"Your Past Is Gone"

A Knight Rider Story

By TunnelsOfTheSouth

※※※※※

Knight Rider and all its canon characters are the eternal property of Glen A. Larson and NBC Television Studios.

I have enjoyed myself hugely with this work.

I make no monies from any of my TV series fanfics, only the joy and delight of creation.

"When we think of the past it's the beautiful things we pick out. We want to believe it was all like that…"

Margaret Atwood

Chapter One

Eternity In An Hour

Dr Ralph Wesley leaned down to examine the heavily bandaged and recently reconstructed face of the man he knew only as Michael Long. He'd spent innumerable hours taking very good care of his comatose patient. It wasn't only a matter of the exorbitant amount of money he'd been paid to save the young man's life. It was also for the sake of his professional pride in his skills as a plastic surgeon.

He sighed as he shook his head slowly. "You can choose to live or die. It isn't up to me anymore. If you want to live, you will."

He stared hard at his patient, seeking any signs of acknowledgement, even as he willed him to live. But there wasn't even a flicker that he'd been heard.

The young man had been heavily sedated, but they'd been forced to use wrist restraints to prevent him from trying to rip off his bandages or tear the breathing tube from his throat. In his brief moments of lucidity, he fought whatever demons lived inside his tortured mind and more than once he'd tried to strike out at those caring for him. Dr Wesley knew that healing his patient's torn flesh was a far easier task than repairing a potentially damaged mind.

"I've said it before, and I'll say it again. The old man is crazy…" The doctor sighed as he looked up at a wall of medical instrumentation and studied his patient's vital signs. None of what he saw gave him much hope for recovery.

But the man had come this far, and he was still breathing. "That has to count for something."

He turned to the nurse standing beside him. "We can only watch, wait and hope. Look after him and call me the moment he shows any sign of waking up."

"Yes, Doctor," the young woman replied as she took over the observations.

"I swear I'm getting too old for this…" Wesley grimaced as he walked across the room to examine a bank of illuminated X-rays.

He was studying them when his taciturn employer entered the room. Wilton Knight gave no acknowledgement of the doctor's greeting. He leaned on a cane as he hurried to the bedside of the gravely ill patient he'd saved from certain death.

He watched the nurse going about her duties and his expression showed his deep sense of impatience for news. Any news. Good or bad.

He turned and crossed the room to the bank of X-rays. "Well?" he demanded impatiently. "What's the word? Give it to me straight and don't use fancy words. I like plain speaking. Always have."

Wesley's lips compressed as he used a pencil to point to one of the X-rays. "I'm going to give you the same answer I've been giving you for the past four days. You're right, as always."

He looked back at his boss with sympathy. "He's probably the only human being on this planet who's in worse condition than you. And that's saying something."

Wilton smiled grimly. "Did anyone ever tell you that your bedside manner could do with some serious adjustments? I guess you've worked for me for too long."

"Perhaps." The doctor shook his head. "But the deal I made with you was for complete honesty. You want me to tell you he's in good shape? He's in good shape. I can't say fairer than that. I've done everything I can. The rest is now up to him."

His employer moved closer. He stared at the x-rays of the comatose man he was determined to save, no matter the cost. "I said I didn't want you to sugarcoat it. Is he going to die?"

Wesley turned to frown at his patient with deep concern. "He should have. You basically helicoptered back a dead man. From my initial examination, I would say the bullet was fired into his head at almost point-blank range. He had no hope of dodging it. I'd say he's the luckiest man barely alive."

Wilton grounded his walking cane with impatience. "Then how did he survive? You aren't that good a doctor. Look at what you've done to me."

Wesley shrugged. "Fortuitously, the man has a metal plate inserted in his forehead…" He moved to another illuminated X-ray and circled an oval area with the end of his pencil. "See? Military surgery, I'd suspect. Someone did an excellent job. It deflected the bullet that was heading right for his brain. From a dead-centre hit, it bounced back and came out through his face. We'll probably never know what he really looked like before he was shot."

He glanced at his employer. "But then that wasn't the object of this exercise, was it? You don't care what he looked like then. It's the now, you're after."

"Yes, and I don't have a lot of time left to be hanging around waiting for him to wake up."

"Patience for the patient is all I have to offer," the doctor replied. "I'm fresh out of miracles. I used the last one up on you. The rest is up to your young man."

On the bed, Michael stirred restlessly and mumbled something neither man could catch. Then he cried out in anguish and anger. His hands clenched fistfuls of the bed sheets and his lips tightened. Once more, he seemed to be fighting demons somewhere deep inside his mind.

The bank of monitoring instruments told their own story. They measured the rise and acceleration of his heartbeat and breathing with flashing lights and alarms. The nurse attended to them, making notes on the patient's chart.

Wilton turned around and walked back to the bedside. "That's it, son. Get mad and stay mad. It'll keep you living. Just like me. The doc here will tell you, I'm just too ornery blasted stubborn to die. I'm not about to give up on you, either."

The man lying in the bed didn't appear to hear him. He moaned once more in his coma and then fell back into unconsciousness. The equipment, his body was connected with, returned to their previous, steady rhythms and the alarms went silent.

"We can do nothing more now but wait to see if he is strong enough to survive," Dr Wesley remarked.

"Waiting is the one luxury I don't have," Wilton snapped, as he looked on helplessly.

His lips moved silently, and he appeared to be praying. The doctor shook his head as he took the nurse's arm and ushered her away to leave the old man alone with his burning need for answers.

※※※※※

Four weeks later:

It was late morning when Wilton Knight slowly eased himself down onto a stone bench in the extensive gardens of his home. "This used to be a whole lot easier when I was a great deal younger," he complained to the man already seated there.

Devon Miles nodded as he adjusted the fit of the cufflinked sleeve of his left arm. "None of us are getting any younger." He frowned into the middle distance.

"I could give you twenty years and still have a lot left over," Wilton replied sharply, studying Devon's expensive, formal suit. "That's why I recruited you to work for me. To take full charge of everything once I'm…" He sighed. "… once I'm finally gone."

"That won't be for some years yet," Devon replied quickly, watching his employer with concern.

"'To see a world in a grain of sand…'" his employer quoted a William Blake poem softly. "'Hold infinity in the palm of your hand. And eternity in an hour'… If only we could. But I've always loved those lines."

Devon rubbed a forefinger over the bridge of his nose. "And the young man inside? What of him and his fate? You have worked hard to ensure he does not die. You seem to have a great deal invested in him in time and effort."

Wilton shrugged. "He serves a purpose, as we all do. For the greater good. Anyway, Devon... in the eyes of the law, Michael Long is legally dead. His ultimate fate is now in his own hands. I've done all I can to convince him he must live."

Devon shifted uncomfortably against the idea. "I just don't understand this obsession you have about Michael Long. Besides, it could get the good Dr Wesley into serious trouble. He's a decent man with a lot at stake. I wouldn't want anything bad to happen to him."

Wilton frowned at him impatiently. "Stop worrying about it. How can saving a man's life lose the Doc his license?"

Devon looked rueful. "Stealing a body from the medical school for the police to find and identify as Long isn't exactly playing by the rules. What if our men had been caught in the act?"

Wilton waved an impatient hand. "You've known me long enough to know I make my own rules. So does the government. They fake deaths and change identities all the time."

Devon nodded. "All right. That's the government. But why are you doing it?"

"Let's just call it a hunch. I needed a fresh young player in my game, and, after a great deal of study, I hoped Long was the answer." The old man's hand tightened on the head of his cane. "Regrettably, I was almost too late. But I need to believe I can save him and make a difference. It keeps me going."

"Wilton…" Devon replied warningly. "I hope you're not considering him for what I think you're considering him for?" He shook his head. "Are you?"

Wilton frowned at him. "Like I said, Devon. It's a hunch. A hunch I haven't started playing yet. Now, what's the progress report on the automobile? I'm running out of time."

"It's almost completed. There are some complaints about the all-night hours and the secrecy. Some of the men we've employed to work around the clock have families. There have been some complaints."

Wilton thumped the end of his walking stick on the ground. "Men who are being well taken care of. I want it done, Devon. And I want it done within the next forty-eight hours. Do you hear me?"

He waved a commanding finger. "Put that new woman, that Bonnie Barstow, onto extras shifts. She doesn't have a family to complain if she's never home. And she lives on the grounds in that old coachman's cottage you leased to her. Wise move, that."

Devon nodded. "All right, if you insist. But you shouldn't be overexerting yourself worrying about things we can't get done any faster. Surely the doctor has told you it's bad for your –"

"Not your department." His employer dismissed his concerns with a frown. "Don't you worry about what the good doctor told me or hasn't told me. That's not your business. Just get your job done. Let me worry about the doctors... and Michael Long."

He got to his feet and turned to walk away. Devon remained seated on the bench and watched him with grudging affection. Then he sighed and rose to his feet to walk toward the vast industrial building behind the house.

※※※※※

Bonnie Barstow walked out of the ivy-covered laboratory that had been newly built behind the massive house belonging to Knight Industries. She pushed the door shut with one elbow and leaned back against it. The cool night air was heavenly on her tired skin, and she couldn't wait to grab a long, hot shower and tumble into bed.

She stared up at the windows of the house. Lights still shone from several rooms, including her new boss's office.

She grimaced as she pushed away from the door. "So, Devon Miles, the slave driver, isn't the only one working every hour that God sent," she complained, as she frowned at the lights shining through the drawn curtains of her boss's ground floor office. "I suppose I have to admire him for that, at least."

It was gone midnight, and she was dog-tired after working two full shifts on the secret project in the building behind her. She'd heard the grumblings of her co-workers and felt for them. For herself, she had no one to go home, not even a cat.

Anyone who managed to get through the property's well-guarded gates and up the driveway to the massive warehouse would have seen people coming and going as the work shifts constantly exchanged places. They had been at it for weeks now, and finally, there seemed to be an end in sight to the endless grind.

As one of the top-secret project's lead technicians, Bonnie had been very happy to move into the small cottage she'd been allotted on the estate grounds. Devon Miles had told her the employment would be finite. Once the project was completed, he'd said he didn't see there would be any further need for her technical skills.

"That's fine by me." Bonnie didn't mind.

She would soon find new employment. But there was a wetland preservation project she needed to get back to as soon as her work for Knight Industries was over. The physical work of restoring the land helped to recharge her batteries.

"Sleep…" She walked away from the house and into the extensive grounds toward her small stone cottage.

A shower, hot food and eight hours of total oblivion were all that was on her agenda for the rest of the night. She would be back here soon enough to oversee the final stages of the groundbreaking project.

※※※※※

Devon stood in the window and watched Bonnie walk away from the huge workshop behind the house. He sighed as he flipped the brocade curtain back into place and returned to his desk.

He was beginning to feel suffocated beneath the sheer weightiness of the work at hand. And the rush to get it done before… before…

"Blast…" He ripped his tie from his neck and unfastened the top button of his dress shirt. His suit coat was hanging on the back of his chair.

He still felt impelled to wear his tailor-made, Saville Row suits, despite Wilton saying he didn't always need to be so formal. The old man had opted for comfort over style years ago. He enjoyed the ease of wearing an open-necked shirt, casual wear and a comfortable button-through sweater that had seen better days. But then, he was no longer the face of Knight Industries. He'd employed Devon to take over that role.

And it suited Devon to do so. Through the years spent working for the US State Department, he'd lived within the expensive cloth for too long to go without the formal protection the suits offered in his new employment. A sharp suit and a stern look assured him he had their full attention in his dealings with clients and subordinates alike.

He ran a hand up and around the back of his neck as he sank into his desk chair. Of course, there had been a time when he couldn't afford such expensive luxuries. His overworked mind flowed back into the past, to the time when he didn't have a use for formal outfits.

He closed his eyes as he fought not to remember. But as always, the memories came flooding back as soon as he relaxed back in his chair.

Thirty-one years ago, even his name had been different. And he'd called another country home. Following the Second World War, London had been a grimy and devastated city.

Unbidden memory tugged at the edges of his consciousness. He didn't want to remember. It was still too painful. Someone had once said, ignorance was bliss.

Devon grimaced tiredly. "How wrong that confounded idiot was!"

He was no longer that idealistic young man who'd been ordered to go deep undercover by the British Secret Service to ferret out Nazi spies and bring them to rough justice. His lips thinned as Schrödinger's blasted experiment in quantum mechanics resurfaced in his mind. If he never opened the box to see if the cat was alive or dead, then he could live with the forlorn hope of maybe, perhaps…

He sat up in his chair and opened his eyes. "For God's sake, I'm Devon Miles, the powerful, second in command of FLAG! I can do anything I blasted well please!"

Except make his final peace with a past that should be long dead and gone. And on another continent entirely. But she was always there, every time he closed his eyes and thought back in time…

'Edward…'

His gut clenched as he remembered the soft, crisp English tones of her voice as they'd washed over him on their final day together. He'd already turned away from her, leaving her standing forlorn and alone on the platform of Piccadilly train station.

He was on his way to a new assignment in Paris and leaving her behind. He'd always hoped to see her again even if it was against all the confounded rules their masters had drummed into them.

'Hope…' His lips twisted.

Once he'd believed in that ideal. In the ethereal promise of a happy ever after. Devon shook my head. 'Such is the stuff that dreams are made of…'

It was the generous curve of her mouth that he couldn't forget. That last sight he had of her, he treasured. Her lips were turned down slightly at the corners, lending her sweet face a more solemn look that matched the sadness in her eyes as he left her standing there.

"Lucy…" he'd called her name for the last time as the train had carried him away to his unknown future. "'Cuisle mo chroí…" he whispered the words from his Irish childhood as she vanished into the cloud of steam and smoke that billowed across the platform. "The pulse of my heart…"

His lips curved with sensual memory. They'd often joked about how much her cover name had suited her. A suitable diminutive for a petite woman. Devon reminded himself once again that dynamite also came in such neat packages. If he was in a teasing mood, which he always seemed to be with her, he called her his Luciana.

The name meant light. And his arms, she'd felt as light as gossamer and just as fragile. The soft glow of her unquenchable spirit had warmed his deeply cynical soul. For a little while, he'd allowed himself to dream.

Of course, that name had been as fake as his. He never learned her real one in case he blurted it out by mistake at the wrong moment. Like in the throes of passion or under the threat of danger. But to him, she would always live on in his memory as Lucy.

'My Luciana…'

"Forget her…" Devon shook his head as he sat up and picked up his pen.

There was still a mountain of work to do, and Lucy was still dead. Despite everything – and Schrodinger's blasted cat – nothing and no one could change that single, immutable fact. She was long dead, and he was alone with his tortured memories and deep regrets.

He paused and frowned. In his own way, he was trapped and as much a slave to his painful memories as the young man who'd been strapped down to that hospital bed upstairs for his own safety. The idea gave him no comfort at all.

"Blast…" he said again with a long sigh as he lowered his gaze back to his work and forced his distracted mind to concentrate on the here and now…

※※※※※

"Aw, come on…" Michael Long moved his head restlessly against his pillows.

He was sick of the waiting and the endless darkness. He knew he'd been lying in this confounded bed for weeks. Now that he was no longer strapped down and imprisoned by tubes and wires, he was allowed to get up for the essential functions and to have his bedding changed.

Which was both a blessing and a curse. He wanted to explore his immediate environment, but he was under strict orders not to move from the chair beside the bed without help. And on no account was he to touch his bandages or attempt to remove them. Then he was flat on his back again to endure more endless hours of waiting.

The lack of action gnawed at him, shortening his temper. With his face and eyes still heavily bandaged – and itching like the very devil - he'd come to rely on his other senses for information. In the bleak hours of forced inaction, he listened intently to the sounds around him and tried to decipher them. He'd become very good at it, using his detective skills to turn things into a macabre guessing game.

He'd identified four main players in his game. The doc, Michael knew well as the man who gave the medical orders. Then there was the sweet-tempered nurse who tended to his daily needs. Her soft perfume was intoxicating.

He shook his head. He couldn't forget the man who came most often to visit with him. That one gave the real orders, but he also brought the sense of sickness and age with him. Lastly, there was the younger man, clipped and impatient. He seemed to be totally against Michael's presence in the house and wanted him gone as soon as possible. His simmering air of impatience always preceded him into the room the few times he'd shown up.

"Well, I didn't ask to be brought here," Michael complained, moving his body against the crisp sheets. "But I sure wish someone would tell me what the hell is going on! And why am I here? Last thing I remember is being shot! And what happened to Muntzy? I need to know!"

He knew it was late and there was no one around. No one to answer his questions or reassure him this forced imprisonment would soon be at an end.

Suddenly, the soft sound of the door to the room opening and closing caught his frowning attention. "Who's there?" he muttered, even though he already knew.

It was the old man again. The one who often brought a sense of deep impatience and burning sickness with him. Michael waited for a reply.

"It's only me. Wilton Knight. I heard you talking, and I came to look in on you to see why you're awake, Mr Long. Sometimes I have trouble sleeping myself."

"Wilton Knight…" Michael tested the name as he listened to the old man crossing the room.

It was the first time anyone had formally identified themselves. He appreciated the small courtesy, even if it was rather late in the piece. They already knew his name.

He'd deduced his visitor was old because of the quavering depth of his voice which spoke of a deep sense of earthly weariness and things still left undone. Old because of the tapping cane that always accompanied the man's uncertain steps and that ever-present sense of incurable sickness.

"Please, sit down, Mr Knight," Michael invited as if the room was his home. "You sound done in."

"Oh, young man. If only you knew…" The old man sank into the chair beside the bed. "And call me Wilton. I feel like we've become friends over these past few weeks."

"Yeah, well, I don't have too many of those…" Michael's hand moved restlessly on the covers. "I'm awake because I've been thinking about Muntzy. No one has told me about him, so I can guess you're all trying not to upset me and set me back. Tell me the truth. He… didn't make it, did he?"

He plucked at the sheets. "I mean, I found him in the casino carpark. He'd been shot. I tried to get him help, but…"

Wilton grounded his cane heavily. "I'm truly sorry, young man. But there was nothing we could do for your partner. We barely managed to save you. We managed, thanks to your very hard head and stubborn refusal to die quietly."

"Thanks…" Michael moved restlessly in the bed. "At least, it's a straight answer. The first one I've had since I've been here... We were more than just partners, you know. Muntzy was my very good friend. Maybe my only friend. I was supposed to have his back, and I blew it. I..."

Wilton leaned forward to touch his forearm. "From what I've managed to learn since I brought you here, you were both sold out and set up. It wasn't your fault. There was nothing you could have done."

Michael clenched one hand. "Maybe. But I'll just never know, will I?" He sighed bitterly. "Tell me something else. What's going on in this place? What is it you people are doing out there?"

He waved a hand toward the floor-to-ceiling windows on the other side of the room. "Day and night, I hear voices outside. People coming and going from vehicles. And there's always a heck of a lot of complaining."

Wilton fiddled with the head of his cane. "Nothing that should occupy your thoughts. You're to concentrate on getting well. Then we will talk."

Michael stared at him even if he couldn't see through the bandages covering his eyes. "For a man who talks like he's on his last legs, you worry an awful lot about other people."

Wilton chuckled softly as he tightened his grip on Michael's arm. "Right now, I'm only worrying about you. I paid good money to keep you alive."

Michael moved his arm fractionally away from the old man's touch. "Okay, then why me? How did I become so important to you? I've got a good ear for voices and yours I'd never heard before I came here."

"Didn't you know?" Wilton replied with an undercurrent of humour in his tone. "I'm America's foremost champion of the underdog. I fight for what is right and true."

Michael inhaled sharply. "Is that what I am to you? A cause to fight for?"

"Most certainly. You can't be much more under than dead. And that is what you are to the world. Michael Long is dead and buried. I'm told it was a very nice funeral."

"Thanks. I'm glad I wasn't there…" Michael raised a denying hand. "Don't think I'm not grateful to you and the doc for saving me. But I don't like living in the dark. I keep seeing things that I can live without."

"I understand," Wilton replied sympathetically. "Then I have good news for you. Tomorrow morning, you're finally going to come out into the light."

Michael froze. "The bandages?" Right then he wanted to sit up and hug the old man. "They're finally coming off?"

"The bandages are finally coming off." Wilton nodded. "You no longer have any need for them."

"Thank God…" Michael breathed as he put one questing hand to his face. "But I'm not sure I want to see what's behind these. I mean, I was… shot in the face, you know. I'm betting I ain't pretty anymore."

"Oh, I know all about that unfortunate event," Wilton replied as he rose from his chair and briefly clasped Michael's shoulder. "I can only say I hope you will be happy with what you will see."

"Yeah, me too…" Michael muttered as he turned his face away to stare at the windows he still couldn't see.

He listened to the old man - Wilton Knight - leave the room as quietly as he'd entered. There was nothing more they needed to say. Tomorrow couldn't come soon enough.

※※※※※

The warm morning sunshine spilled into the room as Dr Wesley stood over Michael who was lying impatiently in his bed. Wilton looked on anxiously from across the room as one by one, the tape holding the bandages was slowly removed.

Devon entered the room abruptly and moved to stand behind his employer. "I have good news for you. The Knight Two Thousand will be ready by –"

Wilton waved an impatient hand. "Shhhh... Not now. Tell me later." He moved forward and left Devon looking mystified and frustrated.

Devon shook his head. "I work these people around the clock and suddenly you aren't interested."

Then he too became curious about the removal of the final strip of adhesive and watched as Dr Wesley began to unwrap Michael's face. Wilton moved in to stand beside him, and Devon stepped up behind the two other men.

A new face was slowly revealed. It was ruggedly handsome and shiny from the expert surgeries that left barely a trace. Michael lay still with the pads covering his eyes. He made no move to touch them. He lay stiffly, almost seeming not to want to know the final outcome.

Dr Wesley picked up the two pads and removed them. Last were the soft strips of gauze covering Michael's closed eyes.

The three men standing beside the bed stared at the face that had been revealed. Michael opened his eyes slowly and looked all around, blinking in the light. His gaze quickened as he turned his head to stare at the men looking back at him silently. None of their faces revealed their thoughts but immediately Michael suspected the worst.

"That bad, huh?" he asked in a low, resigned tone. "I knew it. You should've left me for dead. I'd be better off."

Dr Wesley smiled warmly. "On the contrary, young man. That good. An excellent job, even if I do say so myself."

He reached to the bedside table and picked up a hand mirror. "Here. Why don't you go look for yourself?"

Almost reluctantly, Michael accepted it and moved it in front of his face. He slowly opened his eyes wider, but his wondering expression clouded.

"Perfection…" Wilton whispered. "I knew I was right to choose this face…"

"Who is it?" Michael demanded to know, staring at the image in the mirror. "It isn't me. It doesn't look anything like me. What did you do with my old face? I want it back!"

"Your entire past is dead and gone," Devon commented impatiently. "The surgery has given you a second chance to live. Or would you prefer to walk around with a face that could get you killed all over again? Your killers have not been caught."

"Yeah, okay…" Michael frowned as he raised his fingers to feel the unfamiliar contours of his new face. "At least, the eyes are still mine. You didn't try to take them away."

Wilton intervened impatiently. "Take my word for it, young man. You'll be much happier with this face. It's a good look. The doc here did some exceptional work. It's what I pay him for."

Devon leaned in. "We'll leave you in Dr Wesley's capable hands for now."

He placed an encouraging hand on his employer's arm. "I need to speak with you in private. It's urgent."

"Very well…" Wilton nodded sharply. "If you must. I'll be right back, Michael."

He allowed Devon to draw him away to the open windows on the far side of the room. From their vantage point, they looked down into the vast area behind the house where the large industrial complex had been built. Workers were coming and going from the side door and Bonnie Barstow glanced up at them as she entered the building to begin her next double shift.

Devon watched the activity as he eased into the subject that was uppermost in his mind. "Does it strike you that there's an uncanny resemblance between this fellow behind us, and you as a young man?"

Wilton shot him a withering glare. He didn't reply, but his subordinate felt his displeasure.

Devon shrugged. "Just my imagination, I'm sure. A trick of the light."

"If I were you, I'd stick to your task. I need to know. When will I see it?"

Devon lifted his broad shoulders. "I tried to tell you just before when I came in. Tonight, it will finally be ready."

"Tonight…" Wilton released a slow sigh of contentment. "Excellent. Then my work is almost complete. I'm looking forward to the rest. Sometimes, I feel as if I've been running for the last fifty years and getting nowhere."

"I understand…" Devon replied gently as the older man shook his head before returning to the bedside of the young man whose life he'd saved for some secret purpose of his own.

Devon looked after him before he turned his attention back to the huge building below. The laboratory that held top-secret plans for the long-term future of Knight Industries. The revelation tonight was only the first step in a very long journey.

He shook his head as he wondered how soon they could get rid of the annoying Michael Long and get back to the real business at hand. The business of saving the world from itself before it was too late.

※※※※※