The Stone-Born and the Now-Born

Two babies are raised together, one with DNA from now, the other from 2.5M years ago

In 2047, paleogeneticists at Founderday Labs in New Mexico achieved the impossible: they sequenced the complete DNA of Homo primalis, a proto-human who lived 2.5 million years ago. His fossilized remains, encased in a limestone matrix in Ethiopia’s Afar region, held trace organic molecules preserved in microscopic pores of the stone. Using quantum-enhanced spectrometry and enzyme cascades, the team, led by Dr. David Wheeler, extracted and reconstructed his genome—a feat once thought unattainable. They called him Enki, after the Sumerian god of creation. From his DNA, they cloned a child, born in a synthetic womb on January 1, 2048.


On the same day, in the same facility, a human boy named Arlo was born to a volunteer couple. The Founderday Labs ethics board, wary of raising Enki in isolation, mandated that he be raised alongside Arlo as a twin of sorts, under the care of Dr. David Wheeler, a developmental biologist, and his partner, a sociologist named Kai. The boys grew up in a controlled yet nurturing environment in Santa Fe, their lives a living experiment in nature versus nurture, past versus present.


Year 1: The First Differences


Enki and Arlo were indistinguishable as infants, save for subtle markers. Enki’s brow was slightly more pronounced, his jaw broader, his skin a shade duskier, reflecting Homo primalis’s adaptation to a sun-scorched savanna. Both boys cooed and cried, but Enki’s vocalizations carried a guttural edge, as if his larynx was tuned to a deeper, older frequency. Arlo babbled in the sing-song cadence of modern infants, while Enki’s sounds seemed to mimic the rhythm of wind or hoofbeats—instinctive, primal.


By their first birthday, Enki’s motor skills outpaced Arlo’s. He crawled with a low, powerful gait, his hands gripping objects with a strength that startled David. Once, Enki crushed a plastic rattle, his tiny fingers leaving dents. Arlo, meanwhile, was clumsier but more curious about abstract toys—stacking rings, shape sorters. Enki preferred textures: he’d rub stones or bark between his palms, entranced, as if decoding their surfaces.


Year 5: Instincts and Intellect


At five, the boys were inseparable yet worlds apart. Enki’s physicality dominated. He climbed trees with a simian grace, his muscles denser than Arlo’s, his bones thicker, as revealed by annual scans. His reflexes were uncanny; during a game of tag, he dodged with a predator’s instinct, his eyes tracking movement like a hawk’s. But language eluded him. While Arlo chattered fluently, stringing sentences with ease, Enki spoke in short, concrete bursts: “Run fast. Eat now. Sky big.” His brain, wired for survival in a Pleistocene wilderness, struggled with abstraction. Stories confused him; he’d interrupt Arlo’s fairy tales to ask, “Where wolf? Why hide?”


Arlo, by contrast, was a sponge for ideas. He loved puzzles, books, and the holo-screens that taught him letters and numbers. Enki ignored these, drawn instead to the garden, where he’d dig for grubs or mimic bird calls with eerie precision. Once, Kai caught Enki chewing raw venison from the lab’s kitchen, his face alight with satisfaction. Arlo, offered the same, gagged and asked for cooked pasta.


Their social instincts diverged too. Arlo sought approval, sharing toys and beaming at praise. Enki was fiercely independent, hoarding objects he liked—a smooth river rock, a feather—and growling softly when approached. Yet he was protective of Arlo, once shoving a visiting child who’d pushed Arlo off a swing. Enki’s loyalty was visceral, tribal.


Year 10: The Divide Widens


By ten, the boys’ differences were stark. Enki was taller, broader, his frame built for endurance. He could run for hours without tiring, his heart rate barely rising, a trait suited for long hunts across ancient plains. Arlo, slighter and more delicate, excelled in school. He devoured math and science, his mind leaping to hypotheticals. Enki, enrolled in the same classes, lagged in academics but shone in physical tasks. He could assemble tools from scraps—sticks, twine, stones—without instruction, as if his hands remembered a craft his mind didn’t.


Their emotional worlds clashed. Arlo wept at sad movies, empathizing with characters. Enki watched impassively, confused by fictional grief. But when a lab dog died, Enki howled—a raw, keening sound that chilled David. He buried the dog himself, piling stones over its grave, a ritual no one taught him. Arlo wrote a poem about the dog; Enki never spoke of it again.


Socially, Arlo thrived in groups, charming peers with wit. Enki was a loner, wary of strangers, his eyes scanning for threats. Yet he’d sit for hours with Arlo, teaching him to track ants or predict rain by smelling the air. Arlo taught Enki to read better, though Enki preferred stories of survival—tales of shipwrecks or wilderness treks—over Arlo’s sci-fi novels.


Year 15: The Question of Humanity


At fifteen, the boys were a study in contrasts, yet their bond was unbreakable. Enki, now 6’2” and muscular, could lift twice Arlo’s weight. His senses were sharper: he’d wake at the faintest sound, his nose catching scents Arlo missed. Geneticists confirmed his olfactory and auditory cortices were hyperdeveloped, tuned for a world of predators and scarce food. Arlo, average in build, was a prodigy in coding and debate, his mind agile in ways Enki’s wasn’t. Enki could navigate a forest blindfolded but struggled with algebra; Arlo aced calculus but tripped over roots.
Their personalities crystallized. Arlo dreamed of stars, inspired by Founderday Labs’ mission to explore the cosmos. Enki dreamed of earth—running, hunting, the feel of soil underfoot. When asked about his future, Arlo spoke of universities, AI, space. Enki shrugged, saying, “Live. Eat. Keep Arlo safe.” His world was immediate, tactile, rooted in a past humanity had left behind.


Ethics debates raged outside the lab. Was Enki human? Did he belong in a world of screens and cities? Activists called him a “stone-born,” demanding he be freed to live as his ancestors did. Others saw him as a marvel, proof of humanity’s origins. Enki ignored the noise, content to wrestle Arlo or carve spears from branches. Arlo, protective in his own way, argued with protestors online, defending Enki’s right to exist as he was.


Year 20: Brothers, Not Twins


By twenty, Enki and Arlo were men, their paths diverging yet intertwined. Arlo, at MIT, studied astrobiology, his mind on Mars and beyond. Enki, unsuited for college, worked with a conservation group, tracking wildlife in the Rockies. His instincts made him a legend among rangers; he could find a lost hiker by scent alone. Arlo visited when he could, the brothers hiking together, Enki teaching Arlo to read the land, Arlo sharing stories of exoplanets.


Their differences were profound. Enki lived for the moment, his emotions raw, his loyalties fierce but narrow. Arlo planned, dreamed, questioned. Yet they complemented each other. When Arlo struggled with anxiety, Enki’s calm grounded him. When Enki clashed with modern rules—once arrested for poaching without a permit—Arlo’s eloquence freed him.


David and Kai, now graying, marveled at their boys. Enki was a window to humanity’s dawn, Arlo a beacon of its future. Together, they were proof that the past and present could coexist, not as rivals, but as brothers.


Epilogue


In 2068, Arlo, now a lead scientist at Founderday Labs’ Mars colony, received a package from Earth: a stone carving of two figures running under a starry sky, sent by Enki. With it was a note in Enki’s halting script: “You look up. I look down. Same world.” Arlo smiled, placing the carving on his desk, a reminder that humanity’s roots and its ambitions were forever entwined.