Cloning a planet was not a difficult process, but it was an arduous one. The technician took a swig of his coffee and looked down at his sheet at the long string of data he’d made his intern compile.
He made one or two corrections with the sweep of his pen, added some numbers, divided them, and wrote down the final sums in chicken scratch on the edge of the page, accidentally sloshing some coffee on the paper. The technician swore and dabbed at it halfheartedly with the sleeve of his shirt.
Once satisfied, he inputted the data into his computer, typing quickly, his fingers graceful and almost inhumanly fast. He checked his work, checked it again. He made someone else come check it too.
Finally, with his eager intern suddenly at his elbow, he pressed Enter on the keyboard. Nothing exciting happened, save a confirmation screen that flashed up, a fairly boring input box that asked what he wanted to call the planet he’d just made.
“Let’s call her Beatrice,” his intern suggested.
“Don’t be stupid,” the technician said sharply. “It’s not a her, it’s an it, and it’s got a name. It’s called Earth.”