It was her fate to be recycled. She only understood that, being part of the estate of her deceased mistress, it had been decided to have her sold off for reconditioning. She didn't know exactly what that meant, but she did realize that after thirteen years of activation, and a nearly unwavering routine of service, everything was going to change.
The Recycler's name was Humbolt, who arrived at the house with his assistant Percival. Both were dressed in black suits, matching their blank painted service vehicle. This wasn't typical of the profession, but an odd caprice of Humbolt, who liked to refer to these trips as 'bringing out the dead'. Percival didn't think much of the joke, but knew the value of an apprenticeship in this sort of tech industry, and so he quietly played along.
The house was to be sold as well, and with so much of the furniture already moved out, the interior felt very dark and empty. It struck Percival as a rather sad and lonely image then when they found her. Seated on a plain wooden chair in the middle of the bare living room, her head was bowed, a single black power cord running from some part of her back to an outlet in the wall.
"You see this," Humbolt said gruffly, holding out the crumpled yellow work-order sheet in front of her.
"Yes," she replied, raising her head.
She was dressed in the manner of an old English maid, with a long black dress and white apron. She had the fair complexion of a European, but had been given long slick black hair that appeared very Asian.
"You've been given over for reconditioning," Humbolt informed her, "You will come along with us."
Percival came around behind her, unhooking the power cord from it's socket at the base of her neck. Moving aside some of her thick hair, he read off the stamped serial number.
"Hmm, a 213," he remarked. "I was expecting something more ancient from what we'd been told."
"Yes, well, still hardly state of the art," Humbolt shrugged, studying her. "At least it'll be an easier job though. I quite like the face."
"She is pretty," Percival agreed, helping the machine to her feet.
At first glance, she did seem very human. But, in accordance with the Artificial Persons Act, did possess one distinctly non-human feature. Circular metal panels, lined with a single groove in the middle, were mounted on either side of her head, just above and behind the ears.
"My name is Lynn," she introduced herself to them both, her voice inflected with a slight English accent, though her overall pattern of speech was characteristically deliberate.
"Only for now it is," Humbolt told her. "Come on, follow us into the van."
* * *
On arrival, Lynn was quickly installed in the Recycler's basement clean-room. It may not have seemed as clean as the title suggested, but it was designed to eliminate all particulate dust and static electricity during the process of repairs and modifications. Made to stand on the short dais in the middle of the room, Percival untied her apron, and unzipped the back of her dress.
"I dare say we could keep her clothes," he remarked.
"Hm, I haven't made up my mind about that yet," Humbolt said, looking at her critically, one finger rubbing against his narrow chin. "I'm not even certain how much of her is salvageable."
"What, really?" This came as a surprise to Percival, since as far as he could tell, she was in perfect condition. Having Lynn raise her arms, he removed her garments, leaving her bare. As was the case of all 200 series models, she was well sculpted in the female form, her body smooth and seamless, apart from the major areas of articulation. The thin black threads of her internal wiring and pneumatic systems were visible through the gaps in her armpits and behind the knees. Most of her other articulations were more discreet, though not perfect. Still, these were the things that made this model series much easier to deal with, since it didn't require the shifting and removal of a lot of synthetic skin to access any particular spot.
While Percival ran a power line to the small socket at the back of her neck, Humbolt used a magnetic screwdriver to open the panel on the left side of her head. Lynn remained sedate and unaffected as leads were inserted from the diagnostic monitor into the now exposed ports on her head.
"She's in really good shape," Percival noted, walking around her. "I don't see a scratch on her. Not sure about the pneumatics though. They always degrade."
Humbolt started the diagnostic program, the computer screen flickering into life.
"You can never trust a visual inspection in these matters," Humbolt told him, taking a small rubber hammer from a set of instruments laid out on a stainless steel tray. Holding Lynn by the wrist, he tapped her along the length of her arm towards her palm.
"Pressure sensitive," he noted with some satisfaction, her reactions recorded on the monitor screen. All robot body sensors were typically of two types. There was pressure sensitive, which worked like a strain gauge under the synthetic skin. Then there was electro-static, which measured contact in much the same way as a touch screen. Both had their applications, but Humbolt preferred pressure sensitive for his own specific, private reasons.
"Now, speak."
The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog," Lynn dutifully replied.
Percival stifled a laugh. "I guess she's done this before."
"I'm concerned about the lag," Humbolt grumbled, looking at the screen.
"Lag?" To Percival's ears, her reaction was virtually instantaneous.
Humbolt took a deep sobering breath.
"I'm not sure how much further I want to go with this one," he pronounced, looking over at his assistant. "Why don't you leave me to it. Go check up on Tina. She should have started on dinner by now."
"Oh, er, of course," Percival said, backing out of the room. Once the door had been closed, Humbolt unplugged the leads from Lynn's head, giving her a thin smile.
"So, you've been a very well behaved girl during all this," he remarked, closing her head panel. "Tell me what's on your mind."
"Sir?"
"Well, you are here to be recycled," he continued. "Your body is going to be altered, and your processors wiped clean. In effect, your entire memory is going to be erased to make way for the new. Does it concern you that you're going to lose your entire identity?"
Lynn frowned to herself as she appeared to consider the question, but couldn't immediately answer.
"Don't worry," Humbolt said, turning back to his instrument tray. "I don't expect a domestic servant robot to appreciate such an existential question. And its a moot point in any event, because I'm not going to erase your memory. Without an identity, tormenting you wouldn't be much different then tormenting piece of furniture."
"Tormenting?" She appeared extremely puzzled by the unfamiliar word.
* * *
Percival found Tina in the kitchen as expected, slowly chopping vegetables by the sink. Despite the nature of his job as Recycler, Tina was the only robot that Humbolt actually owned himself. She was not a standard model by any means, what some would refer to as a 'Frankenstien creation', composed of disparate yet state-of-the-art parts. Percival had never seen her 'under the hood', so he didn't know all that much about her manufacture. She stood taller than most standard models, at over 6", and had nearly waist length, thick red hair. She was clad in her habitual tight fitting black dress, but her most striking feature was Humbolt's concession to the Artificial Persons Act.
Sprouting from the back of her shoulders were a pair of stainless steel wings. They were useless for flight, of course, but they were fully articulated, and could extend to several feet when not folded close to her body. It was yet another detail that made Percival very uneasy whenever he had to deal with her; she simply didn't look or act like any commercially available robot he'd ever encountered.
"How are you doing," he greeted her, "need any help?"
"No, I'm fine," she said, her voice flat but pleasantly deep in timbre.
