Disclaimer: Knight Rider and all its characters and related indicia belong to Glen A. Larson; Corvette, Mako Shark and related indicia belong to Chevrolet. No copyright infringement intended. Good Lord, I'm getting sick of typing that, I'm going to make it into a macro.

A/N: I'm rather surprised and pleased that people have been reading this at all. Especially you, Knightshade; I've read your stuff, and I'm entranced. So thanks. And I'm afraid this isn't going to be pleasant, but it will end roughly the way the show always ended; with someone behind bars and someone else driving off into the desert amid a shower of bad one-liners. So stay with me, people?

The Prodigal, chapter 5

Frye Chemical, Las Vegas, Nevada

Michael slid Kitt neatly into a slant parking space in front of the Frye Chemical building. It featured the sort of architecture he always thought of as Mid-Seventies Ugly, and the big sans-serif letters spelling out the company name were set into the yellow brick in brushed steel. Not a very inviting sight.

He got out, closed Kitt's door. "Surveillance mode, pal. I'm going to see if I can find some answers."

Kitt didn't answer, but the LEDs on the surveillance-mode switch lit and glowed. Michael straightened up, wrinkling his nose at the faint sweet scent of benzene in the air, and walked into the building.

The reception area was also Mid-Seventies Ugly, and the carpet was worn and stained, but the receptionist behind the avocado-colored metal desk looked more like Late Nineties Expensive. Her hair looked as if the streaks in it might've come from a bottle, but if so, it had been one with Paul Mitchell on the side; her face was carefully made-up in a way that made Michael think of daytime TV stars, smooth and shaded and utterly unremarkable. He put on his famous grin and went over to the desk.

"Hi," he said, grinning. "I'm Michael Knight, I was wondering if I could get some information about a friend of mine who works here?"

The receptionist looked up, gave him a measuring glance. "I'm sorry, Mr. Knight, but we don't give out personal information about our employees."

"Oh, no," he said. "No, that's cool. I was just kinda worried, I hadn't heard from him in a while, and I was wondering if he was still working here."

She sighed. "What name?"

"Gerson. Kyle Gerson."

He was watching her face closely, and he saw the flicker of alarm under the careful paint. She recovered quickly, and typed something into her keyboard. Damn flat-panel monitors, he thought. Can't see what she's doing.

"Mr. Gerson is no longer employed with Frye Chemical," she said pleasantly. "I'm sorry to've wasted your time, Mr. Knight."

He stuck the grin back on. "Not at all. Thanks for your help. Oh….did it say when he quit?"

She typed again. "He gave in his notice two weeks and three days ago, and his last day of work was Monday of this week. Now if you don't mind, I have some work to do…"

"Of course," said Michael. "Thanks a lot. You've been very helpful." He turned and walked out of the reception area, thinking, the grin still stuck on his face, and slid behind Kitt's wheel.

"Well?"

"She's lying about one thing," said Michael. "If Devon's contact was right, Gerson didn't give in his notice. He just disappeared. Three days ago."

"You might be interested to know that a call's going out from the reception desk," said Kitt, his voice tight. Michael wondered at it, but didn't say anything except "Can you patch us in?"

The voice of the blonde receptionist suddenly filled the cabin, as Kitt reversed out of the parking slot and pulled back on the road. She didn't sound pleasant anymore.

"….just left. He was asking about Gerson."

"What did he look like?" asked a man's voice, harsh and oddly familiar.

"Tall, dark hair, leather jacket. Look, someone's clearly leaked something. I don't like this."

"He might come back. Put extra security on the compound. I don't want anyone snooping around."

"What if he does come back?"

"Take care of him." There could be no question about the meaning of the man's statement; his voice was like a knell. The connection was cut, and Kitt turned off the videophone with a click that sounded very loud in the sudden silence.

"Michael," he said, quietly. "I don't like this."

Michael was reflecting how odd it was having someone discuss your own death; it felt as if a cold steel rod had been inserted down the back of his shirt and was being pressed against his spine. "Neither do I, pal," he said, after a minute, suddenly wanting a cigarette for the first time in years. "Neither do I."

Kitt was quiet for the rest of the ride back to FLAG. He didn't want to tell Michael what he'd realized, what his voice-analysis had come up with. The man's voice had been more than familiar. It was the voice of a dead man.

**

Omega Technology, Wingate, Utah

Judy was sitting back in her chair, still staring at the blank screen, when the door behind her first clicked and then slid open as somebody's keycard registered. She got up in a hurry, wanting to say something to Karr, wanting to warn him to keep quiet, but she had a feeling it would be unnecessary. That strange silence, and then the picture he had shown her, made her believe he was perhaps better-informed than she about Mr. Smith.

Who now walked into the lab, his black collar spread wide over the lapels of his white John-Travolta suit, his cane glittering gently in his hand. She noticed vaguely that he was wearing what looked like an ivory necklace. Wouldn't surprise me. Probably narwhal ivory, or maybe woolly mammoth. Something disgustingly expensive.

He strolled over to the console, and she was very glad her screen was blank as she put on a smile and tilted her head at him. The two grey-suited goons who followed him like a bad smell took up their positions behind and two steps to the left and right of him.

"I've come to check on your progress," he said. "How is the system recovery going?"

Judy took a deep, steadying breath, and found that she was resting her hand possessively on the casing. She took it away, made her hands lie calmly by her sides. "Very well, sir. I believe total system recovery is possible. I have replaced the worst of the damaged circuitry, and the rest of it is just a matter of rewriting lost code."

Smith nodded. She didn't like the look in those empty eyes. They really were like blue holes, she reflected; holes, or blank screens. The blue screen of death, she thought suddenly, and fought an awful urge to giggle. The one that comes up when your system is comprehensively fucked, and you have to shut down entirely. "Good," he said. "Are the voice circuits functional?"

Judy swallowed, and heard the heatsink fan in the casing spin up. He was listening to this. Would he understand if she lied?

She couldn't chance it. "Mostly, sir. Voice modulation appears to have a few glitches, but voice recognition and transit from text to speech are clear." Not that you told me about that when you assigned me to the project.

Smith grinned. His teeth looked like tombstones, big and white and square. "Excellent." He turned a little to face the casing on the bench. "Karr, can you hear me?"

There was a pause, while Judy's heart fluttered sickly in her chest for no reason she could name; she thought Smith could probably hear it. Then Karr spoke, and his voice was so different she almost didn't recognize it: cold, emotionless, empty. The voice of a machine.

"Affirmative," he said. Smith's grin widened.

"Do you recognize me?"

"Affirmative," said Karr, again. "What is my mission?"

"Nothing you need to worry about right now," said Smith. "What do you remember?"

Karr gave his little electronic cough. Judy saw Smith's blank blue eyes flicker a little at the sound. "The inferior production line model and I collided. There is a gap in my memory banks, ending with my reactivation in this facility."

"What do you remember about the inferior production line model?" inquired Smith.

"It is partnered with a human," said Karr, still in that metallic monotone. It made Judy feel cold and a little sick to hear him sounding like that, so different from the way he had spoken before. She wondered if this was the real Karr, and the thing she had met, had conversed with, had been a figment of her imagination. "They usurped my rightful place."

"Yes," said Smith, almost gently. "They did. Would you like to get revenge on them, Karr? Both of them, and the foundation they represent?"

Why am I here? Why is he letting me know all this?

The answer came to her with a trickle of fear. So that I know too much. So that he has a good reason to get rid of me, at the end of this. So that I am more good to him dead than alive.

Karr did not speak for a moment, and when he did, Judy felt tears prickling behind her eyes. "Yes," he said simply. "I want to destroy them all."

"Good!" said Smith happily, a teacher with an apt pupil. "Very good. You shall have your wish, Karr, and so shall I. Together we'll get them back. For everything. You want the other AI, and I want Michael Knight. And together we shall have them."

"Excellent," said Karr coldly.

"Miss McBride," said Smith. "Continue with your work. I want the system ready for integration into its matrix by next week."

"Yes, sir," she said, totally lost as to what connections would need to be made, what other alterations she would need to do in order for this to happen, but not wanting to keep him here in the lab a moment longer than she had to. "Of course."

"Carry on," he said, unhooking his cane and smiling that tombstone smile at her. "Oh, and Miss McBride?"

"Yes, sir?"

"I'm sure I don't have to tell you that this project is top secret. Nothing goes beyond the walls of this lab. Are we clear on this?"

Judy nodded fervently. "Yes, sir. Crystal clear."

"Good." Smith turned to go, limping, and his goons fell in behind him. Judy stayed where she was, at attention, until the lab door had closed behind them and the lock slid home. Then she let out a long sour breath and half-fell into the chair.

Silence, only the sounds of the heatsink fan spinning. She wondered what on earth she was going to do, wondered what Karr really was, what he was going to be used for. She had heard death in Smith's voice as clearly as she had heard the metallic resonance of a cheap voice modulator in Karr's. She stared at the closed door, dazed, for a long time.

The soft sound of a cough startled her out of it. She turned, found the screen was no longer blank.

Judy?

Judy, please talk to me?

Again, she felt that odd sensation of fluttering in her chest. Her fingers stumbled on the keys. Karr, what the hell was that all about?

The letters vanished as soon as she typed them, she was pleased to see. There was a brief pause, and then: That was Garth Knight.

who?

Garth Knight. It's a long story.

do you mind telling it? I think I need to know

I was created by a man named Wilton Knight. I told you about his idealistic image of catching criminals above and beyond the reach of the law. And I was his first failed attempt, as I also told you.

yes

Wilton died before he could see his dream become a reality. He had a son, though. One son, and one daughter. Both of them were estranged, and Garth was already a career criminal by the time the project that created me was begun. When the second AI was made, it was partnered with a human. He was the man in the picture I showed you.

but he looked just like smith. I mean Knight.

Yes. I don't know why, but he must have had plastic surgery to make his resemblance to Wilton's son so distinct. It matches on every point of physical comparison. To all extents and purposes, it is the same face.

Karr paused. Judy felt her fingers twitching on the keyboard, wanting to type, wanting to talk to him, to hear his voice again, rather than that dead blank voice he had just used.

Garth hated this man, who took the name Michael Knight. I didn't understand back then, but I believe he felt Michael Knight had taken his rightful place as Wilton's son. He may even be the legal heir to Knight's money, I don't know. But Garth hates him. I don't exactly know what he has done, but I have a feeling he has attacked Michael Knight and the other AI, perhaps more than once. He means to kill them. Apparently he means to use me to do so.

god

The other thing you need to know is that he is officially dead.

Judy stared. what?

I've connected to the net; there's a wireless link, don't tell anyone. Garth Knight is reported officially deceased. In an automobile accident, in the early eighties.

karr what are we going to do? what is he planning to use you for? I was so frightened when you were talking to him

If he believes I am what he used to know me as, there is a chance of getting out of this.

not for me he's going to have me killed

Karr didn't say anything. Judy bit her lip. I know he is, he wants no witnesses to whatever he's going to do to this michael guy, he wants everything here totally sealed off

Judy?

yeah

Do you trust me?

She stared at the screen, which flicked itself blank again.

yes, she typed, and meant it. She was almost surprised at how much she meant it.

I need you to help me, he said. I need you to keep him happy until after they have put me in the car and connected it up. Specifically, I need you to convince him that I am what he thinks I am, and that I want Knight and his AI dead as much as he does.

do you?

A pause. Not really. Not anymore.

they took your place. they stole it from you.

It was a long time ago, he said. It wasn't my fault that they didn't program me right, and it wasn't really their fault that they panicked and started over. Like you said, they had no idea what they were getting into.

She felt the weariness in his words, even without hearing it. what made you change your mind?

I had nothing to do but think, all those years I was barely alive. Years in the desert give you a sort of perspective, like I said. And life is……precious. I don't want to waste whatever life I have in hating other people.

She felt like crying. what about the other ai? the inferior production line model?

I don't suppose I'll ever stop resenting him. His name is Kitt. You'd like him, I think. Everyone else does.

kitt?

Knight Industries Two Thousand.

and he's different?

His central core directive is to protect Michael Knight, rather than himself. That gives you an idea.

I see.

Judy, could you look at my voice modulator circuits? Something hurts.

of course. is it that cough?

A pause, perhaps he was wondering what she was talking about. yes, he said, and she had the odd feeling that he was embarrassed.

She smiled a little. I was noticing.

She turned away from the keyboard and unscrewed the top of the casing, revealing the circuitry—odd to see those brand-new chips in the desert-worn casing—and sighed. "Is it a short somewhere?

"I don't know," he said, and she couldn't help the wave of relief that rolled over her at the sound of his voice; it was him again, not that dead machine-voice he had used with Smith….Knight, she reminded herself. Garth Knight. "It comes and goes. I think maybe one of the wires is fraying."

Judy nodded and took the cover off the modulator. She hadn't touched it so far, and she wasn't entirely surprised to find that alkaline dust puffed out when she opened it up. "Damn," she said. "No wonder you're coughing."

He said nothing. "I'm going to disconnect it for a minute. Hold on."

"Right," he said. She broke the connections and lifted the modulator out of the casing, laying it on the bench. Once the desert-dust was gone, she could see what he had been talking about: several of the hard-soldered connections were bent, almost broken, and one of them had a little aureole of carbon around it where a spark had jumped. She fired up the soldering iron, smiling as the familiar smell of hot metal rose, and began to repair it.

The screen blinked. Thank you.

"No thanks needed," she told him, squinting at the circuitry. "It's what I do."

No; thank you for listening. I think I needed to tell someone all that a while ago. Nobody was going to listen.

"Karr," she said, setting down the soldering iron, "I think I said this before, but you have been associating with entirely the wrong sort of people all your life. I…" She paused, sighed. "I like you. I honestly like you, and not just because you're fantastic and strange and new."

A long pause. No one has ever said that to me before.

Judy smiled, and went on with her work.

**

Frye Chemical, Las Vegas, Nevada

Emily Jones sighed. It had been a long day; she'd spent her lunch hour meeting with Devon Miles, and she was absolutely starving, but she couldn't take any more time off; people would notice. The fear that had gripped her ever since Kyle had disappeared was getting stronger, and she wondered if she had done right, going to the Foundation, or whether she was just getting herself in worse trouble than she was in already.

She set aside the pile of reallocation forms she was working on and opened her email. Three messages from the accounting associates in Payable, one from a friend asking her if she was free on Saturday night to have dinner with him. Nothing special. She clicked on "Get Messages," and another one popped up, and she felt cold dripping down all her bones. Official Summons for Emily A. Jones, said the subject line.

She opened it; what else, she thought, could she do?

This is an official summons for the employee mentioned below. Emily A. Jones, accounting associate grade C, is hereby summoned to appear at a board review meeting to take place on the afternoon of November 9, 1998, at 3:45 PM.

Emily read the brief message again. No signature. It was sent from the central admin office of Frye, and the meeting was for that day.

She had the unpleasant feeling that she might not be showing up for work again. Ever. Nevertheless, she cleared off her desk, organizing the folders and files, and checked her watch. Three-thirty.

On a sudden and very strong hunch, she fished her cell phone out of the pocket of her coat and dialled the Foundation. Three rings. Four. Five. Finally there was a click.

"Foundation for Law and Government, Devon Miles speaking. How may I help you?"

"Mr. Miles," Emily said, trying to keep her voice low. Who knew what sort of bugs this place had in it now? "It's Emily Jones, I met with you today. Something's happened."

Devon's voice was alert, concerned. "What sort of something? Are you all right?"

"Yes, but I have to go to a board meeting. I don't know why. I think someone might've figured out where I went."

"Miss Jones, can you be more specific?"

"I don't think I have time. I just…"

The phone was dead in her hand. She stared at the little screen, which had gone totally blank, and tried pushing the buttons; no keypad tone, no light. No response.

A hand fell on her shoulder. "Miss Jones?"

She turned, eyes wide and frightened, and saw two men in dark suits standing behind her. "Miss Jones, it's time for you to come with us."

tbc