The Voyage of the ABBAnauts

A group finds a star system with the perfect number of planets for ABBA songs and albums.

In the year 2047, Earth was a world of chaos and wonder, teetering between technological leaps and existential dread. Climate crises had reshaped coastlines, AI governed daily life with an iron algorithm, and humanity’s gaze turned ever upward, seeking escape in the stars. Amid this turbulence, a peculiar group emerged: the ABBAnauts, a ragtag collective of dreamers united by two obsessions—space exploration and the timeless, glittery discography of ABBA.


The ABBAnauts weren’t your typical astronauts. They were a motley crew: Zara, a laser physicist with a penchant for sequined jumpsuits; Milo, a cryonics engineer who could recite every ABBA lyric backward; Aisha, a linguist who believed music was the key to alien communication; and Captain Bjorn (no relation to Björn Ulvaeus), a grizzled exobiologist who’d named his pet AI drone “Agnetha.” Their ranks swelled with coders, artists, and eccentric billionaires, all bonded by a shared vision: to find a cosmic home where ABBA’s music could reign eternal.


Their destiny crystallized when Zara, tinkering with a deep-space telescope, discovered a star system 42 light-years away in the constellation Lyra. She named it Voulez-Vous, a nod to ABBA’s sixth album and the sheer audacity of their dream. The system was a celestial marvel: eight planets, each corresponding to one of ABBA’s eight studio albums—Ring Ring, Waterloo, ABBA, Arrival, The Album, Voulez-Vous, Super Trouper, and The Visitors. Scans revealed something even more astonishing: each planet had main moons matching the track count of its namesake album—12 for Ring Ring, 11 for Waterloo, and so on. To the ABBAnauts, this wasn’t mere coincidence; it was a cosmic invitation, a galactic “Take a Chance on Me.”


Fueled by this revelation, the ABBAnauts launched a crowdfunding campaign that swept the globe. “Colonize the Cosmos with ABBA!” their holo-posters declared, promising a future where disco beats echoed among the stars. Donations poured in—crypto from tech moguls, credits from nostalgic Gen-Zers, even vintage vinyl from aging boomers. With the funds, they built the Dancing Queen, a starship unlike any other. Its hull shimmered with holographic panels that projected ABBA’s album covers in a kaleidoscope of colors. Its propulsion? A revolutionary laser system designed by Zara, capable of accelerating the ship to relativistic speeds. The lasers served a dual purpose: they powered the Dancing Queen and beamed ABBA’s discography into space in analog format, a musical beacon proclaiming humanity’s grooviest export.


The launch in 2053 was a global spectacle. Crowds gathered in the Nevada desert, where the Dancing Queen sat atop a launch platform glowing with neon lights. As the lasers fired, painting the night sky with rhythmic bursts of “Mamma Mia” and “Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!,” the ship roared to life. Holo-screens worldwide broadcast the event, with millions singing along as the Dancing Queen vanished into the cosmos, its laser pulses trailing a glittering farewell.


The journey to Voulez-Vous would take 40 years, even at near-light speed. The ABBAnauts entered cryosleep, their pods arranged in a circle like a cosmic dance floor, each dreamer lulled by a looping playlist of ABBA’s greatest hits. Milo had programmed the ship’s AI, Frida, to monitor their vitals and wake them if anything went awry. Frida, with a synthetic Swedish accent, occasionally hummed “Chiquitita” to herself during the long, silent decades.


In 2093, the Dancing Queen entered the Voulez-Vous system, and Frida gently roused the crew. Bleary-eyed, they gathered at the ship’s viewport, awestruck by the sight of Arrival, the fourth planet, named for its 10 moons and shimmering icy surface. Its largest moon, Eagle, glowed faintly, its thin atmosphere a promising haven. As the ABBAnauts scanned Arrival, their equipment picked up something extraordinary—a signal pulsing back, not random noise but a remix of “Dancing Queen.” The beat was unmistakable, but it was layered with alien flourishes: ethereal trills, cascading harmonics, and a rhythm that felt both familiar and otherworldly.


The signal’s source lay beneath Arrival’s ice: bioluminescent beings called the Lyrans, who had evolved to communicate through pulses of light in their skin. Decades ago, they’d detected the Dancing Queen’s laser transmissions, their sensitive photoreceptors decoding ABBA’s songs as they washed over the planet. The Lyrans, with no concept of human culture, interpreted the music as a form of language. They learned to “sing” in ABBA’s songs, weaving their own melodic structures into covers of “Fernando” and “Knowing Me, Knowing You,” their glowing bodies pulsing in sync with alien harmonies.


The ABBAnauts were ecstatic. Aisha, the linguist, nearly wept as she analyzed the Lyran remixes, declaring them a universal Rosetta Stone. Captain Bjorn, ever pragmatic, plotted a landing on Eagle, which was just beyond the Lyrans’ reach—they lacked spacefaring technology. The Dancing Queen touched down on Eagle’s rocky surface, its atmosphere breathable but chilly, like a Nordic winter. The crew donned thermal suits emblazoned with ABBA lyrics and stepped onto the moon, their boots crunching on frost-dusted stone.


The first meeting was a cosmic concert. The Lyrans, transported to Eagle via a shuttle the ABBAnauts jury-rigged, emerged as shimmering, jellyfish-like creatures, their translucent bodies glowing with intricate patterns. Aisha activated a portable laser array, pulsing verses of “Super Trouper.” The Lyrans responded, their skin-lights flashing in sync, adding alien counterpoints that made Milo whoop with delight. For hours, the two species “sang” to each other, trading melodies under Eagle’s starry sky. The Lyrans’ originals were haunting, their pulsing lights evoking emotions the humans couldn’t name but felt deeply.


The ABBAnauts faced challenges. Eagle’s thin atmosphere required sealed habitats, and the Lyrans’ aquatic biology clashed with the moon’s dry terrain. Zara and Milo worked tirelessly, adapting the Dancing Queen’s laser tech to power domed habitats that mimicked Arrival’s icy ecosystems. The Lyrans, in turn, shared their knowledge of the planet’s resources—bioluminescent algae that generated heat, crystalline minerals that Stored energy. Together, they built Sos, a colony that blended human engineering with Lyran artistry. Human domes glowed with Lyran light patterns, creating a city that pulsed like a living disco ball.


Life on Sos was a symphony of collaboration. The ABBAnauts taught the Lyrans to build simple spacecraft, while the Lyrans introduced the humans to their ecosystem, revealing edible plants that tasted faintly of licorice. Nightly “concerts” became a tradition, with humans and Lyrans gathering to pulse light and sound in remixes of “Lay All Your Love on Me” and Lyran ballads. Aisha documented their shared language, creating a dictionary of light-pulses and melodies. Even Captain Bjorn, the skeptic, found himself swaying to a Lyran rendition of “The Winner Takes It All,” his AI drone Agnetha flashing in approval.


The ABBAnauts had set out to colonize a star system, but they found something greater: cosmic kin who proved music could transcend species and stars. Sos became a beacon, its light-pulses visible from Arrival’s surface, a testament to the universal language of rhythm and harmony. Back on Earth, the Dancing Queen’s transmissions—now a blend of ABBA and Lyran songs—reached telescopes, sparking wonder and debate. The ABBAnauts, once quirky dreamers, had become legends, their voyage a reminder that even in the vast unknown, a good beat could light the way.