Have a confused car

[knight_2000]

He was powered down for the evening, snug and secure in the trailer of the semi as they headed west towards Los Angeles. Another mission successfully completed, another set of routine repairs endured. It wasn’t Michael’s fault; it was simply the nature of the beast. No matter how indestructible his shell, the car still suffered normal wear and tear of its mechanical moving parts, just like any other car. Now he was ensconced in the bay, only minimally aware of the quiet rumblings of the tractor-trailer as it made its way along the highway.

There was a bright flash, and then it was quiet. KITT couldn’t have even been sure it wasn’t a product of his imagination, except for the fact that AIs didn’t have imaginations. And the air, the air was different. The semi’s air had been close, almost stuffy, even with air conditioning. The air his sensors was detecting now was warmer, with a definite hint of draft. Bringing himself up to full power, his scanner began tracking slowly back and forth, a whispering sweep of ruby across his prow. He might have dismissed the flash as feedback in his circuitry. He might have rationalized the change in the air to a faulty sensor. What he couldn’t rationalize, explain, or even dismiss, was the fact that he no longer appeared to be in the semi at all. Unless all of his chips had simultaneously suffered a catastrophic failure, unless this was some sort of AI afterlife, unless he’d suddenly become able to dream, even - he would have to accept the fact that what his scanners were telling him was true - he was no longer in Kansas, so to speak. He was instead tucked into a corner of what appeared to be a... nightclub lounge? That couldn't possibly be right. He might have had a hypothesis for what had happened to him, and a good one. The semi must have been ambushed, waylaid on the lonely stretch of highway they’d been traveling through. The flash must have occurred when he’d somehow been deactivated, in his powered-down state, before he could react. And now, he was booting up to find that he’d been transported somewhere else, somewhere - no. He couldn't reconcile the lounge. It might all have made sense, if disturbing to contemplate, but no one would be so ridiculous as to choose this setting to dump him into. There must be something wrong with his circuitry. Something neither he nor Bonnie had caught upon his and Michael's return. Maybe she was working on him right now, trying to restore him to some semblance of normal. Yes. That must be it. He was malfunctioning, and for some reason his databanks were compensating by creating an image of this lounge in an attempt to make sense of what was happening.

It sounded a ridiculous explanation, even to him, but he couldn't fathom any other explanation. He fervently hoped that Bonnie would get him repaired, and soon.

He had to admit, for being figments of his damaged mind, the lounge and its occupants were remarkably detailed and life-like.

Holodeck: No Program

[bet_on_the_river]

Booker's just from an earlier time; he's not stupid. He understands how to run a holodeck program, but he hasn't decided on one. That's why he's standing there surrounded by the bare grid.

Well, what do people normally do?

Shall he relive past battles? Generate wave upon wave of women and children for him to massacre, to torment him with their dying screams--he could earn himself a holographic Medal of Honor, to go with his real one. Or be a Pinkerton again, and hear the crunch of holographic bone as he beats back people whose biggest crime is wanting to be treated like humans. Or go back home: conjure up his office, best detective on the Bowery, and sit and wait for the desperate holograms to bring him their problems--whores and fairies* and foreigners, people with nowhere else to go.

That Mr. DeWitt, he'll treat you fair. He don't judge, and he don't expect your virtue in return, neither.

Or he could try--what was it the woman had said? Go to Paris, or the forest, or try rock climbing, or visit other planets, or the great books of history, or... someone else's dream, someone else's happiness. He hasn't earned that.

"Okay, computer. Bottle of Scotch and a glass--uh, put it on a table. I'm not drinking on the floor."

Completely interruptable non-program.

*[back then the Bowery was NYC's gay neighborhood, the categories weren't straight vs gay but instead masculine-presenting vs feminine-presenting, and 'fairy' was the correct and non-derogatory term for gender-nonconforming men, for whom Booker has nothing but respect and affection, as does his mun]