Tag-Alongs

Tag-Alongs

  by

  Michael D. Britton

  * * * *

  Copyright 2012 by Michael D. Britton / Intelligent Life Books

  Oh, crap.

  I looked up at the ladder that led up to the Apollo Lunar Excursion Module, then down at the white powder under my environmental suit, and my flailing legs struggling to find purchase in the low lunar gravity and balance myself.

  Well, not my self. His.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen. Neil Armstrong stumbled over his prepared words, not his own feet.

  The presence of me – Scott Jones – in his mind was supposed to have absolutely no effect on him – they promised me this would be safe.

  “Houston, I’ve sustained no injury – Cancel 10-33 – I’m fine.”

  Whew.

  Well, as long as the Russians weren’t watching.

  As Neil Armstrong rose to his feet and delivered his famous line about steps and leaps – getting it exactly right this time – I started to worry.

  Something was obviously wrong. I was supposed to be observing “history in the making” – not “history in the changing.”

  Then it hit me – maybe NASA, at the government’s insistence – had edited out that blunder as Armstrong reached the bottom rung of the ladder. Maybe what the world knew as history was really “take two.”

  In that case, this excursion was well-worth the risk – and the money.

  I’d been saving up for this since I graduated high school – Class of 2216. The “ultimate adventure vacation experience,” they called it.

  “Extreme remote viewing,” my girlfriend called it. She’d been given a trip to spend a day in the life of Cleopatra as a graduation gift from her rich uncle.

  The idea of witnessing a historical event first-hand was tantalizing to me. Having my consciousness ripped from my own body, sent backward in time as a quantum-displaced data packet and inserted into the brain of a famous person was horrifically scary – but what a thrill.

  So, I scrimped and saved, eating nothing but Mackeez rehydrated mac-n-cheese for five years, and put away my 199,999.99 credits. I got my insurance, and booked my tour – only to learn of the one-year waiting list.

  No problem, I said. Gave me more time to figure out who and when I wanted to visit.

  After narrowing it down to four famous people from history, I finally settled on Neil Armstrong and that most amazing moment when humans first set foot on the moon.

  I had no idea it would be so awesome – and so surprisingly different from the history we’d all grown up with. As I split my attention between the events before my eyes and the odd stumble that had just occurred, something nagged at me.

  He’d said the line right.

  “One small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind.”

  Even with conspiratorial government editing, it didn’t make sense that he got it right.

  As Mission Commander Armstrong bounced along the surface with Buzz Aldrin, I felt the diminished gravity as if I were really Mr. Armstrong. I could hear the hissing breathing, taste the stale recycled air in the helmet, and see the Earth on the horizon.

  Despite the astronaut’s extensive low-G training, I could feel the sensation of creeping nausea mixed with intense adrenaline. So this was what it was like for him. This was really history.

  At the edge of my perception, I could feel a thin buzzing that was not a part of Armstrong’s perception. It was the one part of this experience that did not belong here – a tiny sensation of being tethered to my own world – to the present day and my own location. Like a paper-thin, invisible life line back home.

  Suddenly, everything dissolved, and I felt my consciousness pulled from Neil Armstrong, from the moon, from 1969.

  What a rip off!

  This was supposed to last twenty-four hours – that’s why History Tours, Inc., called it “A Day in the Life.”

  Well, I call it a complete disaster. A catastrophic failure.

  When I got back, I was going to demand a refund. Not pro-rated, either – the whole amount.

  After a few dizzying moments of cold, silent blackness, I felt myself awakening. I kicked myself off the bed and stumbled to the mirror, rubbing my eyes.

  But it was not my own face that looked back at me.

  This was a face that everyone knew.

  The King.

  Elvis.

  How could this be? Yes, I had considered spending my vacation as Mr. Presley – the day he appeared on the Ed Sullivan show for the first time – but I’d decided against it. I clearly remember deleting the option from my application weeks ago.

  But here it was, September 1956, according to the calendar on the faded yellow wall of this cheap-looking hotel room.

  Maybe something went wrong with the programming, causing me to get pulled out of Neil Armstrong, and History Tours was giving me my second choice as a sort of refund.

  Fine. Elvis it is.

  I (or Elvis) looked around at the small room with its fraying brown carpet and dim lighting. I was surprised the TV network couldn’t afford a nicer place to put up the King – then realized he wasn’t quite the King, yet.

  Gaining fame, yes. Causing girls everywhere to scream and swoon, yes. But not yet at the zenith of popularity.

  That would all start tonight.

  So, why was he just standing here, looking around?

  After a few seconds of Elvis’ actions being synchronized with my thoughts, it hit me.

  I was in control.

  I stumbled back and fell on the bed in a sitting position.

  Whoa.

  This was definitely not how this was supposed to work.

  I raised a hand and looked at it. “What the,” I started, with the baritone drawl of Elvis issuing from my lips.

  From his lips.

  This was going to get confusing. Not to mention very, very embarrassing, come show time tonight.

  A knock at the door.

  “Go away!” Elvis droned. “I – uh, I gotta headache, man.”

  Think, think!

  A muffled voice through the door. “It’s me - Tom. Let me in, Elvis.”

  “Uh, I’m sorry, Mr. Parker, Sir,” I said, quickly recalling the name of Elvis’ long-time manager, Colonel Tom Parker. “I really can’t – I uh, I been throwin’ up, Sir. You really don’t wanna come in here right now.”

  “This is no time for a bout of nerves, son. Listen, you got an hour to get cleaned up. I’ll talk to you later.”

  I sighed heavily, relieved that I didn’t have to try to pretend to be Elvis face to face.

  But in an hour . . .

  The hour seemed to fly by as I frantically racked my brain to figure a way out of this. If I screwed up the act on stage, before millions of U.S. viewers, was that going to change history?

  If so, how?

  I spoke not a word between my hotel room and the Green Room at CBS Television City in Hollywood. When Tom asked me if I was okay, I just nodded.

  Some old actor – Charles Laughton – was hosting the show for Ed Sullivan that night. I waited backstage, starting to hyperventilate.

  I heard his introduction – Elvin Presley, he called me – and I stepped out onstage.

  “Uh, thank you, thank you very much,” I said, in classic Elvis style.

  I stared past the huge, boxy television studio cameras and into the faces of the massive crowd. Teenage girls bursting with anticipation, anxious young men, serious-faced adults.

  I cleared my throat.

  And collapsed.

  I stared up at the bright, blurry studio lights, all the voices around me becoming echoes.

  “. . . you all right-ight-ight, son?”

  “. . . get a medic-edic-edic!”

  “. . . right back a
fter this important message from Lincoln automobiles-biles-biles”

  And everything went black.

  Silent.

  Dizzying.

  Thank goodness – History Tours was fixing this mess.

  As I floated through black silent weightlessness, I wondered whatever happened to that famed performance, now marred forever by a collapsing Elvis.

  With no warning, I found myself riding a white horse across a marshy green field under a gray sky. Suddenly woozy, I bowed my head and closed my eyes for a moment.

  “General Washington, are you well, Sir?”

  I looked to my left, where a uniformed man rode alongside me. “Ah, yes,” I ad libbed, “well enough. Carry on.”

  I moved my hands on the reigns, noting my ability to control this latest body.

  I sighed.

  Great.

  Now I was in the body and mind of my third choice – George Washington at Yorktown, 1781 – the decisive winning battle in the American Revolutionary War.

  But, as with Elvis, I was in control.

  I barely knew anything about this time, this place. I had just thought, when arranging my tour, that it would be interesting to witness this pivotal part of history.

  I quickly recognized the potential for severe problems.

  I rode on, trying not to move the reigns too much – I didn’t even know how to ride a horse.

  Then I