Elon Musk's salary last year was $54,080. That's not a typo. The guy running one of the most consequential companies on the planet took home less than a first-year teacher in most U.S. states — at least on paper. That detail, buried inside SpaceX's freshly filed S-1 document, is just one of dozens of revelations from a company that spent 24 years keeping its books tightly sealed.

SpaceX filed for an IPO this week, targeting a public market debut as early as June 12. The nearly 400-page filing is the first time the company has ever disclosed detailed financials, and the picture it paints is both impressive and complicated.

On the revenue side, SpaceX pulled in $18.67 billion in 2025, a meaningful jump from $14 billion the year before. But here's the catch: the company swung to a $4.94 billion net loss after posting a small profit in 2024. The culprit is an aggressive — some might say reckless — bet on artificial intelligence. After merging with Musk's xAI earlier this year, SpaceX plowed billions into AI infrastructure, dragging down earnings even as its core rocket and Starlink businesses hummed along.

The filing's most eyebrow-raising claim is about market size. SpaceX says it has identified what it calls the largest total addressable market in human history — $28.5 trillion across space, data, and AI services. To put that in perspective, the entire U.S. GDP is roughly $29 trillion. Most of that projected opportunity, about $26.5 trillion worth, comes from AI, not rockets. Space and Starlink together account for only around $2 trillion of the estimate. Whether that math holds up to scrutiny is a different question, but it tells you a lot about where Musk thinks the company is headed.

For investors eyeing the IPO, the governance structure deserves attention. Post-listing, Musk will control 85.1 percent of combined voting power, effectively making him immovable as CEO and chairman. Public shareholders will have money in the game but almost no say in how the company is run. That arrangement is increasingly common among founder-led tech companies, but at this scale it carries real risk — especially given the filing's own acknowledgment that Musk's close ties to the Trump administration could materially affect the business depending on how the political winds shift.

Gwynne Shotwell, who has quietly kept SpaceX operational through every improbable milestone, received total compensation valued at $85.8 million in 2025, including stock awards. The contrast with Musk's nominal salary is stark and probably intentional — Musk has long structured his compensation around equity rather than cash, a strategy that legally minimizes his tax exposure while keeping him aligned with long-term performance.

The bottom line is that SpaceX is no longer just a rocket company. It is a sprawling conglomerate spanning launch services, satellite internet, AI compute, and now social media through xAI. Whether public markets will reward that complexity or punish it is the central question heading into June.

Google's biggest product announcement at I/O this year wasn't a new phone or a flashy demo. It was a quiet redefinition of what Google actually is — and it has enormous implications for everything from how you find information to whether the open web survives the decade.

The core idea is this: Google is building AI agents that search the internet on your behalf, proactively, without you asking. You don't type a query. You don't even necessarily know it's happening. The AI anticipates what you need and goes looking. In Google's vision of the near future, the act of "googling" something might happen entirely in the background, mediated by a system that decides what's relevant and surfaces a packaged answer.

That's a genuinely radical shift for a company whose entire identity — and roughly $175 billion in annual advertising revenue — has been built on being the place people go when they want to know something. If the AI handles the searching, the traditional search results page, the blue links, the ads sitting above the fold — all of it starts looking like an endangered species.

Google seems aware of the tension and, according to reporting from The Verge's Nilay Patel who attended I/O and spoke with CEO Sundar Pichai, the company is surprisingly confident about where it stands. That confidence is worth interrogating. Google has the data, the infrastructure, and the distribution that most AI competitors can only dream about. Android is on billions of devices. Chrome owns the browser market. Gmail and Google Docs sit at the center of how people work. When Google wants to put an AI agent in front of users, it has more on-ramps than any rival.

But the transition isn't friction-free. If AI agents are doing the browsing, publishers and websites lose traffic. Less traffic means less ad revenue. Less ad revenue means fewer resources to produce the journalism, research, and content that the AI was trained on and continues to pull from. It's a feedback loop that nobody has fully solved, and Google's success in this new era might quietly hollow out the ecosystem it depends on.

There's also a more philosophical question lurking underneath all of this. Search, at its core, has always been about giving people access to information and letting them decide what to do with it. An AI agent that searches for you, filters the results, and delivers a synthesized answer is doing something meaningfully different. It's making judgment calls. It's deciding what matters. That's a lot of editorial power concentrated in a system most users won't examine or question.

None of this means Google is guaranteed to win the AI era — plenty of well-resourced incumbents have fumbled transitions before. But right now, Google is making a clear bet: the future of its business isn't a search box. It's an AI that already knows what you're looking for before you do. Whether that's exciting or unsettling probably depends on how much you trust the company doing the anticipating.

A single hacker group has pulled off more software supply chain attacks in the last few months than most security researchers see in years — and their latest victim is GitHub itself.

The group, known as TeamPCP, has infected over 500 distinct open source packages across 20 separate attack waves, according to cybersecurity firm Socket. That's not a typo. Five hundred packages. And counting all the different versions of compromised code, the number climbs well past a thousand. For an attack type that used to be a rare, haunting exception in cybersecurity circles, this is an extraordinary volume.

The GitHub breach — confirmed by the company this week — is their most high-profile hit yet. The entry point was almost embarrassingly mundane: a developer at GitHub installed a compromised VSCode extension, a plug-in for a popular code editor. That one poisoned install gave TeamPCP access to roughly 3,800 internal GitHub repositories. The company says the exposed code appears to be its own internal software, not customer data, but the investigation is ongoing.

TeamPCP wasted no time advertising their haul. On BreachForums, the group posted an offer to sell GitHub's source code and internal organization data, claiming to have samples ready for anyone who wants to verify the goods. It reads like a Craigslist listing, if Craigslist listings could destabilize global software infrastructure.

Here's why this matters beyond the GitHub name on the headline: the open source software ecosystem is the invisible foundation under nearly every application you use. When attackers corrupt a tool that thousands of developers trust and install without a second thought, the blast radius is enormous. TeamPCP's playbook is to compromise a legitimate, widely-used tool — think data visualization libraries, code editor extensions, developer utilities — plant malware inside it, and then wait for the infections to spread naturally as developers do what developers do: download and use software.

Ben Read, who leads threat intelligence at cloud security firm Wiz, put it plainly. GitHub may be the biggest name TeamPCP has taken down, but it's not qualitatively different from the roughly 14 breaches the group pulled off the week before. The organizations just weren't famous enough for anyone outside their industry to notice.

Previous victims include OpenAI and data contracting firm Mercor. The pattern suggests TeamPCP isn't going after specific high-value targets with surgical precision — they're casting an extraordinarily wide net and monetizing whatever they catch, whether through extortion or selling access to the highest bidder.

The deeper problem is structural. Open source software runs on trust. Developers share code, build on each other's work, and install packages without auditing every line. That collaborative culture is what makes open source so powerful — and exactly what TeamPCP is exploiting. There's no clean fix here. Better tooling and more scrutiny help, but as long as developers need to move fast and software supply chains remain complex, groups like TeamPCP will keep finding unlocked doors.

For now, the question isn't whether another major company is on TeamPCP's list. It's which one, and when.

The Ebola outbreak now raging through the Democratic Republic of the Congo was only officially reported one week ago. It has already become the third largest in recorded history. That pace of escalation should alarm anyone paying attention.

As of Friday, the World Health Organization reported nearly 750 cases, 177 deaths, and roughly 1,400 people under contact tracing in the Ituri province. WHO Director-General Tedros Adhanom Ghebreyesus confirmed the outbreak is still "spreading rapidly," and the agency has upgraded its national risk level from "high" to "very high." The global risk remains "low" for now — but the trajectory of this outbreak suggests that assessment could change.

The troubling part isn't just the speed of spread. It's how much of a head start the virus had before anyone knew to look for it. WHO officials now believe the earliest suspected case dates to April 24, when a health worker in Bunia, the capital of Ituri, developed symptoms. WHO didn't receive word of a potential outbreak until May 5, when a cluster of deaths among health workers triggered alarm. By the time a response team arrived on the ground, 80 people were already infected.

Dr. Anne Ancia, a WHO representative speaking from the DRC, described finding the virus "already rampant and silently disseminating for a few weeks." That's a brutal phrase. Silent dissemination means weeks of unchecked transmission in communities, health facilities, and across whatever movement corridors exist in a region already defined by instability.

Making containment even harder: the virus in question is the Bundibugyo strain of Ebola, one of the rarer variants. Unlike the more familiar Zaire strain that drove the catastrophic 2014-2016 West Africa outbreak, Bundibugyo doesn't have approved vaccines or established therapeutics. That strips away some of the most powerful modern tools in outbreak response and pushes responders back to basics — case finding, isolation, and contact tracing — in an area marked by armed conflict, severe food insecurity, and fragile health infrastructure.

Then there's the question of American involvement, or the lack of it. The United States was, for decades, the single most important external actor in African Ebola responses. USAID funded critical on-the-ground infrastructure. CDC personnel helped lead outbreak investigations. That institutional presence is now largely gone — USAID has been gutted, the CDC has faced steep cuts, and the US has withdrawn from the WHO entirely.

Craig Spencer, an emergency medicine doctor at Brown University who contracted Ebola while treating patients in Guinea in 2014, wrote in a New York Times opinion piece this week that the US has effectively abandoned its leadership role in global health security at exactly the wrong moment.

The WHO is sprinting to catch up to a virus that got a weeks-long running start. With its primary historical partner on the sidelines, the margin for error just got a lot thinner.