Starship Seedlings: The Whispers of Xylos

Prologue

The fungal plains of Xylos stretched outward in every direction, a vast and undulating expanse of bioluminescence, as if the stars had not settled into the heavens but instead taken root in the soil. Tendrils of light wove a living tapestry, their hues shifting with a rhythm so subtle it might have been the heartbeat of the world itself. Blues deep as glacial seas pulsed into greens of tender spring leaves; violets flickered into golds that glimmered like the last rays of a dying sun. To stand within this world was to feel submerged in a dream, a place where time moved differently, where the ancient and the immediate breathed as one.

The air was thick, heavy with the scent of damp earth and the sweet decay of organic matter—an aroma that seemed to hold the memory of every season the planet had ever known. It clung to the skin, to the lungs, to the soul, as if Xylos demanded its visitors to absorb its essence, to remember it. Beneath the surface, unseen but omnipresent, the mycelial network thrummed with life. It was not a sound but a sensation, a low and resonant vibration that seemed to emanate from the soil, the air, the very marrow of one's bones. It was the voice of the planet, if one could call it that, murmuring secrets in a language older than words, older than stars.

Far in the distance, the fungal plains gave way to towering spires that rose like the bones of forgotten giants. They gleamed faintly in the violet dusk, their surfaces etched with bioluminescent patterns that shifted and danced, fractals within fractals, infinite and unknowable. These spires, remnants of the Qui’tal civilization, stood as both monuments and mysteries. They had been sculpted, not built, grown from the symbiotic relationship the Qui’tal had cultivated with the planet’s fungal network. The spires were not ruins in the traditional sense; they were alive, still pulsing faintly with the energy of the network, whispering fragments of a language that no living being could yet fully understand.

The Qui’tal had been a species of unparalleled grace, their translucent amber forms moving through the fungal forests with an ease that spoke of perfect unity. They had left no scars upon the earth, no monuments of stone or steel to proclaim their dominion. Their cities had grown like gardens, their tools and technologies woven seamlessly into the ecosystem. They had not conquered Xylos; they had become a part of it, their lives interwoven with the planet’s great symbiotic tapestry.

And yet, they were gone.

The network remembered them. It remembered their songs, their dreams, their fears. It remembered the way they had touched the tendrils of the mycelium with reverence, the way their bioluminescent inscriptions had danced across the fungal spires in patterns of joy and sorrow. But it also remembered the shadow.

The shadow had come without warning, a cold, angular geometry that clashed violently with the organic curves of Xylos. Machines, metallic and lifeless, had pierced the fungal plains, their grinding vibrations drowning out the delicate hum of the network. They had stripped the land, leaving scars that even now, eons later, the planet struggled to heal. The Qui’tal had fought, not with weapons but with their connection to the network, pouring their collective will into the planet’s lifeblood. They had whispered warnings, pleas, songs of defiance. But the invaders had not listened. They had seen only resources, not life. And so, the connection had been severed, the symbiosis undone. The Qui’tal had vanished, their final song a lamentation that echoed still within the network.

The fungal plains bore the scars of that severing, though they were invisible to the untrained eye. The bioluminescence faltered in certain places, dimming to a sullen yellow before flaring back to life. The whispers that emanated from the network carried an undertone of sorrow, a discordant note that marred the symphony. It was a wound that had never fully healed, a memory that refused to fade.

And now, something stirred.

Deep within the network, beyond the reach of light and sound, an awareness flickered. It was not a mind, not in the way sentient beings understood minds, but it was vast and ancient and filled with memory. It had no name, no ego, no desire. It was the collective consciousness of Xylos, the sum of every life that had ever been and would ever be. It stirred not in anger but in sorrow, a sorrow so profound that it rippled through the network, reaching even the surface.

The fungal tendrils shivered, their bioluminescence flickering in patterns that spoke of warning, of urgency. The whispers grew louder, their cadence shifting into something almost comprehensible. They carried fragments of the Qui’tal’s final song, echoes of their last desperate plea. But they also carried something new—a question, a reaching out, as if the network sensed the arrival of something, someone, who might finally understand.

High above, the first of the starships pierced the emerald sky. They descended like needles of light, sleek and organic, their surfaces shimmering with hues that mirrored the fungal plains below. These were not the cold, angular machines of the invaders who had come before. These ships had been grown, not built, their forms a testament to a different kind of technology, one that sought harmony rather than domination.

Among the arrivals was Kalani, an Arawan linguist whose every movement seemed to flow with the rhythm of the fungal plains. Her skin, rich and earthen, was adorned with intricate patterns of living moss that shifted in color with her emotions, glowing faintly in the dim light. She knelt upon the ground, her fingers brushing the cool, damp surface of a fungal tendril. The whispers reached out to her, tentative and fragmented, like the first notes of a melody forgotten but not lost.

Kalani closed her eyes, her breath slowing as she attuned herself to the subtle pulse beneath her touch. She did not hear the whispers so much as feel them, their vibrations resonating within her very being. They carried no words, no images, only an overwhelming sense of sorrow and longing. And yet, she felt a flicker of something else—hope.

In the distance, another figure moved through the fungal forest, her bioluminescent tattoos casting faint patterns on the spongy ground. Ibihaj, a Zeytunn storyteller, had come to Xylos not through science but through prophecy. Her visions, etched into her skin and passed down through generations, had led her here, to this moment. The whispers reached her too, not as language but as emotion, a lamentation that resonated through her very being.

The two women met at the edge of a ruined Qui’tal spire, their eyes locking in silent understanding. Though they came from different worlds, different cultures, they were united by the same purpose. Xylos had called to them, and they had answered.

As the sky darkened, the fungal plains began their nightly symphony of light. Colors cascaded across the tendrils, a wave of bioluminescence that seemed to ripple in response to the women’s presence. The whispers grew louder, more insistent, as if urging them to listen, to understand.

Kalani and Ibihaj knelt together, their hands brushing the fungal tendrils. The network reached out to them, weaving strands of memory and emotion into a tapestry that defied comprehension. Images flickered in their minds—Qui’tal cities alive with light, the shadow descending, the severing, the silence. They felt the weight of the Qui’tal’s sorrow, the depth of their loss. And yet, within the network’s whispers, there was something more. A question. A plea. A promise.

The fungal plains pulsed with light, their colors shifting in a pattern that seemed almost deliberate. It was as if the network itself were trying to speak, to bridge the chasm between its consciousness and theirs. Kalani and Ibihaj exchanged a glance, their expressions a mixture of determination and awe. They had come not as invaders but as seekers, drawn by the same longing that echoed through the network.

Somewhere within the depths of the mycelium, the echoes of the Qui’tal stirred, their voices rising once more. The network remembered, and it would not allow its story—or its sorrow—to be forgotten.

And Xylos waited.

Chapter 1: The Living Ship's Embrace

The morning in the Arawan Biodome City unfolded with a deliberate, almost sacred rhythm. The sprawling metropolis was neither static nor bustling in the conventional sense; it breathed. The air was dense with life, vibrant and textured, moving not in haste but with the serene cadence of an ecosystem in perfect equilibrium. From her balcony, Kalani leaned against the supple, vine-woven railing, her hands resting lightly on the smooth, living surface. Her gaze swept across the cityscape, where the rainforest and the urban melded seamlessly into one another, an organic mosaic of cascading vines, shimmering canopies, and flowing streams.

The sunlight that filtered through the transparent dome above was delicate, refracted into a kaleidoscope of hues as it passed through the biodome’s crystalline lattice. The resulting patterns danced across the canopy of colossal ferns below, their fronds stretching upward as though in communion with the light. Waterfalls tumbled down the verdant terraces of the city, their currents feeding into intricate root systems that delivered both nourishment and vitality to the shared ecosystem. Somewhere in the distance, the gentle hum of an aeropod, propelled by bio-integrated spores, marked the awakening of another day.

Kalani’s chest rose and fell as she inhaled deeply, the air carrying the faint sweetness of blooming orchids mingled with the earthier undertones of damp moss. It was impossible not to feel the weight of the city’s collective vitality. And yet, for all its serenity, the view before her failed to bring her the reassurance she sought. Her thoughts had already leapt forward, spanning the immeasurable distance to Xylos, a world she could not yet touch but whose presence she felt as a faint, persistent tug at the edges of her awareness.

You’ve been standing there for hours, Kalani, a familiar voice called from behind her. It belonged to Emma Thompson, her closest confidante and collaborator in botanical engineering. Emma’s tone was gently teasing, but her furrowed brow betrayed her concern.

Kalani turned, offering a faint smile. I suppose I was trying to memorize this, she said, gesturing toward the expanse of the biodome. It feels important—like I need to carry this with me.

Emma crossed the room, her boots making almost no sound against the living floor, which pulsed faintly, its bio-integrated fibers reacting to her presence. You’ll carry more than this with you, she replied, reaching into her satchel. I have something for you.

From the satchel, Emma produced a small object encased in a delicate frame of woven roots. Within it rested a single, luminous seed, its surface shimmering faintly as though alive with a gentle inner light. Kalani’s eyes widened as she accepted it, cradling it in her hands as if it might dissolve under too much pressure.

It’s from the arboretum, Emma explained. A piece of the first tree we ever revived. It’s not just a seed—it’s a memory. Our memory. And now yours.

Kalani’s voice caught in her throat. Emma, I… thank you. I’ll protect it. I promise.

Emma