Hall of Presidents

Niki knew better, but he couldn't help himself. He reached over the fuzzy velvet rope to touch the president's hand. Niki's thin brown fingers (his nails sparkly green) contrasted with the man's pale, veiny skin. The man's hand was small. It was cool and soft to the touch. It felt alive.

The president stood over six feet tall. He seemed almost to burst from his dark suit with patriotic pride. A small metal flag (Second American Republic) was pinned to his lapel. His cheeks were ruddy, his jaw jowly. His eyes squinted as though examining something in the middle distance. Niki wanted very much to touch the man's hair; it looked fluffy.

The president slowly turned his head. He looked down at Niki, and Niki felt hypnotized by the man's confidence. The man smiled and raised his other hand to give a thumb's up sign. He looked so real.

Teacher Nguyen guided Niki's hand away. "No touching now."

Niki's classmates giggled at his disobedience. He blushed. His ears became hot. He hadn't meant to do anything wrong. Teacher could be so unfair! What was the point of coming here—they'd spent three hours on that smelly x-loop train—if you couldn't even touch the presidents? Niki pulled his hand away from Teacher's. She frowned at his rudeness. Her shoulders slumped. She had placed her overstuffed backpack between her ankles. Even though she was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, she was sweating.

Teacher had been acting weird—had been acting mean—all weekend. On the x-loop, she had tried to explain why they were taking this trip. "It's been more than sixty years since Zero Hour," she said, "but the work of reparation is nowhere near done." Niki had watched a lot of history videos, but he still was not 100% sure what Zero Hour was. One thing he knew about it: It had lasted way longer than an hour. It lasted anywhere from ten to fifty years, depending which videos you believed.

During the long crisis, Grandfather had fought for the African Standby Force (EASF). Afterwards, he migrated to the North America Federation and met Grandmother in graduate school. Zero Hour had affected every family on the planet. On the trip down, Teacher mentioned that her father had been a Polar Marine, stationed in the Antarctic theater after the Ross Event. Niki excitedly asked her questions about Antarctica, but she refused to say anything more. For the rest of the x-loop journey, she withdrew into herself.

Yesterday, when they had taken the Small World Colonialism and Imperialism ride, Lori and Julie had started giggling in the East India Company room. "This is serious," Teacher yelled. She'd never yelled at anyone before. Lori cried and said she was sorry. Julie looked confused, as though she didn't understand what she had done wrong. Everyone was shocked, and the class worked extra hard to be on their best behavior. At the Frontierland Genocide Memorial, Leroy, always a showboat, farted and did a funny dance in the smallpox exhibit. Everyone couldn't help but laugh, Niki included. And Teacher (just like that) started crying.

Today, Teacher seemed even more unhappy. The class had taken forever getting ready in the morning. They left the communal guesthouse later than expected. The day's humidity made everyone sluggish. The chartered auto-shuttle to the park had no a/c. And the park itself was crowded for the May Day holiday; the whole continent had apparently decided to visit for the long weekend. The class didn't get into the park till eleven. The Hall of Presidents was their first stop.

They made their way through the Hall as quickly as they could. In each cramped, low-lit chamber, Teacher nervously repeated that the presidential androids "weren't toys." They were "educational." Every stop of their brisk tour was scripted. Teacher had vetted their questions. Claire asked President Number Three about slavery. Torie asked Number Seven about Indian Removal. Sharada asked number Thirty-Six about the Gulf of Tonkin. Paul asked Number Forty-Four about drones. Now it was Niki's turn. He had been chosen to question Number Forty-Five, the last room in the Hall they were visiting. And here they were!

"Are you ready?" Teacher asked.

Niki nodded. "Yes, Teacher Nguyen."

Niki was afraid. He had heard so much about this man. The leaders of the Second Republic all sounded pretty bad, but the video historians all agreed that this man was the worst. Zero Hour, many of them said, had started during his term in office. Others argued that the seeds of Zero Hour had been planted long before. Like all the other androids in the Hall, Forty-Five was modeled on the real Forty-Five. The park's Imagineers took all the man's writing and Tweets, as well as stuff historians had written about him, and had mixed it all together. This "simulacrum," they said, would answer questions the same way the real president would. The Imagineers did such good work, Teacher had said, that even professional historians sometimes cited androids as evidence in their endless debates. All the video historians agree Forty-Five was an awful person. But some wanted to say he was a uniquely bad man, personally responsible for the terrible things that happened during and after his term. Others said his badness just reflected the badness of the country that gave him power. Other leaders facing the same historical crisis would have made the same terrible choices. Zero Hour, they said, was inevitable. Niki wasn't sure what his own opinion was. If adults didn't know the answer, how was he supposed to figure it out? Whoever was right, the horror stories were numbing.

Niki had rehearsed his question a million times. He planned to ask the president why he had started the war. When he was running for President of the Second Republic, after all, he said he hated war. Why did he go and start the biggest war ever? In his bunk last night, in the guesthouse, Niki wrote his question on a slip of paper, but he didn't want to read from the paper now. He wanted to look the man in the eye. He wanted to impress his classmates. He wanted to be brave for Teacher Nguyen. But he didn't feel brave. His question flew from his head. He felt funny. His stomach twisted. He was half-hungry, half-nervous. His hands were shaking.

"Go ahead," Teacher said, impatient.

"Yeah!" Julie said. "We're hungry."

"Yeah," others agreed.

"Mr. President," Niki said, remembering the historically proper form of address. "We read in class that you were a very rich man."

Teacher's eyes widened. Niki had already deviated from the script. Before Teacher could correct him, the president gave an answer. "A lot of people are saying that," he said. "They're saying I'm the richest president ever! And some of them, they're my very good friends. Believe me, I've heard tremendous things about them. And some of them, they don't like me so much, but even those people, they're saying it. Someone told me my net worth was even higher than George Washington's, and I'm just saying, it's about me representing rich people."

Niki said, "If you had so much money, why were you so mean?"

The president said, "The Hispanics, they loved me. We won them. And the poorly educated, I loved them, and—you know what?—they loved me, too. The old, the young, the evangelicals, they all say I'm the opposite of mean. I was only mean, maybe a little sometimes, but only a little, to Crooked Hillary and to the fake news. But the women? They loved me. They voted for me twice! I was fantastic. The people loved me. People were telling me that I was a lot like the great Lincoln. Most people don't even know Lincoln was a Republican, am I right?"

"I knew that," Niki said.

The president started gesturing vigorously. "Well, you can't out-top Abraham Lincoln, and a lot of people criticized me for saying it. But when I jokingly say I was the most presidential president in American history, believe me, I was serious."

Some classmates laughed at the android's delivery.

Niki felt suddenly confused. "But everyone says you were really bad."

"Sure, a lot of bad things happened. Bad things happen all the time, believe me. Wouldn't it be nice if we could get along with the world? But some people insulted the great America—the great American people—by calling me 'old,' and I never insulted anyone by calling them 'short and fat,' I never insulted anyone by calling them a 'gold digger,' am I right? We were being taken advantage of. Taken very badly advantage of. It was terrible what was happening. Just rapists and bad hombres and Uranium One. All that American carnage. It was all over the world. But I was in charge. And when America faces its enemies they won't be around much longer on my watch. My generals and my military, they had the decision-making ability. I listened to my generals and my military."

Teacher Nguyen touched Niki's shoulder. "Why don't you ask the question we prepared?"

But Niki didn't want to ask his prepared question. His prepared question was all wrong. It was too mean. The president didn't seem bad. Niki came prepared to be afraid of Forty-Five. He hadn't expected to like the president; the man was funny and charming. A new question was forming in the back of his mind, the real question he needed to ask. If he could ask this question—the right question, the perfect question—he would finally understand everything. He would understand why everyone hated Forty-Five. He would understand the causes of the end of the Second American Republic. He would understand why Grandfather frowned every time Zero Hour came up in conversation. He would understand why Teacher Nguyen was so sad. He would understand why all the video historians spoke in hushed and frightened tones about the twenty-first century.

"Everyone hates you," Niki said.

The android squinted, as though deep in thought; he raised one short finger to make a new point. "People don't—"

"Pause simulation," Teacher said. The president froze in mid-gesture. "If you aren't willing to ask your prepared question, let's just move on."

"But I know the real question I want to ask," Niki said, realizing as he spoke that this was true. He knew what he needed to ask.

"I'm han-gry," Julie said.

Others giggled and added, "Me too."

Leroy said, "No, I want to hear Niki's question!"

Some murmured in agreement; they wanted Niki to ask his question. Others were with Julie; they were hungry (hangry, even). Another class was waiting to enter Forty-Five's small chamber. The newcomers watched the rising ruckus among Teacher Nguyen's sixth grade class. Teacher froze. She seemed ready to cry.

"Please?" Niki said. "Ple-e-ase?"

"Why don't you want to ask your prepared question?"

"It's the wrong question."

"This trip isn't a joke," Teacher said, as much for herself as for her class.

"My question won't be a joke. He just seems...different from what the videos said about him. I want to understand why he did such bad things. He doesn't seem bad."

"Are you kidding?" Teacher snapped. "Hundreds of thousands died as a direct result of that man's actions. And tens of millions more died during Zero Hour." Niki flinched at Teacher's tone. Teacher saw the effect she was having, and she worked to hold back her anger. "I'm sorry I snapped, Niki."

"Why are you so mad?"

"This trip is reminding me of some...unhappy memories."

"About your father?"

Teacher nodded.

"But...but your father didn't die during Zero Hour. You said in class you were born after."

"Not everyone who died during Zero Hour was killed by a bomb or a bullet. And not everyone who died as a result of Zero Hour was killed during Zero Hour itself. Some people..." She trailed off.

Niki didn't understand.

Teacher rediscovered her ability to speak: "People are still suffering and dying every day all over the planet because of Zero Hour. It may take centuries to repair the damage. And all we can really hope to do is repair it. We can never undo what was done. We've lost so much. Which is why we have to make sure it never happens again. Every generation has to relearn the lesson. Every instant, every moment, has the potential to become Zero Hour again."

"Can I ask my question? Please?"

Teacher's shoulders slumped. She sighed. "Fine." She waved at Forty-Five. "Resume simulation."

"—hate me," the president said. "The people love me, big league. Only the fake news and the liberals and the illegals and—"

"Don't you know you're an android?" Niki said.

The president cocked his head and his demeanor changed. His expression softened. He spoke in a flat tone. "I'm sorry."

"I said, don't you know you're an android?"

"I'm not programmed to engage in self-reflection."

"Don't you realize, you're going to be in this room forever? The only reason you're here is because everyone hates you, because you did really bad things?"

"I'm aware of that fact, but I do not understand it."

"What's the difference?"

"The Imagineers call it Structural Blindness."

"What's that?"

"Unlike human intelligences, cognitive emulations such as myself are unable to reflect on our conditions of possibility. We are unable to answer meta-questions spontaneously. Our personality module is strictly quarantined from our autoreference module. At best, we can offer rote answers devised via machine learning."

This stream of complicated words—and coherent sentences—sounded super weird coming from the president's mouth. The illusion that Niki was speaking to the Forty-Fifth president of the Second American Republic shattered. The android, he realized, couldn't answer his question. Niki felt vaguely disappointed. They were supposed to return to Baltimore tomorrow morning on the x-loop, but he wanted to go home now. Through tears, Niki looked at Teacher.

"Are you ready?" she said.

Niki nodded.

Teacher put on her backpack. "OK, then, let's get lunch."

The class cheered. Together they left the Hall of Presidents and emerged onto Solidarity Square. The humidity was stifling. The sun beat down upon them without mercy. They made their way toward the Food Court on Main Street, North America. Teacher looked at Niki and gave him a weak smile. She shrugged, as if to say "Sorry, kid." She recognized Niki's dissatisfaction, but there was nothing to be done. She walked into the teeming crowd, holding up a blue flag so the class could follow her. But Niki lingered; he let his classmates pass him by. He looked back at the Hall of Presidents, its faux neoclassical architecture strange amid the surrounding low-rise structures. Niki could not help but feel as if he had missed an opportunity to learn something important about the American past.

But maybe there was nothing to learn. Maybe all those video historians were wrong. Maybe the past really was past. Maybe it had nothing to do with him. Maybe those strange people who lived before Zero Hour were just, like, fundamentally different from him—and you, and me. Maybe no amount of studying could teach you what it was like to be alive back then, what people were thinking when they let all those bad things happen, when they killed each other in such large numbers for such little cause. All of them had known; none of them had wanted to know what they already knew. At every moment, they might have chosen differently. But they hadn't. It had happened the way it had happened. It was done, right? There seemed to be something obvious, though, something staring him right in the face that he was missing. What was it? What couldn't he help but not see? And what sort of lens, if any, might correct his clouded vision? Niki turned away from the Hall of Presidents and ran to rejoin his classmates.

---

Lee Konstantinou is Associate Professor of English at the University of Maryland, College Park. He wrote the dystopian satire Pop Apocalypse (Ecco/HarperCollins, 2009) and the literary history Cool Characters: Irony and American Fiction (Harvard University Press, 2016). With Samuel Cohen, he co-edited the collection The Legacy of David Foster Wallace (University of Iowa Press, 2012). He's currently working on a new novel and a study of Helen DeWitt's The Last Samurai.