1 The Dream Rider by Ernest Dempsey

asked groggily.
    “You fainted,” he responded. “Perfectly understandable.
You have undoubtedly been hit with information that would be difficult for
anyone from your planet to process easily.”
    I tried to hide my disappointment from him. I was still
there, still in some alien prison. I pushed myself up a little but continued
sitting on the ground as my senses started to return.
    “I don’t understand. What am I doing here? Why haven’t I
woken up back on Earth? Why is all this happening to me?” Jonas accepted my
flurry of questions with a patient smile.
    “I will explain everything to you in time.”
    “In time?” I asked. Maybe the old man didn’t realize how
freaked out I was. He didn’t have time to answer as several other people began
to crowd around us. I stood up from the floor quickly and sat back down at the
table. Jonas did the same, assuming his original position.
    Prisoners of seemingly every kind poured into the
room:   men, women, muscular , fat, skinny, black, white, brown. Some went to stand
in lines in front of half-doors. Others went to meet with in other corners of
the room. Each corner was designated with a colored banner that hung from the
balcony. I’d not really paid much attention to the flags until then.
    “What do the banners mean?” I said, looking up at the
green one that hung over Jonas’s table.
    “Those are the teams games prisoners are assigned to,” he
said as he watched the procession move like clockwork.
    “Teams?” I wondered in a hushed tone. There were a few
people heading in our direction. My neighbor from across the corridor was one
of them. I also recognized the big man with the red beard and hair.
    “Yes,” Jonas answered. “Mallock puts the prisoners in
groups to train together.”  
    “Train? For what?”  
    “The games.”  
    “What are these games I keep hearing about? The guards
said something about them earlier.”   I leaned in close to him.
    He looked over at me with a serious expression. “I believe
in your planet’s ancient history, there were civilizations who had games such
as these. Romans if I’m not mistaken, were one of them.”
    A sickening feeling began to rise up again in my stomach.
“Like gladiators?”
    Jonas nodded slowly. “Yes. A fight to the death.”

 

Chapter 8

 
    Jonas’s statement hit me like a bag of rocks. I was on another
planet, in a gladiator training prison. And the only explanation I had for why
I was there was that it was some kind of strange connection between dreaming
and quantum physics, which I barely knew anything about.
    I eyed the group that was assembling around us. I could
tell they were sizing me up. Some eyes were curious. Others were suspicious. I
realized the striking contrast between them and some of the other prisoners I’d
seen when I first arrived. They were strong, fitter than others, and their hair
looked cleaner. “Why do these prisoners seem healthier than the ones I saw on
my way in? There were some who looked like they were starving, and hadn’t
bathed in forever.”
    Jonas cast a cynical smile. “The emperor must keep up
appearances for the public. The prisoners who fight in the arena have to be
fit, and somewhat visually appealing. The people believe we are all treated
equally, which is clearly not the case. The ones who fight are given slightly
more food, and this soup,” he tapped the bowl with the side of his hand, “has
more calories and protein in it that it would appear. They also let the
fighters take a shower a few times each week.”
    “Not everyone fights?” I frowned, curious.
    He shook his head. “There are two groups: fighters, and
prison slaves. The slaves are not treated as well as the others.”
    I wanted to ask him who decided who would fight and who
would not, but I had a feeling I knew the answer. Instead I posed another
question that had been bothering me. “Why do all the guards call me frag ?” I
asked.
    A female voice chimed in from behind me.