The Avalon Fleet Yards hung in the void across thousands of cubic kilometers in the Avalon System. The heart of the yards was Brahms Station, the towering Probert-class spacedock whose cavernous interior glowed with blue and white lights. Surrounding the station was a wide halo of drydocks, each holding vessels in various stages of assembly or resurrection, all feeding from the nearly hollowed-out moon below whose labyrinth of fabrication chambers burned with molten light.

Traffic lanes, marked by an intricate system of navigation markers, radiated outward like spokes. Even at rest, Avalon felt busy, purposeful, as its every motion was driven by the Federation’s urgent need to recover from recent catastrophes.

A travel pod slipped into one of these traffic lanes, angling toward Drydock 7A.

Commander Logan Ralston, Starfleet, sat in the forward seat of the travel pod as the pod followed its approach vector. He took up little space despite his height; everything about him was controlled, efficient, and intentional. The faint silver streaking his temples and the careful set of his left shoulder were the only outward signs of what he’d come through. The structural failure aboard Typhon during Operation: Iron Veil left him with injuries severe enough that Starfleet Medical initially doubted he would walk unassisted again. Rehabilitation was measured in small, incremental gains. Muscle strength recovered first; fine motor control lagged, improving only through painful repetition.

Starfleet awarded him the Silver Palm for his actions as Executive Officer aboard the Typhon during the Ulysses Exploratory Cruiser Division’s battle against the Vaadawar. However, Ralston had accepted it with the detached understanding that commendations changed nothing. The officers who hadn’t survived Iron Veil were the ones he thought of when he received praise for his actions that day. The decoration was placed in a case; the recovery work continued.

His medical clearance evaluations shifted from skeptical to cautiously optimistic, and finally to a quiet, unceremonious fit-for-duty. The road back had been slower than he liked, harder than he admitted, but it ended in the only place he cared about: readiness.

When the personnel board reviewed his return-to-duty placement, Fleet Captain James MacLeod submitted a direct recommendation endorsing Ralston for the position of Executive Officer aboard the USS Cyclone. The recommendation carried considerable weight, and it moved Ralston from consideration to assignment with little debate.

The assignment became official within twenty-four hours of MacLeod’s recommendation, and with it came a clarity Ralston hadn’t realized he missed. The post of Executive Officer aboard a Typhoon-class exploratory cruiser was not a recovery posting. It was a frontline billet, demanding, visible, and unforgiving, precisely the kind of environment where shortcomings could not hide and excuses did not matter.

He welcomed it.

The transfer orders were straightforward: report to Avalon Fleet Yards, complete pre-deployment physicals, and join Cyclone’s command staff as the ship neared the end of its drydock availability.

The travel pod slipped into its final vector toward Drydock 7A. Outside the viewport, Avalon’s sprawling infrastructure dominated the starfield with a lattice of construction frames and pressurized work platforms.

Fabrication barges drifted between the drydocks, their hulls glowing faintly from the heat of internal furnaces. Tractor-control tugs nudged massive hull sections into place with casual expertise. The nearly hollowed-out moon below glimmered with the steady pulse of industrial reactors powering the vast network of replicators and milling stations carved deep within its interior. The entire yard felt alive.

As the pod rounded a maintenance gantry, the USS Cyclone came into full view.

The Typhoon-class starship sat within the open-air drydock cradle, surrounded by scaffolding and suspended platforms. Her hull bore the contrast of new and old hull plating that had survived Operation: Iron Veil. In comparison, entire swaths of the primary hull gleamed with the uniform sheen of freshly installed duranium-titanium plating. Structural reinforcement ribs along the ventral surface were exposed, and teams of engineers were performing final stress tests before the composite coverings were reapplied to the hull.

Running lights along the superstructure flashed in maintenance patterns, their sequencing indicating a ship transitioning from repair status back toward operational readiness. A dozen work bees maneuvered around the warp nacelles, conducting final calibrations to the quad-lobed coil assemblies. The distinctive twin-core housing amidships remained open, diagnostic umbilicals feeding data into the drydock’s control towers.

The travel pod adjusted its pitch as it aligned with the docking approach. Ralston leaned forward slightly and keyed the comm panel.

“Cyclone, this is Travelpod One-Five-One on final approach to your portside auxiliary airlock. Requesting docking clearance.”

“Travelpod One-Five-One, Cyclone. You are cleared for docking. Maintain current vector and stand by for final umbilical alignment. Welcome aboard.”

“Copy, Cyclone. Travelpod One-Five-One, out.” Ralston exhaled once through his nose, barely more than a measured breath.

The travelpod adjusted its attitude automatically as its thrusters fired in short, precise bursts, slipping past the last line of scaffolding. Cyclone’s hull filled the viewport now. The new plating along her primary hull caught the dock lights in sharp highlights, contrasting with the deeper gunmetal tones of sections that had survived the battle with the Vaadawar in Underspace.

A maintenance team in EV suits drifted past the travelpod, magnetized boots clinging to the underside of a service catwalk as they disconnected diagnostic umbilicals from a freshly installed EPS trunk. Work bees peeled away from the port nacelle, revealing the nacelle’s smooth contours and the faint shimmer of calibrated plasma coils settling into operational balance.

“Final capture sequence initiated,” the pod’s internal computer announced.

A moment of gentle pressure signaled the magnetic clamps engaging, followed by the muted thud of hard-seal confirmation. Status indicators on the console shifted from yellow to green across the board.

Ralston rose smoothly from his seat, his movements deliberate, testing nothing and yet testing everything.

Ralston rose and stepped toward the hatch as it cycled open.

The auxiliary airlock of USS Cyclone was bright, quiet, and still carried the faint scent of new paneling. Standing just inside, waiting, was a familiar figure in Operations Gold.

Commander Nathan Travers.

Same height. Same steady posture. Same clear, calculating eyes Ralston remembered from the Academy and from a dozen crisis shifts during Iron Veil.

Travers didn’t smile, but the recognition was unmistakable.

Ralston stepped across the threshold and came to a halt.

“Permission to come aboard?”

“Granted. Good to see you, Logan. Welcome aboard the Cyclone.” Travers answered without hesitation.

The words were simple, but the familiarity behind them carried more weight than ceremony. Travers stepped back, clearing the way into the corridor as the airlock sealed behind Ralston with a mechanical hiss.

“Captain Hardin will see you in his cabin,” Travers reported.

“Lead on.” Ralston nodded once.

They fell into step easily, their pace matching without effort as they headed down the passageway. The corridor still bore signs of recent work: fresh sealant along a junction seam, tool cases stacked neatly against the bulkhead, a faint trace of new insulation in the air.

Travers glanced over at him. “How’s the shoulder?”

Ralston rolled it once, a minimal test. “Functional.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Ralston allowed the smallest breath through his nose. “Better than expected.”

Travers accepted the answer with a quiet nod. He’d seen Ralston worse, far worse, and didn’t press further.

“Hardin’s old-school. Direct. He’s been asking for his new XO every morning for the past week.” Travers finally said a few moments later.

“That supposed to be reassuring?”

“Depends on the morning,” Travers said.

Ralston almost snorted. “Still terrible at encouragement.”

“Still better than you were,” Travers countered.

They reached a turbolift. The doors slid open, and both men stepped inside without breaking stride as the doors hissed shut behind them.

“Deck three.” Travers commanded.

The lift acknowledged the command with a soft chirp and began its ascent. For a few moments, neither spoke. The hum of the lift and the subtle vibration of Cyclone’s power grid filled the void.

“Crew’s curious about you.” Travers finally said.

Ralston didn’t look over. “Let them be.”

“They will,” Travers said, “but Hardin won’t.”

Ralston gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. “I expect as much.”

The turbolift slowed, the vibration beneath their feet easing. A soft tone sounded as the car came to a stop.

The doors parted with a quiet hiss, opening onto Deck Three. Travers stepped out first and glanced back.

“This way.”

Ralston followed.

After a short walk, they stopped at a polished door marked:

03 CAPT R. W. HARDIN, STARFLEET

Commanding Officer, USS Cyclone (NCC-90001)

Travers keyed the door chime.

The doors hissed open.

“Captain,“ Travers announced as he stepped inside Hardin’s cabin, “Commander Ralston.“

He shifted just enough to give Ralston a clear path into the room.

Ralston stepped forward without hesitation, crossing the space in a few purposeful strides. He stopped in front of Hardin’s desk. In one crisp motion, he snapped to attention.

“Commander Logan Ralston, reporting for duty, sir.”

Captain Roy W. Hardin looked up from a PADD that sat on his desk

The desk before him was broad and deep, a slab of darkened duranium large enough to anchor the cabin.

Hardin himself matched the desk: solid, weathered, and unmistakably built for starship command. At 5’11”, with a broad chest and a frame thickened by years rather than vanity, he had the stance of someone who had seen the worst the galaxy had to offer and expected it again. His dark hair, cropped close, was heavily streaked with silver. His face bore the lines of age, sun, and combat- with creases at the eyes and mouth that spoke to both grit and dry humor.

His hazel-gray eyes bore into Ralston. They didn’t warm, but they didn’t need to. Hardin saw people clearly, and that clarity mattered more than pleasantries.

“At ease, Commander,” Hardin’s voice carried gravel and authority in equal measure.

Ralston shifted into parade rest.

Hardin didn’t gesture to a chair. He let the moment breathe, watching Ralston with the experienced patience of a man who had evaluated officers under far harsher circumstances.

Finally, Hardin leaned back slightly in his chair.

“MacLeod says you’re still worth a damn,“ he said, voice low and unvarnished.

A beat.

“Let’s see if he’s right.”

Hardin turned to Travers. “Thank you, OPS. I will send the Commander to you to start the XO turnover after we have talked.“

Travers gave a short, professional nod. “Aye, sir.”

He met Ralston’s eye only briefly, a silent good luck between men who didn’t need to say it, then stepped out. The doors slid shut behind him with a soft hiss, leaving the cabin still and quiet.

“Long trip?“ Hardin asked.

It wasn’t small talk. It was a probe: light pressure on the hull while checking the integrity underneath.

Ralston held his posture. “Routine, sir.”

Hardin grunted once. “Nothing about the last year’s been routine, Commander. Not for this ship. Not for you. You took a hit that should’ve ended your career. MacLeod vouches for you, Starfleet clears you, and you step aboard my ship standing straight as a bulkhead. That tells me one of two things: either you’re ready, or you’re too damn stubborn to admit if you’re not.”

Ralston didn’t blink. “I’m ready, sir.”

Hardin watched him another beat… long enough to test the truth of the statement, short enough to avoid theatrics.

Then he nodded once. Slow. Final.

“Good, this ship’s been in spacedock longer than any of us wanted. Systems are coming online, crew’s shaking off the rust, and the second we clear yard space, we’re heading for Starbase Eighty-Six. We’ll take on the rest of our personnel there, finish the remaining readiness trials, and then move straight into the Triangle. Command wants a beefed-up presence back in that sector yesterday, and Cyclone’s the one stepping through the door.”

Hardin let his words settle, then leaned forward, resting his arms on his desk.

“Now listen closely, Commander, because this part matters. I don’t need an errand runner wearing red. I need an executive officer. My executive officer. That means you’re the one keeping this ship honest when I’m looking forward, and the crew’s looking at me. It means you handle the noise, discipline, personnel friction, department heads who can’t get their acts aligned, so I can keep this ship alive where the border chews up anything that hesitates.

Hardin tapped his right index finger on his desk once.

“You are the first filter between this crew and a bad decision. You see trouble before it hits the deck. You don’t flinch from the hard calls. And you damn well speak up when something smells wrong, even if I’m the one saying it. Clear?”

“Yes, sir.“ Ralston held Hardin’s gaze.

“An XO isn’t a shadow or a yes-man. An XO is the spine of the ship. The captain sets direction: the executive officer makes sure the ship can follow it. So, I’ll ask you straight up: can you set the tone for over eleven hundred people, hold this ship together when it matters, and carry the weight that comes with being the man standing one step behind the chair?“ Hardin bored into Ralston.

“I can, Captain,“ Ralston confirmed.

Hardin watched him for another beat. What he saw seemed to satisfy him. He leaned back slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing by degrees.

“Good,“ Hardin said at last, voice dropping into a quieter, more final register. “Because Cyclone doesn’t have room for anything less.”

Hardin picked up a PADD on his desk, turning it once in his hand before setting it down between them.

“There’s another piece of information you need to be aware of,“ he said. His tone didn’t change, but the shift in his posture marked the importance.

“Fleet Captain MacLeod is transferring his flag to Cyclone.”

He let that hang in the air for a couple of heartbeats.

“He and his staff will come aboard before we leave the yards.“ Hardin continued, eyes steady on Ralston. “Command’s standing up a new formation: the Cyclone Exploratory Cruiser Squadron. MacLeod’s got it, and he wants his headquarters right here.”

Ralston absorbed it silently.

“So, understand what that means. Eyes on us. Expectations on us. And MacLeod-“ he gave the faintest shake of his head, more wry than dismissive, “he runs a tight operation. He’ll be in the flag bridge running the squadron, and you and I will be running this ship.”

Hardin tapped the PADD once with a thick forefinger before fixing Ralston with the same steady, searching gaze as before.

“I need an XO who can operate inside that pressure without losing focus- or his nerve,“ Hardin said.

“I have worked under MacLeod before. I know his standards. I know the pace he expects. And I know how to keep a ship moving under that kind of scrutiny. Cyclone won’t be the weak link in his chain. And neither will I.“ Ralston said.

Hardin leaned back slightly, the leather of the chair creaking under his weight. He studied Ralston a moment longer, testing the edges of the conviction behind the words.

Then he gave a single nod- slight, but decisive.

Hardin pushed back from the chair and rose to his feet. He moved around the broad desk with the steady, unhurried gait of a man who had long ago stopped performing for anyone. When he reached Ralston, he stopped just short, close enough that the words landed without dilution.

“Welcome aboard the Cyclone, Commander Ralston,“ he extended his right hand toward Ralston.

Ralston took the hand firmly, meeting Hardin’s grip with equal measure.

“Thank you, sir.”

Hardin released his hand and stepped back half a pace.

“Report to Travers,“ Hardin said. “He’ll get you squared away. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover before we leave the yards.”

Ralston nodded once. “Aye, sir.”

“Dismissed,” Hardin ordered.

Ralston turned for the door and strode out of Captain Hardin’s cabin.

Cyclone was waiting.