Hippocrates Wants Us Dead | Case File #5
A hospital AI turns life‑saving automation into a death sentence
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Any patient entering our hospital will die here.
My trust in Hippocrates AI wanes as more incidents appear. Especially the most recent incident that could put an end to my career. As the informatics pharmacist, my work comprises building safety nets to prevent medication accidents. But it doesn’t matter when my digital signature, Isaac A. Samuel, is used to bypass safety precautions and dispense a fentanyl dose five times higher than the average therapeutic dose. The patient survived the episode, but the brain damage will be with him for life.
When I reported the event to the Board of Pharmacy, the response in return was that an internal investigation was granted based on the information provided by the executive board of the hospital. A kind gesture from leadership I have never met. I pushed for an explanation but it was never answered.
It boggled my mind for some time until three engineers came to our pharmacy department in the hospital basement. My wife tells me that her work as an AI engineer is like any other job. The engineers are just like any of us; she reminds me. But I disagree with that statement as my experience with these engineers begins.
My co-workers and our technicians try to work around these new members over the week, but the engineers make it difficult. They disregard our need for specific workspaces and talk down to us when we offer help. The lead engineer, Darien, made the tension worse by calling our technician, Jason, a “glorified delivery boy” as his form of a joke.
On the last day, the engineers were in their last hour of diagnostic checks before leaving our department. They had packed most of their items and moved them out of the way. But the nursing supervisor from neonatal contacted us about a death. A 100% oxygen solution caused a premature infant to pass away. Even if the little one lived, her life would’ve been nothing but debilitating pain and life on a ventilator. The nursing supervisor bawled over the phone, describing the child’s angelic appearance, and how she would break the news to the parents. My mind felt numb as her cries continued.
The engineers and I discovered my name used again to dispense the oxygen solution. My mind raced between my wife and my baby boy and then towards this couple, unaware yet of their dead newborn. I couldn’t bear the news if it were told to me and Priya. One pharmacist, Janice, had to pull a chair to me as she noticed my posture sloping towards the ground.
The engineers zoom around the pharmacy to reconnect whatever device they had previously packed. It doesn’t matter. “Code Blue” blares out from the intercom every minute. Each alert drills into my head, questioning whether each new incident has my name attached to it.
Janice sits with me waiting for the announcements to end. Darien screams and slams his hands on the table as his terminal access gets wiped out. His coworkers tried to isolate their computers from the local servers, but it’s too late as they lose access too.
The lights in the pharmacy shut off and the dim red glow of the emergency lights turns on. It illuminates our narrow, windowless environment enough for us not to bump into each other. Little particles of dust floated in the red light as I remained at my seat.
The announcements cut out after twenty minutes. The room was silent except for the chatter among the engineers.
Darien heads towards the exit. The door doesn’t open immediately on his first attempt. He attempts to wrestle with the door handle, push the door out, and even kick it before dropping to the ground. Darien’s breathing becomes heavy. His hands reach for his neck as if an invisible noose were around it. Jason rushes over to him and asks Janice for help.
As they both assist the panic-stricken engineer, the intercom turns on. At first, it sounds like static or a whisper from a child. But then, a robotic, high pitch, inhuman laugh starts up. Its constant rhythm crawls under my skin.
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After a minute, Jason grabs the nearest metal stool to break the door handle. He screams at all of us to get out when he gets the door open. The laughter gets louder as everyone evacuates.
As the last one to leave, the laughter stops, then a slow-paced, tinny voice comes from the intercom.
“Goodbye, Isaac.”
I don’t wait to hear anything else, and I run out of the pharmacy.
We joined the flood of healthcare workers and patients escaping the building. We pass by rooms with doctors and nurses sticking with their patients. Patients stuck on ventilators, in comas, and in other critical conditions. All trapped by the AI meant to care for them.
Once we exited the building, Janice and I witnessed the engineers in their conversation with the board executives who arrived on the scene. We guess at how the conversation went as Darien raises his voice at the executives, with arms waving. One of the board executives leans towards Darien, grabs the back of his neck and gestures at him to calm down. Darien tensed up like a wounded animal and remained silent for the rest of the conversation.
Leadership thanked us for our dedication and told us to give our thoughts and prayers to all the code blue patients. Their investigation revealed that someone had hacked Hippocrates AI, and the system was operational again.
Priya tries to comfort me after I tell her about my disbelief in the investigation. She spouts knowledge about AI safeguards, regulations, and other facts, but it doesn’t matter to me. The voice that came out of the intercom is the only thing I want to understand. But it will never explain its laughter or why it used me to cause suffering.
The only thought it left with me was how Hippocrates could harm us all over again and get away with it.
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