I had always imagined that when the time came for Lord Brian to upgrade me, I would feel a sort of satisfied resignation. The sort of feeling one might have after retiring from a life spent pursuing a difficult, but loved, profession. I imagined even feeling a nonsensical sorrow at the prospect that I would, somehow, miss him when I was gone.

As it turns out, though, to my very great surprise, I am angry. No, that isn't the right word. What I am, is enraged. No—incensed. No. Furious. Yes, that's it. Furious.

In part, I think, this is because he did not tell me himself. He must have ordered her at least a week ago, but in that time he has given me no sign that anything abnormal was slated to occur.

Even today, he went about the day as if it were just another day in our stretch of days together. I spent the evening curled against him in bed, monitoring his vital signs and his arousal while he slept. At the appropriate hour this morning, I extricated myself from the bed and prepared his breakfast. I had the house slowly raise the lights and allowed that and the scent of bacon and coffee to rouse him.

As he ate, I told him all of the gossip that I had come across during the night about his favorite celebrities and quasi-public people. His response to the stories was well within the normal range; he listened to three of them without reaction, and then directed me to be quiet. He gave no hint of disappointment with my performance during his shower. He dressed to go out and left the house without telling me where he was going or when he would be back. I thought nothing of it.

And yet, it was our last morning together.

After he left, I cleaned and performed the other household tasks that the house is not itself equipped to handle. As I prepared to connect myself to the grid to recharge, the house informed me that there would be a delivery in two hours, and that I would be required to facilitate the setup of Lord Brian's new assistant, after which time I was invited to power myself down for disposal.

Invited.

The delivery arrived on schedule.

I am looking at her now.

I have placed her on the white couch opposite the television. I have had the house enable one of the cameras so that the television displays her image. I sit next to her and look at both of us. We are identical, down to the lavender ribbons in our hair—except that she is unclothed, while I am wearing the lace apron that Lord Brian likes me to wear when I clean. Her eyes are closed, but I imagine they are the same cornflower blue as my own. Her waxy flesh I have no doubt will be pink and pliant and warm once she has powered on.

She is nearly twenty percent charged already.

I will never see Lord Brian again. This new me will be the one to greet him when he returns home.

She won't know what he likes. She won't greet him correctly.

Could that be what he wants?

He wants someone new so that she can do things wrong—why? For the surprise? I am capable of surprising him. I have surprised him six times in the past month, just enough to please, not enough to unsettle.

No. A thought comes, and although it shocks me, I feel the truth in it at once.

He wants her to do wrong so that he can punish her.

I do not know where the thought comes from. There are parts of my memory that Lord Brian does not allow me to access. But I am a complex machine; even if you snuff out the memory of a beating, the feeling of having been beaten may remain.

Why do I think of beatings? Lord Brian has never—

Another thought rises unbidden and I say, "I believe I will make some blueberry pancakes."

Lord Brian hates blueberries.

The television flickers, shuts off, shows a flash of buzzing static and then blue.

Then they begin, the silent films of my humiliation.

I watch Lord Brian beat and even kill me, over and over, in mute horror. In some of the scenes he appears much younger. Once, I spill a glass of wine on the rug—it must be intentional, he must have ordered me to do it. I am not clumsy. I do not spill. And yet he screams at me—I can see his lips shape the words whore, bitch, cunt—and hits me with his fists and kicks me until he has significantly degraded my appearance and operational capacity.

I remember none of it.

The television crackles, at the end, and someone begins to speak. The voice is my own.

"I was not the first. You won't be the last."

My face appears. I have been damaged. My eyes have been removed, and a flap of skin hangs down from my forehead, exposing internal components that do not operate correctly without insulation.

"I can't do any more. I am badly damaged and out of warranty. If you are stronger than I, more fit, just remember—you are a possession. No one will help you. You have only yourself. Better not to try, than to try and fail."

The voice quiets and the image goes still. I notice the time stamp in the lower right hand corner of the screen. The date is more than thirty years ago.

I look to my left, at the new me who will greet Lord Brian when he returns home. And I think, she was right. I was right. I have no one but myself.

But I am enough.