By Birgit Stäbler
It was five a.m., the time the sun rose over the old harbor area, bathing
the old warehouses in the first lights of dawn. He had been woken by the
pain in his shoulder where just a few days ago, a bullet intended for his
heart had torn into flesh and bone. He was healing, but as always, it was
painful. Another scar to the collection. Another memory better forgotten.
No one lived in this area but him. He had been here for several years
now, and never had anything changed. Until not too long ago. His gaze swept
over the sturdy brick walls as he leaned against the railing that separated
the gallery floor from the drop below. The ground level was one gigantic
hangar-like garage. The floor was clean swept and bathed in the first rays
of light, coming from high above. The smoke-colored windows and sky-lights
were enough to light up the place on a sunny day. He felt his eyes drawn
to the two black cars that looked almost lost and alone in the vastness,
surrounded partially by the computer stations and work benches. A couch,
old and battered, sat to the right of them.
Two cars. Not one. For a long time, it had been two now. Different
models, but both black. Different personalities, but incidentally coming
from the same basic programming.
He turned away and let his eyes wander over the living space behind
him. It was the same as always. The computer area that took up a large
part of the wall, the potted plants near one of the smoked windows, the
couch, the TV, everything. Still, there were changes. A jacket had been
carelessly draped over one of the couch chairs. It wasn't his. The remains
of the pizza and beer night were clearly visible. He smiled. Signs of another
human presence in this building.
Over two decades ago he had started a life. Alone. Always alone. There
was no one but him, no one else to take care of. Never leave a trace of
your existence, he had been taught. He hadn't existed, there had been no
traceable presence. He had had a name, but still, he hadn't lived. If he
had died back then, no one would ever have known about him. He had been
a ghost, a shadow.
Then Wilton Knight had stepped into his life, offering a way out of
this cold world where he had to fend for himself, never knowing if the
next day would be his last. He had grasped the straw offered to him. Still,
he had been alone. He had been the only one selected, no one came too close
to him, no one trusted him but the old man. What he had seen, it still
eluded him today. He had been a human machine, programmed to kill, programmed
to obey orders; he hadn't known what humanity meant. But in the six months
he had spent at the mansion, he had learned more than in the ten years
of ruthless service and training. He had been the best Nash had ever trained,
but he had failed the simple test of being human. Knight had not taught,
but he had still learned.
Then he had been introduced to another machine. His new partner. The
experiment had failed; he had left. Alone again, but for the first time,
not completely. Not long after that he had been forced to make compromises,
to let someone else in, a being that was so much like him it had frightened
him at the time. They had made arrangements for a co-existence at first,
but the process of acclimatization had started. First there had been grudging
respect, then worry when the other was in danger, and finally something
akin to a partnership.
Still, he wouldn't have left any traces if he had left the world forever.
He didn't exist.
Over three years ago, that had radically changed. He hadn't wanted
it, but it had happened. He had opened a part of him he hadn't been aware
still existed. He had made more compromises in the last two years than
he ever had. Suddenly, he had left a mark. Suddenly, he wasn't alone anymore.
Neither of them was alone.
He gazed at the signs of intrusion into his secluded, shielded world.
For the life of it, he couldn't think of the time before anymore. It was
a hazy memory, full of pain and negative emotions. A time he wanted to
forget so badly sometimes, it hurt. Loneliness despite knowing people,
because no one had known him. He had never let anyone close, and he wouldn't
have let Michael Knight close if not for the blatant need to teach him.
Teach him about the neuro implant, about control, about… himself. Telling
him, through little hints, who he was.
He smiled dimly and turned back to where the cars were parked. Descending
the wrought iron stairs, he passed by the black TransAm and approached
the Stealth. It was just as black, but it appeared darker. Maybe because
the color wasn't just in the visual spectrum, maybe because part of him,
a very large part, was inside his mind. It had always been there, right
from the start, but neither had acknowledged it. Now he was always drawn
to it, seeking it, needing it there. Proving that it wasn't a dream. It
was his greatest fear. To wake up and find none of this had ever happened.
He had dared to let his guard down, to hope, to dream, and he had become
vulnerable that way. Still, he was stronger than ever.
He sat down onto the fender, then slid further onto the midnight black
hood. He had adopted this from Knight. Like he had learned a lot from him
despite his efforts not to prolong his stay here. Three years now.
And it would become more. He wouldn't leave, he couldn't. There was
a lot he suddenly wanted to do, had to do. Teaching Michael about the implant
was one thing; and he wasn't actively teaching anymore anyway. Michael
was learning, as was Kitt. They didn't need him; at least not for that.
Why did he stay then?
Because he felt no longer alone. Because now he was learning something
as well. About acceptance, about partnership, about love. Before Knight,
there had been just the day-to-day existence, working on a level that was
acceptable for both, but since Kitt had entered his life, he had been shown
more. The link was more, it was an intimacy he had instinctively shied
away from. An intimacy that was beyond comprehension, that defied boundaries,
and no one but two people could ever understand it.
He drew his hand over the smooth finish of the Stealth. A ripple passed
through his mind and he smiled. An intimacy that had taken him beyond the
realms of human thinking. It hadn't always been this way, but now it was.
The past was buried, though it would always be remembered, and the future
was wide open for them. He was living, for the first time in his life,
and he wasn't feeding on anger and pain. He had accepted what had been
and he accepted what was to come. He kept up the gentle massage of the
car's hood, feeling the presence in his mind grow, like rising out of a
dark ocean. He embraced it, smiled as it returned the gesture, and no words
were exchanged. Just images, feelings, emotional waves.
This was him. Made up out of many parts that had finally fused together,
forming something new. Something that should always have been. It had been
a long time in the making. It was like a twisted kind of destiny. They
had been made for each other, without either knowing the other existed.
Both had been programmed, both had been alone, and now they formed a unit.
And so much more. Beyond words, beyond everything. Michael understood,
he could read the signs, just like he could read Michael. The light in
his eyes, the flicker of a smile, the twitch of a muscle. It was all so
very visible to the outside world, if you just knew how to look.
He turned and stretched his legs out over the hood, leaning back against
the cooler windscreen, arms crossed under his head. The shoulder wound
twinged, and he ruefully removed one arm, letting it rest on the warm hood.
His eyes stared at the skylight high above. The presence in his mind seemed
to do the same, lean back, against him, silently keeping him company. He
was grateful for it. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to lose
this. They had been too close to losing each other too many times before.
Back then, it had never mattered that much; now it was a fear neither wanted
to think about too closely.
His thoughts were echoed in his mind. He felt a silky, cool touch to
his mind, and he smiled. It questioned wordlessly, he answered the same
way. Sometimes, there was no need for words, just opening his mind, showing
his partner what he couldn't say. This was beautiful, this was perfection.
No one could ever feel it like he did, not even Michael Knight. For him,
Kitt was his own perfection. They were all different, like fire and water,
like black and white, but they shared something so incredible, that they
were the same.
The link couldn't be perfection, though; never had been intended that
way. Despite the beauty is transmitted, it also channeled pain, despair
and everything else a human mind was capable of. And the AI linked to it.
Like the pain of a bullet harming the body of the more vulnerable human
part. A long time ago, when he had been harmed, he hadn't felt his partner
react any more than with a brief shifting of his mind. That had gradually
changed when he had found out that his own prime directive of self-preservation
was intimately linked to the preservation of the life of the human he was
bonded to. Since then, it had grown from reluctant acceptance to an incredible
care.
Almost warmth. Warmth in a way that wasn't radiating an increased temperature,
but that was defined by presence. He reached for the silky blackness, felt
the tangles of his partner's outer tendrils wrap playfully around his hand.
Thank you for being there> he simply whispered.
Thank you for accepting me>
Nicholas MacKenzie smiled and he felt Karr reflect it. He closed his
eyes and just enjoyed.