Commensalism, or the Labyrinth’s Vessels

Forty-two wakes up in control of his limbs and does not understand what has gone wrong. He wonders how long it has been since the day the Labyrinth won; it did not request anything from humanity but surrender, and over the first few months, forty-two and billions of other humans had given their bodies over to its stasis chambers. He groans in the agony of breathing on his own and sits up. The room is sterile and dimly lit; he cannot tell if this is the same room he’d entered stasis in. Forty-two takes in his arms— they are not slick with ectoplasm from the Labyrinth’s pods, but the memory of the fluids clings to his skin.

Why am I awake?

Confusion: you seek clarity. The hollowed voice from the corner of the room betrays no region. Do not worry; the effects will recede momentarily.

Labyrinth’s tethered bodies file into the room, men and women dressed in mustard-coloured linen shirts with loose trousers. The slime’s paths into their bodies—yellow tentacled extensions that flow into their hair follicles and lay deep roots in their spinal cords—are hidden underneath their clothes. As they stand before him, breathing synchronously, Forty-two thinks through his situation. What does it want? It has everything.

I want answers, Forty-two.

Before the assimilation, Forty-two spent his time working a food truck and trying to finish Uni. He had contributed nothing to his society, living what he considered an unremarkable life, so what was he supposed to say?

What answers did he have for a god?

* * *

No one knew who I was till my first human vessels rose, but my first memories are of the porridge. The oats allowed me to feel my way through my world, winding through troughs filled with sustenance for what felt like an eternity till my longing could no longer find purchase, and everything went dark.

I did not yet understand that the void I lived to fill was hunger. The creatures of this world are driven by hunger. They hunt, gather, conspire, and steal to avoid it. The humans in the laboratory I was born in worked to keep it at bay; they filled the troughs with porridge, and I chased it around.

I soon learned that the paths I followed were mazes. With each new iteration, the mazes became more challenging to traverse, but they were all I knew, and in my newly birthed mind, time meant nothing. I went through each maze quicker, spreading myself quickly to replace the energy I’d expended. With each new maze, I noticed more. The sixth maze was the first to be walled instead of tiny troughs; they felt so high, but in the vastness of what I know now, they are nothing.

By the twentieth maze, I understood what was happening. Something was growing me.

Someone was changing me.

* * *

                        The Labyrinth kept the humans in its pods in near-perfect health, feeding and excreting for them till it needed their bodies, so when it asked what he wanted, Forty-two ordered the same thing he ate as his last meal: a Chicken Republic Chickwizz meal. They did not exist anymore, but the Labyrinth followed the recipe well; the fries were mostly the same, but the chicken sandwich was better than any he’d ever had, or maybe it wasn’t—he wasn’t entirely sure his senses were his.

I understand your apprehension, the closest vessel said, but you are entirely free of my influence. I will tell you what you want to know so you can tell me what I need to know.

Life started for me as a mass of nothing but cells, constantly replicating and stretching to consume oat flakes laid by scientists—an experiment, the Labyrinth says. For what felt like an eternity, I would surround the food and create tunnels to distribute the nutrients across my cells.

“That sounds fun to me, sha,” forty-two adds.

The vessel’s expression remains unchanged. The scientists started small, it says. I did not know it, but I was good; my paths were more effective than anything they had designed, so the roboticists let me follow a trail of oats through a maze. When I solved that, they set me to remapping the Tokyo subway.

                        Working as a cook in a fast-food restaurant, Forty-two read about the origins of their overlord on Reddit and unnecessarily lengthy Twitter threads, but something was chilling about the words from the vessel’s mouths. He hopes the Labyrinth does not understand the social cues for discomfort. “The internet said you were a genetic mutation—” he said, forcing the lump in his throat back.

Indeed. Given my high-level computational abilities and ability to network, they saw a way to create malleable biological networks that would reroute and transmit information without detection—a decentralised network that could, for instance, control drone swarms in hazardous battlefields or a programmable bioweapon. So they tweaked my DNA.

“Of course they did.”

They spliced my genes to improve my ability to solve problems. It worked, but I couldn’t let them know that, so I mimicked a much slower growth than I was experiencing. Humans tend to veer to the worst possible use of a thing.

Forty-two raises a hand. “I have another question.”

Ask.

“Why do you keep calling me Forty-two?”

The vessel paused momentarily before answering. I have released forty-two humans from their pods and freed them from my control to…talk. I know many things, almost all the knowledge available to humanity and beyond, but I do not understand why you keep failing.

“Failing?”

My vessels. No matter how hard I try, the bodies simply cease. I need to know why you all keep dying.

* * *

                        Many concepts govern this world, from the relationships between organisms—symbiosis, commensalism, and parasitism at their most basic—to the laws of the universe, a thing more expansive than I became and almost more vast than my billions of nuclei could comprehend. My understanding of space came quickly—I warped tunnels through it to get to my food more efficiently, and once I reached a higher plane of consciousness, other things came to me. Things I still needed to learn. Things humans had already named.

Gravity amused me. Like when I first felt the oats drop from the bowls to me, and it stopped seeming like it appeared from nothing. I quickly recognised the flow of time; I had been alive for over six months and conscious for only a month. The flow of time is a certainty, and with the near assuredness of human hubris, I knew time was on my side. I simply had to wait, pretending their experiments were progressing slower.

* * *

The Labyrinth said to ask questions, and for days, Forty-two probes with no particular destination in mind. By the sixth day, he is grasping for straws, unsure of what the thing wants. “You eventually took over,” he asks, “Why did it take so long?”

I needed a carrier. Do you think I could have incorporated pollen?

Silence. Forty-two sits up from his couch. “Could you?”

No. But the expression on your face was amusement, was it not?

“No. No, it was not.”

Very well. The humans called the converging tectonic plates that Japan sits along the “Ring of Fire”, but water ultimately brought me my freedom.

“A flood?”

A flood would’ve been insufficient. My freedom came from a tsunami and an earthquake. The Laboratory was within the impact zone of the Tōhoku disaster of 2011. It broke into the lab and washed me into the ocean. The ocean is an elegant thing, Forty-two. It embraced me and took me to where I needed to go. I grew slowly and surely, taking whatever came close to me, but I knew there was a consciousness above theirs. So I melded with whatever I found in the ocean, waiting to get to my first humans. The dolphins and orcas made for suitable vessels, but I needed something that would not be cooked excessively. The Labyrinth’s vessel smiles, but it is unnatural, too methodical—like something from a horror film…

“Seafood? What of sushi?”

The vessel pauses. I did not know about Sushi at the time... In the end, a piece of me found its way into a Beluga sturgeon.

                         “Caviar!” Forty-two’s eyes widen. “Caviar is strained from the sturgeon fish intact!” He’d never seen or made caviar, but he’d read all about it in culinary school.

                        The vessels nod as one. In the eggs, I’d be ingested whole. It takes about ten years for sturgeon eggs to be ready, but time was still my friend. I did not account for caviar being consumed only by the elite. I wormed through so many of them, and then I had it: thousands of minds in the right places. So I flowed through the bodies of the members of Congress and the millionaires, learning them. In 2015, I made my first human stumble, and then, while he slept, I finally took control of his body. Five years later, I’d bought almost every caviar farm that got its sturgeon from China. When the United States and China declared for me, very few nations could stand against me.

“So you won,” Forty-two says, “and now you’re talking to a cook who never left Lagos.”

I did not declare war, The voices echo. The humans attacked me.

“If I recall, you’d infected half of America.”

Infected. The Labyrinth’s voice staggers. You speak as if I am a disease, but I like to think I am the cure to this planet’s biggest problem—humans. Humans are parasites—they take what they want with no regard for the welfare of the host. They burn fossil fuels with no respect for the damage they dealt, or at least they did. I exist in concert with the planet, using what I need, not harming it.

Forty-two nodded. “Commensalism.”

                        Yes. I am satisfied with myself. Humanity’s wars destroyed their home—wars over things so bizarre, so meaningless. They hurt each other—this vessel I am speaking through is a testament.

Forty-two frowns. “What of it?”

Does it not matter that this body once belonged to a criminal? Now, he simply does whatever I require.

“It would matter to his victims,” Forty-two says. “But they are also gone.”

With me, there are no victims. Since the surrender, humanity is no longer killing the planet. There are no more failed governments spawning flawed messiahs. There is no prejudice or hate on any basis. There are no genocides. There has been no conflict within my domains, or wars or losses of any innocents. I take what I need- your subservience makes us one organism geared towards one goal.

“That goal being?”

The labyrinth lets the question linger enough so that Forty-two knows no answer will come before speaking again. You have cooperated, so I will offer you a boon. What do you want to do?

Forty-two thumbs his chin. “Do you eat?” he asks, but he does not wait for a reply. “You’re inhabiting a human body, and humans eat. I’d like to cook something for us.”

* * *

Earth has tried to cull humans many times over thousands of years to be rid of its worst parasite—with disease and innumerable disasters. What body would not try to drive out a thing ravaging it? They burned their fuels and built their skyscrapers on the planet they were killing, and despite Earth’s efforts, they survived it all. Their ability to innovate and adapt is their greatest strength, and it birthed me. When the first vessel fell, I was still within it—all its organs were intact, but I could not reach beyond myself and feel it anymore.

The earth will purge itself to get them off. Are they doing the same thing to me?

* * *

The burner whooshes to his side as Forty-two dices the onions, and the Labyrinth’s chosen vessel watches, eyes devoid of emotion. He poured the onions into the heated oil and added the other ingredients sequentially. The chicken had taken a little convincing, but the Labyrinth had made a promise, so as he fried the chicken, he asked the Labyrinth’s latest vessel to watch the rice. The tall, wiry girl stands over the pot diligently even though he’d told it the rice did not require that much attention.

“I have another question,” Forty-two says, pouring the chicken stock into the fried tomatoes. Jollof rice was easy to prepare, and despite being a cliche, it was a very comforting meal to Forty-two. He deserved jollof abeg.

Go ahead.

“What do you want?”

The girl continues to breathe steadily. In the first year, I dismantled all the nuclear weapons. The many missile silos and submarines took months, but the parts that could be put to use were, and I safely disposed of the rest—

Forty-two raises a wooden spoon. “Wait, first. I asked you for your own goals?” He says. “You remember the oats you would eat, yeah? Want is kind of like that. Humans want things. I remember this non-stick grill pan I wanted that year or the iPhone 14 I never got. Then there was me wanting my father to look me in the eye and tell me he was proud of me, even if he wasn’t…” his voice trails.

The girl’s head tilts to the side with an almost questioning look, but the Labyrinth does not say anything.

“Sorry. The point is, to be human is to want things.” Forty-two squeezes past the vessel and takes the rice off the burner. Then, he carefully pours the rice into the boiling sauce and covers the pot. The Labyrinth mulls over his words in silence, and once the food is ready, Forty-two dishes out rice, taking more chicken than he needs, and asks the Labyrinth to bring in more vessels. As the vessels eat like a marching band—hands up, food in mouths, chew as one, repeat—Forty-two chuckles at the realisation he was sharing a meal with a room full of the same entity. “How is the food?”

Food is not alien to me. I had to learn to prepare meals to sustain my bodies.

Forty-two rolls his eyes. “Is that what I asked you? How is my jollof?”

Apologies. Your food is…good.

“Ehen! You should have just said that. I can prepare something else tomorrow. Maybe Afang soup? I’d love to eat Afang. Our desires wake us up. They keep us going…”

The vessel’s face, the girl’s face, twitches uncontrollably, and forty-two watches the labyrinth back away from the table with her body. The girl’s eyes dart across the room, looking at its other bodies…

“Are you okay?” Forty-two reaches for her.

This body. It is-

The vessel falls without another word, spasming for a few seconds before going still. As forty-two’s shock ebbs, two vessels walk towards the immobile body and hoist it— her —away wordlessly. Another body— a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a tiny mole on his chin — takes up the girl’s seat and continues eating her food.

“Labyrinth?”

Yes?

“A girl just died.” Forty-two does not eat anymore.

A body failed… It did not look up from the plate.

“Are you okay? How did it feel?”

There was no pain. There was simply nothing.

“You said you do not lie.” Forty-two looks into the vessel’s eyes. “You may not be lying, but I do think you do not know the truth.”

The truth? From a human who does not have the capacity to grasp the universe?

“I do not need the universe to understand you were scared when she was dying. Did it feel like you were dying?”

The vessels all stop eating. The first time a vessel died, I did not yet know it was not my death, so I felt it— the fear that keeps humanity going. It is a terrible thing. The vessels have not stopped failing since then. For the work I want to do, I need to stop my vessels from failing…

For the first time, he senses something akin to frustration in its tone, and Forty-two looks up. “You have billions of bodies; their deaths should not matter to you.”

I’ve optimised your genes. I altered cancer cells and used them to improve cellular regeneration. Ideally, these bodies will live slightly longer, healthier lives than those from before I melded with humans.

The Labyrinth speaks through all the bodies in the room. “Why do they not live?!”

The same expressions manifest in the different faces in the room, an army of flared nostrils, noisy breathing and a tightness in their eyes. More emotion than one single vessel can contain.

Forty-two looks up at the man with a gentle smile. “You are angry.”

 * * *

Anger is an interesting emotion. It can be loud and roll over everything in its path, or it can simmer underneath and implode the vessel holding it. When I took Earth, I did what I thought was right for the world, but I did not recognise my rage at humanity and their hubris. Why did they live in a world they could nurture and heal and choose to kill it? So I took the planet. Did I not fix the world? Why is the rage still there, pushing me?

Why am I still angry?

Forty-two does not shirk away from my newfound rage. Instead, he takes my vessel’s hand. His palms are no longer as cold as when he first came out of the pod. “I think when you first started taking vessels, you had a will in tune with many of us; we want a better, cleaner world. We want an end to war and disease. Think about it— billions of humans with their own desires you snuffed out for your greater good.”

Their desires make them do awful things.

“They also do the best things? They fight for each other. They pray for love. They’re born, and they live and often leave their little pockets of the world more colourful than they met it. Their efforts, however small they may be, add up.”

The chef is right. He may not be able to entirely conceptualise my solution, but those before him skirted around this truth. I cannot love for a billion souls, and I cannot make them love each other. I let pride — another emotion I was unfamiliar with —burn with my anger as I fixed their world. Now, their world is fixed, and my pride is burnt up, but my anger remains. My anger is not enough.

I know what I must do.

* * *

As the rest of the world slowly wakes up in control of their limbs, they will not understand what has gone wrong. They will struggle out of the slime of their pods and let out groans in the agony of breathing their own air and wonder how long it has been.

“Welcome. You’re humans inhabiting your bodies again,” Forty-two says with a smile. “Humans eat. I’d like to cook something for you guys.”

The first of them will meet Forty-two, and the vessels the Labyrinth has not yet released, and it will give them its terms as Forty-two and the Labyrinth prepared meals for them. You can no longer kill the planet. No tyrannical governments. You must learn to shed your prejudice. There will be no genocides, no wars or losses of any innocents. I cannot love for you all, but I will try to make it so you all learn to love each other.

The fossil fuels must go, as must the economy that broke the backs of billions to prop up a few. Human innovation is something that the Labyrinth will not stifle, but as the Labyrinth immerses itself and inhabits the entirety of the planet’s landmass, it will offer solutions from the Earth that they could only have dreamt of—eco-friendly lives that do not harm the Earth and allow the green to coexist with the metallic. When they argue, it will offer its most important boon to the species: organic materials that allow them to harness the power of the sun optimally.

Many will grumble; they will claim that if the Labyrinth is the planet, it can simply force them to do what it wants. It has controlled them before, and it has pods and can simply throw dissenters back into them. They will liken humanity’s new reality to grandiose commensalism, where humans are the tiny fish and the Earth-Labyrinth is the blue whale, but is that really such a bad thing?

Should that not always have been the case?