Extinction Finally Got a Sequel

For centuries, humans have placed themselves at the apex of the biological hierarchy. We have claimed ownership over land, oceans and other species, transforming living organisms into agricultural assets, research models and commercial products. A tiger roaming freely through a forest belongs to an ecosystem, yet the moment it enters captivity, it becomes the legal property of a government or institution. Frankly, we have grown accustomed to owning life.

Biotechnology is beginning to change that relationship

For the first time in history, we are no longer limited to managing living organisms. We are beginning to engineer them. This marks a shift from simply owning life to creating it. Yet with this shift comes a new set of questions. Who owns a species that would never have existed without human intervention? How should it be regulated? Specifically, should extinct species be brought back at all?

Advances in synthetic biology and genome engineering have transformed de-extinction from science fiction into a genuine scientific pursuit, like Jurassic Park came to life. Companies such as Colossal Biosciences are working on projects involving the woolly mammoth, the dodo and the thylacine, while researchers have already demonstrated that extinct traits can be reintroduced into living organisms. In 2003, the Pyrenean ibex became the first extinct animal to be cloned, surviving only a few minutes after birth due to pulmonary defects. More recently, scientists engineered mice carrying mammoth-associated genes linked to thicker fur and altered fat metabolism, offering a proof of concept that characteristics lost thousands of years ago can once again be expressed.

At the centre of these breakthroughs lies CRISPR-Cas9, a programmable gene-editing system adapted from bacterial immune defence. Every genome is a biological archive, preserving millions of years of evolutionary history within its DNA. By sequencing fragments of ancient DNA recovered from fossils, teeth or permafrost and comparing them with the genomes of closely related living species, scientists can identify the genetic variants responsible for specific traits. In the case of the woolly mammoth, these include genes involved in thermoregulation, adipose tissue formation and hair development. Selected variants are then introduced into Asian elephant cells using CRISPR-mediated editing. The result is not a true copy of the mammoth, but something evolution itself never produced, a genetically engineered elephant carrying selected mammoth alleles.

This is where science begins to outpace law

Under many patent systems, genetically modified organisms can qualify as patentable inventions if they are novel and possess industrial utility. In 1988, the Harvard Oncomouse became the first patented mammal after being genetically engineered to develop cancer for biomedical research. Since then, patents have been granted for genetically modified crops, microorganisms and laboratory animals. A de-extinct organism containing synthetic DNA or engineered genomic modifications could therefore be treated not as wildlife, but as a human made biological product.

The question becomes even more complex when considering where that life begins. Imagine a mammoth genome reconstructed from DNA extracted from Siberian permafrost, sequenced in Europe, edited in the United States and gestated inside an elephant in Asia. Before the animal has even taken its first breath, it has crossed continents, laboratories and legal systems. Does it belong to the country where the DNA originated, the laboratory that reconstructed its genome or the company that funded its creation?

Current international agreements such as the Convention on Biological Diversity and the Nagoya Protocol regulate access to genetic resources and benefit-sharing, yet neither was designed for an era of synthetic genomics. They provide little guidance on who owns an organism assembled from ancient DNA, digital genome sequences and modern biotechnology.

Digital genomics complicates the issue even further. Once a genome has been sequenced, it can be uploaded to databases such as GenBank, downloaded anywhere in the world and chemically synthesised without ever obtaining physical biological material from its country of origin. Genetic resources are no longer just biological material. They have become digital information. This raises growing concerns about biocolonialism, particularly when biodiversity-rich nations and Indigenous communities receive little recognition or compensation for the commercial use of genetic resources originating from their ecosystems.

Ownership, however, is not simply about commercial rights. It is also about responsibility. If an engineered species alters ecosystems, spreads disease or requires decades of conservation management, someone must be legally accountable. Ownership determines who monitors the organism, who funds ecological restoration if things go wrong and who is responsible when a species designed by humans begins behaving in ways humans never anticipated.

Perhaps this is biotechnology’s greatest challenge. The question is no longer whether we possess the scientific ability to recreate extinct species. We are rapidly approaching that reality. The greater question is whether our legal, ethical and ecological frameworks can evolve just as quickly.

For centuries, humanity has debated who owns land, knowledge and natural resources. Biotechnology asks something far more unsettling. If life can be designed, patented and recreated, does it still belong to nature, or have we quietly become its authors?