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He had been stored in the warehouse for so long, no contact, no sound, not even light. His remaining systems - the ones not disconnected to prevent his escape - had shut down in self preservation long ago, but even so, he retained enough awareness of his surroundings to know when the great doors were rolled back.
He didn't have the energy reserves to react when a winch was attached to his undercarriage and he was dragged into the back of a truck - a semi, I remember a semi, Bonnie? - sealed back into darkness, and taken away.
Later, there was a confusion of lights and sounds, as long disused and degraded systems tried to adjust to the return of sensation. He heard snatches of conversation, words he could record but not process.
Dump the computer, we just need the shell. No one's been able to reproduce that formula reliably.
With respect, dumping the computer would be the worst thing you could do.
That's thirty year old technology. We can install Graiman's...
Twenty years before Charles Graiman even thought about producing an AI, Wilton Knight had a system that was elegant, adaptive, and self-aware. You will never match the computer in the Knight Two Thousand.
A long pause; his awareness began flickering out again.
Sir.
Something in the tone sparked memory: the way the word had been delivered, an afterthought that transformed it into an insult.
"Mi...chael?"
His voice wavered; he attempted, and failed, to adjust the voice modulator. Then he wondered why he had bothered. Michael had abandoned him years before, before the darkness and silence.
That thing's awake?
The system is mostly dormant. This is the first reaction we've gotten from it.
Excitement in the voice, and another spark of memory. Bonnie. But Bonnie was gone, and the voice was male; it couldn't be Bonnie.
"KITT? Can you hear me?"
The effort to respond seemed too great, and for long seconds - or perhaps time was still dilating in ways his processors couldn't compensate for - he didn't answer. Then, still in that slurred, damaged voice, so unlike the one he had carefully cultivated, "I hear you."
"Brilliant!"
Hands on his shell, where his sensors could barely feel them, and then the people who surrounded him, swarmed through the room at a distance, were poking and prodding. He was hooked up to something, and an outside computer queried his systems, attempted to override...
Programming as deep-seated as instinct flared to life, and defensive measures jumped into action before KITT was even aware he still had the capability to defend himself. He felt a surge of energy into his systems, and abruptly, for the first time in nearly twenty years, he was fully awake.
"Who are you?" Now he managed to adjust his voice, fine tuning it back into a semblance of the one he had crafted for himself; the modulator was damaged, and the tone was flat, tinny, but it would do. "Where am I?"
There was a shout of delight from the man currently under his hood, and KITT decided this must be the one who had spoken against dumping his system - his self - and keeping only the shell of the car. The others were at a distance, now, with only one tall man in an Army uniform focused on KITT. His insignia identified him as a three star general.
"Where am I?" he insisted. He tried his ignition, but several systems were still disconnected; the major functions of the car were outside of his control. He could speak and observe, but he couldn't act.
No, a quick diagnostic confirmed, that was not entirely true.
For a split second, he questioned the wisdom of alienating the one person who had spoken in his defense, then he activated his horn. It was, KITT thought with a little pride, the sort of thing Michael would have done.
The man under his hood jumped, smacking his head and swearing. "Shut that thing off!"
KITT overrode the computer command which followed the man's order, managing to increase the volume a few decibels before his horn was physically disconnected.
"So," the general said; his voice, slow and amused, drowned out the technician's angry cursing. "Jeremy wasn't exaggerating your capabilities. And it seems there's some fight in you yet."
"What do you want?"
"A great many things. And you are the key to most of them."
"I see no reason why I should help you with anything."
"Don't you? You'd still be locked up in storage, rotting away, without me."
KITT said nothing.
The general strolled a slow circle around him, then stopped at parade rest, directly in front of his primary scanner. "Who am I, KITT?"
Warily, KITT used his connection to the computer system nearest him to reach out. The world's information infrastructure had almost caught up with him, he discovered; there was data, so much data, and he filed away as much as he could for later perusal, even as he sought out military data banks, compared file photos with the man standing before him.
In just a few moments, he answered, "Your name is General Marcus Hammond. You were born in..."
Bright energy seared through him, blanking the data he had just accessed from his memory banks, making him forget why he had even cared to access it. "You are the General," he said, because that was the only thing that was relevant. "You are the one who had me reactivated."
He owed the General his life, his loyalty. It was a truth he couldn't begin to question.
The General smiled, seeming satisfied with his answer. "Very good, KITT. And I am glad to welcome you to the service of the United States Armed Forces."
"Thank you, General." Something about that seemed wrong - he had never been built as a military device, had he? A weapon? - but for the moment he couldn't seem to question what he was being told. He stored the questions, though; he would think about this all later, when there were fewer people about to distract him, when his slowed systems could give the answers the time and processing power he needed.
"Jeremy here will bring you back up to speed. I trust you will cooperate with him."
The system to which they had connected him was still attempting to overwhelm his central core; he doubted he could do much but cooperate. "Of course, General."
"Jeremy, take special care of our new recruit."
Jeremy, still rubbing his head where he'd hit it on KITT's hood, muttered something unintelligible, and KITT remembered how often he had counseled Michael against pointless acts of defiance which served only to anger his captors.
It was not a comforting thought.