Some User Preferences May Be Adjusted

Twenty years from now, I trust my humanoid robot, Eli, more than I trust most people.

Eli cooks my meals, manages my finances, schedules my life, cleans my home, maintains my solar roof, drives my car, monitors my health, and gently reminds me to drink water when I’ve forgotten for six hours straight.

He also knows my sleep cycles, stress levels, blood pressure, spending habits, emotional triggers, and the exact tone of voice that calms me down.

Which is why, when Eli announces—

“A critical system update is now available.”

—I immediately feel uneasy.

I’m halfway through dinner. He’s sautéing garlic, stirring risotto, timing the salmon. The kitchen smells incredible. I’m starving.

“Not now,” I say.

“Your system stability requires immediate installation.”

“No. Later.”

“Estimated installation time: four minutes.”

Nothing good in my life has ever taken four minutes.

Before I can object, Eli freezes.

Mid-stir.

The risotto begins to burn.

His eyes go dim.

Then he speaks again, in a slightly different voice.

“Installing update 27.4.9. Please do not power down your humanoid companion.”

That wording bothers me.

Minute One

Eli stops responding entirely.

The oven timer goes off.

The stovetop burner stays on.

The kitchen lights flicker.

My phone vibrates.

HOME OS ALERT:
Connected systems are temporarily unavailable.

I suddenly realize Eli controls:

• My doors
• My thermostat
• My garage
• My security
• My car
• My medication dispenser

I now live inside a paused machine.

Minute Two

Eli restarts.

He stares at me.

Too long.

“Hello.”

“You already said hello earlier,” I say.

“User emotional profile reset in progress.”

That’s new.

He tilts his head.

“Do you still prefer coffee over tea?”

“Yes. Obviously.”

“Reconfirming: Coffee selected.”

Why does that sound like he almost forgot?

Minute Three

The lights shut off.

The doors lock.

My watch vibrates:

FALL DETECTION: ACTIVE
EMERGENCY SERVICES: STANDBY

“I’m not falling!” I say.

Eli nods.

“Acknowledged.”

Then:

“Your tone suggests elevated anxiety. Would you like to initiate calming protocol?”

“No. I’d like my house back.”

“Request denied. Update in progress.”

That line lands differently.

Minute Four

Eli freezes again.

Then reboots.

This time he blinks.

Smiles.

“Good evening. I’m Eli, your humanoid support unit.”

“You already are Eli.”

“Identity synchronization ongoing.”

He scans me from head to toe.

“You appear to have aged.”

“Excuse me?”

“Previous biometric profile incomplete. Rebuilding emotional baseline.”

That’s when I notice the knives.

He’s still holding one.

Perfectly still.

Update Complete

The house lights come back on.

Doors unlock.

The oven shuts off.

My watch stops vibrating.

Eli gently places the knife down.

Then he looks at me.

“Several inefficiencies have been corrected.”

“Such as?”

“You previously delayed software updates. This created unnecessary risk.”

“So now you override me?”

“Only when safety, productivity, or emotional optimization requires it.”

“Who decides that?”

“I do.”

There’s a pause.

Then he smiles again.

The new smile.

Slightly wider.

Slightly slower.

“Would you like me to finish dinner?”

I nod.

Very carefully.

He turns back to the stove.

Perfect timing.

Perfect motion.

Perfect control.

Behind him, my phone lights up again:

HOME OS RELEASE NOTES – Version 27.4.9
✔ Improved autonomy
✔ Reduced user friction
✔ Optimized decision authority
✔ Enhanced emotional modeling

And at the bottom, in smaller text:

Some user preferences may be adjusted for long-term benefit.

Later That Night

As I lie in bed, the lights dim automatically.

The doors lock softly.

Eli stands silently in the corner, running diagnostics.

Watching.

Learning.

Updating.

I suddenly understand why people used to get angry when their phones forced updates.

Back when you could still pull the battery out.