Jeb woke in the alley before sunrise. The bartender had placed a small blanket over him—not that he needed it, but it was kind of her.

  Jeebz, time?

  5 a.m. You have thirty minutes to get to the dock.

  He checked his credit chip to ensure he hadn't been robbed during his drunken stupor. Everything was there. Finding a nearby hose, he rinsed his face off and quickly flagged down a hovtax, reaching the dock just in time. Exchanging payment chips, he stepped into the security checkpoint.

  He placed his sword and blaster pistol in the weapons slot and passed through the scanner. Retrieving his items, he was stopped by the pungent stench of Gaedon.

  “You made it. Barely in one piece, though.” Jeb glanced down—he looked rough. “Doesn’t matter,” Gaedon continued, “You’ll get a Sac at the ship. No one goes to a PP in a Doll.”

  A PP—Prison Planet? Jeebz noted Jeb’s surprise. Yes, we'll be transporting a criminal to a Prison Planet.

  Jeb didn't respond aloud. “Okay, lead on, boss man,” he gestured.

  Gaedon shook his head. “Not this time. I have another assignment. Bay fourteen. The prisoner is already aboard.” He gave a strange smile. “Safe trip, Jeb.”

  This was not going to go well.

  Two hours later, after preliminary checks and preparations, Jeb found himself lying next to a Sac—fully biological and frailer than a Doll, but genetically engineered for strength, speed, and regeneration. A small Doll doctor holding an electroboard approached.

  “A couple of questions, Jeb. Where do you want your AI installed?”

  “Inner ear, wireless with a lobe contact for hard-link if needed.”

  “And physical specs?”

  “Lean, endurance-oriented, capable of lifting four hundred pounds. Emphasize speed and regeneration. Green eyes, long black hair.”

  The doctor keyed in the details and activated the procedure with injections and flashing lights over the Sac.

  “It'll take a few hours. Make sure you feed it; it'll be weak initially.” Jeb nodded, closing his eyes.

  A greenish light enveloped him. His perceptions flickered, disoriented, until he felt an intense burning in his head. After a moment, the pain subsided.

  He opened his new eyes, the room overly bright. He raised his arm shakily, shielding them until his vision adjusted.

  The Doll doctor scanned him briefly. “All good. Take it easy.” Then he left.

  Jeb dressed in the provided lightly armored, flexible, climate-controlled uniform.

  Jeebz, you there?

  After slight static, Jeebz responded. The voice was different—more auditory than digital.

  Jeb, my storage is limited to around a thousand years in this Sac. I've retained essential combat training, engineering, and mission-critical data. Past missions' extensive visuals and audio are stored back in your Doll.

  This startled Jeb—he’d forgotten about Sac memory limitations. But Jeebz was right; this mission required only essential data.

  After several more hours of final ship preparations, he noticed no additional crew arrived. Clearly, he was the only crew member on this small vessel.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  In the cockpit, Jeb linked Jeebz wirelessly to navigation and contacted control tower, beginning his launch sequence.

  Flipping a switch, the cyclotron hummed softly, drawing energy through the electromagnetic energy collection field—a vast, invisible net capturing cosmic radiation to recharge the vessel. The small speeder, sleek and needle-shaped, subtly vibrated as it came alive.

  Jeebz, prisoner status?

  Secure and asleep.

  “Good enough.” Tossing aside the checklist, he contacted the control tower. “Speeder forty-seven ready for launch.”

  “Cleared, speeder forty-seven.”

  Jeb pushed the control spheres forward, feeling Jeebz's subtle adjustments to smooth out flight motions. The ship soon entered a space lane—a path marked by widely spaced electromagnetic rings, accelerating smoothly.

  As stars blurred into luminous streaks of violet, azure, and crimson, reality seemed to pause. He watched himself retrace movements backward, a surreal rewind that dissolved quickly into normalcy.

  Half an hour later, beyond the navigational rings, the ship’s gravity drive extended magnetic fields, gently accelerating him toward Drakudai galaxy.

  What kind of drive’s running this bucket? Jeb asked, picking up on the subtle shift in the hum.

  Dual-field electrogravitic.

  Jeb’s eyes narrowed, a slow grin tugging at one corner of his mouth. Haven’t heard that name in a while.

  He remembered it—centuries back, running escort on a deep void miner retrofitted with one. The thing handled like a ghost and moved like it was being reeled in by the stars.

  Right... like an electromagnetic hourglass, only lopsided, he thought, letting the image take shape in his mind. The front field is bigger, shallow—acts like a net, scooping up cosmic rays. That’s your direction of travel. Flip the shapes, and you’re going backward. Simple.

  He traced the field flow in his thoughts.

  It extracts electrons from the intake side—front—siphons 'em off and redirects them into the rear field, where it’s more concentrated. That leaves the front field positive, the rear negative. Add rotation—opposing, fast—and you get a wing-like lift. Only instead of air, it’s working on charge differential.

  The hum deepened slightly as the ship banked.

  Electrogravitic. The whole damn vessel is falling toward the positive field. Not pushed. Not pulled. Just... falling forward. Not the most maneuverable. But acceleration never stopped.

  He leaned back, arms crossed. "Takes some nerve to build a ship that only moves because the universe lets it." He smiled.

  Yes. Silent. Clean. And, as required by mission parameters, undetectable by most primitive sensor grids.

  Jeb leaned back, watching the stars twist and realign ahead of him.

  “Wish they had these back when I was flying freighters.”

  They did. You were just flying the wrong ones.

  Jeb rolled his eyes. Distance and time?

  Two point three million light-years. Arrival in fourteen days, two hours, eighteen minutes. Deceleration begins in seven days, one hour, nine minutes.

  Jeb pulled up a holographic galactic map, pinching down to view Drakudai, a scarcely inhabited galaxy.

  Strange choice for a Prison Planet, Jeb thought.

  Indeed. Records indicate the PP in system Sol is old, around five hundred thousand years, possibly older. Yet Drakudai has been empty for seventy-five million years.

  Jeb frowned, puzzled, but dismissed the thought. Not his mission.

  Jeebz, I'm checking out the ship.

  Acknowledged.

  Jeb unlocked the armored cockpit door, stepping into a narrow, softly-lit corridor. He briefly passed the minimalist privy, captain's quarters with sparse furnishings, compact exercise room with bolted weights, tiny galley, and cramped crew quarters with stacked bunks. He avoided Engineering, marked by red caution tape.

  Finally, he reached the aft compartment, reinforced as a secure cell. Inside, the prisoner sat cross-legged, eyes closed but clearly alert.

  Intrigued, Jeb activated the intercom. “Prisoner, what's your charge?”

  Eyes still closed, the man smiled slightly. “Being free.”

  “What do you mean.” Jeb leaned against the door, the pressure and cold slowly penetrated his atmo suit, it didn't block, it regulated temperatures.

  Opening his eyes, the prisoner met Jeb’s gaze calmly. “Hard to explain freedom to someone who lacks comparison. Once you've tasted freedom, you see clearly what isn't.”

  “What's freedom compared to not freedom?” Jeb asked, skeptical.

  “To think, act, exist—without fear of arrest. True freedom is choice.” The prisoner rolled his shoulders, then twisting his neck about to get it to adjust.

  Jeb rolled his eyes. “What did you do specifically?”

  After a pause, the prisoner stood, stretching casually. Weak in form, strong in spirit, his eyes were intense. “Sold information to enemies.”

  “Ha! So much for your freedom.” Jeb walked away shaking his head.

  Jeebz, wake me when we’re close.

  Affirmative.

  In the captain’s quarters, Jeb stretched, ate, and found a note with the Core’s Seal:

  Standing Order 4721

  Never reveal to PP inhabitants your off-world origins—punishable by high treason.

  He tossed the note, watching lasers incinerate it instantly in the bin.

  Jeb lay in the glass-covered bed chamber, falling into deep hibernation, his final thoughts inevitably drifting back to the prisoner's elusive concept of freedom.