A Movie Star Endures Hollywood’s Dystopian Embrace of AI in This Near-Future Short Story
io9 is proud to present fiction from Lightspeed Magazine. Once a month, we feature a story from Lightspeed’s current issue. This month’s selection is “Through the Machine” by P.A. Cornell. Enjoy! Through the Machine by P.A. Cornell “Steve, over here! Turn to your right. Can we get a smile?” He falls back on his training easily enough, turns to the cameras, gives them his famous crooked smile, tilts his head just so as the flashes go off so they can capture the smoulder that highlights his cheekbones. The one he’s practiced countless times with his manager, Ethel. The red carpet extends before him, and up ahead he sees the actress he’s been paired with in this film. His co-star and onscreen love interest but in reality, a total stranger. He only knows her name because the photographers keep shouting it, asking her to turn so they can capture her svelte profile. She tilts her head obligingly, long blonde hair falling seductively over one eye, teasing the lenses and through them the millions of fans who’ll one day see these images. She’s a pro, like him. She’s clearly had the same kind of training he’s had. She’s been through the machine. It’s a phrase he heard years ago from a late-night talk show host. It refers to the way Hollywood turns you into a product. You start out this average person, just trying to make it as an actor, then as your success grows, more and more people come into your life to turn you into something else. A movie star. A fairy tale ideal of celebrity perfection. He’d told himself that would never be him. He was in it for the art, not the fame and fortune. But here he is.
“Steve! Daphne! Can we get some shots of the two of you together?” The blonde up ahead reaches a hand toward him as if beckoning a good friend, though this is the first time they’ve met. She smiles at him in a way that almost looks genuine. He returns his best leading man grin, flashing the expensive set of pearly white teeth his manager arranged for in the earliest days of their partnership. He puts an arm around Daphne. They both pose, turn, look at each other and smile, over and over. Then both look serious, then smile once more. Then she leans in for a peck on the cheek as instructed by the shouting crowd, just before they’re both ushered off to find their places inside, where the film will be screened. Once they’re away from the cameras, he extends his hand to Daphne. “Hi. Steve Randall.” “Nice to meet you,” she laughs. “Daphne Everheart.” “You seen any of it yet?” “Not even the trailer,” she admits. “Did they send you the screenplay?” He shakes his head. Someone in her entourage grabs her by the arm. She gives him a small wave as they lead her off. He wonders if he’ll even see her again after this premiere. Maybe. If the film does well opening weekend, there could be a sequel. They could find themselves at another premiere for a movie they appear in together, but that neither of them has acted in. Steve lets his own people show him past curtains and cocktails to a theater with plush red seating. He takes his place staring up at the screen, trying to conjure up some of the excitement he once felt as a kid about to watch his favorite actors. But the excitement feels more akin to anxiety as the opening credits appear. He sees his own name—or the one his manager gave him, anyway. That’s when he appears.
Seeing himself like this is unsettling, to say the least. He turns to the people seated around him and they’re all looking up at this face that resembles him but isn’t him. Do they not see it? Do they not feel that uncanny valley sickness in the pit of their stomachs that weighs his down as the thing on screen billed as Steve Randall starts to speak? It’s his voice, but he’s never said these words. Never read the script they came from. Who wrote this, anyway? He wonders. Or rather, what wrote this? The film’s runtime is ninety-five minutes. It’s a romantic comedy, but the word “comedy” is generous. Steve doesn’t so much as crack a smile. He watches this AI-generated doppelganger and his equally digitized scene partner as they traverse the uneven landscape of the disjointed plot—flimsy even for this genre. They flash smile after smile, kiss with ever-deepening passion—if you can call it that—and ultimately, after a series of contrived misunderstandings, they get their Hollywood ending. All set to an AI-generated score bereft of any feeling that might conjure atmosphere or elicit an emotional response from the viewer.
As the lights come up and people start to clap, Steve glances down the row of seats at his co-star. Daphne, seeming to sense his stare, glances back. She looks as though she’s about to be sick but gives him a brave smile—a trained smile—and starts to clap along with everyone else. He does the same. This is his job now, after all. The scan was taken a couple of years ago, during pre-production on a movie in which he played an astronaut. They had to scan him for proper fit of the spacesuit they were having made, as well as for some of the more intricate effects. The voice they came by even more easily. From all the ADR he’d done, voicework on some animated stuff, and of course countless interviews already accessible online. He hadn’t given the scan much thought, at the time. It had made sense for the work they were doing. He’d never imagined it would lead to this.
There’s an afterparty and people keep coming up and congratulating him on the movie. He says what he’s been trained to say, graciously thanking them for their praise, taking pictures with people for magazines and entertainment shows. Evidence that he is in fact still a real person that exists in the world, even though it’s not him on screen. Not in this movie and not in a handful of others, several of which he hasn’t even seen. If Hollywood could turn you into a product before, this is on another level. His career has become, almost exclusively, one of public appearances. His L.A. agent has him booked for a store opening tomorrow, and a series of meet-and-greets at conventions sometime in the spring. The sorts of gigs that used to be thought of as “has-been” work, but Steve, by all accounts, is still a bona fide movie star. He was People magazine’s “Sexiest Man Alive” just last year. Fans still somehow manage to find out what hotel he’s staying at in any given city all over the world, just so they can catch a glimpse of him walking in and out. How has it come to this?
At the end of the night someone pushes him into a shiny black town car and the spectacle of this farce fades away in the car’s rear lights. He exhales, trying to get the image of the thing on screen out of his head. It’s not so bad, he tells himself. SAG made sure he’d get paid for the use of his image. It’s not as much as he might’ve liked, maybe, but it’s decent, and they use it often enough that the cheques enable him to maintain his standard of living. The public appearances add to that. He can’t really complain. But the sick feeling in his stomach remains. • • • When he’s back in New York, he calls his manager. “It was fucking weird, Ethel.” He tells her. “Seeing myself in a film I wasn’t actually in. No chemistry between me and my co-star because, well . . . neither of us was actually there to do any acting. This isn’t what I signed up for.” “Sweet boy,” she says, using her years’ old term of endearment for him, though he hasn’t been a boy in quite some time. “I know. But this is how it works with the studio films these days. Be glad your image is still worth something.”
Steve sighs deeply. “I know. It’s just . . . I worked so hard to get here. We both did. The work mattered to me. I miss challenging myself, figuring out who my character is and how to best convey that through my performance. I miss being able to disappear into all those people and live their lives for a time.” “Of course, of course,” says Ethel. “That’s one of the reasons I took you on as a client. Even at sixteen, you had such passion. You loved the art of it. But what’s the alternative, Stefan?” She only ever uses his original name when she’s serious. He knows her hands are as tied as his. It’s this or give up the business altogether. • • • Over drinks with a friend the next night, he airs his frustrations, his tongue loosened by more than a few shots with beer chasers. “I’m bored,” he tells Frank, who doubled for him in an action film franchise that now continues without need of either of them. “I miss acting. It’s like all they left me with are the worst parts of fame. The parts where I still can’t walk down the street in peace without some paparazzo shoving a lens in my face, and where I can still get cancelled online for any stupid shit I might say without thinking. But the good parts, they’ve all been taken over by some digital version of me that frankly gives me the creeps.”
“I hear ya, Steve,” Frank says, raising his beer. “It’s not just you though, brother. At least you still have a marketable presence. Companies still send you free clothes and shit so you can be spotted using it.” “Sure,” he tells Frank. “But all that amounts to is that I’m now pretty much just this human billboard. I’m not even an actor anymore.” “You’re breaking my heart, man. But think about guys like me. We were getting your crumbs even in the good times. If you think things have gotten rough for you, imagine what’s left for us. I haven’t been called for a stunt gig in months. And that last one ended up cancelled last minute when they decided it was cheaper to use AI. I’ve got a family to support, and all three kids are gonna need braces. Not to mention the first wife who’s on my back if I’m even half a second late with her alimony. What I wouldn’t give for my ugly mug to be in demand.”
Steve knows he’s right and feels bad for whining. Things could be so much worse. Whatever jobs he’s lost to AI, there are countless more jobs lost by less famous actors, crew, and other support personnel like PA’s and craft services. He can’t begin to imagine how they’re all making ends meet these days. Many of the ones he’s still close with, like Frank, work multiple jobs, even outside the industry, just to cover what their once stable careers did. “Drinks are on me tonight, by the way,” he tells Frank. “You’ll get no argument here, pal.” • • • Later, in the privacy of his loft, Steve allows himself the luxury of self-pity. He can’t help thinking of the kid he once was. The chubby little dork with the accent. Too shy to talk to girls. Pushed around by the guys he so wanted to be. Acting freed him from all that. It had allowed this kid who didn’t feel comfortable in his own skin to become someone else. In time, it had given him confidence, and as he continued to hone his craft, it had brought him the attention he’d craved and opportunities he’d never imagined.
It hasn’t always been easy. There’d been plenty of lean years before his big breakout role turned him into a household name. Years during which covering rent had been a struggle, and meals had often consisted of half-eaten scraps left by patrons of the restaurants in which he’d waited tables. But he’d loved acting enough to stick with it, and he’d thought it worth all the sacrifices. He gave up his very name for this profession. He lost the accent and the baby fat. He’s spent a sizeable portion of his income on fixing his teeth, and on five-hundred-dollar haircuts sometimes paired with a treatment to achieve that perfect shade of chestnut brown or a shave that still left enough stubble to keep him looking “manly” in a marketable way. He’s gotten regular tans to conceal his naturally pale complexion—a condition the L.A. agent refers to as his “vampire” look. He’s hired a stylist, a personal trainer, and a dietitian to help him maintain what the grueling workouts have chiselled him into. He’s had more hours of media training than he’s had acting classes. Hell, at times he’s even dated women he’s been told to date. All of it to create this perfect image of Hollywood glamour intended to seduce audiences into filling theater seats. He’s been put through the machine—and willingly let it happen—just so he can go on doing what he loves. He hadn’t realized this image wasn’t him. It was just a product. Something that could be sold, and then re-sold again and again, with little if any say from him as to how it might be used.
Feeling down about his situation, Steve turns to Instagram. He doesn’t follow any fan accounts but now and then, when he’s alone, he looks up the hashtag that bears his name. The fans have a way of making him feel better about himself. Their comments on his pictures—especially the shirtless ones—always make his day. Their support for the charities he’s championed over the years warms his heart. Sure, there are always trolls, but those are in the minority and easy enough to block. He scrolls through his feed and finds the People photo shoot. His feelings about the shoot are a mix of pride and embarrassment. Pride that the chubby kid with the Polish accent showed his high school bullies up, but a little shame at the fact that he still cares so much about what they might think. Still, a few of the pictures from the shoot are really good. He recalls how the photographer’s great sense of humor put him at ease, and how welcoming the magazine staff were. Continuing to scroll, he comes across a picture of himself he never took. This isn’t one of those amazing fan art images he’s seen over the years made by outstandingly talented artists that managed to capture not just his appearance, but his essence. This is some kind of Frankenimage, clearly AI-generated. His hair is a honey blonde he’s never sported, not even on screen. The cheekbones are oddly exaggerated and too narrow, giving him an almost gaunt appearance. In the picture he holds an infant, staring down at it like a proud father. It hurts him to see it. He’s always wanted a family, but this hasn’t happened for him in real life. Steve scrolls some more and comes across another AI image. In this one he’s dressed in a patent leather getup; cut to reveal tattoos he doesn’t have. A red blindfold covers his eyes. His arms are cuffed behind his back. His expression is one of ecstasy. Behind him stands another known actor who holds the handle of a whip against his chest as he leans in to lick the side of Steve’s face. The actor is a good friend. They’ve worked together a few times but never as onscreen lovers. Fans have imagined their characters as a couple for years, which seemed harmless enough, but seeing this is something else. Against his better judgment, he reads the comments.
“I ship them.” “Gorgeous art. Love this.” “Yes, please.” And so on. “I wanna see them getting down in a movie together,” someone’s written. There’s a response to this last comment from someone who’s handle indicates they work for a major studio. “Don’t worry. You won’t have to wait much longer for that. And let’s just say this one’s not going to be the family-friendly fare you’re used to seeing these guys in.” Steve isn’t homophobic. He’s played gay characters more than once and has been fine with kissing or even simulating sex with other male actors. But there’s something about being paired with a close friend in this way without so much as a heads up, that seems like a violation. It’s one thing to work with another actor that you’ve built trust with and talk through a scene to make sure you’re both comfortable depicting something intimate that everyone can be proud of in the end. It’s quite another thing when your image is used to quell strangers’ salacious appetites, in a way you didn’t consent to. Steve feels sick. He takes screenshots of both the AI image and the comment about the movie and texts them to his friend. He follows that up with the message: Did you know about this? The reply comes almost immediately. Fuck. Are you kidding me? Wish I was. Damn man. I love you, but not like that. At least not without the kind of money we used to get for our movies.
Steve smiles in spite of himself. At least his friends can still have a sense of humor about these things. I feel like we need to push back on this, he tells his friend. Yeah, I get it man, but we signed the contract. I know we didn’t have much choice, but the law doesn’t care. We agreed to this. Pretty sure it’s too late to stop them. The fans don’t even seem to care it’s not really us, Steve types. Why would they? His friend replies. They don’t even really need us anymore. We just get in the way of their fantasies. Steve doesn’t respond to that. He deletes his Instagram account. He shudders to think of what they’re doing with his image on TikTok. Or worse, on the dark web. • • • “This sucks, Ethel.” Steve puts the phone on speaker and sets it down on the kitchen counter to pour a bowl of cereal. “I’m going stir-crazy here. I need something to challenge my creativity again.”
“Well, I heard about one thing, but I’m not sure it’s really for you, so I hadn’t mentioned it,” she says. “What? Tell me?” He opens the fridge and reaches for the almond milk then thinks, screw it, and grabs the whole milk he bought yesterday instead. “There’s this Broadway musical. I know one of the producers, but you’d have to audition.” “That’s exactly what I need right now,” he tells her, over mouthfuls of Frosted Flakes. “It’ll be good for me to go back to my theater roots. It’s been too long since I’ve performed in front of an audience.” He pushes the thought that it’s a musical to the back of his mind. He’s never been known for his singing, but he can work with a voice coach or something. At this point, he’ll do anything to perform again. “It’s been a long time since you’ve had to audition, let alone for live theater,” Ethel says.
“Just tell me where and when. I’ve got this.” • • • When he gets the lead in the musical, Steve’s thrilled, but also mildly surprised. He’d felt good about the audition, but he’d heard some of the other actors sing and they were clearly better than he is. He figures they must’ve seen something in him—an intangible quality that suits the part. Why overthink it? His illusions come crashing down early on in rehearsals. During a break, he talks with one of the stagehands. An older guy named Bill. Steve vents a bit about how he can’t really act in the film industry anymore. “Thank god for Broadway. The last refuge for actors like me.” “Yeah. For actors like you,” Bill agrees. Steve isn’t sure what he means by that and says so. “Look, you seem like a decent enough guy,” Bill says, “so don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re here because you’re a name. They need something to put on the billboards that’ll draw a crowd, is all. It ain’t about talent no more.” Steve is taken aback, and his expression must show it. “Don’t get me wrong,” Bill continues. “You’re good. Up there on the big screen, you were a real standout. But this is a whole different animal. All I’m saying is there’s actors more cut out for the stage than you that can’t get hired anymore because the guys who used to work the screen are taking their roles.” Steve’s about to respond when Bill points to a group of actors sitting together talking. “See the guy in the collared shirt?” Bill says. “That’s Wayne Garnet.” Steve knows Wayne from rehearsals. Nice guy. He has a small part but gives it his all. “Wayne’s a Tony-winner. Used to be his name on the marquee. Now even he has to settle for bit parts since AI started taking chunks out of the film industry.” Later Steve Googles Wayne Garnet and finds he’s actually won two Tonys. He’s also known for his singing voice, which he loaned to several animated films before they started digitally recreating it. Steve feels sick. He approaches Wayne during the next rehearsal and offers to bow out to make room for him. Wayne is gracious and tells him not to. “There’s no point, Steve. They’d just get another big name movie star to replace you. My days as the lead are done. I’m just happy I still get to be on stage at all. At least for now.” “What do you mean?” Steve asks. “AI’s coming for all of us,” Wayne says. “It’s not just the film industry. This crap is spreading like a virus throughout the arts. There’s already talk of a new play, AI-written, of course, where instead of live actors they’re projecting digital performers onto the stage. It’s strictly off-Broadway for now, but give it time.” Steve is appalled. Doesn’t know what to say. Wayne continues. “I’ll take whatever I can get these days. You know what they say, ‘There are no small parts.’ I just hope that when the roles run out, someone will want to scan me to use in a projection so I can at least cash a cheque now and then.” • • • At home one night, after the play’s run has ended, Steve settles in to watch TV. He scans his options, stumbling upon one of his early roles. A serious drama in which he played a depressed teen, struggling with his parents’ divorce and his older brother’s untimely death. Even all these years later, the dialogue comes back as he watches one of the more emotional scenes. “It’s not like I don’t want to talk about Tommy,” he mouths along with his younger self. “I do. It’s just that . . .” Young Steve can’t finish because he’s started to cry. Present day Steve remembers shooting the scene—his first time crying on cue. He remembers harnessing all those emotions and tapping into all the pain he’d ever felt, and all of it somehow pouring out of him in that moment. He remembers the director taking him aside later and saying, “You nailed it, kid.” He smiles thinking of this now, but then he’s sad again, missing the sense of accomplishment of pulling off a scene like this. The exhilaration of seeing an audience respond to it later. He watches the remainder of the movie while eating peanut butter by the spoonful right out of the jar. Halfway through he crumbles in an entire Kit-kat bar like he used to do when he was a kid. By the time the credits roll, the jar is empty. • • • Steve’s personal trainer leaves frequent voicemail messages asking when he’s coming back to the gym. He knows he should, but it’s tough to get motivated for a workout when he feels like all anyone’s going to see is his AI clone. Still, it’s in his contract to try to resemble the digital version of himself as much as possible. He knows his skin could use a bit more color these days too, and his hair’s starting to show some gray he hadn’t even realized he had. He makes a mental note to focus more on his appearance. All that can wait until after he returns from the convention though. He’s surprised to find he’s actually looking forward to connecting with his fans again and maybe seeing some of the ones that have become familiar faces over time. The energy at the con is intense, and Steve feels electrified, like he did during his stint on Broadway. One by one he greets his fans as warmly as he possibly can. He makes time to speak with them in the few minutes he has while they take pictures with him. He gives them not his practiced smile, but his real one, and makes sure to thank each one for their continued support. Things get a little weird during the signing. Much of it is what he’s used to, with fans handing him old headshots or pictures from his older films to sign, and in some cases art they’ve made themselves. But he’s also handed quite a few more AI-generated images than he’s used to. He feels like a fraud signing them. Like he’s putting his autograph on someone else’s headshot. Still, he tries to be gracious and humble with the fans. They’ve been there for him through his rise to fame. It’s the least he can do. By the time it’s all over and he’s on his way back to the hotel, Steve’s feeling good about the event. So good, in fact, that he revives his Instagram account to see what fans have been posting. He smiles at the pictures they took with him earlier in the day. Many of the fans are dressed like his characters. Some of the props and signs they’ve brought are so creative, they bring a smile to his face. But soon he notices that not all the comments under the pictures are kind. “Is it just me or is Steve rockin’ the dad bod these days?” someone asks. “Yeah. I hate to say it, but I was a bit disappointed that he didn’t look as hot as he does in Burning Brand II,” replies the account holder. “He’s looking older too. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he was nice and all, I just wish the picture was better.” “Just fix it so he looks hot,” someone else suggests. “Yeah, I probably will.” Steve doesn’t even know what Burning Brand II is. Another of his films he hasn’t seen—or acted in—he assumes. He closes the app and wonders why he even bothers. If the fans don’t care what’s real and what isn’t, why is he even doing this? • • • He goes for a run the next morning. It’s been a while, but he soon finds his rhythm. It’s early in the day and the streets are quiet. He likes this time of day. It’s peaceful. Gives him a chance to clear his head. When he stops for a rest, he notices a small theater. A sign over the door proclaims that the theater shows only movies made by and starring living human beings. The acronym “AI” is painted on one of the windows with a red slash cut diagonally through it. But what really gets Steve’s attention is the man changing the posters. He replaces one with another that features a pensive-looking Daphne Everheart. His former co-star, if you can call her that, looks younger in this poster. He’s never seen her act before and he’s curious. He decides to return later in the day when the theater opens. • • • The film’s called Grace. In it, Daphne plays a young woman trying to convince her wealthy parents to take her seriously as an inventor. The story is moving, as Daphne’s character struggles against societal expectations to achieve her dreams. Steve likes the score too, and decides he’ll stay to read through the credits to see who composed it. He also enjoys the style the director has brought to the project. But what he likes most is Daphne’s performance. She’s good. It kills him to think that someone who was clearly a rising star is now relegated to appearing only as a digital ghost of herself in half-baked movies that would’ve been an embarrassment at another time. How many other talented actors have been forced out of the industry altogether? And what of everyone else whose jobs have been made irrelevant? Steve feels the tears well up, in part because of the movie, but also because of his thoughts. He blinks them away and looks around to see if other people are equally moved. That’s when he notices that nearly every seat in the theater has someone in it. He watches their expressions as they react to Daphne’s performance. He sees the story affect them, and by the end he understands that there are people for whom this art still has meaning. • • • After the movie lets out, he calls Ethel. “I’m thinking of doing something a bit different,” he tells her. “I want to start a production company. Make movies the old way. I have a whole list of people I can call who’d jump at the chance to collaborate on something real again.” “That sounds wonderful, sweet boy. It’s nice to hear some excitement in your voice again.” “I was calling to ask you something,” he tells her. “You wouldn’t happen to know how to get in touch with Daphne Everheart, would you? I don’t have a project yet, but I’d like to gauge her level of interest. I’m sure we’ll find something for her. The world deserves to see how good she actually is at this.” About the Author P.A. Cornell is a Chilean-Canadian speculative fiction writer. A graduate of the Odyssey workshop, her stories have been published or are forthcoming in over fifty magazines and anthologies, including Lightspeed, Apex, and three “Best of” anthologies. In addition to becoming the first Chilean Nebula finalist in 2024, Cornell has been a finalist for the Aurora and World Fantasy Awards, was longlisted for the BSFA Awards, and won Canada’s Short Works Prize. When not writing, she can be found assembling intricate Lego builds or drinking ridiculous quantities of tea. Sometimes both. For more on the author and her work, visit her website pacornell.com. © Adamant Press Please visit Lightspeed Magazine to read more great science fiction and fantasy. This story first appeared in the May 2025 issue, which also features short fiction by R. P. Sand, Gene Doucette, Martin Cahill, Russell Nichols, Meg Elison, Jonathan Olfert, Nancy Kress, and more. You can wait for this month’s contents to be serialized online, or you can buy the whole issue right now in convenient ebook format for just or subscribe to the ebook edition here. Want more io9 news? Check out when to expect the latest Marvel, Star Wars, and Star Trek releases, what’s next for the DC Universe on film and TV, and everything you need to know about the future of Doctor Who.
#movie #star #endures #hollywoods #dystopianA Movie Star Endures Hollywood’s Dystopian Embrace of AI in This Near-Future Short Story
io9 is proud to present fiction from Lightspeed Magazine. Once a month, we feature a story from Lightspeed’s current issue. This month’s selection is “Through the Machine” by P.A. Cornell. Enjoy! Through the Machine by P.A. Cornell “Steve, over here! Turn to your right. Can we get a smile?” He falls back on his training easily enough, turns to the cameras, gives them his famous crooked smile, tilts his head just so as the flashes go off so they can capture the smoulder that highlights his cheekbones. The one he’s practiced countless times with his manager, Ethel. The red carpet extends before him, and up ahead he sees the actress he’s been paired with in this film. His co-star and onscreen love interest but in reality, a total stranger. He only knows her name because the photographers keep shouting it, asking her to turn so they can capture her svelte profile. She tilts her head obligingly, long blonde hair falling seductively over one eye, teasing the lenses and through them the millions of fans who’ll one day see these images. She’s a pro, like him. She’s clearly had the same kind of training he’s had. She’s been through the machine. It’s a phrase he heard years ago from a late-night talk show host. It refers to the way Hollywood turns you into a product. You start out this average person, just trying to make it as an actor, then as your success grows, more and more people come into your life to turn you into something else. A movie star. A fairy tale ideal of celebrity perfection. He’d told himself that would never be him. He was in it for the art, not the fame and fortune. But here he is.
“Steve! Daphne! Can we get some shots of the two of you together?” The blonde up ahead reaches a hand toward him as if beckoning a good friend, though this is the first time they’ve met. She smiles at him in a way that almost looks genuine. He returns his best leading man grin, flashing the expensive set of pearly white teeth his manager arranged for in the earliest days of their partnership. He puts an arm around Daphne. They both pose, turn, look at each other and smile, over and over. Then both look serious, then smile once more. Then she leans in for a peck on the cheek as instructed by the shouting crowd, just before they’re both ushered off to find their places inside, where the film will be screened. Once they’re away from the cameras, he extends his hand to Daphne. “Hi. Steve Randall.” “Nice to meet you,” she laughs. “Daphne Everheart.” “You seen any of it yet?” “Not even the trailer,” she admits. “Did they send you the screenplay?” He shakes his head. Someone in her entourage grabs her by the arm. She gives him a small wave as they lead her off. He wonders if he’ll even see her again after this premiere. Maybe. If the film does well opening weekend, there could be a sequel. They could find themselves at another premiere for a movie they appear in together, but that neither of them has acted in. Steve lets his own people show him past curtains and cocktails to a theater with plush red seating. He takes his place staring up at the screen, trying to conjure up some of the excitement he once felt as a kid about to watch his favorite actors. But the excitement feels more akin to anxiety as the opening credits appear. He sees his own name—or the one his manager gave him, anyway. That’s when he appears.
Seeing himself like this is unsettling, to say the least. He turns to the people seated around him and they’re all looking up at this face that resembles him but isn’t him. Do they not see it? Do they not feel that uncanny valley sickness in the pit of their stomachs that weighs his down as the thing on screen billed as Steve Randall starts to speak? It’s his voice, but he’s never said these words. Never read the script they came from. Who wrote this, anyway? He wonders. Or rather, what wrote this? The film’s runtime is ninety-five minutes. It’s a romantic comedy, but the word “comedy” is generous. Steve doesn’t so much as crack a smile. He watches this AI-generated doppelganger and his equally digitized scene partner as they traverse the uneven landscape of the disjointed plot—flimsy even for this genre. They flash smile after smile, kiss with ever-deepening passion—if you can call it that—and ultimately, after a series of contrived misunderstandings, they get their Hollywood ending. All set to an AI-generated score bereft of any feeling that might conjure atmosphere or elicit an emotional response from the viewer.
As the lights come up and people start to clap, Steve glances down the row of seats at his co-star. Daphne, seeming to sense his stare, glances back. She looks as though she’s about to be sick but gives him a brave smile—a trained smile—and starts to clap along with everyone else. He does the same. This is his job now, after all. The scan was taken a couple of years ago, during pre-production on a movie in which he played an astronaut. They had to scan him for proper fit of the spacesuit they were having made, as well as for some of the more intricate effects. The voice they came by even more easily. From all the ADR he’d done, voicework on some animated stuff, and of course countless interviews already accessible online. He hadn’t given the scan much thought, at the time. It had made sense for the work they were doing. He’d never imagined it would lead to this.
There’s an afterparty and people keep coming up and congratulating him on the movie. He says what he’s been trained to say, graciously thanking them for their praise, taking pictures with people for magazines and entertainment shows. Evidence that he is in fact still a real person that exists in the world, even though it’s not him on screen. Not in this movie and not in a handful of others, several of which he hasn’t even seen. If Hollywood could turn you into a product before, this is on another level. His career has become, almost exclusively, one of public appearances. His L.A. agent has him booked for a store opening tomorrow, and a series of meet-and-greets at conventions sometime in the spring. The sorts of gigs that used to be thought of as “has-been” work, but Steve, by all accounts, is still a bona fide movie star. He was People magazine’s “Sexiest Man Alive” just last year. Fans still somehow manage to find out what hotel he’s staying at in any given city all over the world, just so they can catch a glimpse of him walking in and out. How has it come to this?
At the end of the night someone pushes him into a shiny black town car and the spectacle of this farce fades away in the car’s rear lights. He exhales, trying to get the image of the thing on screen out of his head. It’s not so bad, he tells himself. SAG made sure he’d get paid for the use of his image. It’s not as much as he might’ve liked, maybe, but it’s decent, and they use it often enough that the cheques enable him to maintain his standard of living. The public appearances add to that. He can’t really complain. But the sick feeling in his stomach remains. • • • When he’s back in New York, he calls his manager. “It was fucking weird, Ethel.” He tells her. “Seeing myself in a film I wasn’t actually in. No chemistry between me and my co-star because, well . . . neither of us was actually there to do any acting. This isn’t what I signed up for.” “Sweet boy,” she says, using her years’ old term of endearment for him, though he hasn’t been a boy in quite some time. “I know. But this is how it works with the studio films these days. Be glad your image is still worth something.”
Steve sighs deeply. “I know. It’s just . . . I worked so hard to get here. We both did. The work mattered to me. I miss challenging myself, figuring out who my character is and how to best convey that through my performance. I miss being able to disappear into all those people and live their lives for a time.” “Of course, of course,” says Ethel. “That’s one of the reasons I took you on as a client. Even at sixteen, you had such passion. You loved the art of it. But what’s the alternative, Stefan?” She only ever uses his original name when she’s serious. He knows her hands are as tied as his. It’s this or give up the business altogether. • • • Over drinks with a friend the next night, he airs his frustrations, his tongue loosened by more than a few shots with beer chasers. “I’m bored,” he tells Frank, who doubled for him in an action film franchise that now continues without need of either of them. “I miss acting. It’s like all they left me with are the worst parts of fame. The parts where I still can’t walk down the street in peace without some paparazzo shoving a lens in my face, and where I can still get cancelled online for any stupid shit I might say without thinking. But the good parts, they’ve all been taken over by some digital version of me that frankly gives me the creeps.”
“I hear ya, Steve,” Frank says, raising his beer. “It’s not just you though, brother. At least you still have a marketable presence. Companies still send you free clothes and shit so you can be spotted using it.” “Sure,” he tells Frank. “But all that amounts to is that I’m now pretty much just this human billboard. I’m not even an actor anymore.” “You’re breaking my heart, man. But think about guys like me. We were getting your crumbs even in the good times. If you think things have gotten rough for you, imagine what’s left for us. I haven’t been called for a stunt gig in months. And that last one ended up cancelled last minute when they decided it was cheaper to use AI. I’ve got a family to support, and all three kids are gonna need braces. Not to mention the first wife who’s on my back if I’m even half a second late with her alimony. What I wouldn’t give for my ugly mug to be in demand.”
Steve knows he’s right and feels bad for whining. Things could be so much worse. Whatever jobs he’s lost to AI, there are countless more jobs lost by less famous actors, crew, and other support personnel like PA’s and craft services. He can’t begin to imagine how they’re all making ends meet these days. Many of the ones he’s still close with, like Frank, work multiple jobs, even outside the industry, just to cover what their once stable careers did. “Drinks are on me tonight, by the way,” he tells Frank. “You’ll get no argument here, pal.” • • • Later, in the privacy of his loft, Steve allows himself the luxury of self-pity. He can’t help thinking of the kid he once was. The chubby little dork with the accent. Too shy to talk to girls. Pushed around by the guys he so wanted to be. Acting freed him from all that. It had allowed this kid who didn’t feel comfortable in his own skin to become someone else. In time, it had given him confidence, and as he continued to hone his craft, it had brought him the attention he’d craved and opportunities he’d never imagined.
It hasn’t always been easy. There’d been plenty of lean years before his big breakout role turned him into a household name. Years during which covering rent had been a struggle, and meals had often consisted of half-eaten scraps left by patrons of the restaurants in which he’d waited tables. But he’d loved acting enough to stick with it, and he’d thought it worth all the sacrifices. He gave up his very name for this profession. He lost the accent and the baby fat. He’s spent a sizeable portion of his income on fixing his teeth, and on five-hundred-dollar haircuts sometimes paired with a treatment to achieve that perfect shade of chestnut brown or a shave that still left enough stubble to keep him looking “manly” in a marketable way. He’s gotten regular tans to conceal his naturally pale complexion—a condition the L.A. agent refers to as his “vampire” look. He’s hired a stylist, a personal trainer, and a dietitian to help him maintain what the grueling workouts have chiselled him into. He’s had more hours of media training than he’s had acting classes. Hell, at times he’s even dated women he’s been told to date. All of it to create this perfect image of Hollywood glamour intended to seduce audiences into filling theater seats. He’s been put through the machine—and willingly let it happen—just so he can go on doing what he loves. He hadn’t realized this image wasn’t him. It was just a product. Something that could be sold, and then re-sold again and again, with little if any say from him as to how it might be used.
Feeling down about his situation, Steve turns to Instagram. He doesn’t follow any fan accounts but now and then, when he’s alone, he looks up the hashtag that bears his name. The fans have a way of making him feel better about himself. Their comments on his pictures—especially the shirtless ones—always make his day. Their support for the charities he’s championed over the years warms his heart. Sure, there are always trolls, but those are in the minority and easy enough to block. He scrolls through his feed and finds the People photo shoot. His feelings about the shoot are a mix of pride and embarrassment. Pride that the chubby kid with the Polish accent showed his high school bullies up, but a little shame at the fact that he still cares so much about what they might think. Still, a few of the pictures from the shoot are really good. He recalls how the photographer’s great sense of humor put him at ease, and how welcoming the magazine staff were. Continuing to scroll, he comes across a picture of himself he never took. This isn’t one of those amazing fan art images he’s seen over the years made by outstandingly talented artists that managed to capture not just his appearance, but his essence. This is some kind of Frankenimage, clearly AI-generated. His hair is a honey blonde he’s never sported, not even on screen. The cheekbones are oddly exaggerated and too narrow, giving him an almost gaunt appearance. In the picture he holds an infant, staring down at it like a proud father. It hurts him to see it. He’s always wanted a family, but this hasn’t happened for him in real life. Steve scrolls some more and comes across another AI image. In this one he’s dressed in a patent leather getup; cut to reveal tattoos he doesn’t have. A red blindfold covers his eyes. His arms are cuffed behind his back. His expression is one of ecstasy. Behind him stands another known actor who holds the handle of a whip against his chest as he leans in to lick the side of Steve’s face. The actor is a good friend. They’ve worked together a few times but never as onscreen lovers. Fans have imagined their characters as a couple for years, which seemed harmless enough, but seeing this is something else. Against his better judgment, he reads the comments.
“I ship them.” “Gorgeous art. Love this.” “Yes, please.” And so on. “I wanna see them getting down in a movie together,” someone’s written. There’s a response to this last comment from someone who’s handle indicates they work for a major studio. “Don’t worry. You won’t have to wait much longer for that. And let’s just say this one’s not going to be the family-friendly fare you’re used to seeing these guys in.” Steve isn’t homophobic. He’s played gay characters more than once and has been fine with kissing or even simulating sex with other male actors. But there’s something about being paired with a close friend in this way without so much as a heads up, that seems like a violation. It’s one thing to work with another actor that you’ve built trust with and talk through a scene to make sure you’re both comfortable depicting something intimate that everyone can be proud of in the end. It’s quite another thing when your image is used to quell strangers’ salacious appetites, in a way you didn’t consent to. Steve feels sick. He takes screenshots of both the AI image and the comment about the movie and texts them to his friend. He follows that up with the message: Did you know about this? The reply comes almost immediately. Fuck. Are you kidding me? Wish I was. Damn man. I love you, but not like that. At least not without the kind of money we used to get for our movies.
Steve smiles in spite of himself. At least his friends can still have a sense of humor about these things. I feel like we need to push back on this, he tells his friend. Yeah, I get it man, but we signed the contract. I know we didn’t have much choice, but the law doesn’t care. We agreed to this. Pretty sure it’s too late to stop them. The fans don’t even seem to care it’s not really us, Steve types. Why would they? His friend replies. They don’t even really need us anymore. We just get in the way of their fantasies. Steve doesn’t respond to that. He deletes his Instagram account. He shudders to think of what they’re doing with his image on TikTok. Or worse, on the dark web. • • • “This sucks, Ethel.” Steve puts the phone on speaker and sets it down on the kitchen counter to pour a bowl of cereal. “I’m going stir-crazy here. I need something to challenge my creativity again.”
“Well, I heard about one thing, but I’m not sure it’s really for you, so I hadn’t mentioned it,” she says. “What? Tell me?” He opens the fridge and reaches for the almond milk then thinks, screw it, and grabs the whole milk he bought yesterday instead. “There’s this Broadway musical. I know one of the producers, but you’d have to audition.” “That’s exactly what I need right now,” he tells her, over mouthfuls of Frosted Flakes. “It’ll be good for me to go back to my theater roots. It’s been too long since I’ve performed in front of an audience.” He pushes the thought that it’s a musical to the back of his mind. He’s never been known for his singing, but he can work with a voice coach or something. At this point, he’ll do anything to perform again. “It’s been a long time since you’ve had to audition, let alone for live theater,” Ethel says.
“Just tell me where and when. I’ve got this.” • • • When he gets the lead in the musical, Steve’s thrilled, but also mildly surprised. He’d felt good about the audition, but he’d heard some of the other actors sing and they were clearly better than he is. He figures they must’ve seen something in him—an intangible quality that suits the part. Why overthink it? His illusions come crashing down early on in rehearsals. During a break, he talks with one of the stagehands. An older guy named Bill. Steve vents a bit about how he can’t really act in the film industry anymore. “Thank god for Broadway. The last refuge for actors like me.” “Yeah. For actors like you,” Bill agrees. Steve isn’t sure what he means by that and says so. “Look, you seem like a decent enough guy,” Bill says, “so don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re here because you’re a name. They need something to put on the billboards that’ll draw a crowd, is all. It ain’t about talent no more.” Steve is taken aback, and his expression must show it. “Don’t get me wrong,” Bill continues. “You’re good. Up there on the big screen, you were a real standout. But this is a whole different animal. All I’m saying is there’s actors more cut out for the stage than you that can’t get hired anymore because the guys who used to work the screen are taking their roles.” Steve’s about to respond when Bill points to a group of actors sitting together talking. “See the guy in the collared shirt?” Bill says. “That’s Wayne Garnet.” Steve knows Wayne from rehearsals. Nice guy. He has a small part but gives it his all. “Wayne’s a Tony-winner. Used to be his name on the marquee. Now even he has to settle for bit parts since AI started taking chunks out of the film industry.” Later Steve Googles Wayne Garnet and finds he’s actually won two Tonys. He’s also known for his singing voice, which he loaned to several animated films before they started digitally recreating it. Steve feels sick. He approaches Wayne during the next rehearsal and offers to bow out to make room for him. Wayne is gracious and tells him not to. “There’s no point, Steve. They’d just get another big name movie star to replace you. My days as the lead are done. I’m just happy I still get to be on stage at all. At least for now.” “What do you mean?” Steve asks. “AI’s coming for all of us,” Wayne says. “It’s not just the film industry. This crap is spreading like a virus throughout the arts. There’s already talk of a new play, AI-written, of course, where instead of live actors they’re projecting digital performers onto the stage. It’s strictly off-Broadway for now, but give it time.” Steve is appalled. Doesn’t know what to say. Wayne continues. “I’ll take whatever I can get these days. You know what they say, ‘There are no small parts.’ I just hope that when the roles run out, someone will want to scan me to use in a projection so I can at least cash a cheque now and then.” • • • At home one night, after the play’s run has ended, Steve settles in to watch TV. He scans his options, stumbling upon one of his early roles. A serious drama in which he played a depressed teen, struggling with his parents’ divorce and his older brother’s untimely death. Even all these years later, the dialogue comes back as he watches one of the more emotional scenes. “It’s not like I don’t want to talk about Tommy,” he mouths along with his younger self. “I do. It’s just that . . .” Young Steve can’t finish because he’s started to cry. Present day Steve remembers shooting the scene—his first time crying on cue. He remembers harnessing all those emotions and tapping into all the pain he’d ever felt, and all of it somehow pouring out of him in that moment. He remembers the director taking him aside later and saying, “You nailed it, kid.” He smiles thinking of this now, but then he’s sad again, missing the sense of accomplishment of pulling off a scene like this. The exhilaration of seeing an audience respond to it later. He watches the remainder of the movie while eating peanut butter by the spoonful right out of the jar. Halfway through he crumbles in an entire Kit-kat bar like he used to do when he was a kid. By the time the credits roll, the jar is empty. • • • Steve’s personal trainer leaves frequent voicemail messages asking when he’s coming back to the gym. He knows he should, but it’s tough to get motivated for a workout when he feels like all anyone’s going to see is his AI clone. Still, it’s in his contract to try to resemble the digital version of himself as much as possible. He knows his skin could use a bit more color these days too, and his hair’s starting to show some gray he hadn’t even realized he had. He makes a mental note to focus more on his appearance. All that can wait until after he returns from the convention though. He’s surprised to find he’s actually looking forward to connecting with his fans again and maybe seeing some of the ones that have become familiar faces over time. The energy at the con is intense, and Steve feels electrified, like he did during his stint on Broadway. One by one he greets his fans as warmly as he possibly can. He makes time to speak with them in the few minutes he has while they take pictures with him. He gives them not his practiced smile, but his real one, and makes sure to thank each one for their continued support. Things get a little weird during the signing. Much of it is what he’s used to, with fans handing him old headshots or pictures from his older films to sign, and in some cases art they’ve made themselves. But he’s also handed quite a few more AI-generated images than he’s used to. He feels like a fraud signing them. Like he’s putting his autograph on someone else’s headshot. Still, he tries to be gracious and humble with the fans. They’ve been there for him through his rise to fame. It’s the least he can do. By the time it’s all over and he’s on his way back to the hotel, Steve’s feeling good about the event. So good, in fact, that he revives his Instagram account to see what fans have been posting. He smiles at the pictures they took with him earlier in the day. Many of the fans are dressed like his characters. Some of the props and signs they’ve brought are so creative, they bring a smile to his face. But soon he notices that not all the comments under the pictures are kind. “Is it just me or is Steve rockin’ the dad bod these days?” someone asks. “Yeah. I hate to say it, but I was a bit disappointed that he didn’t look as hot as he does in Burning Brand II,” replies the account holder. “He’s looking older too. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he was nice and all, I just wish the picture was better.” “Just fix it so he looks hot,” someone else suggests. “Yeah, I probably will.” Steve doesn’t even know what Burning Brand II is. Another of his films he hasn’t seen—or acted in—he assumes. He closes the app and wonders why he even bothers. If the fans don’t care what’s real and what isn’t, why is he even doing this? • • • He goes for a run the next morning. It’s been a while, but he soon finds his rhythm. It’s early in the day and the streets are quiet. He likes this time of day. It’s peaceful. Gives him a chance to clear his head. When he stops for a rest, he notices a small theater. A sign over the door proclaims that the theater shows only movies made by and starring living human beings. The acronym “AI” is painted on one of the windows with a red slash cut diagonally through it. But what really gets Steve’s attention is the man changing the posters. He replaces one with another that features a pensive-looking Daphne Everheart. His former co-star, if you can call her that, looks younger in this poster. He’s never seen her act before and he’s curious. He decides to return later in the day when the theater opens. • • • The film’s called Grace. In it, Daphne plays a young woman trying to convince her wealthy parents to take her seriously as an inventor. The story is moving, as Daphne’s character struggles against societal expectations to achieve her dreams. Steve likes the score too, and decides he’ll stay to read through the credits to see who composed it. He also enjoys the style the director has brought to the project. But what he likes most is Daphne’s performance. She’s good. It kills him to think that someone who was clearly a rising star is now relegated to appearing only as a digital ghost of herself in half-baked movies that would’ve been an embarrassment at another time. How many other talented actors have been forced out of the industry altogether? And what of everyone else whose jobs have been made irrelevant? Steve feels the tears well up, in part because of the movie, but also because of his thoughts. He blinks them away and looks around to see if other people are equally moved. That’s when he notices that nearly every seat in the theater has someone in it. He watches their expressions as they react to Daphne’s performance. He sees the story affect them, and by the end he understands that there are people for whom this art still has meaning. • • • After the movie lets out, he calls Ethel. “I’m thinking of doing something a bit different,” he tells her. “I want to start a production company. Make movies the old way. I have a whole list of people I can call who’d jump at the chance to collaborate on something real again.” “That sounds wonderful, sweet boy. It’s nice to hear some excitement in your voice again.” “I was calling to ask you something,” he tells her. “You wouldn’t happen to know how to get in touch with Daphne Everheart, would you? I don’t have a project yet, but I’d like to gauge her level of interest. I’m sure we’ll find something for her. The world deserves to see how good she actually is at this.” About the Author P.A. Cornell is a Chilean-Canadian speculative fiction writer. A graduate of the Odyssey workshop, her stories have been published or are forthcoming in over fifty magazines and anthologies, including Lightspeed, Apex, and three “Best of” anthologies. In addition to becoming the first Chilean Nebula finalist in 2024, Cornell has been a finalist for the Aurora and World Fantasy Awards, was longlisted for the BSFA Awards, and won Canada’s Short Works Prize. When not writing, she can be found assembling intricate Lego builds or drinking ridiculous quantities of tea. Sometimes both. For more on the author and her work, visit her website pacornell.com. © Adamant Press Please visit Lightspeed Magazine to read more great science fiction and fantasy. This story first appeared in the May 2025 issue, which also features short fiction by R. P. Sand, Gene Doucette, Martin Cahill, Russell Nichols, Meg Elison, Jonathan Olfert, Nancy Kress, and more. You can wait for this month’s contents to be serialized online, or you can buy the whole issue right now in convenient ebook format for just or subscribe to the ebook edition here. Want more io9 news? Check out when to expect the latest Marvel, Star Wars, and Star Trek releases, what’s next for the DC Universe on film and TV, and everything you need to know about the future of Doctor Who.
#movie #star #endures #hollywoods #dystopian
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