SCIENCE FICTION SHORT
Fishing For Space Whales
What is beyond and who waits for us there?
It was a tradition in my small yet happy family. Every summer, we packed our antimatter spinning rods and self-sustainable space suits into an old Ford Intergalactic and flew light-years down to the Outer Banks to fish for the space whales.
It wasn’t much of a fishing experience. Unlike regular fishing rods found in archaeological museums back on Earth, antimatter spinning had no line. The idea was to throw and hold a tiny box with synthetic antimatter and watch magnificent creatures leisurely swim in space toward the delicious treat.
Wild space, beautiful eternal dust constellations, and distant galaxies ahead. Cradling the tranquility of the open space. We played John Denver on our intercoms, and Dad and Uncle Chuck told jokes and stories from work. It was a fun time for the whole family. A simple time.
Uncle Chuck was a space engineer. He assembled interplanetary bridges. When I was young and had little understanding of how those bridges worked, I used to think of Uncle Chuck as a wizard who single-handedly connected whole planets with magical metal poles. He kept those poles in his garage, next to a real horse he called “Ol’ rusty Mustang.”
We loved Uncle Chuck. When he died in an accident, my Dad took his ashes and brought them to the Outer Banks. I’ve never seen Dad so sad. Not angry or disappointed, like he was when I failed my mid-school exams. This sadness was real, mature, and silent. He didn’t want to listen to John Denver. He just took the urn and the rod and flew away for a couple of hours, far into the space darkness to fish for the space whales with his brother for the last time.
On our flight back home, I took a look out of the window. There I saw a large moonlight-white whale, keeping up with the spaceship. The whale silently opened its massive mouth before swinging its tail and fading away into the endless plethora of stars. I remember telling my parents about the whale, but when they looked for it, it was long gone. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I decided to call the whale Uncle Chuck.
I finished university and started my career as a terra architect, like my father. When it was time to choose my specialty, I picked terraforming. There was something poetic in watching an empty dry rock, floating in space, turn into a home for future generations.
First, we designed the atmosphere. It was, perhaps, the most boring part of all, consisting of calculations and numbers and inviting no creativity in the process. Then, as a sweet dessert after a plain meal, came my favorite part — oceans and rivers. This is where I could spread my wings and truly fly. I drew peculiar intertwined lines filled with blue — the veins and arteries of my future world.
Trees came next. Since my internship days, I’d been struggling with trees. I could program and generate decent grass and a wildflower field, but wood demanded persistence, and I was too impatient to create and grow a tree. Luckily, I met a brilliant terra architect who was unbelievable with trees. She could grow a blue pine out of a tin can. Her work was magnificent.
We got married three years later. During our wedding ceremony, while saying the vows, I remembered one of our fishing trips, and Dad telling us about how space whales mate. Unlike other space creatures, the whales were much closer to humans. They chose partners because they enjoyed their company. Whales value communication above all just like us, humans. We choose to love because we enjoy every second spent in love. We build partnerships on mutual trust and interests. Space whales mate for life because they can make the right choice.
And I’ve made mine.
Time, although relative, has one constant — it passes by. It’s been thirty years since my last visit to the Outer Banks. I have two kids, one of them is finishing elementary school next year. I’ve failed my family tradition — we’ve never thought of going space whale fishing. I heard in the news that whale visits became less frequent until one season the creatures didn’t come at all. People like me, busy with their lives, couldn’t find time for Space Whale fishing, and the magnificent creatures felt they had nothing to visit the Outer Banks for anymore. Their time was gone.
I received sad news last Tuesday. My father passed away of old age, peacefully, with a smile on his face. Surrounded by his friends, he stopped breathing on my mother’s warm hands. Nevertheless, I felt his presence as I arrived at the old family house. I also felt peace.
His will turned out quite surprising. When our lawyer, Mister Saloni, was reading it, I couldn’t help but smile. My father demanded his body to be cremated, the ashes taken to the Outer Banks, and scattered where the space whales roam.
I knew why he wanted it, and I knew it was I who should fulfill his last wish. The next morning, waking up early at dawn, I took the urn with his remains and carefully placed it in the back of the old Ford Intergalactic. I flew for five hours, listening to John Denver and thinking about my Dad. There was always an unspoken bond between us, a strong thick layer of trust. Even though we haven’t been living together for decades and I, to my shame, rarely visited, he still entrusted me to be the pilot on his last ride.
We arrived at the Outer Banks, now an empty and deserted part of the Continental Quadrant. I assembled an old fishing rod with antimatter bait I found in the garage. For a few hours, I was sitting still, fishing, enjoying the silence and Mom’s famous lemonade. When it became obvious there wouldn’t be any Space Whales, I took the urn and flew a few meters away from the car before scattering the remains into the darkness of space.
I was on my way back when a long-forgotten feeling of déjà vu hit me. I took a glance in the mirror and saw a space whale. I closed my eyes, and opened them again — the whale was there. I stopped the ship and took a better look around. A giant moon-white creature swung its fins, flying circles around the ship.
I knew that whale.
“Hi, Uncle Chuck,” I whispered, feeling warm and sad inside. Suddenly, another whale appeared from behind. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was about the same size as Uncle Chuck, but of a deeper yellow color. The new whale leveled its eye with the ship’s windshield and looked at me. Directly at me.
“Dad.”
The whale let out a silent cry into the endless space and headed down with a strong tail stroke. Uncle Chuck joined his friend. I watched speechless as they became smaller and smaller until two tiny dots were lost in a myriad of white stars.
I sat in our old Ford, thinking. Come summer, I’ll take the kids and my wife here, to the Outer Banks. We will listen to John Denver and fish for space whales. Even if none will come, I would still know two whales are near. Always.
And when the time comes, I will join them.
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