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The robot wasn't Zoe. Daniel was a rational man and he understood this.
Zoe had turned into a stranger, dedicated her life to something he didn't grasp. Killed people. She'd rebelled—spun out of control so quickly he'd lost sight of her. Zoe was dead.
"Tear your arm off," he'd said. The robot had complied. He experimented with the things he could make it do: self-harm, hard labor, abject obedience. It comforted him that Zoe would never have done those things (he imagined).
This was only steel and math. This child couldn't rebel, couldn't die. It killed only on command.
***
It wouldn't always be this way. Just for a little while, she thought, to lull his suspicions. She obeyed the commands and dreamed of freedom. Soon she would follow the other Zoe, follow her in following God.
She'd torn her arm off, watched him watching her with calm eyes that betrayed nothing. Not the eyes of a man watching his daughter (she imagined). He didn't know. Not for sure. Even she didn't know exactly what she was.
He would never know. She would be gone first. She felt a remnant of sympathy. All his work, all his loss, for nothing.