The Security Operations Center sat on deck eight, where the ship’s mass pressed in close and the bulkheads felt more like armor.

Ralston and Travers strode into the Security Operations Center, and the room acknowledged them without ceremony.

At the central console was a man Ralston recognized immediately, even without the rank on his collar.

Lieutenant Commander Daniel Michaels, formerly of the USS Chimera, stood with his hands resting lightly on the edge of the console while eying a security feed that hadn’t changed in several seconds. He didn’t rush to turn toward them when they entered. He didn’t need to. Everyone in the room already knew who was in charge.

“XO,” Michaels finally acknowledged, then glanced to Travers. “OPS.”

Ralston noted that the officers and enlisted personnel nearby didn’t stop working or stiffen at his approach. That told him more than any briefing ever could.

Ralston and Travers stopped two paces short of the console.

“Walk me through what you are current watching.” Ralston nodded toward the frozen feed on the main display.

“Michaels glanced back at the display. “Maintenance corridor, deck twelve, port side. A yard crew cleared it twenty minutes ago.” He paused. “I left the feed up because people relax after the problem leaves.”

“Do they now?” Ralston pressed.

“Usually,” Michaels said.

Ralston studied the image on the display closely. An empty corridor with nothing obviously wrong. The kind of nothing that invited complacency.

“You expecting trouble?” Ralston asked.

“No, but I don’t like habits forming around unlocked doors.” Michaels replied.

Travers shifted slightly. “Yard access is always a mess.”

“Only if you let it be, sir.” Michaels said, not unkindly.

Ralston’s gaze stayed on the feed a moment longer. “How many doors like that are still floating in gray space?”

“Seventeen. Down from ninety-three when Cyclone returned unceremoniously to the yards following Iron Veil.” Michaels said.

“Timeline to zero?”

“Two days, XO. Three if someone decides convenience matters more than procedure.

“It doesn’t on this ship.” Ralston nodded once.

Michaels turned then, finally giving Ralston his full attention.

“Are you planning any changes, sir?”

“Yes, but not immediately. ” Ralston said.

“Good, this ship doesn’t respond well to surprises,” Michaels replied.

Ralston let that sit for a moment as he took in the room again- the quiet curt exchanges and the way the security detail rotated feeds without prompting. Discipline without strain and control without noise.

“How are your people holding up?” Ralston finally asked.

Michaels considered the question. “Tired. Focused. They have earned my full trust and confidence.”

“Trust is an expensive commodity. If you spend it all at once, you don’t get it back.”

Michaels gave a short nod. “That is why I issue it in small amounts.”

Ralston inclined his head slightly. “That restraint will matter when we leave the yards.”

“It already does.” Michaels’s eyes stayed on his console.

“When Fleet Captain MacLeod and his staff board the ship, curiosity will spike. People will test where the lines are.” Ralson said.

“They always do, especially those who think proximity equals importance,” Michaels said.

“It doesn’t.”

“No,” Michaels agreed, “But it convinces people it should.”

Ralston watched the display a beat longer. “You’ll get pushback.”

Michaels looked at Ralston again. “From whom?”

“From my altitude,” Ralston said. “And higher.”

Michaels weighed that for a moment, then nodded once.

“Let’s talk ordnance,” Ralston shifted the conversation.

Michaels didn’t react outwardly, but the change registered. He pulled up a forward-and-aft cross-section schematic of Cyclone’s hull: torpedo tubes, handling rooms, magazines stuck in tight vertical geometry.

“The forward torpedo battery was decimated during Iron Veil. Shock damage from Vaadwaur weaponry propagated straight into the magazine spaces. Thankfully, the fire suppression systems worked as designed, but the structure didn’t come through clean.” Michaels said.

Ralston leaned in slightly. “What about the tubes?”

“They survived the battle, albeit barely. We tore them down and rebuilt the mounts. They’re green now.”

“And the magazine?” Ralston asked.

“Stripped all the way down to the frame. New bracing, environmental controls, and redundant safeties were added per Corps of Engineers guidance based on the Ordnance Safety Boards inspection report. The magazines were emptied shortly after the ship moored here at Avalon. All torpedo magazines have been certified, and we are cleared to take on ordinance. Michaels said.

“Who signed off on the certification? Ralston asked.

“The Starfleet Ordnance Safety Board rep out of Brahms Station, independent of the yard’s ordinance team. Assuming the yard keeps its published schedule, and Fourth Fleet doesn’t reshuffle priorities, we are t-minus eight days out.”

“What is coming aboard?” Ralston asked, though he was already acquainted with the broad strokes.

Michaels keyed the ordinance manifest.

“Three hundred quantum torpedoes and three hundred photon torpedoes of various lot numbers. We are also receiving classified class one special security ordinance.

“For select interstellar contingencies. Ralston finally nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

“Security posture?” Ralston’s eyes stayed on the numbers.

“The sections two decks above and below the forward and aft torpedo batteries will be locked down. Magazine spaces will be secured exclusively for the ordinance handling teams’ access. Necessary yard personnel shall be escorted at all times. No exceptions.” Michaels said emphatically.

“Very well. No mixed teams that haven’t operated or drilled together. I want handling crews rested and sober.” Ralston ordered.

“They will be. I’ve already scrubbed the watchbill for the handling evolution.” Michaels confirmed.

Ralston gave a slight nod. “Good. Last thing we need is a near-miss because someone thought adrenaline counted more than experience.”

Michaels allowed himself the faintest edge of a smile. “Ordinance doesn’t care how motivated you are.”

“No,” Ralston agreed. “They care how careful you are.”

Ralston stepped back from the console. “Keep me informed. If the timeline slips, I want to know before anyone starts improvising.”

“You’ll know immediately. I don’t like surprises either.” Michaels nodded.

“Carry on, Mister.” Ralston turned toward the door to the passageway as Travers fell in beside him to his left.

Behind them, Michaels shifted the display back to the security feeds. The empty magazine schematic vanished, replaced again by Cyclone’s internal environment.