2046
I wake up to a notification that our morning Soylent has arrived.
Our bottles pop out of the in-wall soyport, but a flavor canister is missing.
"Dear, did you renew our Tier 2 subscription?"
"We paused it for this week, remember? We're almost out of credits."
"You know I can't stand the base flavor," I groan.
"The best flavor is free. Drink up."
I throw C. a bottle. As I sip my own tasteless, milky drink, I scroll idly through our subscription on my overlay. After the blight, the FDA ruled for universal foodcare, but flavors are extra. I consider adding a Tier 4 tenderloin canister a la carte for C's upcoming birthday, but can't make our budget work.
C. pulls a subscription style out of the clothesport and steps into this month's loafer delivery. I catch myself ranking the outfit in my head. It is fine.
C's job isn't to have taste, but rather to cancel subscriptions. Every retention bot is trained on millions of cancellation attempts, and subscribers only have one chance to send transcripts to adjudication. Most don't even try. A few hire cancellers, like C., to work prompts and chance worming out of bad decisions such as sportscar subs.
"Later!"
"Bye!"
As I assemble my own outfit from a base wardrobe, I try to forget we're nearly broke.
My overlay plays a holofilm ad as I step into the office. I glaze past the title, but am surprised to see a tagline: "NINE HUMAN ACTORS." I can't remember the last time I'd seen this many. Deepfakes are good enough for all but the pickiest holophiles.
The models had eaten all object-level work, leaving only pockets of demand for organic time and attention. Citizens can subsist on a bland diet of slop media and base soylent for free. Taste, though, is reserved for those who pay. My job as a tastemaker is to provide signal a model can't predict.
I nestle in my booth as options scroll across my overlay. Eleven Haikus. Twenty-eight chocolates. Countless names for a virgin yacht. I order each, best to worst, as the model orders them too.
Lately I can't seem find my own orders. Therapy was the first sub to go. Pre-slop novels were good for the noggin too, but legacy subs command a premium.
Seventeen leather jackets. My ordering matches the model at 94 percent. The booth dims slightly to encourage freshness. I try to find love for the out of distribution. Jazz songs. 92. Shades of green. 97. Mannequin faces. 100.
The booth dims again. It's almost a relief to hear my manager.
"I'm sorry M., you've been near-model for weeks. We'll be transitioning you off the platform."
I open my mouth but don't have anything to say. The HR bots whisk me out with a final goodbye: "Thank you for your taste, M."
As I step into our unit, C. gives me a hug. Our deficit is penalized in real time, many times over. I'm not the only one who sees the writing on the wall.
"You ready?" C. asks.
"Yeah. Talk soon."
We iris sign our overlays simultaneously. My overlay shows a positive budget, and one new notification:
The marriage subscription has been bilaterally paused. Resume at any time.
We sit down for dinner, but drink in silence. No domestic speech or touch is allowed without a marriage subscription. Until we can cancel some other subs, I'll be sleeping on the sofa.