The turbolift rose smoothly from Deck Eight, the vibration underfoot shifting as the lift sped toward the Main Bridge.

Ralston stood in silence, hands clasped loosely behind his back. Travers leaned slightly against the bulkhead, eyes on the deck indicator as it climbed.

The turbolift slowed.

When the doors parted, the bridge opened before them. Consoles curved inward toward the command platform, stations active but unhurried.

Captain Hardin stood just forward of the center seat. He turned as Ralston and Travers stepped out on to the bridge.

No announcement followed. None was required.

Hardin’s eyes moved over them both, quick and assessing. “You look like you’ve been busy. Satisfied?”

“Enough to move forward, Captain,” Ralston said. “Not enough to rush anything.”

That earned a faint grunt of approval.

“You ready to have the ship listen to you?” Hardin asked.

Ralston met his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

Hardin studied him a moment longer, then reached down and keyed the armrest control on the captain’s chair.

“Computer, access Starfleet Operations Order two-four-zero-two-five-six-seven-eight-nine-two. Initiate voiceprint and biometric scan for secondary command code transfer to Commander Logan Ralston, Starfleet. Authorization: Hardin four-seven alpha sierra.” Hardin ordered.

“Authorization confirmed. Commander Logan Ralston recognized. Secondary command authority accepted. Voiceprint and biometric registration pending.” Cyclone’s main computer replied.

“Proceed, Mister Ralston,” Hardin ordered as he angled his head toward the console to the left of the Executive Officer’s chair.

Ralston stepped onto the command platform and took the seat without hesitation. It was lower than the captain’s chair, offset just enough to keep it out of the centerline, but close enough that every display mattered. He settled into it like someone who understood the difference between occupying a position and owning it.

The console came alive at his presence.

“Biometric authentication required,” the computer intoned.

Ralston placed his right hand flat against the panel. The surface warmed slightly as it read the contours of his palm, the fine ridges of his fingertips, the pressure and angle he applied without thinking. A soft chime acknowledged the scan.

“Maintain contact.”

A narrow emitter rose from the console’s edge, aligning with his eyes. Ralston didn’t blink as the scanner traced both irises in quick succession, mapping retinal patterns down to capillary depth. A faint pulse of light passed across his vision.

“Fingerprint and retinal scans complete. Voiceprint authentication required,” the computer said.

“Ralston four-seven beta delta.”

“Voiceprint accepted.”

Indicators across the console shifted again.

“Commander Logan Ralston, Starfleet. Identity confirmed. Executive Officer command access established,” the computer concluded.

The console dimmed back to its standard operational layout.

“That’ll do,” Hardin said.

Ralston rose from the Executive Officer’s chair and stepped clear of the command platform.

“You’ve walked the ship. That’s the easy part.” Hardin said.

Ralston held his gaze, expression unchanged.

“The hard part,” Hardin continued, “is deciding when to let them breathe and when to lean on them until they remember why they wear the uniform. That balance is yours now. I won’t micromanage it, but I will notice if you get it wrong.”

“Yes, sir,” Ralston replied.

Hardin studied him another beat, as if weighing whether there was anything left to say. Whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him.

“Good,” he said at last. “Then we’re aligned.”

Hardin turned his head slightly toward the conn. “Mister Douglas.”
The officer of the deck straightened. “Captain.”

“I’m laying below. Keep her steady.”

“Aye, sir,” Douglas replied.

Hardin turned to Ralston. “Let’s do dinner in my cabin at nineteen-thirty, XO.”

“Yes, sir,” Ralston replied.

Hardin turned away and stepped off the command platform without another word.

As he crossed the bridge toward the turbolift, the watch tracked him by instinct more than protocol. The doors slid open at his approach. Hardin stepped inside and didn’t look back.

“Captain off the bridge,” the officer of the deck called.

The doors closed, and the lift carried him below.

The bridge settled back into its steady rhythm immediately.

Travers shifted a half-step closer to Ralston, keeping his voice low. “That went well.”

“As well as it was going to,” Ralston replied.

Travers glanced toward the captain’s chair, then back to the boards.

“You’re officially wired in now.”

Ralston remained where he was, eyes forward, already thinking several steps ahead.

Nineteen-thirty wasn’t a social call.

It was his first test as Executive Officer.