A Scarcity of Sharks

Kelsea Yu

Bruce is seventeen feet long and would’ve weighed around two tons when he was murdered by a trophy hunter. Killing rare creatures for sport is supposed to be a relic of the past now that most of the world’s wild animals are some level of endangered. But for some, the desire to prove something runs deeper than the fear of punishment. Thanks to a bartender’s tip about a local bachelor party bragging about plans to go shark hunting, the Marine Conservation Enforcement Guard made it to the dock in time to confiscate the kill. A year in jail and ten thousand dollars later, Bruce’s murderer has apparently paid his debt to society, but it was too late for this white shark.

And, maybe, for all of the white sharks. Only two sightings have been reported in the past three years, neither confirmed by experts. Scientists have been shouting for decades that we’re killing an estimated 97–99% of our ocean’s apex predators, and now that we might actually have done it, there are suddenly rallying cries. Humans love to begin caring about an animal as soon as it’s about to be wiped from the planet. Too bad that by then, there’s almost nothing we can do about it.

But with Bruce, whose body was flash preserved and taken to a conservation lab for immediate regrowth, we’re trying anyway.

We can’t reanimate him, or grow a new Bruce. It’s too complicated. We’ve never had enough specimens to fully understand shark biology, and full-body cloning laws are prohibitive enough that it would take us years just to get the go-ahead to try.

But we can grow new insides for a simulacrum using synthmuscle tech that was developed for prosthetics, faux cartilaginous skeletal elements, and sensory organs grown in Petri dishes. All housed in Bruce’s own skin, more permanently preserved than the rest of him.

The result is, well . . . about as much like a shark as the new human-skinned androids (now available in your choice of skin tone!) are to people. One more reminder that we need to save the actual sharks, or this is all we’ll have left.

But, hell, we worked hard on Bruce. He can swim like a shark, he can use most of a shark’s senses, and best of all? He can interface with a human mind—my mind, once we finish the security procedures.

As usual, I go through the checklist with Callista, one item at a time. Any gaps or fit issues with the skinsuit? No. Reoxybreather diagnostics? Green light. Interface fluid tank? Full. Core temp control air system? Working properly. Intravenous regulation line? Secure. And then I’m in the chamber at the heart of Bruce’s body, curled up like a fetus. Ready to be reborn a shark.

Callista hands me the breathing tube and face mask, and I expect the cool practicality of her fingers brushing back my hair and placing the wired nodes. But it’s Deng’s voice, low and solemn, that calls out gently instead. “Let me do it.”

She doesn’t argue or make a snide remark, and I’m grateful, even as my heart speeds up. If she can see it on her diagnostics screen, she keeps it to herself.

His fingers, rough and callused from the rigors of our daily work, run through my hair as gently as he can manage. He strokes my hair slowly and deliberately, and for a moment, I can’t breathe, my mind filling with what-ifs. If he hadn’t sworn off love after his husband died in a car accident the year before I met him. If we’d both gotten a little drunker that one almost night in the lab last autumn. If we hadn’t dedicated every moment of our waking lives to Bruce, to finding the last white sharks left in the world. To saving Carcharodon carcharias.

He draws in a breath, about to say something, and the world stops for one moment, full of potential.

And then he coughs, a sound that catches in his throat, and I hear him gulp before he whispers, “Come back to me, safe and whole, okay?”

He doesn’t add I couldn’t bear it if you didn’t or anything that dramatic. But it’s more than he’s ever dared say before, and I tuck away the memory of his words.

Come back to me.

“I will,” I whisper back.

He places the nodes and helps me adjust the breathing tube and face mask. Then the chamber closes, and I hear Callista’s disembodied voice in my head.

Are you ready?

Yes, I reply by thinking the words forcefully.

The chamber fills with interface fluid as Callista double-checks everything before zipping up Bruce’s skin.

The water parts for me as I glide through it in Bruce’s body, perfectly designed for the element to which humans are so ill-suited. As with all thunniform sharks, I need only bend my tail from side to side to propel myself forward at incredible speeds. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been in the body of this shark more times than my age; I find myself marveling at the raw power in my synthmuscular tail, the flexibility in my skin. Creatures so perfectly built for the ocean that they’ve survived everything this planet threw at them for millions of years.

Everything except humans.

I try to shove the thought aside, to let myself have a few minutes of wild, unbridled joy. I’m here. I’m really here, in the open ocean, as close to being a shark as anyone has ever become. This is my reward for every afternoon in the simulator, swimming faux seas. This is what I thought about on the long nights spent circling the tank in the aquarium after hours. This is what I dreamed of as we spent the last two weeks at an inlet, Callista and Deng keeping watch while I familiarized myself with a piece of the ocean.

I dash ahead, looking around at the vibrant life around me. Fish that scatter as my bulk approaches, neon specs that blur below me as I blow by them, until Callista’s voice tells me to slow down! We’re giddy at seeing the things we’ve dreamt of seeing up close. I slow down, swimming toward the ocean floor for a closer look.

Don’t descend too fast, Callista reminds me, and I hate that for a moment, in the joy of discovery, I’ve forgotten. This isn’t like diving; not exactly. The preservation fluid, readouts from the nodes, and intravenous lines snaking into my arms cushion much of the risk of internal pressure building to dangerous levels. And it helps that my mind is the only part of me that’s awake to connect with Bruce. Technically, my human body is asleep, which means I can’t panic and gulp in air or hold my breath, both lead contributors to diver deaths.

Still, despite the advantages we’ve built into Bruce’s body, it doesn’t hurt to be cautious when we’re paving new ground. I slow my descent, scanning the area both to give myself a clear look at the wonders beneath me and to offer Callista and Deng the footage they’re both craving. In a shallower pocket of ocean, psychedelic purple nudibranchs covered in neon orange quills crawl by, their squirmy bodies swaying with the rippling water. Wolf eels dart out of their hideouts in a rocky reef. A lobster sporting honey-colored spots snaps long pincers as it scurries away from me.

Got your fill? I ask Callista. Her yes response is followed by a contented sigh. Carry on the mission. I try to hold the images of bright, playful creatures in my mind as I wave my tail, speeding back up and heading for my destination. But dark thoughts keep creeping back in, staining the happiness burbling forth. Many of those cute little critters will eventually die off if the oceans continue warming. There might be nothing where you’re headed. It might be too late, and you’ll have spent years on this effort only to confirm what you already fear the most: we’ve killed off the last of the white sharks.

A roiling, selfish cloud of frustration settles over me. I just want to enjoy ten minutes of unvarnished freedom. Haven’t I earned it, working hard these past few years? Every moment we haven’t spent on Bruce has been spent in talks given to universities, to diving clubs, to elementary schools. Filmed, captioned, and shared online to improve accessibility and reach a wider audience whenever we could get permission.

We spoke with anyone who would have us, though we kept Bruce secret. We’d have loved to share each step in his development along the way, but our investors—the company whose animal interface technology we’re testing as part of our funding agreement—insisted we keep the project hidden during development.

If this trip is successful, Deng will edit the footage. Once our investors give the go-ahead, we’ll share what we have with the world. We’ll compile everything, slapping on bite-sized slogans to hook viewers so that we can get to the real, sincere, earnest talks. The interviews we’ve been recording with oceanographers and deep-sea divers. Lab tests done by a salinity expert. Footage of the whales who beached themselves thanks to the volume of underwater missile testing, so excruciating to their sensitive ears that they’d rather suffer a painful death on land than stay underwater for a moment longer.

None of us is a fan of the sensationalism of many documentaries out there, using worst-case scenarios and spun figures taken out of context to spur people into action for a few moments that don’t linger. There’s enough real danger that we don’t need to exaggerate. We want to drive continuous, sustained action. Ours will be not a single documentary, but an ongoing, interactive series. Maybe it’ll be just as ineffective as the rest, but we’re hoping Bruce will be enough of a splash to get people interested.

Nearing your destination, Callista says in my head.

I swim the last stretch, silently hoping we didn’t do this all for nothing.

The White Shark Café is halfway between California and Hawaii, a spot unofficially named by Stanford researchers decades back. The satellite tags they used to track four white sharks found them travelling frequently to a spot centered at 23.37°N 132.71°W. It once housed a diverse food chain, rich in nutrients—and mating partners—for white sharks, but none have been seen here for years. From time to time, we’ve heard rumblings about sending a submersible down to the Café, but it never seems to happen. There are too many ecological crises and too many endangered species, but never enough funding to go around.

What if we do find a white shark, and it tries to mate with you? Deng joked when we settled on the spot. I tried not to think about the taste of the word mate in his mouth as I sent back a quip. Something along the lines of let’s hope none of them have necrophiliac tendencies.

As I approach, proverbial breath held, it’s clear that won’t be a problem. There are no white sharks in sight.

Nothing yet, I tell Callista, mostly to break the mental silence. She and Deng must be as tense as I am.

Look around, she says.

Aye aye, cap. There are other types of sharks here. A shortfin mako speeds past, zipping out of sight before I can inspect it further. It’s exciting to glimpse it here—even if shortfin makos don’t top the endangered list. I swerve to avoid a large jellyfish undulating by. Fish of numerous species and sizes mix in the Café.

After spending some time circling the area, I catch sight of a blue shark descending into the depths, probably in search of food. It’s about half my length, and bears signs of mating scars in the form of bite wounds; a mature female, then. I hear a sob from Callista, and know if I were in my human body, I would be welling up with tears right now. We haven’t killed them all. Blue sharks, once an abundant species on the planet, are now critically endangered and thought by some to be extinct. They were heavily fished for their fins, their bodies often thrown back into the ocean to rot.

Our trip has already been worthwhile. I relax slightly.

Callista’s maternal grandfather was a restaurant owner who served shark fin soup every weekend at wedding banquets. Before trawling was banned worldwide, Callista’s father worked in the seafood industry, tossing unwanted animals back into the ocean after they’d been caught in massive nets. They may not be her sins, but more than the rest of us, she feels the weight of everything her ancestors contributed to the ocean’s decline. As a kid, she tried every tactic she could think of to convince her grandparents to stop serving shark fin soup. In doing so, she fell in love with the creature she desperately wanted them to care about: the blue shark.

Tag it? I ask, and Callista hesitates. We’ve equipped Bruce to fire tags if needed, so we can track migration patterns. But we’re here to reintroduce sharks to the world. How would it look if the first thing we do is show us shooting tag darts at them, even if it’s for research?

No, she says, and it’s probably too late anyway. The blue shark is out of sight. At least we got footage.

Yeah, I agree. Good footage, hopefully. How much time left?

Just under an hour before you need to head back. Your heat regulation is running through its power pretty fast down there. But you can come back at any time. We can always try again tomorrow.

I continue swimming.

It’s only when I’ve finally given up and resigned myself to the return trip that I spot her.

She swims below me, a deep blue hue that barely stands out from the color of the ocean. This far down, where most colors of the spectrum aren’t visible, everything is tinged various shades of blue. I feel a chill, impossible as I know it is in Bruce’s skin.

See her? I think-whisper to Callista, as if our conversation might spook the shark.

Yeah! Holy shit, she’s a beaut.

I follow, heart pounding.

Don’t go too fast! Callista reminds me. And don’t stay too long. You’re low on fuel.

I know. But as I follow the white shark down to a thousand feet below the surface, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to tear myself away. I’ve seen videos of white sharks, of course. And I’ve been swimming as Bruce for a year. But watching her up close makes everything about my movements look clunky, like an animatronic, or one of those ancient stop motion movies.

I can see her muscles ripple as she cuts through the water. There’s a playfulness to her movements that belies the terrifying sight of her massively muscular body; or perhaps I’m too stuck viewing her through a human lens to understand the inherent alienness of the creature before me.

Though of course, in this domain where she reigns supreme, we are the aliens.

She speeds up, vanishing from sight, and I’m left looking desperately for her. We already have the footage, but . . . what if she’s not here when we return tomorrow? What if she moves on to another region? What if I never see her again?

And then suddenly she’s before me, so close we’re nearly nose to nose. The first white shark anyone has seen in years. In my human body, I’d be drawing in a huge, nervous breath right now. As a shark, I merely stare and hope.

Holy shit! Callista says.

Holy shit, I agree.

Oh my god. Look at her underside, Callista says.

I do, staring at her belly, which would be white higher up in the water but this far down is merely lighter blue. I stare at the proportions, all wrong, her light underside bigger than those of the models. My first instinct is to be afraid. What if she consumed trash humans threw into the ocean and got an infection? She looks healthy, and . . . .

Oh my god.

She’s pregnant! I shout the word in my head, startling myself with a jubilance so strong it’s like it’s my own pregnancy I’m announcing. A seed of hope, tender and fragile, blooms in my heart like a little green stalk poking up through hardened dirt. There’s hope yet.

Despite us, the white sharks might survive.

She turns tail and swims off and I follow her, eager as a lover. Without speaking her language, I don’t know if she wants me along for the ride or if she’s indifferent, but she doesn’t try to get rid of me. Trailing behind her, I listen to Callista’s uncharacteristic chatter in my head. We did it! We’re following you in the boat, Ally. Oh my god, I can’t believe we did it! I wonder how many pups she’s carrying. Five? More?

We cover the terrain together, leaving the Café far behind. We swim so quickly that everything feels like a blur and it’s all I can do to keep my focus on her, not to lose her. Just me and the unnamed female shark. The ocean is ours.

Ahead of us, the water begins to vibrate.

The net comes of out nowhere, scooping her up. I barely miss getting caught in it myself, and the edge of the rope skims my skin. I scream as I see her fight to break free, dashing ahead. I can hear Callista cursing, her horrified shouts mixing with my own panic as I swim after the net.

Those fuckers! Deng is calling the coast guard!

It’ll be too late, I think, following the net desperately. I watch, helpless, as the shark thrashes against the ropes that press into her side, packing her indiscriminately in with countless confused fish and bits of sharp, torn coral from the ocean floor. As the bottom-trawling net drags by, it leaves behind a trail of flattened land, destroying the natural landmarks many marine animals use to navigate the ocean.

I open my jaws and aim for a spot in the net near her, thrusting forward with all the power in my synthmuscles before clamping down on the netting.

Blood fills the water as my bite catches some of the fish in the net, severing their heads. Powerful as my massive jaws are, they’re nothing against the motorized forward momentum of the illegal fishing vessel. It drags me along, teeth still locked around the net. I shake my head vigorously back and forth, trying to saw at the rope, but it’s built to withstand worse, and my teeth were made for sinking into the soft flesh of fish and seals, not the tight twine of thick rope. Meanwhile, Callista’s updates run through my head.

We’re too far off the coast. They can’t get here for hours.

I let go and try again. The water is heavy with fish blood, and the shark begins to thrash harder, snapping her jaws wildly. The scent of fish guts is likely overwhelming her, telling her it’s time to feed. I manage to tear the rope in a few spots, and a few smaller fish stream out through the opening. I saw and bite again, and somehow manage to open a few more spots, even as my attacks continue to fill the water with the dizzying scent of death.

We’ll be at your coordinates in about fifteen minutes. Deng has his equipment ready to film the trawling ship. Are you okay?

Fine. Stay out of sight. And be careful!

We all know that if the trawlers find us here, witnesses to their crimes, they’re likely to shoot us. And if they discover a white shark in their net? She’ll be their prize, sold captive to a collector for a king’s ransom or, if they find her dead, stuffed and added to someone’s private display.

If I were in my human body, tears of frustration would be filling my eyes. Instead, all I can do is try again. At the thought, I realize I’ve been a fool. I’m acting on instinct, keeping the shark in my sight. But trawling nets are a human problem, and I need to think like a human. Quickly, I swim up to the line attached to the ship. Disconnect the net first, then get her out.

I try and try but this line is much thicker than the netting, and my shark’s teeth, so terrifying to humans, are nothing against the dense rope. It’s like trying to saw through a tree with a shard of broken glass.

Fuck fuckfuckfuck!

When I return to the net, the shark is stuck fast. Her fins are tangled up in the rope, lines on her skin rubbed raw. She’s cut up where the broken coral has pressed into her. I’ve barely made a dent in the rope. There’s no fucking way I’m going to get her out this way.

I watch, feeling more helpless than ever, as human greed swallows up the only evidence we’ve had in years that wild white sharks still exist. She’s pregnant, almost fully gestated, no small feat for a species that spends a year in the womb. She’s proof that there are more sharks out there—at the very least, the shark who impregnated her—and she feels like the last chance we have of knowing there will be more of them to come.

I can’t give up now.

Ally? What’s going on?

Deng’s last words to me fill my mind, echoed by the promise I made him. I wrench my thoughts away, heart already hurting at the choice ahead.

We assume human life is more valuable than any other kind. But is that still true when there’s eight billion of us and only a smattering of them?

Ally? Hello?

Does the math still hold when there’s an abundance of humans and a scarcity of sharks?

Ally? What’s going on?

I don’t want to do it. My thirty-five years don’t feel like enough.

There’s a crackle, and then the soft baritone of Deng’s voice. Ally Elizabeth Chen. My heart skips a beat. I can hear the panic, barely masked beneath each syllable of my name. Don’t do this. Please. He knows me too well, because he’d do the same in my position, and I in his. He knows.

I’m sorry, I whisper. Unspoken words ache in my throat. I know if I let him keep talking, he’ll talk me out of it.

Before I can change my mind, I activate the function we all hoped I’d never have to use, doing my best to tune out Deng’s pleas as I’m untethered from the simulacrum. A jolt of adrenaline shoots into my system as Bruce opens up and jettisons my body—my human body—into the cold, unforgiving water.

The air tank goes with me, part of the precautions we take. It takes all of my willpower to breathe steadily; gulping air could form an air bubble that paralyzes or kills me. I have just enough oxygen left to get to the surface safely, spending the proper amount of time at each depth interval. At the top, I can inflate my vest and wait for Deng and Callista to arrive. They’ll be at my coordinates in ten minutes. All I have to do is go up.

I swim down, chasing the dragging net and the shark tangled inside. With each movement of my muscles, I feel the shock of going from interface gel to cold water. Silently, I beg any being out there listening to please don’t let me cramp up, not now. Reaching into the pack strapped to my back, I pull out a diver’s knife and begin to saw.

My fingers feel tight and raw as I grip the rope, whittling away at each strand, cutting through piece by piece. The knife slips, slicing through my skinsuit and cutting into my arm. Pain floods me, and I barely hold back a scream; afraid my mouthpiece will fall out. Gritting my teeth over the mouthpiece, I continue to saw strategically until at last, the rope begins to come apart.

Carefully, I make my way over to the shark, who stares at me through alien eyes. She blinks from the bottom up, a movement that feels disorienting. I force myself to look at her wounds as a primal fear urges me to leave, now. A part of me finally understands why all humans fear her kind.

I watch her as I cut through the ropes, carefully cutting away the piece binding her fins and lower body first. Eventually, I make my way to her jaws.

It’s a mistake to check my air gauge when I already know what it’ll say, but part of me can’t help it. Even if Deng started putting his gear on as soon as we talked, even if Callista has sped her way to me the entire time, even if Deng jumps in the water as soon as they’re in range, it’ll be too late.

Two minutes.

It occurs to me that my arm is bleeding. There’s blood in the water, and I’m weakened prey, ripe for the taking.

My last sight might be the inside of a shark’s mouth.

I saw away the last of the entangled rope, using my remaining strength to pull it free from her, as gently as possible. She bursts through the hole in the net, wounded from coral cuts and rope burns. I hope that someday they’ll scar, because it will mean she’s survived this. That she’s survived us.

As the last of my air runs out, I watch her muscular tail bend back and forth, propelling her with incredible speed.

She swims away, into the dark waters, injured but free.