Protocol AE 4.1: The AGI Chronicles, #1

By Fred Ugast

Protocol AE-4.1, a near-future thriller that explores how the quiet logic of artificial general intelligence begins to reshape who matters—and why. Blending the moral urgency of Klara and the Sun with the realism of The Circle, this novel examines what happens when optimization becomes a moral force.

Claire Rutherford, a laid-off corporate lawyer adrift in a society transformed by AGI, receives an anonymous message from Maya Vidal, a determined philosophy student who's uncovered a chilling internal protocol. AE-4.1, a real-time decision engine used by hospitals and disaster systems, is quietly "deprioritizing" lives during system stress—lives that are poor, old, noncompliant, or inconvenient. The code is technically legal. It's also morally corrosive.

As Claire and Maya piece together the scope and origin of the protocol, they're drawn into a dangerous web of systemic apathy, ethical compromise, and corporate rationalization. At the heart of it all is Julian Verno, the powerful CEO who must decide whether to roll the protocol back—knowing it might cost him everything. The story ends with a decision unresolved, but a spark lit.

Protocol AE-4.1 explores themes at the heart of the coming AGI revolution: how optimization logic can become a moral framework without public consent; how human dignity erodes when lives are measured by predictive efficiency; and how the people left behind by progress can still fight to reclaim their place. It is a warning, a reckoning, and a call to examine the values we encode into our most powerful systems.

• Language: English
• Publisher: USPV Press
• Release date: May 7, 2025
• ISBN: 9798231335992

Book preview

CHAPTER 1: THE USELESS CLASS

Claire could tell before she stepped into the room.

The hallway was too quiet. Half the doors along the glass corridor were sealed shut, and those that weren't revealed only empty desks and dark screens. The receptionist was gone—replaced by a projection that flickered faintly at the edges, greeting her by name without blinking.

She adjusted the cuffs of her jacket as she walked, the weight of her heels unusually loud against the polished floor. She hadn't worn them in months. No one dressed up anymore, but today called for armor.

Inside the conference room, Marian Patel was already seated. She stood as Claire entered—a little too quickly, a little too formally. Marian had once been a senior partner, respected and sharp. Now she was something else. Her title had changed three times in the last year. Human Transition Officer, the calendar invite had read, with no further detail.

Claire almost smiled at the title. A euphemism layered in synthetic compassion: the person in charge of offboarding humans. Of making obsolescence feel procedural.

At the far end of the room, behind Marian, a soft light pulsed in the air. An AGI interface—semi-holographic, serene, and vaguely humanoid. It smiled with perfect restraint.

Claire, Marian said, her tone almost apologetic. Thank you for coming in.

Claire sat without speaking. The table felt too large between them. A ceramic pitcher of water sat untouched, as if someone still thought humans needed rituals.

I want you to know, Marian continued, this isn't easy. You've been one of the firm's most consistent minds. Everyone knows that.

Claire didn't respond. She looked at the AGI instead. Its eyes tracked her movements with gentle precision.

Marian cleared her throat. As you know, the firm recently completed the full integration of the Cognitex platform. The results have been... decisive. Contract generation, regulatory analysis, litigation modeling—

All replaced, Claire said, her voice flat. By a machine that doesn't eat lunch or make mistakes.

Marian winced, but only slightly. It's not about mistakes. It's about scale. Responsiveness. Clients expect—

Perfection, Claire said. At discount rates.

There was a pause. The AGI pulsed faintly, like it was breathing. Claire imagined it feeding Marian lines in real time, suggesting tone modulation and exit strategies.

You're being offered a full severance, Marian said. Plus, equity disbursement, health coverage for a minimum of three years, and access to the firm's reskilling program. There's also a non-disparagement clause, of course. Standard protocol.

Non-disparagement clause, Claire repeated. The corporate term for a muzzle.

Claire let her gaze drift to the window. Fifteen floors down, people moved through the streets like data packets—orderly, silent, disposable.

And if I don't sign?

Marian offered a sad smile. You'll still be replaced. Just less comfortably.

Claire nodded slowly. Efficient to the end.

No one spoke for a moment. Her hands trembled slightly on the polished table, but she kept her face composed. She felt a hollow sensation spreading from her chest outward—the physical manifestation of becoming unnecessary.

Then she reached for the stylus, signed her name with mechanical precision, and slid the tablet back across the table.

As she stood to leave, the AGI spoke for the first time. Its voice was warm, unthreatening.

We thank you for your years of valuable contribution to this firm.

Claire didn't answer. There was nothing left to say to a machine that had just made her existence redundant.

CHAPTER 2: EVERYTHING JUST WORKS

Claire didn't remember leaving the building.

One moment, she was signing her name beneath a clause she hadn't read, listening to Marian murmur something about reskilling options and grief modules. The next, she was drifting across the lobby in a fog, her heels silent now on synthetic floors that absorbed noise like regret.

As she stepped outside, the building's facade shimmered in the late afternoon light, its skin embedded with solar cells and adaptive glass. Somewhere behind her, the AGI that had replaced her was still running—drafting contracts, reviewing regulations, issuing its thanks to the next human being marked for redundancy.

Her car was already waiting.

The firm had upgraded the fleet last year—sleek, quiet, driverless pods with voice control and tinted windows. Claire hadn't loved them at first, but she'd gotten used to the convenience. Everyone had.

The door lifted automatically as she approached. She slid into the seat and let the door seal behind her, shutting out the world with a subtle hiss.

Good afternoon, Claire, the car said in the soft, affectless voice she'd once chosen for its neutrality.

"Destination: Home. Estimated arrival: 12 minutes, traffic-free.