The Weekday One Hundred

Instructions were clear. Corporate wanted me to observe and report my findings. Nothing more.

But someone in the lab miscalculated and sent me back five hundred years, not fifty.

“Double check the fuel gauge,” the man next to me said.

I studied him. Pilot, I guessed. A profession extinct for centuries. As for the fuel gauge? Another mystery. I couldn’t remember the last time we used technology that outdated.

My jumpsuit clung to me, now damp with sweat. I stared at the rest of the cockpit, overwhelmed by the antiquated machinery.

Wrong place, wrong time and no way home.

Perfect.