It wasn’t that long ago—2018—that the biggest bioethics story in the world was CRISPR Baby Scientist Goes to Prison . The Chinese researcher He Jiankui announced the birth of twin girls whose genomes he had edited in an attempt to confer HIV resistance. The backlash was immediate and global: scientists condemned it, governments tightened oversight, and He was tried and sentenced to three years in prison.

When we first started writing this novel, we called it On the Wings of a Pig — a placeholder name that captured the strange blend of wonder and tragedy we were building: a genetically engineered future shaped by hope, desperation, and ambition. It was a working title, a way to signal that the story was wild and unexpected.

There’s something quietly radical about the idea that a junior scientist—someone who’s never designed a CRISPR experiment before—can now walk into a wet lab and, on their very first attempt, edit the genome of a human cancer cell with precision and purpose.

There’s a moment—somewhere in the quiet space between hypothesis and imagination—when science fiction stops feeling like fiction at all. I remember it clearly. We were outlining the premise of On the Wings of a Pig , building the scaffolding of a story that spanned lightyears and lifetimes.

I first read this paper in graduate school. It wasn’t assigned. I found it on my own—probably during one of those late-night deep dives into the internet, half reading for a lab presentation, half procrastinating from a dataset that just wouldn’t behave. The paper is called “Narrative Style Influences Citation Frequency in Climate Change Science,” and it’s exactly what it sounds like.

When I set out to write On the Wings of a Pig , I didn’t expect to end up writing it with anyone else. The core idea was mine, born from years spent straddling the line between bioengineering and policy, steeped in existential frustration at how little attention we give to the collapse of the living world around us, and how much a lot of my conversations felt like science fiction. I had the science. I had the stakes. I had the vision.

In 1999, scientists finally put a name to one of the most devastating pandemics you’ve probably never heard of: Batrachochytrium dendrobatidis , or Bd—the amphibian chytrid fungus. By the time it had a name, it had already triggered one of the largest mass extinction events in recorded biological history. Bd has been linked to the decline or extinction of over 500 amphibian species, with at least 90 species likely wiped out entirely.

Hey there, Three weeks ago, I hit send on one of the most personal announcements I’ve ever shared. On July 1, I announced the debut of my first science fiction novel— On the Wings of a Pig . The response was overwhelming. I expected a few nods of support, maybe some curiosity.

A few days ago, on Sci-Fi Friday, you met Dr. Samara Makinde. You didn’t know it then, and neither did she, but her story wasn’t a standalone. What you read on Friday wasn’t just another TCIP short story. It was Chapter One of my debut novel — On the Wings of a Pig — and the opening act of a story I’ve been dreaming about for years.

Samara June 12, 2108 Outskirts of Kansas City Wedged between a matching set of security guards in the back seat of an armored Reaper, Dr. Samara Makinde watched through bulletproof glass as Missouri farm country scrolled past like a documentary of the apocalypse.

What began in the fall of 2024 as a weekly experiment - just me, a blank page, and a question about how technology and humanity are reshaping each other - quickly grew into something more.