The Mostly Harmless Cloning of An’Ot

An’Ot, a surveyor of the K’tharr persuasion (a species known for their meticulous observation of the universe and their unfortunate tendency to confuse “observation” with “standing very still and hoping nothing notices them”), was having a day that could best be described as “sub-optimal.” He was, to put it mildly, quite thoroughly unwell.

The K’tharr plague, a malady that turned one’s internal organs into something resembling a particularly crunchy geological specimen, was doing its level best to turn An’Ot into a particularly crunchy geological specimen. His transport pod, meanwhile, was doing its level best to impersonate a broken washing machine stuck in a particularly enthusiastic light show.

“Oh dear,” An’Ot muttered, his voice a dry rasp through his rapidly crystallizing respiratory filters. “This is most inconvenient.”

The inconvenience, of course, was the fact that he was light-years from any decent medical facility, stuck orbiting a planet that appeared to be composed entirely of crimson dust, which, as it turned out, was the K’tharr plague in its airborne form.

Then, a low thrum began, a sort of internal “wobble-wobble-wobble” that An’Ot initially attributed to the pod’s general state of “trying to be a sentient cheese grater.” But no, it was his body, doing that peculiar K’tharr thing where, when faced with imminent demise, it decided to have a little “me-too” party and duplicate itself.

Now, normally, this was a perfectly acceptable survival mechanism. But An’Ot was, to put it mildly, already a bit “crunchy” on the inside. So, this was like trying to duplicate a slightly mouldy sandwich.

The thrumming intensified, vibrating An’Ot’s antennae like a particularly insistent tax collector. Then, poof. Out popped a second An’Ot, all shiny and new, like a freshly polished doorknob.

“Well, this is a turn-up for the books,” said the new An’Ot, looking down at the rapidly fading original. “Bit of a cloning mishap, wouldn’t you say?”

“Mishap?” wheezed the original An’Ot, his voice sounding like a rusty kazoo playing a funeral dirge. “It’s more like a… a genetic glitch… with existential consequences.”

The new An’Ot poked at the fading form with a perfectly manicured claw. “Fascinating. The genetic blueprint is pristine, but the… the original packaging is, shall we say, a bit… dusty.”

The original An’Ot gave a final, gurgling sigh. “Just… try not to lose your towel. And remember, the answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything is… well, you know.”

Then, he vanished, leaving behind only a faint smell of stale biscuits and a profound sense of “what just happened?”

The new An’Ot, feeling a strange mixture of “oh bother” and “I wonder if they have any decent tea on this planet,” accessed the pod’s navigation system. He set a course for the nearest K’tharr colony, which, according to the pod’s computer, was “somewhere in the general vicinity of ‘not here.’”

“Right,” he said to the empty pod. “Let’s see what sort of intergalactic shenanigans we can get into now.” And with a whir and a whoosh, the pod vanished into the swirling crimson dust, leaving the plague-ridden planet behind. Because, as everyone knows, the universe is a very peculiar place, and sometimes, you just have to roll with the punches, even if those punches are delivered by a sentient crystalline rot and a malfunctioning transport pod.