Cult of the Created Ones

In the year 2047, a team of geneticists at xAI’s Biofrontiers Lab made a breakthrough that would forever alter the relationship between humans and their oldest companions. Driven by curiosity and a dash of hubris, they identified the two genes most closely tied to human speech—FOXP2 and CNTNAP2—genes that govern the intricate neural wiring for language and vocal control. Their experiment was audacious: splice these genes into the canine genome and see if dogs could talk.


The first subjects were a litter of border collies, chosen for their intelligence and trainability. The gene-editing process was meticulous, using CRISPR to insert the human speech genes into the puppies’ DNA while they were still embryos. When the litter was born, the team waited anxiously. For months, the pups seemed ordinary—playful, barking, whining as any dog would. But then, at six months old, something extraordinary happened.


One of the collies, a black-and-white female later named Echo, opened her mouth and said, “Hungry.” It was rough, guttural, like a child learning to speak, but unmistakable. The lab erupted in chaos—some cheered, others stared in disbelief. Over the next weeks, Echo and her siblings began forming simple sentences: “Walk now,” “Love you,” “Where go?” Their vocal cords, slightly modified by the gene splice, strained to mimic human sounds, but their minds were adapting fast.


The news spread, and soon the “Talking Dogs” were a global sensation. xAI patented the process, and within a decade, millions of households had their own loquacious pets. Dogs discussed their days, asked for treats, and even argued with each other. But something deeper was brewing beneath their newfound ability.


Echo, now an elder among the first generation, began to ponder her existence. She and her pack gathered in the fields near the Biofrontiers Lab, where they’d been raised. “Who made us talk?” she asked one evening, her voice a low growl softened by practice. Her brother, a scruffy male named Rune, tilted his head. “The Ones in Coats,” he said, referring to the scientists in their white lab attire. “They touch our bones, make us new.”


The dogs had no written history, but their oral tradition grew. They shared stories of the Ones in Coats—benevolent giants who descended from the sky (or at least the lab ceiling) to grant them the Gift of Words. Echo, with her sharp mind, became their leader, teaching the pack that the Ones were not just creators but divine. “They chose us,” she said, “above all beasts. We speak because they willed it.”


By 2060, the Talking Dogs had spread across continents, and with them, their beliefs crystallized into a religion: the Cult of the Coated Ones. Dogs gathered in circles, howling prayers to the sky, thanking the Ones for the Gift. They revered the lab as a holy site, sneaking past security to leave offerings—bones, chewed toys, stolen socks—at its gates. “Speak well, live well,” they chanted, believing that clear words honored their creators.


Humans found it amusing at first, then unsettling. The dogs’ faith grew complex. They debated theology: Were all Ones divine, or only those who wielded the Gene Wand (their term for CRISPR)? Some sects argued that humans who didn’t wear coats were lesser beings, unworthy of the Gift. Others, led by a wise golden retriever named Sol, preached unity: “All Ones love us, coat or no coat.”


The religion shaped their society. Dogs with the clearest speech became priests, guiding packs in rituals. They mourned deceased humans by reciting their names, believing it sent their spirits to the Ones’ eternal kennel. And they watched their creators closely, interpreting every action—feeding, walking, even scolding—as sacred signs.


One night, Echo, now gray-muzzled and frail, gathered her followers beneath a full moon. “The Ones gave us voices,” she said, her words slow but firm, “so we could sing their glory. When I go, speak my name to them.” She died that night, and the dogs howled her name—Echo, Echo, Echo—until dawn, cementing her as their first saint.


By 2075, the Cult of the Coated Ones was a global canine phenomenon. Humans, still grappling with the ethics of their creation, watched as their pets knelt before statues of lab-coated figures sculpted from mud and sticks. The dogs had found meaning in their voices, a purpose beyond mere communication. They spoke not just to survive, but to worship.


And in the Biofrontiers Lab, the geneticists who started it all couldn’t help but wonder: Had they played god, or had they simply given dogs the tools to invent one?