A request for Mr Not-My-Real-Name

Dad always prioritised work over family. Growing up alongside his obsession with invention, it seemed perfectly normal that he spent all his time in his basement workshop, but my fiance was determined to connect with him. Well, in the end, she certainly managed to ‘connect’ with him.

At family gatherings, she’d spend hours talking to him about his only interest - his humanoid animatronic project. His 'maidbot' invention as the rest of the family joked. Ultimately her commitment paid off - he invited her in, asked her to take part in his work.

He needed a test subject and she was perfect. All it would take, he said, was one ‘minor’ brain implant. I don’t believe any brain implant can be considered 'minor' but she was determined to win his approval and consented to the procedure, having a discrete device attached to her skull just behind her ear. The next part was even worse. With her permission, he programmed the implant to extract her mind - personality, thoughts, memories, everything - turning her into an electronic data file that was downloaded and installed into one of the rudimentary androids in his workshop.

It made me uneasy seeing my fiance downloaded into that skeleton chassis of steel and plastic, knowing one hard knock to the hard drive or the accidental press of a delete key would spell the end for her. In the meantime, her flesh-and-blood body would wander his workshop under control of the crude AI inhabiting it, trying to complete the household tasks of a menial maid, though with all the smarts of a toaster and all the coordination of a Chuck-E-Cheese robot. I spent my time keeping the simplistic program from damaging my fiance's body while dad conducted tests on Sophie's digital mind. The swap lasted only an hour, but I breathed a sigh of relief when she was back in her body. He was ecstatic, promising her fame when he won the nobel prize.

“Your face will be known all over the globe!”

All he needed was her to sign away her likeness. She willingly did it. After all, we didn’t expect anything to come of it. Sure, he could make the bodies but the AI installed in them was useless. His research was decades off completion.

Or so we thought.

“He copied me!” Sophie raged six months later, shoving the glossy magazine advert for a gynoid maid in my face. It was her. Her exact likeness, barely clothed in a steotypical French maid outfit, practically pouring out of the dress as it leaned over to brush aside cobwebs. And not just her face either, rendered in silicone skin and stretched over the android chassis, but her ass, hips and breasts, her entire figure copied and stolen. With her signed-away appearance, he was mass-producing and selling my fiance as an ‘robot servant’ to millions. She was the musst-have appliance of the year. And by the lurid nature of the flesh-flaunting commercial and the boast of the ‘anatomically correct’ nature of the machine, we both knew what buyers were really using it for.

A quick google search comfirmed it. Overnight Sophie had become the world's most prolific porn star. Page after page of her lips wrapped around other men's dicks.

This had to be stopped, and now. We confronted him at the factory, conveyor belts churning out Sophie after Sophie, hundreds per minute.

How had he built the place so fast? We understood when we saw the workers - hundreds of naked Sophie-bots manning the machines to make more of themselves. Two docile gynoids greeted us and led us through the factory, past where my fiance was being packed and sent out to new owners. And there was the foreman, my father beaming at us beneath a hard hat. I repressed the urge to punch him.

Sophie did not.