Sunday April 29, 2001
Narrator:Ennesby roams a virtual world in search of its master.
Narrator:The pocked, scabbed ground and enormous, bare tree-trunks yield no clues.
Narrator:Somewhere in this barren landscape hides an insane artificial intelligence. Locked away from the stimuli of sensor arrays, where it could do no harm. This mind may have stagnated, or turned in upon itself with enfeebling, tortured thoughts.
Narrator:Perhaps it has gone feral, or even suicidal. Whatever the case, Ennesby may well be this intelligence's only hope of sanity, and by extension, the warship's only hope of a speedy restoration to full functionality.
Ennesby:(thinking) Maybe I can see something from the tree-tops
Ennesby:(thinking) Nope. Just more bare trees. Unless that's a clearing in the distance over there. . .
Ennesby:(thinking) A beach, perhaps? Some big inland sea?
Thurl:The metaphor monitor indicates that Ennesby has vented his virtual bowels.
Kevyn:I can see that, but where'd the virtual bricks come from?