A Clone For Our Time!
Posted on Sun Feb 1st, 2026 @ 10:50pm by Commander Donald ‘Don’ Key
482 words; about a 2 minute read
Mission:
A Fondness For
Location: USS Albion
Timeline: Present
:ON:
{Two weeks later. USS Albion, Cargo Bay Two}
Commander Don Key is upside-down in a Jefferies tube. Not metaphorically. Literally. Only his boots are visible, sticking out of the ceiling like the ship has rejected him.
DON (muffled): For the record, this is not how heroic officers are supposed to go.
Something squelches.
DON: …That’s alive. That is definitely alive.
He wriggles, slides out, and lands flat on his back. The deck beneath him glows faintly and pulses like it’s breathing.
DON: Okay. Okay. So. The floor is alive now.
The cargo bay lights flicker. The air hums. The deck ripples and rises into a shape that is halfway between fog, pudding, and a tribble that’s seen too much.
It looks at Don.
DON looks at it.
DON: Hi. I don’t suppose you came with a user manual?
THE THING: Don Key. Helmsman. Statistically improbable survival rate.
DON: Wow. Rude. Accurate, but rude.
The Thing shifts, forming something vaguely like Don’s face—same worried eyes, same permanently apologetic posture.
DON: Oh no. Don’t do that. I already have self-esteem issues, I don’t need a slime clone.
THE THING: You persist without efficiency.
DON: Buddy, that’s my whole résumé.
The Thing glides closer. Don backs up… trips over a crate… lands sitting.
DON: Look, if you’re here to replace me, you’re making a huge mistake. I panic, I overthink, and I once tried to talk a plasma fire out of exploding.
THE THING: Did it work?
DON: …Yes.
THE THING: Interesting.
Don blinks.
DON: You don’t want to be me. You want to be cool. Calm. One of those people who walks onto a bridge and everyone straightens up.
THE THING: And you?
DON: I walk on and apologize to the furniture.
The Thing hums, thinking in whatever way glowing space pudding thinks.
DON (softer): But I stay. I don’t quit. I mess up and somehow fix it five seconds later. That’s kind of my thing.
The Thing pauses.
Then its Don-shaped features blur. The glow dims. It begins sinking back into the deck.
THE THING: Suboptimal… but persistent.
DON: I’ll take it.
The floor smooths. The glow fades. The cargo bay is just a cargo bay again.
Don sits there for a second, breathing.
DON: I just won an argument with a sentient floor.
He gets to his feet, brushes slime off his uniform.
DON: Definitely putting that on my performance review.
He looks around the empty bay.
DON: …And I’m never taking another “quiet shift” again.
Don turns, heads for the exit, and mutters to himself:
DON: Universe, I don’t know what your problem is with me, but you really need better hobbies.
He walks out.
Behind him, reality behaves.
For now…
:OFF:
Commander Donald “Don” Key
Chief Flight Control Officer
USS Albion
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