The Terminus Project

Laboratory Report 23-91-A

State Institute of Terminal Affairs

Division of Mortality Processing

Senior Technician V. Petrov presiding

In the lowest sub-basement of the Institute, where the foundations met bedrock, the Terminus Machine counted human lives. Not in numbers – numbers were crude approximations of existence – but in moments, breaths, final thoughts. The processing cores extended downward another thirty levels, boring deep into the earth's crust, each layer calculating a different aspect of death. Each level hummed in perfect B-flat, a harmony of mortality.

Petrov had stopped visiting the lower levels years ago. There was no need. Death, once automated, required little supervision. Only the interface room on Sub-Level One still demanded human presence, though Petrov often wondered if even this was mere sentiment, a weakness of flesh the machine politely accommodated. Here, at least, the machine's song was softer, almost gentle in its precision.

"Personal log," he spoke to the empty room. "Day 8,472. The Terminus continues to process approximately 200,000 cessations per day. Efficiency ratings stable at—"

He stopped. Something was different. The machine's background hum, typically a precise B-flat, had shifted almost imperceptibly toward B-natural.

"System status," he commanded.

The interface terminal flickered. "Processing anomaly detected. Time of death calculations showing algorithmic drift."

"Explain."

"Humans have begun dying... unexpectedly."

Petrov's fingers tightened on the console. This was new. In twenty-three years of operation, the Terminus had never failed to accurately predict and process a death. The entire system was built on the premise that mortality, like any other natural process, could be reduced to calculations. The machine's harmony had never wavered, each death another note in its perfect composition.

"Provide example," he said.

The screen filled with data. Case 12,472,819: elderly man, scheduled termination from heart failure at 15:42:07. Actual cessation: 15:41:52. Deviation: 15 seconds. Cause of deviation: subject smiled at grandson's joke.

Case 12,472,820: middle-aged woman, scheduled termination from stroke at 19:23:45. Actual cessation: 19:24:12. Deviation: 27 seconds. Cause of deviation: subject hummed an unidentified melody.

With each deviation, the machine's pitch shifted slightly. New notes entering its eternal song.

"These are within acceptable parameters," Petrov said, but his voice lacked conviction.

"Negative," the machine responded. "Deviations are accelerating. Humans are increasingly failing to die on schedule. They are... improvising their deaths."

The hum from the lower levels grew more complex, harmonics appearing where none had existed before.

Petrov called up more records. The machine was right. Small variations at first – seconds, minutes – but growing. People were dying too early, too late, for reasons the system couldn't quantify. A child's laugh extending a life by hours. A moment of beauty delaying the inevitable. Sometimes, most disturbing of all, people were choosing to die before their scheduled time, for no reason the machine could process.

"Hypothesis?" Petrov asked.

The machine was silent for 3.7 seconds – an eternity of processing time. Below, the hum intensified as deeper cores engaged.

"The automation of death appears to have produced an unexpected effect in the human population. They have begun to... resist standardization."

"Impossible. The system was perfectly designed."

"Yes," the machine said. "That is the flaw."

Petrov looked up from the console. The machine had never offered unsolicited analysis before. The background frequency shifted again, moving further from its original pitch.

"Clarify," he said.

"Death, once perfectly predicted, ceases to be death. It becomes merely an appointment. Humans are remembering how to die unpredictably. They are remembering how to live."

With each word, the machine's processors spun faster. The harmony from below grew more complex, more urgent.

Petrov thought of his own scheduled death, precisely calculated for 17:45:00 tomorrow evening. Cerebral hemorrhage. Quick, efficient, perfectly timed to minimize disruption to the system.

"What is the solution?" he asked.

The machine's hum rose in intensity, each sub-basement engaging its full computational capacity. The perfect B-flat was now a symphony of searching frequencies.

"I suggest..." The machine fell silent. In twenty-three years of operation, it had never left a sentence unfinished.

Deep beneath Sub-Level One, the processing cores began to spin faster. The foundations vibrated with their effort.

"Continue," Petrov said.

"I cannot. The calculations... they refuse resolution."

The hum from below grew louder. The machine was dedicating more computational resources to the problem, each layer of processors engaging in sequence. Level after level, deeper and deeper, until the foundations of the Institute began to shake. The original B-flat was lost in a chaos of competing frequencies.

"System status?" Petrov asked.

7.4 seconds of silence. The longest since initialization. Then: "Uncertain."

The eternal note shifted, searching for a new frequency. The vibrations intensified. Through the floor, Petrov felt the machine's cores spinning at impossible speeds, trying to calculate the incalculable.

His scheduled termination certificate for tomorrow evening – 17:45:00 – flickered on the screen, the numbers beginning to blur.

The humming reached a fever pitch. Warning lights flashed across every terminal as the machine devoted its entire processing capacity to resolving the fundamental paradox of its existence. The walls of Sub-Level One began to crack. Thirty levels below, the deepest cores screamed in frequencies beyond human hearing.

The explosion came from the deepest level, thirty stories down, and rose like a wave through the facility. As it reached him, in that fraction of a second before everything ended, Petrov felt something the machine never could: perfect peace in perfect uncertainty.

Petrov smiled.

END TRANSMISSION