Boston Reed, I had come to know, was a middle manager in Metamatics. He was largely unforgettable in the organization’s hierarchy until the day that his daughter, Francesca Thaddius Reed, would inherit the company.

“She’s going to run the place someday,” said Boston to his daughter. “Aren’t you, Pumpkin?”

“No.” The girl folded her arms. “No, actually. I don’t rather feel like that.”

I knew Francesca Thaddius Reed. Everyone did. At not even 30 years old, she was one of the youngest people to sit on a streaming giant’s throne. She was the epitome of youthful success. She made the front of TIME magazine several times. People around the world epitomized her. I had to admit, I did, too. How anyone so young could accomplish so much was beyond me.

It had never occurred to me that Boston Reed—Francesca’s father—was good friends with Papa. Seeing them now, you would think their shared past extended to their childhoods.

Middle managers at Metamatics—at the time—didn’t have the cushy offices of the CEOs. The company had afforded them spaces like my father’s cubicle, though larger. Papa and Boston Reed congregated in one of these, Francesca in tow.

“Now now,” said Boston. “What makes you say that? Just this morning you were excited about it.”

“I changed my mind,” Francesca pouted.

I had very little patience with children. I still do. It appeared Papa did as well, judging from how he scowled at the little Francesca. Yet, there I was, in the flesh. Well, in a daydream’s clutches, but I had been born. My father must have changed his mind about children at some point.

“Both of you are the same,” said Boston Reed.

Papa and Francesca shared a look, which the young girl quickly turned away from, clearly annoyed.

“I don’t see how that is even remotely possible,” said Papa.

“Talented,” Boston continued, “but directionless. People need a focus. Everyone is capable of great things, but they need a conduit.” He tapped his finger on his cubicle wall. “You’re my best engineer, Kenneth, and a valuable member of my team. I can’t have you working on simple code anymore.”

It occurred to me that I hadn’t known my father’s position at Metamatics until now. I hadn’t even known he worked for the company until today. He was a software engineer. That wasn’t surprising. What surprised me more was that he was, apparently, good at it.

“That is why,” Boston went on, “I need to show you your next assignment.”

Papa looked ready to blurt out something. But without warning or preamble, Boston led my father and Francesca away from the cubicle.

As I watched, the building transformed around them.

The austere lobby from before became a distant memory as my father, his boss, and a girl who looked barely ten years old ventured into the deeper recesses of the Mandaluyong office. If you’d seen the pulp fiction television shows with a bunch of teens exploring an underground research facility for the supernatural, you’d be experiencing the same thing I was then.

The world crept into darkness. Then, there was light.

They emerged from an elevator into a gigantic room beaming with lights and what I guessed were tall computer towers. They looked like the kind IBM had stored Deep Blue on—the supercomputer that could play chess and beat grandmasters. At least a dozen arranged themselves in a circle. At the center of them, a single desk lay in wait. A PC tower and six monitors were placed in two rows atop it. It was the kind of setup you’d have at a rocket launch facility.

“This,” Boston Reed said, “is where the magic will happen.”

Francesca looked around, staring in wonder. Same with Papa—he matched her expression, taking in the towers of chips, wiring, and liquid cooling as if they were glass pillars. Crystalline glass.

Crystalline.

I had seen this arrangement before, too. If you took the abstract shape of the place and lifted it out of there, you could have placed it right into the skyline that Seskone, the Vagrant King gazed upon when he sat upon the Crystalline’s throne. The mere sight of this place, I knew now, inspired my father to create that fantastic cityscape.

“It’s got to be on our local network, you see,” said Boston, clicking the PC in the middle of the room. “No one can know of it until it’s complete.”

Boston clicked on the PC as if he were opening the ark of the covenant. It sprang to life, its fans whirring, the lights on its case and keyboard flashing on, pulsing like the heart of a giant beast.

“What you’re about to do is going to have an impact across time and space,” he continued. “This is your chance to influence culture.”

Culture?

I was just as confused as Papa was. “I hope it comes with a raise,” he said.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“Oh, you could say that. Monetary, sure. And something greater.”

Papa was all ears. So was I. “You’re steering the ship, captain,” Papa asked.

My father had a poetic way of speaking. I wished I talked to him more before he lost the ability to speak. I’d have to delve into his writings more.

I thought of the house I had left behind in Taguig. It had been months since we were there. Almost a year. What had happened to it? Worse, what happened to Father’s other writings? I knew there was more. I’d have to send someone to get them.

I returned to the conversation occurring in this recalled past, the events the albularyo was estimating. I was just in time.

“I’m not going to bore you with the details, Kenneth. We’ve been through a lot. You’ve had your hands in some of the best projects at Metamatics, and this will be the biggest one yet.” Boston placed a hand on the computer tower, eyed my father, and said, “You’re going to birth an AI.”

A silence settled among the two. A little girl and an adult man—both equally confused. Both were out of their element. I, too, shared in their astonishment.

“You mean like a chatbot?” Papa asked. “We can buy those off the shelf, or get a subscription. Customer service no doubt uses them already.”

“Something bigger than both of those, Kenneth. We need to birth something bigger.”

Birth, Boston kept saying. Not ‘create.’ Not ‘program.’ Not ‘develop.’ Not ‘make.’ Birth. It was as if whatever concept Boston was thinking of was living, as if my father would be a mother, bringing a child into this life.

“Alright.” Papa paused, “So, bigger than a chatbot?”

“If we have our way, it’ll be the biggest venture our company has tried yet. It will, no doubt, be our golden goose or our great failure.”

This all seemed like hyperbole to my father and me as well. That is until I flicked my gaze at the albularyo.

“Why is she here?” asked Papa. He could have been peering into the daydream I was having. But he wasn’t. He was talking about Francesca.

“She will be helping you.”

“No, I won’t!” snapped Francesca.

“Yes, you will, Pumpkin.

“What?” Papa asked. “What the heck can she do? No offense.”

Francesca wrinkled her nose at Papa but said nothing on the matter.

“Well, right now? Nothing much.” Boston smiled at his daughter. “Children are highly impressionable, though. She will be the one to carry on this legacy for me.” Boston folded his arms. “I have also heard the rumors, Kenneth.”

My dad looked around, seeming eager to get out of the place. “I see.”

“You’re too early to retire, honestly, as much as you hate me or what I’m doing.”

“I don’t hate you.” He didn’t deny the second part.

“All I ask is that you listen to what I say. Then you can make your choice. Believe me when I say this is worth listening to.”

“I’m not running a company, Dad!” Francesca screamed.

“It’s much less about running a company now, Pumpkin, and more about creating life. Let me show you both.”

Before the girl could protest or my father could ask more questions, he turned the computer monitor to them. On it, a woman stood. She was the same woman standing next to me now.

“Huh,” said the albularyo. “I think I was fatter.”

I noticed nothing of the comment as the visage of the albularyo played out on the PC in front of my father and Francesca.

“I call it the albularyo,” said Boston, “and it will be Metamatics’s flagship. It will be the tip of the company’s spear. With this, we’ll undo what happened in the Americas.”

Papa inhaled sharply. “So it is true.”

“Oh yes. The Americas are screwed. Their film, their television—hell, even their music is screwed. The West has left the creative game, and the rest of the world must fill the gap.” He tapped the PC. “With this.”

“Big shoes to fill,” the albularyo said to me, not from her form standing beside me, but the one on the computer screen.

From there, Boston explained the specifics. “It will run the showrunning process from start to finish. Our duties with it will be advisory. We’ll only need to watch it work if we create it correctly. Watch it… do it’s magic. It’s going to draw from places we never thought imaginable. It will tell stories we could only see in our dreams.” Boston nodded to my father. “And you’re just the creative, technically inclined mind to oversee this.”

So, my father was a writer, even back then. He had a creative outlet and a technical one as well. He was well-rounded. All things ever-encompassing. And he was gone.

But at least I could see him now.

“I don’t like the idea of an AI shaping television culture,” said Papa.

“Ah, that’s just your paranoia talking Kenneth. The Americas have shown that we can’t trust them to take the creative reigns.”

“That’s just Hollywood and the huge film studios.”

“Fair point, but their existence pushes out the indie films. Can you name ten indie films released in the last five years, Kenneth?”

He paused. Thinking. He shook his head.

“Exactly.”

At this point of the conversation, I knew if Boston Reed hadn’t changed my father’s perspective, he had planted the seeds for it. He had already won.

The scene entered a time-lapse as the words sped up, the movements of my father, Boston, and Francesca Reed accelerating until I couldn’t discern them. Days turned to nights, and nights to days. Each morning, my father returned to the Mandaluyong office and took his seat in its basement on the PC, with Francesca watching over him. Her presence stopped annoying him. Soon, they were teacher and mentor.

“That, I’m afraid, is all you need to see.”

Before I could protest, the albularyo appeared before me. My father was gone. His memory was gone. Had I dreamt it all?

“You’re playing with forces here you don’t understand, Jayson Bernal Vargas,” said the albularyo.

I opened my mouth to speak but no words came out.

“You’ve created something extraordinary,” she continued, a sea of black surrounding her. “A lot of people are going to want to use it. Tell them no. They are nefarious. They want Black Fire Online for their own personal gain. For profit. For corruption. For the continuous spread of their filth around Manila.” She smiled. “Your sole responsibility is to ensure that doesn’t happen. Alright?”

“That’s it?” I was finally able to speak.

“That’s it. There are some major players here.”

None of this made any sense in context. “Why did you just show me my father then?”

“Because you are both on the same path. You’ve both created something extraordinary. I only pray that you choose wisely with what you’ve unleashed.”

I frowned. “Are you saying my father didn’t make the right choice by birthing you?” I made sure to use the word in the daydream.

The question that came next was one I did not expect. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”