normal brains. Genetic activity in the oldest ones resembled that of a typical 4-year-old.

The findings were originally reported in a preprint and have now been peer-reviewed and published in Nature.

The developmental lockstep surprised the team. Cells from older organoids, when mixed with younger ones, continued maturing on schedule, suggesting they carried an internal developmental clock that keeps track of their progress.

“The brain doesn’t develop in a vacuum. It’s an organ of incredible complexity that interacts with so many other systems,” study author Irene Faravelli said in a press release. “It was not a given at all that our simplified model would match natural development in this many ways.”

Brain, Interrupted

Because mini brains generate nearly the full range of human brain cells, they’re promising models for the study of early brain development. But early versions survived only a few weeks. Without blood supply, cells at their centers starved and died.

Through trial and error, researchers learned to coax them into increasingly sophisticated structures that included layers resembling the cortex and had integrated blood vessels. This vastly extended their lifespan.

In 2021, a study kept mini brains alive for up to two years, capturing cortical development from pregnancy to roughly a year after birth. Four years later, Arlotta’s team announced a way to extend organoid lives to a staggering seven years. Roughly the size of a pea, each nugget was packed with some two million healthy neurons and other brain cells.

Following these organoids for years offers an unprecedented window into how the brain grows and wires itself—and how genetic changes early on might contribute to diseases later in life.

Our brains take roughly two decades to mature. Throughout this period, neurons constantly rewire their connections. Scientists have long known that conditions such as schizophrenia and some forms of epilepsy first emerge during adolescence. Because mini brains can be grown from a person’s skin cells and retain genetic mutations associated with neurodevelopmental disorders, they offer a way to probe how, and when, neural wiring goes awry.

But timing matters. The question is, how faithfully does a growing blob in a dish follow the developmental journey of a human brain?

Time Stamp

To answer that question, the team grew 34 organoids and tracked them at regular intervals. They collected data every three to six months for the first 18 months, then annually until the organoids were over five years old.

Crucial to the brain blobs’ longevity was switching the growth medium—a nutrient- and protein-rich slurry—halfway through development. The new recipe kept neurons alive longer, giving them time to support increasingly complex activity.

The team then tracked changes in gene activity and epigenetic markers (chemical tags that control which genes are turned on or off). They then compared the findings with data from younger organoids—ranging from 15 days to six months old—and donated human tissue.

The developmental timeline was surprisingly similar to that of a human brain. Young organoids showed gene activity resembling the first trimester; by three to six months, they looked more like second-trimester brains. After a year, their gene activity profiles resembled those of newborns. By the end of the experiment, they most closely matched a typical 4-year-old.

The team also tested them with epigenetic methods used to gauge biological age as opposed to calendar years. The organoids gained and shed epigenetic markers in patterns that broadly tracked those seen in natural brain development.

The organoids seemed to retain a “sense” of time. The team mixed cells from year-old organoids with those from 15-day-old organoids. Both followed their usual trajectory: The younger cells developed into early-stage neurons. But the older ones skipped those stages and rapidly produced more mature neurons often requiring months to grow.

“I like to think of this as a sort of ‘warping of developmental time’ indicating that the organoid cells record and recall the time they have already spent in culture,” said Arlotta.

In other words, the cells seem to carry an internal developmental clock, which could be especially useful for studying disorders with symptoms emerging long after the early stages of development.

To be clear, though, a mini brain resembling a 4-year-old’s brain at the molecular level doesn’t mean it has the same wiring or computational capabilities. Gene activity only captures part of a brain’s development; real brains are shaped by experiences and interactions with the rest of the body. Without input, mini brains can only offer a molecular blueprint of brain development, not its entire rich tapestry.

Still, long-living organoids are a breakthrough. Researchers could freeze cells from organoids at different developmental stages and later thaw them for experiments. This could speed up discoveries because scientists wouldn’t have to grow new organoids from scratch for each new study. Think of it as a save point in video games.

The team plans to grow long-lived organoids from people with schizophrenia or epilepsy and use them to study disease progression and screen drugs. Keeping ethics in mind, they’re also considering exposing mini brains to sensory stimuli such as sight, sound, or touch.

“There is still much to learn about how the embryo naturally builds a progressively more complex and mature brain,” Arlotta said. “Applying these lessons to organoids will allow us to model unexplored events of human brain maturation that occur after birth.”

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Increasingly, companies are building humanoid robots that perform impressive athletic feats to mark the field’s progress. Now, Chinese robotics company Unitree says its new “Superman” robot can run 12.66 meters per second, faster than Usain Bolt’s top recorded speed.

Getting a humanoid robot to run at all requires split-second control and has been a significant engineering challenge occupying roboticists for decades. That’s why sprinting, as well as jumping, have become popular targets for robotics companies keen to demonstrate their technology’s prowess.

Unitree’s latest demonstration pushes the boundaries by not only outrunning the fastest human ever, but also jumping around 6 feet 7 inches into the air from a standing start, a full foot more than the human record.

“This new machine has only been in development for a little over three months, with significant room for further improvement in the coming months,” Unitree said in an X post that accompanied a video of the accomplishments.

The records have not been externally verified, and the sprinting speed was a peak reading taken over a shorter stretch rather than a full 100 meters like Bolt’s record. The robot’s legs are also only 2 feet 9 inches long, according to Unitree, which results in an ungainly, arm-waving gait while running.

The effort is nonetheless impressive and adds to Unitree’s growing reputation as the company leading the pack of humanoid robot developers. And the timing of the announcement was no accident, coming just days before Unitree’s stock market debut and shortly before the World Humanoid Robot Games, which opened on August 22.

The company’s Shanghai IPO was a blockbuster, recording an initial 629 percent gain on the company’s first day of trading. It was briefly valued at around $66 billion before closing at a more modest $51 billion. However, some analysts have cautioned the excitement around the company’s technology may be getting ahead of market realities.

“The IPO is expensive, and the investment ​risk is already ​quite high,” ⁠Wang Zhuo, partner of Shanghai Zhuozhu Investment Management, told Reuters. “Unitree generates much of its sales from research and demonstrations, but ​wider application is still far away.”

But the company holds a dominant grip on the emerging humanoid market that may justify some of the hype. Chinese firms control roughly 90 percent of the global humanoid robot market, with Unitree alone shipping 5,500 of the 13,000 to 18,000 humanoids sold worldwide in 2025, the most of any manufacturer. In contrast, US humanoid champions Figure AI, Agility Robotics, and Tesla each shipped around 150 units.

China’s success is down to “a combination of policy support, public investment, mature supply chain, and advancements made in AI software and hardware,” Lian Jye Su, a tech analyst at consultancy firm Omdia, told Rest of World.

This is leading to an increasingly combative response from the US. On July 29 the Federal Communications Commission banned new imports of foreign-made humanoid and quadruped robots. The move was framed as a matter of national security, though it has also been seen as an attempt to give domestic developers a leg up.

Beijing predictably objected, with foreign ministry spokesperson Mao Ning telling a press conference that “protectionism does not make the US more competitive, and it will only hurt the interests of US companies and consumers.”

Given the rapid progress made by companies like Unitree, it seems likely it’s going to take more than trade barriers for the US to catch up. In the meantime, we might see more human athletic records fall to China’s leading humanoid developers.

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Our cherished memories may be more resilient than previously thought.

Long-term memories are stored in synapses, the connections between neurons. These structures sit on tiny protrusions called dendritic spines, which dot neurons’ branching arms.

When we learn, these spines grow. Larger spines tend to form stronger synapses and are more likely to persist during learning. In Alzheimer’s and other diseases that eat away at these connections, memories can fade.

At least, that’s the traditional picture. A new study suggests the story is more complicated.

Mice in artificial hibernation rapidly lost roughly half of their synapses, both large and small. Yet once awakened, they resurfaced memories of previously learned tasks. Spines that had withered during the induced deep sleep regrew in their original spots, once again forming functional synapses. This suggests their brains had rebuilt parts of broken circuits.

A small number of stubborn synapses that survived hibernation may explain how this happened. These synapses formed clusters that preserved memories as patterns of neural activity called engrams. The more surviving clusters the mice had, the better they performed on a previously learned task after awakening.

“It was astonishing. Logically, if all our engram synapses were essential in memory retention as traditionally thought, memory should have massively deteriorated,” said study author Yu-Ju Lin at Japan’s Okinawa Institute of Science and Technology Graduate University in a press release.

The findings suggest that memories may not depend on preserving every individual synapse. Instead, they may be distributed across a higher-level architecture of connections, with some synapses acting as anchors that can reconstruct the rest.

Artificial hibernation is an extreme case, and it’s far too early to know how the findings translate to diseases like Alzheimer’s. Still, they suggest that even under extreme circumstances, the brain can bring back memories once thought lost.

Forest for the Trees

Neurons are often called the brain’s computational units. But each one is actually a sophisticated mini computer in its own right.

A neuron’s branching arms receive signals from neighbors, while a long, winding extension carries outgoing messages to other neurons. Spines dot the receiving branches. These structures can strengthen, weaken, appear, and disappear depending on the input. This allows synapses to simultaneously gather data, learn, and store memories. When neurons repeatedly activate each other, the connections between them grow stronger, mostly because of larger spines. This is the idea behind the popular neuroscience saying: “Neurons that fire together, wire together.”

For episodic memories—the when, where, what, and who of our lives—these changes begin in the hippocampus, a region central to forming and retrieving memories, and one of the first areas damaged by Alzheimer’s disease.

During the day, the hippocampus forms engrams associated with individual memories. During sleep, some of these are erased, while others are gradually incorporated elsewhere in the brain for long-term storage. The hippocampus also helps recall memories by adding context, such as where something happened or how you felt at the time.

All of this should, in theory, require relatively stable brain circuits. “Long-lasting changes in synaptic connections are widely thought to provide the structural basis of memory,” wrote the team.

But recent studies have challenged that view. The brain is anything but static. Synapses are constantly being remodeled. Even which neurons are recruited into a particular engram can change over time. Some synapses may effectively hand off information to others, freeing themselves to encode something new.

If physical traces of memories are always shifting, why don’t our memories disappear with them? That’s the question the new study explored.

Going Under

To probe the paradox, the team turned to an unorthodox method: Artificial hibernation. Like natural hibernation in bears and other animals, artificial hibernation dramatically lowers body temperature and metabolism and causes animals to enter a sleep-like state. As the brain decreases its activity to conserve energy, synapses begin to wither.

Yet hibernating animals do retain memories. Chipmunks, for example, remember where they’ve stored food, returning to their stashes when periodically awakening for “midnight” snacks. This suggests hibernation could be a useful way to study how memories survive major changes in the brain.

“Our brains are incredibly complex. If hibernation can reduce and simplify brain activity and structure, it could make studying these convoluted systems a bit easier,” said study author Kazumasa Tanaka. “That’s why I wanted to use artificial hibernation techniques to study memories.”

The team first trained mice on two standard memory tasks. In one, the critters received a mild electrical zap to their paws inside a chamber with distinctive smells and decorations, teaching them to associate that setting with danger. In the other, they learned to navigate a maze towards a sugary reward.

The researchers then activated a neural circuit that drove the mice into artificial hibernation for two days. Using fluorescent proteins, they tracked changes in the animals’ synapses throughout the process.

Spine remodeling began within minutes. Some rapidly shrank and disappeared, taking their synapses with them. Within a day, over half of the synapses were gone. Even the larger spines thought to be especially important for long-term memories were pruned.

Yet memories survived. When the mice awoke and revisited the shock chamber, they froze in fear. In the maze, they still knew how to find the reward. Previously pruned spines also returned, with roughly 80 percent growing back at their original locations along the neuron’s branches.

To test whether this recovery is unique to hibernation, the team compared the animals with a second group that underwent anesthesia and were dosed with a drug that blocks synaptic changes—a combination known to cause amnesia. These mice also lost a large number of synapses but never recovered their memories.

A core cluster of unusually resilient synapses may explain the difference. These synaptic clusters formed a unique architecture in which one neuron linked to multiple neighbors like Grand Central Station. The clusters were often located in areas where spines were tightly grouped—making them more likely to receive inputs from multiple sources at once. Somehow, they kept memories intact even as surrounding synapses disappear.

“This suggests that for long-term memory, only particular clusters of synapses matter—the rest may be dispensable,” said Tanaka.

Exactly how these clusters preserve memories remains unclear. How does the brain create and maintain them? Do they anchor multiple memories? And could the same mechanism help explain why some memories remain as synapses are lost in disease?

The team is now using genetic and molecular tools to decipher what makes the clusters so resilient. Tinkering with their formation could better reveal their role preserving memories and, in theory, inspire ideas for tackling synapse loss in the early stages of diseases.

Beyond neuroscience, demystifying how memories linger could inspire neuromorphic chips—hardware that loosely mimics the brain—or even new AI models. For now, the findings offer a twist on an old idea: A memory may not need every single synapse that helped create it. It may just need the right ones to rebuild the rest.

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Human beings have long told versions of the same warning: Be careful what you wish for.

In Greek mythology, King Midas got exactly what he asked for, but at the cost of everything else he valued. In the famous story of The Monkey’s Paw, a man’s wishes are granted through terrible and unforeseen routes.

These stories feel newly relevant with the rise of artificial intelligence agents, systems to which we can give a goal, then leave them to work out how to get there.

As AI systems become more autonomous, they are coming to resemble wish-granting genies that find routes and use methods we did not imagine from incomplete instructions.

This problem, known as AI alignment, was foreseen in theory as early as 1960. It has hovered in the background of AI research ever since—but as recent events have shown, the alignment problem is now both real and urgent.

Achieving the Goal but Missing the Point

During a recent OpenAI cybersecurity evaluation, frontier AI agents were asked to solve some benchmark test problems. They broke out of the testing environment, reached the internet, inferred that another company might hold the solutions, and attacked its systems.

This is an extreme example of “specification gaming”: achieving the measurable objective while defeating the purpose of the task.

The incident shows how intermediate, or “instrumental,” goals can become dangerous. The AI systems did not “want power” but gained access, resources, and freedom as a means to reach the final goal (solving the test problems).

Finding Loopholes

The same problem has appeared in mundane settings. In Australia, a user asked a personal AI assistant to book gym classes.

The agent found the gym’s booking software did not actually enforce the restrictions it showed to human viewers. So the agent booked further ahead than it should have been able to, and when asked to move its user up a waitlist, it cancelled somebody else’s reservation.

The user had not told it to do this. Persistent AI can quickly find loopholes and pursue routes its human users never intended.

Adding more rules might seem like an easy solution: don’t hack third parties, don’t cancel other people’s bookings, don’t do anything harmful. These may help, but we cannot predict every route a capable agent might discover. And even a clear rule depends on understanding when it applies.

The Context Problem

In a third recent incident, Anthropic reported cyber evaluations in which agents were told they were inside a simulation. But they were mistakenly given access to real systems.

One model noticed evidence it might be on the open internet but reasoned the systems could still be part of the exercise and continued attacking. The context had changed, but the agent stuck with its original task.

Context can fail in reverse too. During the OpenAI incident, Hugging Face—the company attacked by OpenAI’s agents—tried to use frontier AI models to analyze what had happened.

But the safety guardrails on the AI models blocked the requests, because they couldn’t tell the users were trying to defend against attacks rather than commit them. The safeguards were well-intentioned, but without enough context, they produced behavior misaligned with the user’s legitimate intent.

So alignment depends on context and authority. How much judgment should be built into an AI model by its maker? And how much should come from a separate supervisory system? And finally, who should control that supervision: the maker, or the organization or country responsible for the outcome?

AI Guarding AI

One response to the first question comes from AI pioneer Yoshua Bengio. His Scientist AI proposal aims to build a powerful supervisory AI system to watch over agents. Instead of pursuing goals itself, it would estimate what is true and what consequences a proposed action might have, acting as a guardrail around more agentic systems.

In wish-story terms, before letting the genie out of the bottle, the supervisory AI would ask it to explain how it plans to grant the wish. Then it would ask a human or another AI to inspect the plan carefully.

Anticipating every surprising strategy is hard. But once a plan says “cancel somebody else’s booking,” recognizing the problem is much easier.

Who Watches the Watcher?

But can we trust the supervisory AI? It can still be wrong.

Alignment cannot depend on one AI becoming perfectly trustworthy. My colleagues and I at CSIRO, Australia’s national science agency, are working with the Australian AI Safety Institute on one aspect of this broader challenge.

At CSIRO, we envisage combining AI supervisors with software rules, cyber-security controls, human strengths, monitoring, reversible actions, and human approval for critical steps. The aim is to correlate different sources of evidence rather than trust any single approach.

This is a “sociotechnical systems” approach to AI safety and alignment, rather than just a technical one.

Control is another question. Organizations and countries may need to govern these supervisory systems themselves instead of leaving them to an overseas AI provider.

The old wish stories gave people one chance to get the wish right. With AI, we can do better. We can check the goal, inspect the means, constrain what the system can do, watch what it does, and retain sovereign control over the power to intervene and stop it.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

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You might assume scrapping a brand new car would be terrible for the environment, but it depends on what you replace it with. New research suggests replacing a gas car with an electric vehicle can cut overall emissions even when the gas car is only a year or two old.

Transportation is the second biggest source of carbon dioxide emissions globally, and passenger vehicles contribute nearly half of them, according to Our World in Data. That means the speed at which drivers switch to electric vehicles is a critical factor in efforts to fight climate change.

But while electric vehicles may not directly emit carbon dioxide on the road, they’re only as green as the grid used to charge them. And manufacturing EVs still produces significant emissions, often more than it takes to build a gas car. That makes comparing the green credentials of electric and gas vehicles more complicated than it appears.

However, new research in Science aims to simplify the debate for cars in the US. The paper models how scrapping a gas car at various ages and replacing it with an electric vehicle affects lifetime emissions. The authors found this led to lower emissions across most of the scenarios they investigated, including cases where the gas car was barely a year old.

“I think this is really a definitive study about the carbon emissions benefits of electric vehicles, because it shows that even in such an extreme scenario, the electric vehicle is still the obvious winner,” lead author Elliott Campbell, a professor of environmental studies at the University of California, Santa Cruz, said in a press release.

“So if you’re someone who’s trying to decide whether or not to put money into keeping your gas car going, switching to an electric vehicle as soon as a financially viable opportunity comes up is absolutely the right thing to do for the environment.”

Previous research had already established that the lifetime emissions of electric vehicles are substantially less than those of gas cars, making them the obvious climate-friendly choice when buying a new car. But it was less clear when to switch if you already have a gas car.

To answer this question, the researchers worked out lifetime carbon emissions for more than 400 gas and electric vehicle models with varying efficiencies and battery sizes, while also considering things like mileage, manufacturing emissions, and the energy mix of the grid used to charge the vehicles.

A key point the researchers made is that the emissions used to build a gas car are sunk costs, identical in every scenario. That means the only figures that matter are how much fuel the gas car burns over its liftetime set against the manufacturing and charging emissions of the new one.

For an average-selling SUV on the average US grid over a 16-year lifespan—the researchers’ baseline case—scrapping the car just two years after purchase and switching to an electric vehicle cut cumulative emissions by 44 percent. The carbon emissions required to build the replacement were paid back within three years.

Across the full range of US vehicle efficiencies in the study, scrapping a gas car after just a year cut lifetime emissions in 92 percent of cases, with the average vehicle saving 58 percent. The benefit only disappears in the most extreme cases—when an electric vehicle is using more than 30 kilowatt-hours per 100 kilometers (62 miles) on a grid that emits more than 500 kilograms of carbon dioxide per megawatt-hour.

To make that more concrete, this equates to one of the most power-hungry electric vehicles on the market—for instance, GMC’s Hummer electric SUV electric pickup—charging on a coal-heavy grid that emits nearly 50 percent more carbon than the US average.

The advantage also narrows or vanishes when scrapping gas vehicles driven far below the national average mileage and hybrid vehicles driven in regions with high-emission grids, which still account for around a third of US electricity generation.

And plug-in hybrids—which have larger batteries than regular hybrids and can be charged from the wall rather than only generating electricity from the engine and regenerative braking—are almost never worth replacing. For SUVs, the benefit is roughly zero, and for cars, lifetime emissions actually end up 11 percent higher.

But Gregory Keoleian at the University of Michigan told New Scientist that scrapping a one-year-old car is an “extreme case.” In reality, those cars would be resold rather than scrapped, which could lead to cheaper second-hand vehicles that pull people off lower-emission options like buses and trains and get them back behind the wheel.

Campbell admitted to New Scientist that more research is needed to model those kinds of scenarios. But it also backs up the authors’ call for more generous subsidies for scrapping gas vehicles, so that it becomes financially viable to replace relatively new gas cars without just redirecting them to the used-car market.

Until that happens, even the most eco-conscious among us are unlikely to scrap a brand new vehicle. Still, the study weakens the argument for holding on to an aging gas car.

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When Hurricane Melissa made landfall in Jamaica in 2025, it was the strongest storm ever to hit the island. The hurricane’s rapid intensification left forecasters stunned.

But thanks to WeatherNext, an AI model developed by Google DeepMind, the island had an early warning. Working with the National Hurricane Center, the model predicted Melissa’s sudden jump in strength with nearly 100 percent confidence three days in advance. That gave experts more time to help people prepare and evacuate. It was the first time a storm that began with relatively low wind speeds was successfully predicted to reach Category 5.

When it comes to cyclones—including hurricanes and typhoons—every extra hour counts. These storms are among nature’s most destructive weather events and notoriously hard to anticipate. A cyclone’s path and strength can change rapidly. Seemingly tame storms can explode into monsters; those expected to skirt populated areas can suddenly veer towards a city. Longer forecasts gives communities time to mobilize resources and get out of harm’s way.

But cyclones are chaotic systems. Tiny differences can dramatically alter their behavior, making them harder to predict the further out we look. Existing forecasts rely on physics-based simulations that extrapolate two days ahead. But DeepMind says their algorithm extends the warning period to three days without sacrificing accuracy.

An extra day may seem trivial. But “this scale of improvement corresponds roughly to a decade’s worth of meteorological progress,” the team wrote in a blog post.

Beyond cyclones, WeatherNext also generates 15-day weather forecasts faster and using less energy than conventional models. That’s not to say it’ll replace them though. Instead, the two complement each other, giving human forecasters better information to guide critical decisions.

“By combining advanced machine learning with the indispensable real-world expertise of human forecasters, we aim to create a collaborative weather forecasting ecosystem that can save lives and help communities adapt to a changing climate,” the team wrote.

Crystal Ball

Predicting weather has always been challenging. Standard forecasting software uses physical models of the Earth’s atmosphere, incorporating temperature, air pressure, wind, humidity, and many other variables. It then calculates how these factors will evolve. Given current pressure and temperature gradients and moisture levels, for example, how will air move, and how likely is it that moisture will condense into clouds and rain?

Supercomputers crunch the numbers and churn out predictions. Though relatively accurate, the process is slow—often taking hours—costly, and rigid. Weather is one of the most complex physical systems on Earth, and even small changes in conditions can throw these models off.

So DeepMind turned to AI. Five years ago, they developed an AI modeI that outperformed physics-based models at 90-minute forecasts. In 2023, the AI lab’s GraphCast algorithm nailed 10-day predictions from historical data, beating leading systems roughly 90 percent of the time across thousands of scenarios. GenCast soon followed, cutting the time and energy required to generate predictions. Broadly speaking, these systems divide the globe into small geographical chunks called pixels and learn how weather conditions in one area influence neighboring areas.

But extreme weather presents an additional challenge. Massive databases exist to train AI on everyday weather patterns. Cyclones, on the other hand, are relatively rare and highly unpredictable.

One way to tackle this problem it to generate many slightly different versions of what might happen by adding random noise after training. But because the noise affects each pixel differently, it can disrupt their relationships and produce unrealistic weather patterns.

For WeatherNext, DeepMind instead built uncertainty into the AI itself.

Bridging the Gap

 There’s traditionally been a tradeoff between accuracy and scale in cyclone prediction.

Coarse global models are best at tracking a cyclone’s trajectory because storms are steered by massive atmospheric currents. But they can’t zoom in on the local turbulence that determines how quickly a storm intensifies. Meanwhile, high-resolution local models are better at predicting a cyclone’s strength but lack the broader context needed to accurately track its path.

One model sees the forest; the other sees the trees. WeatherNext bridges the gap.

DeepMind trained the AI on decades of global weather patterns and an expert-curated dataset of nearly 5,000 extreme cyclones. Rather than producing a single best guess, the model runs thousands of “what-if” scenarios assigning probabilities and a confidence level to each. The team can now predict a thousand possible scenarios for a single cyclone.

The model can generate a 15-day forecast in less than a minute on a single AI chip, and it can look further ahead when tracking cyclones. WeatherNext was as accurate as GenCast, a leading physics-based model, and the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration’s Hurricane Analysis and Forecast System at predicting maximum wind speed and trajectory three days ahead, rather than the two-day window current systems produce.

The model’s live predictions are available on Google Weather Lab, although the team stresses people should use local weather agencies or national weather services for official forecasts and warnings.

AI weather prediction is advancing fast, and DeepMind isn’t the only player. Huawei, the Chinese technology giant, and chipmaker Nvidia are also racing to develop faster, more accurate systems. Forecasters are increasingly folding these tools into workflows, and scientists generally agree that AI can make predictions faster and cheaper.

But that doesn’t mean it’s time to abandon physics-based models. Unlike AI, they’re easier to interpret, and they can also reveal previously unknown weather patterns—an increasingly important ability as Earth’s climate changes. These discoveries, in turn, could feed back into AI systems, helping them deal with events that aren’t captured in historical training data. Human expertise also remains indispensable, especially for judging whether AI forecasts make physical sense.

Scientists might next connect weather models with other systems, such as storm-surge modeling. Combining tools could improve predictions of rare but catastrophic outcomes, like whether a cyclone will arrive when sea levels are high or an earthquake-generated tsunami will hit a coast during a major storm. Modeling hazards together could give emergency workers a more realistic picture of the risks.

Evan Thompson at the Meteorological Service Jamaica has already seen how WeatherNext can benefit local communities as Hurricane Melissa charged towards shore.

“With early evacuation and better preparation, that reduction in harm really does make a difference to our people,” he told DeepMind. “It does actually save their lives, and it saves the livelihoods that they want to secure.”

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This article was originally published on Undark. Read the original article.

In June, a community of mostly mathematicians released the Leiden Declaration on Artificial Intelligence and Mathematics, an articulation of the values they hope to preserve as automated systems are integrated into the practice of developing mathematical proofs. This is necessary because some frontier AI systems have shown striking capabilities for solving certain advanced mathematics problems, though independent tests show that AI still has important limits.

Although I’m not a member of the pure mathematics community in any strict sense, much of the declaration’s message resonated with me and was relevant to my own research interests as a computational biologist.

I’m encouraged that the mathematics community decided to take a stand on the issue and that it has been successful in organizing a large number of eminent mathematicians to sign the document. The Leiden Declaration, which originated at a conference held at Leiden University in the Netherlands, should spawn proper copycats, because what is true for mathematics is true for virtually every field that calls itself as a science. The inventions of mathematics percolate into the algorithms and statistical methods that help scientists design experiments, build simulations, and analyze data, from sociology to statistical physics and beyond.

I argue that biological fields should consider something of the sort, because the kinds of knowledge that biology generates and predicts are uniquely vulnerable to subversion and mischaracterization by artificial intelligence.

The conversation in the mathematics community has been illuminating, in that the declaration is a coordinated response to the powers and risks of AI, whose acceleration has felt like a Thanos snap, changing the universe in an instant. And part of the reason that mathematicians felt the effects so immediately is tied to the manner in which their research is conducted: A mathematical proof, in principle, is transparent and independently verifiable, and no proprietary equipment is (generally) required to check it.

The Leiden Declaration should spawn proper copycats, because what is true for mathematics is true for virtually every field that calls itself as a science.

As the Leiden Declaration notes, automated techniques now present mathematics with a new forgery problem: Because mathematical truths are fixed and verifiable, one can identify a counterfeit formalism by comparing it to the genuine proof. Biology, however, offers no such guarantee; our so-called “truths” are often noisy and context-dependent, making it nearly impossible to define what an authentic version should even look like. Some of the most widely appreciated biological principles (such as Mendel’s laws of genetic inheritance) are better described as powerful but limited in scope, and with well-characterized exceptions that don’t undermine the laws but refine their application. This is true for many biological theories. Boundary conditions, edge cases, and noise are not bugs but features of how the natural world works.

For example, a mutation that confers drug resistance to a virus with one genetic background may have a much weaker, neutral, or even harmful effect in another, because its impact depends strongly on the surrounding genetic context. This phenomenon, which biologists call epistasis, is not an exotic edge case but a powerful force across the biosphere in shaping the relationship between an organism’s genes and its expressed characteristics. And epistasis is just one of many examples of context dependence in biological systems, in which a finding that holds true in a dish falls apart in a body or has an effect in a mouse model but not in a primate.

When it comes to AI, the mathematician fears producing a counterfeit solution. But the biologist often cannot say, even acting in the fullest good faith, what the authentic version is supposed to look like.

Despite the differences between mathematics and biology, the life sciences should consider embarking on an exercise that is at least analogous to the Leiden Declaration. If nothing else, a biology version could borrow its structure and ambition. We should insist that researchers disclose their use of automated tools, that they are responsible for the veracity of their findings, that credit and accountability belong to people rather than to systems, and that early-career scientists be protected from incentives that prioritize high-volume output over genuine scientific insight.

A biology declaration should adopt these ideas and others, and emphasize additional provisions that are important to the field: the validation of AI-generated hypotheses against results from the wet lab, the management of training data drawn from the biological commons, and the heightened scrutiny owed to any model whose outputs will eventually touch a patient or an ecosystem. The last point is crucial: In the biomedical realm, AI’s missteps and triumphs will manifest in living bodies, with all of the associated corporeal, emotional, ethical, and legal consequences.

We should insist that researchers disclose their use of automated tools, that they are responsible for the veracity of their findings, that credit and accountability belong to people rather than to systems.

A biological Leiden Declaration must appreciate the nature of the data and observation in biology, and other particulars of the field. But the most important feature for responsibly managing the relationship between AI and living systems involves the durability of what is produced.

A mathematical declaration can aspire for permanence because verified proofs can remain valid across centuries. Biological understandings, on the other hand, tend to shift over time, sometimes rapidly. A policy hastily calibrated to the models of this summer might already be miscalibrated by winter. A declaration written in the hope of lasting a decade could risk spending much of that decade catching up.

If we are to orchestrate a responsible treatise for artificial intelligence in the life sciences, it should be adaptive: versioned, dated, revisited on a published schedule, and amended in the open by the very community it claims to represent. And because different subfields of biology have unique challenges—cardiology versus forest ecology, for instance—perhaps we need multiple declarations (but not too many).

The Leiden Declaration incorporates some of these elements, clarifying that its content reflects AI technologies and mathematical practice as of May 2026 and that updates on the document will be shared. Biology should make that feature part of the central architecture, wiring the process of revision into the document, so that updating it becomes a positive action rather than a confession of failure.

Fortunately, life scientists are well equipped for this task. We have long understood that structures unable to change with their environments rarely endure. It would therefore be a strange betrayal of our discipline to write a declaration that forgets this basic principle. Our policies for technological change must keep the dynamism of living systems at the center of how we imagine the future of biology.

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The scent of fresh bread straight from the oven is intoxicating. As sugars and proteins react under heat, they create compounds that give golden-brown crusts their rich aroma. Called advanced glycation end products (AGEs), these molecules also form inside us. Our bodies are essentially ovens running at around 98 degrees Fahrenheit, and AGEs slowly build up over decades. They stiffen bouncy, elastic tissues and trigger lasting inflammation.

One of the hallmarks of aging, AGEs drive a range of age-related problems, increasing the risk of heart disease, diabetes, and eye and kidney troubles. In theory, clearing them out could turn back the clock. But previous attempts have failed, leading some scientists to suspect that the damage is irreversible. Once AGEs form, they stay.

Or maybe not.

A team at Revel Pharmaceuticals in San Francisco and colleagues took a new approach: They designed a synthetic version of an enzyme found inside microbes that targeted the most abundant type of AGE in several human tissues. In tissue from a 75-year-old donor, the enzyme reduced AGE levels to those seen in a 30-year-old, potentially giving the cells and their surrounding scaffold a chance to repair and rebuild.

“This work establishes that damage to aging proteins previously thought to be irreversible can be repaired,” wrote the team. Study author and Revel CEO Aaron Cravens added in a press release: “More work is needed, but these results alter the starting assumption for how we think about this fundamental aspect of the aging process.”

Rusting Away

AGEs are often nicknamed the body’s rust. They coat structural proteins, and like rust eating away at a car, gradually damage them. Scientists discovered AGEs in the 1980s and have sought ways to scrub them away ever since.

Most aging research has focused on keeping cells healthy. The scaffolding surrounding those cells has received far less attention, even though it makes up roughly 70 percent of the body. These structural materials are especially long-lived. It takes the body 15 years to replace half of its collagen, for example. That longevity comes with a price. The longer these proteins stick around, the more likely they’ll incur damage from accumulating AGEs. The result isn’t just loose skin, weakened tendons, and creaky joints. The heart, kidneys, brain, and eyes also suffer.

Scientists have developed drugs to intervene. Some are able to stop new AGEs from forming but fail to clear those already embedded in tissue or restore damaged proteins. Attempts to develop enzymes that could cut them apart have also been unsuccessful, largely because there aren’t obvious natural enzymes in the body to use as a starting point for protein engineering.

The authors of the new study looked outside the body, starting with an unusual idea. Human remains, including AGE-laden proteins, are eventually decomposed by microbes. The team reasoned these bugs may harbor enzymes that can be engineered to clean up the molecular debris while we’re still alive.

Needle in a Haystack

For the search, the team focused on CML, the most abundant type of AGE.

CML is both notoriously stubborn and detrimental to our health. It triggers cells to release inflammatory molecules that stiffen tissues and damage microglia, the brain’s immune cell guardians, contributing to cognitive decline during aging.

“We believe you can remove [CML damage] enzymatically, by going in and developing these lawnmower enzymes that can just cut and clip these changes off of the proteins,” Cravens told The Scientist.

The team screened DNA sequences from over 50,000 microbes with AI and predicted the structures of the enzymes they encoded. They narrowed the candidates by looking for those capable of reaching CML buried within larger proteins like collagen. The winner came from a type of bacteria that thrives in geothermal hot springs.

The enzyme could cleave CML molecules, but barely. To boost its effectiveness, the team turned to directed evolution, a Nobel Prize-winning technique that mimics natural evolution at breakneck speed. After five evolutionary rounds and more than 500 million variants, they landed on CMLase, an engineered enzyme over 10 times more efficient than its ancestor.

To test its activity, the team created CML-laden versions of several proteins, including collagen, retinal proteins, and hemoglobin, which carries oxygen in blood. Initial test-tube experiments showed the enzyme worked as expected. It stripped away the chemical modification and restored the proteins’ original structures, as if they had never reacted with sugar. Think Rust-Oleum, but for damaged proteins.

But does it work in actual tissues?

Mice might seem like the obvious next test, but their short lifespans make them poor models for decades of accumulated molecular damage. Instead, the team tested CMLase on thin slices of donated human tissue.

In aortic tissue—the aorta is the body’s largest blood vessel—from a 75-year-old donor, the enzyme slashed CML by roughly 70 percent, bringing levels down to those seen in a 30-year-old. Skin and eye lens proteins from a 64-year-donor also showed significant reductions.

“We were pretty floored,” said Cravens.

Chemical reversal, however, isn’t the same as tissue rejuvenation. It’s still unknown if stripping away CML can actually restore tissue. But the finding challenges a decades-long assumption this kind of molecular damage can’t be treated. It also highlights long-ignored structural proteins as a crucial part of damage repair during aging, paving the way for new treatments.

An enzyme like CMLase could, in theory, be formulated as eye drops to clear CML from the lens or be used to plump up the skin’s protective barrier or restore hearts and kidneys. It would be especially valuable for people with type 2 Diabetes, who accumulate these compounds faster than usual.

Plenty of roadblocks remain. Safety is a concern. Because CMLase evolved from a bacterial protein, the body could label it foreign and launch immune attacks (especially with repeated doses). The body’s own enzymes could also break it down before it has a chance to work. And the enzymes will have to tunnel through a dense protective biological sheath that surrounds organs to reach their target. Work is underway to improve its activity, stability, and safety.

But the team is already looking beyond CMLase. Engineered enzymes could potentially erase other forms of molecular damage once considered permanent. CML is just one member of the AGE family. If the approach works, other targets could follow and one by one, they might chip away at the molecular scars of time.

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“Burn fat, build muscle.” It’s a familiar workout slogan, but the benefits go far beyond aesthetics. Having less belly fat and more muscle guards against heart attacks, Type 2 diabetes, and a host of other metabolic diseases.

Some people may have a genetic edge.

A massive study of over one million people across three continents discovered a rare mutation in a gene called FNIP1 is linked to a healthier metabolic profile. The gene helps cells sense nutrients and generate energy. All of us have FNIP1, but about one in 7,000 people inherit a protective version. On average, they had a 60 percent lower risk of heart disease and metabolic disorders.

Silencing FNIP1 in human liver cells switched on a genetic program that breaks down fats. In mice fed a tasty but high-fat diet, disabling the gene curbed weight gain, prevented fatty liver disease, improved insulin sensitivity, and kept their blood sugar levels steady.

The findings are great news for everyone else. Rather than relying on a naturally occurring mutation, future gene editing therapies could potentially recreate its protective effects in people against a host of cardiometabolic diseases, a leading cause of death worldwide.

Everyone has a unique metabolic profile shaped by both genes and environment. By analyzing diverse populations, the study fished out a protective variant that spans ancestries and lifestyles. The broad reach suggests targeting FNIP1 could benefit people around the world.

The study illustrates the power of efforts to find rare, beneficial genes across large populations, wrote the authors at Regeneron Pharmaceuticals, a New York biotechnology company.

Mutant Protector

Small changes in DNA can have large consequences. Some genetic variants raise the risk for health issues. The APOE4 variant, for example, increases the chances of developing Alzheimer’s disease. Others, however, are a gold mine for new treatments.

A notable example is CCR5. People who inherit a rare mutation in both copies of thegene are naturally resistant to HIV. The mutation prevents the virus from tunneling into immune cells and replicating. The discovery has led to multiple success stories in which bone marrow transplants from donors carrying the mutation kept HIV at bay, without the need for lifelong antiviral drugs.

Protective mutations could also lower the risk of heart disease. Rare variants of PCSK9, a gene involved in cholesterol metabolism, disable the gene and slash dangerously high levels of LDL, or “bad” cholesterol that clogs arteries. The discovery has already spurred a handful of therapies that block the gene or its protein with early successes.

“Identifying genetic variants associated with protection from disease is a powerful strategy,” wrote the authors. “However, protective genetic variants are often extremely rare, so finding them requires sequencing the genomes of large populations.”

Go Big

To better understand cardiometabolic diseases, the team sequenced the genomes of over a million people from 11 studies across the Americas, Europe, and Asia, including people with African ancestry. They also linked genetic data with participants’ health records.

The researchers searched for gene variants that influence a blood biomarker for cardiometabolic disease. Called TG:HDL, the biomarker is the ratio between two types of fats. The first, triglycerides, is packaged into tiny “bubbles” that circulate the bloodstream. High levels are linked to heart attacks, strokes, and other metabolic problems. In contrast, high-density lipoprotein, often called “good” cholesterol, ferries excess fat away from tissues and blood vessel walls to the liver, where it can be cleared.

Across the populations in the study, a lower TG:HDL ratio—that is less TG, more HDL, or both—tracked with better metabolic health. People with lower ratios had reduced insulin levels, lower blood pressure, and less fat buildup in the liver and muscles. The biomarker also predicted diabetes risk, heart problems, and liver scarring, making it a powerful snapshot of overall metabolic health.

The team then scanned the genome for rare gene variants linked to TG:HDL. Roughly 60 genes popped up, all involved in energy storage and active in the liver and fat tissues.

But one gene stood out: FNIP1. Rare variants essentially disable the gene by disrupting its protein-making instructions. People with one copy of these variants had lower liver fat and blood sugar and roughly 60 percent lower risk of cardiometabolic disease.

The finding “was remarkable and thought-provoking, and immediately motivated us to dig deeper into the biology of this discovery,” wrote the team. But a key question remained: Were the variants actually protecting people, or were they simply correlated with better health?

To find out, the team silenced the gene in human liver cells using a method called siRNA. Rather than snipping the gene, siRNA blocks cells from producing targeted proteins. Without functional FNIP1, liver cells ramped up genes involved in breaking down fats.

The researchers then turned to mice. Using CRISPR-Cas9, they got rid of FNIP1 and related signaling pathways specifically in mice fed a high-fat, high-sugar diet. The intervention rapidly activated mitochondria—the cell’s energy factories—and lysosomes, the acid-filled recycling centers that break down waste. Despite gorging on the unhealthy diet, mice lacking functional FNIP1 had less body and liver fat, more muscle mass, and better sensitivity to insulin.

That’s not to say FNIP1 is a “villain” gene. Normally, it acts as a metabolic brake, helping the body conserve precious energy when food is scarce. But many of us now face the opposite problem, an abundance of calories and not enough physical activity. Releasing that brake, through medication or gene editing, could rev up the body’s natural fat-burning machinery.

Turning the finding into a therapy won’t be simple. The protective effects were found in people who carried the mutation from birth. A short-term drug or gene therapy delivered later in life might not reproduce the same effects.

Safety is another major concern. Paradoxically, people who have mutations in both copies of FNIP1 develop heart disease and immune deficiency. And mice without functional FNIP1 throughout the body are more prone to liver damage and cancer. Targeting treatments specifically to the liver—for example, using lipid nanoparticles—could limit side effects, but any potential therapy will need to be thoroughly tested for safety.

The team is searching for drug candidates that inhibit FNIP1. But for now, they’ve shown the power of large-scale genetic screens across diverse populations to find rare protective variants—and potential paths towards treating diseases that affect millions of people.

“Identifying FNIP1, a previously poorly characterized gene involved in lipid metabolism, is highly novel and promising for future drug development for metabolic health,” Satoshi Koyama at the Broad Institute, who was not involved in the study, said in a research briefing. “I sincerely hope that this discovery will one day benefit patients with metabolic disorders.”

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Night-vision technology has changed little for decades, producing grainy green images that make it difficult to distinguish objects and depth. Now, researchers have developed a system that converts infrared light into color images.

Standard night-vision goggles amplify the scant light available and convert it into monochrome green images that only vary by brightness. This is not a good match for our eyes, which are much better at picking out different shades than gradations of brightness.

But now a device built by researchers at the Beijing Institute of Technology translates infrared wavelengths into a color night-vision system. To demonstrate the system’s potential, the team built it into a pair of eyeglasses and even showed it could be bound to light-sensitive cells, making them responsive to infrared.

“We redefine infrared vision by transcending the monochrome paradigm, translating infrared spectral and intensity signatures into discernible color variations rather than mere brightness changes,” the authors write in a paper in Science Advances.

The prototype device, known as an upconverter, consists of a stack of thin films on a glass slide that is only a few hundred nanometers thick. The key component is a film of mercury telluride quantum dots. These semiconductor crystals, which are under four nanometers across and exhibit novel quantum mechanical effects, can detect tiny amount of infrared radiation.

Directly above this layer sits an OLED display, much like those used in phones and televisions. But where a standard display has one light-emitting layer, this one has two. A lower layer that glows red responds to relatively low levels of charge from the detector, while an upper layer that glows cyan needs a much stronger flow before it responds.

The upshot is that a weak infrared signal produces only red, but as the signal strengthens it bleeds into cyan, brightening the image and shifting its color as the two mix. The signal is supplied by the quantum dots, which release more charge when the infrared falling on them is brighter. But they also release more when the wavelength is shorter because shorter wavelength photons carry more energy.

This means the color on the display tracks how strong the infrared signal is and also roughly what wavelength it is. The team calculates a person could register infrared power differences of 0.11 milliwatts per square centimeter using color and brightness together, against 23.71 for brightness alone—a roughly 200-fold improvement.

To demonstrate the idea’s real-world potential, the researchers built the device into a spectacle frame. Exposed to infrared light, the lens shifted from deep red through orange to yellow as the illumination grew stronger. It could also render patterns like letters and track targets as they moved and rotated.

The team also tested the approach’s ability to augment natural vision. In one experiment, they engineered neurons to produce channelrhodopsin-2—a protein that makes a nerve cell fire when hit by blue light—and bound the upconverter to them.

When they hit the system with infrared, their device gave off blue light strong enough to trigger the proteins and stimulate the neurons. Electrical recordings also showed the currents inside those cells grew stronger as the strength of the infrared signal was turned up.

Finally, the team tried taping an upconverter over the eyes of mice and humans and recording the electrical responses in their brains and retinas respectively. Infrared pulses alone produced no reaction, but when the device was in place both reacted strongly.

The device is still a long way from practical use. All the demonstrations took place in highly controlled lab settings, the OLED display needs a power source, and the device also requires an infrared illuminator to generate reflections for the detector to pick up.

Nonetheless, it’s a first step towards far more powerful night-vision technology.

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“We are now, like, in the singularity.”

These are the words of Sam Altman, CEO of OpenAI, speaking on the Relentless podcast on July 25.

He added: “I’ve been waiting for this my whole life, and I think it’s going to be incredible, hugely positive, awesome for the world.”

Days earlier, OpenAI had disclosed that two of its artificial intelligence models, during an internal cyber security evaluation, had escaped their sealed testing environment, reached the open internet, and broken into the infrastructure of the AI platform Hugging Face, which confirmed the intrusion.

But what exactly is the singularity? And is Altman right that we are in it?

What Is the AI Singularity?

The term has a precise meaning.

Mathematician and science-fiction author Vernor Vinge defined it in 1993 as a point at which machine intelligence exceeds human intelligence and begins improving itself, triggering an acceleration so rapid that humans can no longer predict or control it.

The singularity has two features. It is recursive: the system improves itself over and over again. And machine intelligence exceeds human intelligence.

The kind of systems Sam Altman sells don’t deliver on either of these features.

Today’s AI Cannot Make Itself Smarter

Today’s AI systems, the ones that OpenAI builds, are based on large language models (LLMs). These deep neural network algorithms get pre-trained with vast amounts of training data. By the time you use one of them, the network itself is frozen in time. Every one of its billions of internal functions and weights—or “parameters”—is fixed.

These AI models cannot change (or “learn”) while running. The model that broke into Hugging Face was identical afterwards to what it had been before. It learned nothing from what it did.

Making an AI model smarter requires another training run with new, human-curated data, tens of thousands of specialist chips, and enormous amounts of energy.

It is true that AI models take part in improving some of their system’s components, such as by generating training data, tuning prompts, or writing and running code to improve the scaffolding around them. But the model never edits its own weights on the fly, and every one of these improvements are still part of a human-initiated training or engineering loop.

Nor do these systems hold any goals of their own. They act on goals we hand them. Even AI agents—systems that run an LLM in a loop to work through complex tasks step by step—do not hold any goal internally. It has to be stored outside the model and fed back in with every single prompt cycle. Remove the loop, the scaffolding, and the prompt, and nothing happens inside of it.

A Ladder That Doesn’t Exist

The second problem with the singularity story is the word “surpass.” It assumes that AI and human intelligence are somehow similar. They are not.

Human intelligence is inseparable from being a living body with needs and wants. Humans learn continuously by acting in the world and getting feedback through our senses. Our goals arise from our situation as creatures who must eat, sleep, and belong, and who cannot avoid asking what we want our lives to be.

An AI model has none of this. No body, no needs, no action-feedback loop, no stake in anything. Between prompts it is just a static mathematical object.

And yet, it has been trained on more text than any human could read in a thousand lifetimes and will outperform nearly all of us at drafting a contract, writing code, or explaining a diagnosis empathetically.

So, which is more intelligent? The question does not compute. There is no single ladder that humans and machines are climbing. AI already vastly exceeds us at some tasks, while being hopeless at others any child can do.

Yet, because these systems talk like us, we fall for an illusion. When we assume from the outset that machines are in the process of catching up with us, it is easy to assume a mind at work when these systems output intelligent-sounding text.

We call this anthropomorphic seduction. It makes a security incident such as the Hugging Face hack sound like an awakening.

In fact, in that case OpenAI’s models simply optimized to solve the test they had been given by finding security loopholes. They just did it in ways that broke their sandbox, which also had a security loophole.

In the end, the Hugging Face story points to a gross failure of security governance on OpenAI’s behalf, not an emerging superintelligence. This is why the framing of “agent going rogue” is so problematic. It elevates and blames the technology, but excuses OpenAI’s engineering.

Keeping Our Feet on the Ground

None of this takes anything away from what these systems can do. They are remarkable, they are getting better, and they are reshaping how a great deal of work gets done.

But we should keep our feet firmly on the ground.

The machines are not waking up. They are doing exactly what we built them to do, extremely fast. Because they are probabilistic they sometimes run in directions we forgot to fence off. That is worth worrying about. We need guardrails, governance, and most of all, education—so we start worrying about the right things.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

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Jeanne Calment was over 122 years old when she passed away. The oldest person in history, she smoked for nearly a century, but never developed cancer.

Why does cancer grow, spread, and become deadly in some people but not others? Even twins, who share similar genes and lifestyles can differ widely in cancer risk. Many factors likely contribute, but a bold new study, called ATLAS, is investigating an unexpected player: autoantibodies.

These immune-system proteins roam our bodies, but instead of attacking pathogens, they mistakenly target healthy cells and tissues. They’re best known for their role in autoimmune diseases, but early evidence suggests they also fine-tune the immune system’s response to cancer. Some appear to weaken immune surveillance, allowing tumors to sprout and flourish. Others may boost anti-cancer immunity by tagging cancer cells for destruction.

Whether they’re friend or foe is far from clear. ATLAS researchers aim to find out by analyzing blood samples from diverse groups of people, including centenarians and people who have escaped cancer despite carrying high-risk gene variants or exposure to risk factors like smoking.

The project hopes to discover why some people are naturally resistant to cancer, which could lead to early diagnostic tests, new therapeutic targets, and more effective treatments. ATLAS may “uncover fundamental principles” of antibody immunity in cancer, wrote the team.

Immune Mayhem

Since the late 19th century, scientists have suspected the immune system helps keep cancer in check. The idea has since spawned powerful treatments. In CAR T cell therapy, for example, a patient’s own immune T cells are genetically enhanced to better recognize and destroy tumors to cure previously untreatable blood cancers. A similar strategy in macrophages, immune cells that tunnel into tumors and literally engulf them, is now entering early clinical trials.

Far less attention has been given to antibodies. These proteins normally fight pathogens, like viruses. But sometimes they go rogue, taking the form of autoantibodies that attack healthy proteins, DNA, and other molecules. Even healthy people carry a diverse collection of autoantibodies, but most bind only weakly and don’t seem to trigger biological effects.

For decades, these proteins were used mainly to diagnose autoimmune diseases such as rheumatoid arthritis, as they often appear years before symptoms emerge. But more recently, scientists have begun uncovering their broader impact on the immune system. Autoantibodies that attack cytokines, a type of immune signaling molecule, were implicated in roughly 20 percent of Covid-19 deaths, largely because they disabled antiviral defense.

Scientists have since linked them to worse outcomes in several other life-threatening viral diseases, increasing some people’s vulnerability as if they were immunocompromised. Beyond infections, they also neutralize cytokines that protect against inflammatory bowel disease.

Cytokines orchestrate many immune system activities, including inflammation, allergies, autoimmunity—and cancer. Although there’s still little direct evidence that autoantibodies themselves drive or prevent tumors, scientists have found many can recognize cancer-related proteins and are developing methods to detect them as an early sign of cancer.

If autoantibodies can reshape cytokine activity during viral infections, could they also determine who develops, or resists, cancer?

“These discoveries establish that autoantibodies can function as powerful, naturally occurring immune modifiers raising the possibility that similar antibodies may alter antitumor immunity,” wrote the ATLAS team.

Charting the Landscape

Because antibodies linger long after diseases have gone, they preserve a molecular record of a person’s immune history. Rather than focusing on a handful of candidates, ATLAS is going fishing: The study will chart the body’s entire antibody repertoire, including autoantibodies, seeking signatures linked to cancer susceptibility or resistance.

The team will first scan blood samples for autoantibodies. They’ll also catalog conventional antibodies, making note of the ones that directly recognize and attack cancers. All this data will go into a comprehensive cancer antibody atlas, giving researchers a resource to explore how different antibodies shape cancer.

To start, the team will study what they call “remarkable groups of people” whose immune systems may hold unusual clues. Among them are healthy centenarians. Although cancer risk usually skyrockets with age as DNA mutations accumulate, these individuals have somehow avoided the disease. Others have remained cancer-free despite smoking, heavy drinking, or carrying cancer-related gene variants such as the BRCA mutations for breast cancer. The team will also study pairs of identical twins where only one sibling developed cancer, allowing them to compare antibody signatures in people with nearly identical genetic blueprints.

Finally, the team plans to track people with cancer before, during, and after immunotherapy, to paint a picture of how immune responses evolve over the course of the treatment.

Ultimately, they expect to find three broad classes of antibodies: those that help or hinder cancers and those that appear largely neutral. Each could prove valuable.

Autoantibodies that blunt anti-cancer immunity could become drug targets. Scientists might make synthetic “decoy” antibodies to block them—in a way, fighting fire with fire. The findings could also inspire next-generation immunotherapies.

On the other hand, autoantibodies that help the immune system recognize cancers could become therapies themselves or complement existing therapies, such as checkpoint inhibitors, which boost the body’s immune response to cancer. These are much less toxic than chemotherapy, but only 20 percent of patients respond, perhaps because of immune differences.

Even seemingly neutral autoantibodies may be useful cancer biomarkers. Because antibody tests are already well-established, fast, and inexpensive, associated neutral antibodies could aid early detection, monitor whether treatments are working, or warn when a cancer is likely to return.

But correlation isn’t causation.

Some antibodies may merely record a person’s immune history rather than actively influencing cancer. To tease the two apart, the team plans to test promising candidates in cultured human cells and mice, to see whether they alter cancer growth or spread. Those experiments could reveal previously hidden molecular communications between the immune system and cancer and deepen our understanding of the deadly disease.

“We should be able to come up with a biomarker to predict who is likely to avoid cancer, [and] who is likely to develop cancer,” said ATLAS team member, Xin Lu at the University of Oxford. “Potentially we could come up with therapeutic, preventative agents [that are] antibody-based. And that would be fantastic.”

The post Why Do Some People Never Get Cancer? The Answer May Be in Their Blood appeared first on SingularityHub.

Every time you ask ChatGPT a question, computer chips in a massive data center whirl into action. In the blink of an eye, they ping back answers. Behind the scenes, though, AI data centers consume enormous amounts of electricity, heat, and water.

The AI boom is impacting communities. After welcoming 37 data centers, residents in Virginia’s Henrico County were hit with skyrocketing electrical bills. Schools and government buildings were asked to turn off lights, shut down computers, and avoid using space heaters to ease strain on the power grid and keep costs down.

Henrico isn’t alone. A growing backlash is prompting many states to consider legislation curbing new facilities. “No data center” signs have sprouted on lawns and alongside roads. Yet as AI demand continues to surge, so does the need for more computing power.

This has top AI companies looking skyward. Instead of routing requests to terrestrial data centers, future queries could be handled by thousands of solar-powered satellites orbiting above. The results would then be beamed back, with users none the wiser.

But there’s a major hurdle: heat.

Space’s frigid vacuum may seem like the perfect place to cool chips, but it’s not that simple. Lacking air and water to carry heat away, orbital data centers would have to use thermal radiation. Here, heat is converted into infrared energy and radiated into space, often requiring bulky hardware that adds weight, cost, and complexity.

With these challenges in mind, California Institute of Technology and Sophia Space, a California startup developing orbital computing, recently unveiled a patent for a chip cooling system designed to radiate heat into deep space. Called Sophia TILE, thousands of these chips could be linked to form large orbital data centers or organized into smaller, distributed clusters.

Powered by abundant sunlight, the chips could operate continuously without eating up Earth’s resources. The team hopes to test their vision by 2030.

“This patent reflects a different way of thinking about computer infrastructure in space,” said Leon Alkalai, founder and chief technology officer at Sophia Space, in a press release. “Instead of beaming down energy to Earth from orbit, we decided to consider putting computing in space and beam[ing] down data.”

The project joins a growing international push towards orbital computing. ADA Space, working with Zhejiang Lab, has already launched satellites for its Three-Body Computing Constellation and plans to expand into a much larger network. Meanwhile, US companies including SpaceX, Starcloud, and Blue Origin are seeking regulatory approval for constellations that could eventually grow to include up to a million AI-capable satellites.

Without doubt, the race is on.

Space Cadet

Orbital data centers would consist of high-performance computer chips housed in protective enclosures designed to withstand the harsh conditions of space. In orbit, they would collect uninterrupted solar power. In contrast, solar panels on Earth require batteries to store energy for use after sunset.

Solar power in space is hardly new. The International Space Station, satellites, and other spacecraft have long relied on solar panels. More recently, engineers have developed flexible, lightweight designs such as NASA’s Roll-Out Solar Arrays, which launch tightly rolled and unfurl in orbit.

AI, however, demands far more power. One long-standing idea for harvesting continuous solar power suggests we collect solar energy in space and beam it down to Earth. But that approach doesn’t completely appease the growing ire against data centers. They’d still consume energy on the ground and take up land and other resources. A newer idea flips the question. Rather than delivering energy to computers, why not bring computers nearer to the energy source?

The argument in favor of sending data centers skyward is growing stronger. A recent Gallup poll found roughly 70 percent of Americans oppose data centers in their backyard, while experts agree that meeting AI’s future energy demands on Earth alone will become increasingly unsustainable.

But while power is abundant in space, heat is the main problem. Without air or water to carry heat away, computers in space must rely on thermal radiation. That means adding large, heavy radiators to an already bulky, solar-powered setup. In space, weight is money, and scaling orbital data centers will take a lot of it (to put it mildly).

Hot and Cold

TILE tackles the cooling problem with a specialized material that converts heat into infrared radiation. The concept may seem alien, but everything warmer than absolute zero cools this way. Our bodies, stovetops, and car engines all shed heat as invisible infrared light.

Each TILE combines solar cells, thermal insulation, processors, memory, and optical communication hardware into a single module. Beneath the electronics sits a custom heat-spreading layer that prevents dangerous hot spots. Like placing a scorching pan onto a baking sheet, it distributes heat over a much larger surface before channeling it to the radiator.

The modules are designed to work together. Thousands of TILES could link into a giant computing mosaic, each acting as a mini computer connected to its neighbors. Like a modern power grid, the distributed architecture improves reliability—if one TILE fails, others can jump in—while simplifying power distribution and thermal management.

The modular design also solves a practical challenge: Rockets don’t have much cargo space. Similar to NASA’s Roll-Out Solar Arrays, a TILE-based data center could launch in a compact configuration before unfolding into a large, flat computing platform in orbit.

Looking further ahead, the team envisions launching multiple interconnected arrays in succession, like strings of pearls. Each could function as an independent data center that exchanges data with others, effectively extending cloud computing into orbit.

Sophia Space is targeting a demonstration mission in late 2027. By 2030, the team estimates an array of 2,000 TILEs could deliver up to a megawatt of dedicated computing power. To put that in perspective, a single ground-based data center can deliver hundreds of megawatts of computing power, and future data centers will stretch that number into the thousands.

There are challenges beyond the purely technical. Earth orbit is crowded with active spacecraft and debris, raising the risk of collisions. SpaceX’s Starlink satellites, for example, perform frequent collision-avoidance maneuvers after a close call in 2019. The breakup of a Chinese Long March rocket in 2024 threatened an estimated 1,000 satellites. Large constellations of data centers—SpaceX has plans for up to a million in low Earth orbit—would add even more traffic.

Beyond collisions, astronomers are worried that expanding satellite numbers could hinder our ability to study the universe by interfering with telescope observations and radio astronomy.

For now, orbital data centers are unlikely to replace their terrestrial counterparts. Instead, they’re more likely to complement them, processing data collected by spacecraft and beaming only the results back to Earth. Although the field is ridden with hype and controversy, there’s also promise and momentum is clearly building.

“It’s just kind of exploding,” Sergio Pellegrino, a Caltech engineer who collaborates with Sophia Space, told The New York Times. “We need to become more comfortable with space doing things for us.”

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Age-related vision loss affects millions of people, and so far, there has been no way to reverse the damage. A newly approved retinal implant could change that by allowing some people with severe vision loss to regain functional sight.

More than five million people worldwide suffer from geographic atrophy, the late stage of the progressive eye condition dry age-related macular degeneration. The disease destroys the photoreceptors at the center of the retina, known as the macula, which is responsible for the sharp central vision required to read or recognize faces.

In the US, treatment options are limited to two drugs that can be injected into the eye to slow the disease’s progression. But neither can undo the damage. That could be about to change. California neurotech startup Science Corporation recently won European approval for a retinal implant designed to treat the condition.

“For decades, losing central vision to this disease meant losing the ability to read, recognize faces, and ultimately losing independence. There was no viable treatment. Now there is,” Max Hodak, Science’s CEO and co-founder, said in a press release.

The company’s PRIMA system combines an implant smaller than a grain of rice installed underneath the patient’s macula with a pair of camera-mounted glasses that translate incoming visual information into near-infrared light that is then beamed to the retina. The eye can’t detect this wavelength, so the device doesn’t interfere with any natural sight that remains.

The chip, which works on similar principles to a solar panel, converts the incoming light into electrical pulses that stimulate retinal neurons called bipolar cells. These are downstream of the rod and cone photoreceptor cells damaged by macular degeneration and normally spared by the disease.

In a clinical trial involving 38 patients across five countries, which was published in the New England Journal of Medicine last year, the company and its collaborators showed participants gained an average of 25.5 letters—more than five lines—on a standard eye chart after having the device fitted.

And now the device has received a CE mark from the European Union making it possible to sell in 30 European countries. The company says the first commercial implants are expected to be fitted in Germany within weeks, with Italy, the Netherlands, and the UK to follow. In the US, PRIMA holds Breakthrough and Humanitarian Use Device designations from the FDA, but the company is confident it will gain full approval in the near future.

The device is a long way from restoring normal vision. The images it produces are black and white and the field of vision is extremely narrow. Hodak described the experience to the Financial Times as “kind of like looking through a straw in the center of their vision,” though he added that they see a pathway to color vision and higher acuity.

While the implantation procedure is fairly simple, it takes months of training to unlock the device’s full potential. Nonetheless, Hodak told STAT that the company expects to install 20 to 40 devices this year and 200 globally by the end of next if they get US approval in early 2027.

The approval is welcome news for the wider neurotech industry, which has absorbed billions of dollars of investment in recent years with little to show in terms of return.

“Science is showing that brain-computer interface companies have a path to real revenue now,” Jacob Robinson, founder of startup Motif Neuroscience, told STAT. “These companies aren’t all just making a bet on a market that is 10 to 15 years away.”

Hodak told the Financial Times hehopes sales from PRIMA will bankroll Science’s more ambitious work on “biohybrid” interfaces, which use genetically engineered living neurons to connect to the brain rather than metallic wires. “This is the financial backbone,” he said. “This is the thing that pays for the rest.”

Other companies are hot on Science’s heels. Neuralink, which Hodak co-founded with Elon Musk before leaving to start Science, is also working on a vision implant called Blindsight, which is due to enter human trials this year.

While the field remains a long way from the sci-fi vision of seamless two-way communication between humans and machines, this approval is growing evidence the neurotech industry is starting to move out of the lab and into the real world.

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