Andromeda’s Choice by William C. Dietz

Forms, to the pistol-like stunners issued to police officers, and the last-chance kill switches located at the base of each robot’s neck. They were intentionally hard to access. But if McKee could turn George off, and do so quickly enough, the initial part of her plan would work. If she failed, George would call for help, and security would respond in a matter of minutes.
    â€œThere it is,” McKee said, as she pointed at the hairbrush. “If you would pick it up, I would be grateful.”
    George was constitutionally unable to refuse any reasonable request from a passenger and bent to do her bidding. And that exposed the back of its neck.
    McKee was ready to act and did so. Her fingers went to the correct spot, thumbed the protective cover out of the way, and flipped the switch. The result was instantaneous. The robot produced a violent jerk, went limp, and collapsed.
    McKee felt a tremendous sense of satisfaction. The deactivation had been so swift, so sure, that George had no opportunity to radio for help. Then, as she looked down at the robot’s inert body, she realized what a fool she’d been. George was facedown. And that meant she couldn’t access the android’s control interface without rolling him over. No small task since the machine weighed at least fifty pounds more than she did—and was lying in the narrow space between her bed and the built-in wardrobe.
    So as McKee wrestled with the robot’s body, precious seconds would be coming off the clock. How long until one of the ship’s computers pinged George, failed to get a response, and sent a repair tech to its last location? Twenty minutes? Ten? McKee swore and went to work.
    After attempting to muscle George onto its back and failing, McKee began to grab whatever objects were handy and wedge them under the right side of the android’s body. That had the gradual effect of lifting George up off the deck, and holding it there, while she went to collect more materials. Pillows, towels, and uniforms were all put to use. And, bit by bit, McKee managed to roll the robot onto its side and from there to its back.
    Finally, with the robot in the desired position, McKee glanced at her chrono. The better part of five minutes had passed. She could feel the sheen of perspiration that covered her brow and made use of a sleeve to wipe it away.
Focus,
she told herself,
focus on the task at hand.
    Having placed the nanomesh gloves and the roll of cyber tools on the bed next to her, McKee planted one foot on each side of George’s body and sat on its chest. Then she aimed a pen-sized laser at the robot’s visual receptors and triggered a series of blips. McKee heard a click as one side of George’s face opened to reveal a control interface so small she had to use probes to manipulate the color-coded dimple switches.
    After she pressed the correct buttons in the correct sequence, a tiny screen came to life. That was McKee’s cue to take control of the android’s Distributed Processing Swarm (DPS) and make the necessary changes.
    In order to do that, she needed to put the field-programmable cybergloves on. They were composed of nanomesh computing cores that could convert microgestures into instructions and transmit them to a DPS. Thanks to some recent practice on Orlo II, McKee’s movements were quite fluid as her fingers danced, and code scrolled down the tiny screen. The plan was to leave most of the robot’s programming intact so that George would continue to perform its duties until she called upon it to assist her. Then, once the deed was done, all the changes would disappear.
    That was the way it was supposed to work anyway—but McKee was still at it when the doorbell rang. She swore, sent some final instructions into the hacked interface, and felt George stir beneath her. Its face was still in the process of closing as it spoke. “I am ready, Miss. What can I do for you?”
    The bell rang