Oligarch Morinth, goblet full of some forgotten world’s wine in hand, stood at the window wall of his suite atop the Black Spire jutting above the lesser buildings of New Jericho as Commander Prax neared The Juggernaut.
“The gladiators will clash after all,” Morinth said as he took a long sip of his drink and then hastily shoved the cup into the awaiting hands of Perius Yurlay.
He turned back to the window in time to see the railgun of the Arrowhead begin to unload on the larger vessel.
“Summon the Oligarchy,” Morinth told his aide. “We must plan contingencies.”