Kikhveakkaz sighed as he waited for executive orders and watched as the fleets stalled and Army landing parties recklessly rushed in. His leathery avian hand quickly grazed over the right side of his helm, activating the console and projecting a holoprojector-screen at his side. With the inclusion of a few commands, the surround sound system he had in the helm's communications began blasting
music back at him. He pushed himself back into the luxury AEL-leather seat, grabbed a cigar out of the box to his left side and clipped it with an electrum-plated plasma clipper.
One puff... two puffs... the smoke bellowed out from under his beak, slowly falling and rising back up past his eyes.
A single hand rose and motioned the officers.
"Ah, amateurs... well, their funeral," he mumbled to himself as he gazed at the legion of frigates falling out of hyperspace all around him.
"Alright, send in the frigates."
"Aye-aye, Captain!"
One by one, dozen by dozen, the
Menagerie-Class frigates began to surge forward and enter the upper atmosphere while
Sikune-Class battleships pelted the living poodoo out of orbital defense installations with surgical bombardments from outside of the surface's effective range. Before long, hundreds upon hundreds of
Arbitrators crashed into the ground like fierce meteor showers.
Now
that's how you put two hundred thousand boots on foreign ground at once.... Well, give or take, depending on how many legs some of the freaky aliens the Imperial Shadow Navy conscripted had.
"Ah - that is the life..." Avon said with a long sigh of relief.