2 Month after Coruscant fell -
The new Homestead on Midvinter, “The Vanagor Homestead” some locals had started to call it was slowly being “civilized” by Connel and Chrysothemis. This was more for her than for him, but for his piece of mind. Sure, the woman was more than capable of defending herself(she taught him how to throw through the Force as well as other skills), but she was still his mother. This meant that Connel would not leave her “unsafe”; it was his internal duty.
Slowly but surely the place was coming together, and slowly but surely her hints towards him “getting back out there” were starting to take effect. She was not going to let him just sit here and go stir crazy, all under the mask of being there for her. She was fine, so she had one more gift from his father for him. One she promised herself she would not give until he was ready. Was he now? Not sure, but it was necessary.
What she gave him was the code key to a locked room on Naboo, inside “House Angellus”, just a code key.
Naboo - House Angellus - A week later -
He did not see any sign of Joran Del-Finn, not that he wanted to given recent events (nothing against the businessman, but he was a dead ringer… okay bad choice of words). Dagos Terrek was not around either. Connel would not be here long, he was in this house that “was not his” on this planet that just made him uncomfortable to find a room that was not here.
He had been here for hours, and found no site of it. No map coordinates, all that there was left to do was enter the code into the main control panel.
Paydirt.
On the edge of the property, right off the rockface, made itself visible literally coming out of the ground. Connel couldn’t help chuckle, wondering if this is like the story Dad had told him about the day he opened another of these vaults in front of his doppelganger. Except what was in this vault was little more than a shell. It was the remains of the ship that kept him alive for over eight hundred years in the ice of the planet “Rhen Var”.
“The Fugitive’s Redemption.”
This was a heap that had been through a lot. From the bottom of the south sea of Mon Calamari to well… this ship had stories to tell. He wondered if others… Master Jonyna Si, @Azurine Varek… others who were around back then might know about it, maybe Ala Quin. Didn’t matter.
What the frell am I supposed to do with this?
It took the better part of the day, but the remains of the vessel were transferred to “Enterprise”. Then it seemed like the switch flipped. The more he looked at the shell, wondering what the purpose was, the more he changed his mind on the outcome. This ship will fly again…
So he took it with him, and took it somewhere secret. Not out of intrigue or “cool factor” but so he could work on it outside the confines of prying eyes and just be who he was. He could be a son.
Golden Beaches - Corellia - Present Day
Things have changed.
This was not the Corellia he once knew. Only now was he able to come back, Connel, Michael Angellus, BRAD and BRED. They still had friends on the planet and were able to be smuggled down, right now they were two traders with their automated assistants, or at least that was the look they were going for, until they could get to their destination. Luckily, the Empire had not discovered it.
The hangar was quiet in the way only secret places ever were.
Not abandoned. Not empty. Just… waiting.
Connel stood beneath the hull with his arms folded, helmet resting against his hip, staring up at the ship like it might blink first. The gunmetal skin caught the low work lights without reflecting them back, swallowing illumination instead of wearing it. The lines were clean now. Honest. Nothing extraneous. Nothing exposed.
She didn’t look like a YT-1300 anymore. She looked like a decision. A soft series of chirps echoed from the access ladder.
“Brrt-chk?” [Translation: You sure about this?] BRAD’s dome swiveled, optic bright with something between concern and pride.
Connel smirked. If I wasn’t sure, I wouldn’t have finished sealing the panels.
A second astromech tone answered from inside the ship, sharper, faster.
“BEEP–whirr!” [Translation: He says that every time.]
BRED rolled into view from the loading ramp, visibly annoyed at having to share deck space. The two droids exchanged a brief, silent stare that said this is my ship now and no it isn’t at the exact same time.
Connel climbed the ramp before either could escalate it into a full-blown droid war. The cockpit sealed around him with a whisper instead of a hiss.
No clutter. No wasted space. Just seats, two, to go with wraparound consoles, and displays that waited for him rather than demanding attention. The droid brains spun up beneath the deck plates, invisible hands already trimming calculations, shaving milliseconds off reactions.
The ship didn’t ask questions. It listened. “Designation,” the system prompted, voice neutral and almost… respectful.
Connel paused, with a sigh, should it remain? Or grow? Null Vector. Navigation term meets intimidation. If you’re tracking it, your math is already wrong. “Fugitive’s Redemption” saved a Jedi’s Life. “Null Vector” would ground the life of another.
A beat.
Then the ship accepted it. Not ceremonially. Not dramatically. Just a quiet internal shift, like a name sliding perfectly into place. The hangar doors parted, and stars spilled in. Moments later, TIEs screamed out of orbital pace like angry hornets, sensors painting the space behind him with red.
Michael’s voice crackled in over the tightbeam. You’re clear to run. Or we fight. He was manning the guns.
Connel smiled.
Let’s see what she does.
Null Vector vanished from Imperial sensors before the first TIE pilot finished locking on. Not cloaked. Not jammed.
Just… gone.
Then she reappeared inside their formation.
The automated systems handled the first pass. Thrusters vectored before Connel consciously moved. Weapons deployed from smooth, seamless ports that hadn’t existed a second earlier. BRAD’s chirps synced with BRED’s sharper tones, the two astromechs arguing over targeting solutions while somehow agreeing on results.
Three TIEs died before they understood they were in a fight.
The rest broke formation.
“State of the art,” one Imperial pilot muttered, disbelief leaking into his voice. Connel rolled the ship, engines flaring blue-white, slipping past return fire that arrived half a heartbeat too late. He didn’t respond.
Null Vector didn’t chase.
She simply left.
When the stars stretched and the cockpit went quiet again, Connel rested a hand on the console. No words. No ceremony. Just acknowledgement. Behind him, BRED let out a satisfied chirp. BRAD answered with a softer one. The ship didn’t comment.
She didn’t need to.
When they jumped to hyperspace, and could “relax” for a few moments, the both of them looked over the ship.
You got a great ship here.
It’s yours too.
Really???
You helped me get it, you helped me build it. It’s just as much yours.
Before the kid could revel in this “cool a$$” ship being part his, a chirp from SERAPHIM.
Sir. A file has made itself available.
Elaborate.
A sound file has unlatched from a closed server on one of the “saved” systems that were protected by R2-T3. R2-T3 was the astromech droid who helped keep Caltin alive while unconscious in the ice. The droid’s brain was saved and is not in B5-55, the astromech belonging to Chrysothemis now.
If it’s a sound file, can you play it?
Will do.
Over the speakers of the ship:
Caltin Vanagor
Personal Log
Encrypted | Local Only | No Beacon
If you’re hearing this, then things went the way I expected.
Not the way I hoped. I’m not that naïve.
But the way I planned for.
This ship has been hidden before. She knows how to wait. Ice is honest that way. It doesn’t pretend to preserve what isn’t worth preserving. If there’s anything left of her after all this time, then she earned it.
I didn’t leave coordinates.
I didn’t leave a map.
I didn’t even leave a name worth remembering.
Because what’s meant to be found doesn’t need to be handed over.
If you’re listening to this, then you weren’t given this ship. You found her. That matters. It means you were looking without knowing what you were looking for. That’s usually when the right things surface.
I rebuilt her once to survive.
You’ll rebuild her to move.
That’s as it should be.
You won’t fly her the way I did. You shouldn’t. The galaxy you’re standing in now doesn’t forgive the same mistakes, and it doesn’t reward the same heroics. You’ll make her quieter. Smarter. Faster than she has any right to be.
Good.
She was never meant to be a home. She was meant to be a choice.
If you’re restoring her instead of selling what’s left, if you’re taking the time to understand what she can be rather than what she was, then I know something important.
You didn’t come here chasing ghosts.
You came here because something in you refused to stop walking forward.
I won’t tell you what to do next. Jedi are bad at that when it matters most.
But I will say this:
If you’re standing where I once stood, hands on worn metal, listening instead of speaking, then you’re already doing what you’re meant to be doing.
The rest will come.
Take care of her.
And don’t let her make you reckless. Ships like this have opinions.
— Caltin
Connel froze.
He didn’t reach for it right away. That hesitation… that was pure Caltin’s son. When the voice finally filled the ship, it wasn’t loud. It didn’t echo. It sounded like it was meant for close quarters and long nights.
And when it ended, Connel didn’t move.
The stars stretched on endlessly ahead of him, but he wasn’t seeing them. His reflection in the cockpit glass looked older than it had any right to. Not tired. Just… seen. She didn’t unlock it, he said quietly.
BRAD’s dome tilted. “Brrt?” [Didn’t unlock what?]
The log, Connel replied. Not when I powered her up. Not when I restored her. Not even when I flew her.
He swallowed once. She waited.
Behind him, another presence shifted in the cockpit. Michael had been quiet the entire jump, reading system outputs, letting the ship teach him its rhythm. He hadn’t asked questions. He never did when it mattered.
Until you stopped trying to prove anything, Michael said.
Connel closed his eyes. That’s him, he whispered. That’s exactly him.
Michael leaned back in the copilot’s seat, staring at the hyperspace tunnel like it might blink first. He didn’t want you chasing him, he said. He wanted you moving forward.
A pause. Also, Michael added, softer now, realizing the irony of the statement he was making, still dealing with the loss of his own father, he trusted you to finish the thought.
BRAD let out a subdued chirp, something thoughtful for once.
BRED responded with a quieter tone than usual, the kind he only used when the moment wasn’t his to interrupt.
The ship flew on. Not correcting. Not advising. Just carrying them.
Connel rested his hand on the console again, not like a pilot, not like a Jedi. Like a son touching something his father once built with tired hands and stubborn hope.
I didn’t come looking for you, he said, to the empty cockpit, to the memory, to the ship itself. I came looking for what was next.
Null Vector didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.
Because somewhere, nine hundred years in the past, a Jedi had trusted that this moment would arrive without being forced, and he was right.
The stars slid past in long, quiet lines as Null Vector cruised on a shallow hyperspace arc, engines barely whispering. Connel didn’t sit rigidly anymore. That was the difference Michael noticed first. No clenched jaw, no sense of measuring himself against a ghost. Just a Knight at ease with motion, letting the ship fly while he thought.
Finally, Connel spoke, voice calm, almost reflective. I used to wonder where my father ended and I began, he said. Every choice felt like a comparison. Every success… borrowed.
He glanced at the console, fingers resting lightly on the metal. But this ship wasn’t his. It wasn’t given. It didn’t come with a standard to live up to. It had to be finished. He looked over at Michael. That’s when I realized. Masters don’t inherit answers. They recognize when it’s time to stop asking the wrong questions.
Michael leaned back in the copilot’s seat, boots hooked under the console, expression thoughtful in a way that mirrored his father more than he liked to admit. You know, he said, when I was sourcing parts, running favors, calling in debts I didn’t technically have the right to call in yet, I kept thinking this was just helping you rebuild something old.
He shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Turns out, and I am more than glad to say, we were building something new. For both of us. He tapped the console once, affectionately. This ship doesn’t belong to a Vanagor or an Angellus. It belongs to what comes after them.
Connel nodded, not solemn, not burdened. Just certain. Outside, Null Vector held her course, carrying two legacies forward without weighing them down, content to be exactly what they had chosen to become.
The new Homestead on Midvinter, “The Vanagor Homestead” some locals had started to call it was slowly being “civilized” by Connel and Chrysothemis. This was more for her than for him, but for his piece of mind. Sure, the woman was more than capable of defending herself(she taught him how to throw through the Force as well as other skills), but she was still his mother. This meant that Connel would not leave her “unsafe”; it was his internal duty.
Slowly but surely the place was coming together, and slowly but surely her hints towards him “getting back out there” were starting to take effect. She was not going to let him just sit here and go stir crazy, all under the mask of being there for her. She was fine, so she had one more gift from his father for him. One she promised herself she would not give until he was ready. Was he now? Not sure, but it was necessary.
What she gave him was the code key to a locked room on Naboo, inside “House Angellus”, just a code key.
Naboo - House Angellus - A week later -
He did not see any sign of Joran Del-Finn, not that he wanted to given recent events (nothing against the businessman, but he was a dead ringer… okay bad choice of words). Dagos Terrek was not around either. Connel would not be here long, he was in this house that “was not his” on this planet that just made him uncomfortable to find a room that was not here.
He had been here for hours, and found no site of it. No map coordinates, all that there was left to do was enter the code into the main control panel.
Paydirt.
On the edge of the property, right off the rockface, made itself visible literally coming out of the ground. Connel couldn’t help chuckle, wondering if this is like the story Dad had told him about the day he opened another of these vaults in front of his doppelganger. Except what was in this vault was little more than a shell. It was the remains of the ship that kept him alive for over eight hundred years in the ice of the planet “Rhen Var”.
“The Fugitive’s Redemption.”
This was a heap that had been through a lot. From the bottom of the south sea of Mon Calamari to well… this ship had stories to tell. He wondered if others… Master Jonyna Si, @Azurine Varek… others who were around back then might know about it, maybe Ala Quin. Didn’t matter.
What the frell am I supposed to do with this?
It took the better part of the day, but the remains of the vessel were transferred to “Enterprise”. Then it seemed like the switch flipped. The more he looked at the shell, wondering what the purpose was, the more he changed his mind on the outcome. This ship will fly again…
So he took it with him, and took it somewhere secret. Not out of intrigue or “cool factor” but so he could work on it outside the confines of prying eyes and just be who he was. He could be a son.
Golden Beaches - Corellia - Present Day
Things have changed.
This was not the Corellia he once knew. Only now was he able to come back, Connel, Michael Angellus, BRAD and BRED. They still had friends on the planet and were able to be smuggled down, right now they were two traders with their automated assistants, or at least that was the look they were going for, until they could get to their destination. Luckily, the Empire had not discovered it.
The hangar was quiet in the way only secret places ever were.
Not abandoned. Not empty. Just… waiting.
Connel stood beneath the hull with his arms folded, helmet resting against his hip, staring up at the ship like it might blink first. The gunmetal skin caught the low work lights without reflecting them back, swallowing illumination instead of wearing it. The lines were clean now. Honest. Nothing extraneous. Nothing exposed.
She didn’t look like a YT-1300 anymore. She looked like a decision. A soft series of chirps echoed from the access ladder.
“Brrt-chk?” [Translation: You sure about this?] BRAD’s dome swiveled, optic bright with something between concern and pride.
Connel smirked. If I wasn’t sure, I wouldn’t have finished sealing the panels.
A second astromech tone answered from inside the ship, sharper, faster.
“BEEP–whirr!” [Translation: He says that every time.]
BRED rolled into view from the loading ramp, visibly annoyed at having to share deck space. The two droids exchanged a brief, silent stare that said this is my ship now and no it isn’t at the exact same time.
Connel climbed the ramp before either could escalate it into a full-blown droid war. The cockpit sealed around him with a whisper instead of a hiss.
No clutter. No wasted space. Just seats, two, to go with wraparound consoles, and displays that waited for him rather than demanding attention. The droid brains spun up beneath the deck plates, invisible hands already trimming calculations, shaving milliseconds off reactions.
The ship didn’t ask questions. It listened. “Designation,” the system prompted, voice neutral and almost… respectful.
Connel paused, with a sigh, should it remain? Or grow? Null Vector. Navigation term meets intimidation. If you’re tracking it, your math is already wrong. “Fugitive’s Redemption” saved a Jedi’s Life. “Null Vector” would ground the life of another.
A beat.
Then the ship accepted it. Not ceremonially. Not dramatically. Just a quiet internal shift, like a name sliding perfectly into place. The hangar doors parted, and stars spilled in. Moments later, TIEs screamed out of orbital pace like angry hornets, sensors painting the space behind him with red.
Michael’s voice crackled in over the tightbeam. You’re clear to run. Or we fight. He was manning the guns.
Connel smiled.
Let’s see what she does.
Null Vector vanished from Imperial sensors before the first TIE pilot finished locking on. Not cloaked. Not jammed.
Just… gone.
Then she reappeared inside their formation.
The automated systems handled the first pass. Thrusters vectored before Connel consciously moved. Weapons deployed from smooth, seamless ports that hadn’t existed a second earlier. BRAD’s chirps synced with BRED’s sharper tones, the two astromechs arguing over targeting solutions while somehow agreeing on results.
Three TIEs died before they understood they were in a fight.
The rest broke formation.
“State of the art,” one Imperial pilot muttered, disbelief leaking into his voice. Connel rolled the ship, engines flaring blue-white, slipping past return fire that arrived half a heartbeat too late. He didn’t respond.
Null Vector didn’t chase.
She simply left.
When the stars stretched and the cockpit went quiet again, Connel rested a hand on the console. No words. No ceremony. Just acknowledgement. Behind him, BRED let out a satisfied chirp. BRAD answered with a softer one. The ship didn’t comment.
She didn’t need to.
When they jumped to hyperspace, and could “relax” for a few moments, the both of them looked over the ship.
You got a great ship here.
It’s yours too.
Really???
You helped me get it, you helped me build it. It’s just as much yours.
Before the kid could revel in this “cool a$$” ship being part his, a chirp from SERAPHIM.
Sir. A file has made itself available.
Elaborate.
A sound file has unlatched from a closed server on one of the “saved” systems that were protected by R2-T3. R2-T3 was the astromech droid who helped keep Caltin alive while unconscious in the ice. The droid’s brain was saved and is not in B5-55, the astromech belonging to Chrysothemis now.
If it’s a sound file, can you play it?
Will do.
Over the speakers of the ship:
Caltin Vanagor
Personal Log
Encrypted | Local Only | No Beacon
If you’re hearing this, then things went the way I expected.
Not the way I hoped. I’m not that naïve.
But the way I planned for.
This ship has been hidden before. She knows how to wait. Ice is honest that way. It doesn’t pretend to preserve what isn’t worth preserving. If there’s anything left of her after all this time, then she earned it.
I didn’t leave coordinates.
I didn’t leave a map.
I didn’t even leave a name worth remembering.
Because what’s meant to be found doesn’t need to be handed over.
If you’re listening to this, then you weren’t given this ship. You found her. That matters. It means you were looking without knowing what you were looking for. That’s usually when the right things surface.
I rebuilt her once to survive.
You’ll rebuild her to move.
That’s as it should be.
You won’t fly her the way I did. You shouldn’t. The galaxy you’re standing in now doesn’t forgive the same mistakes, and it doesn’t reward the same heroics. You’ll make her quieter. Smarter. Faster than she has any right to be.
Good.
She was never meant to be a home. She was meant to be a choice.
If you’re restoring her instead of selling what’s left, if you’re taking the time to understand what she can be rather than what she was, then I know something important.
You didn’t come here chasing ghosts.
You came here because something in you refused to stop walking forward.
I won’t tell you what to do next. Jedi are bad at that when it matters most.
But I will say this:
If you’re standing where I once stood, hands on worn metal, listening instead of speaking, then you’re already doing what you’re meant to be doing.
The rest will come.
Take care of her.
And don’t let her make you reckless. Ships like this have opinions.
— Caltin
Connel froze.
He didn’t reach for it right away. That hesitation… that was pure Caltin’s son. When the voice finally filled the ship, it wasn’t loud. It didn’t echo. It sounded like it was meant for close quarters and long nights.
And when it ended, Connel didn’t move.
The stars stretched on endlessly ahead of him, but he wasn’t seeing them. His reflection in the cockpit glass looked older than it had any right to. Not tired. Just… seen. She didn’t unlock it, he said quietly.
BRAD’s dome tilted. “Brrt?” [Didn’t unlock what?]
The log, Connel replied. Not when I powered her up. Not when I restored her. Not even when I flew her.
He swallowed once. She waited.
Behind him, another presence shifted in the cockpit. Michael had been quiet the entire jump, reading system outputs, letting the ship teach him its rhythm. He hadn’t asked questions. He never did when it mattered.
Until you stopped trying to prove anything, Michael said.
Connel closed his eyes. That’s him, he whispered. That’s exactly him.
Michael leaned back in the copilot’s seat, staring at the hyperspace tunnel like it might blink first. He didn’t want you chasing him, he said. He wanted you moving forward.
A pause. Also, Michael added, softer now, realizing the irony of the statement he was making, still dealing with the loss of his own father, he trusted you to finish the thought.
BRAD let out a subdued chirp, something thoughtful for once.
BRED responded with a quieter tone than usual, the kind he only used when the moment wasn’t his to interrupt.
The ship flew on. Not correcting. Not advising. Just carrying them.
Connel rested his hand on the console again, not like a pilot, not like a Jedi. Like a son touching something his father once built with tired hands and stubborn hope.
I didn’t come looking for you, he said, to the empty cockpit, to the memory, to the ship itself. I came looking for what was next.
Null Vector didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.
Because somewhere, nine hundred years in the past, a Jedi had trusted that this moment would arrive without being forced, and he was right.
The stars slid past in long, quiet lines as Null Vector cruised on a shallow hyperspace arc, engines barely whispering. Connel didn’t sit rigidly anymore. That was the difference Michael noticed first. No clenched jaw, no sense of measuring himself against a ghost. Just a Knight at ease with motion, letting the ship fly while he thought.
Finally, Connel spoke, voice calm, almost reflective. I used to wonder where my father ended and I began, he said. Every choice felt like a comparison. Every success… borrowed.
He glanced at the console, fingers resting lightly on the metal. But this ship wasn’t his. It wasn’t given. It didn’t come with a standard to live up to. It had to be finished. He looked over at Michael. That’s when I realized. Masters don’t inherit answers. They recognize when it’s time to stop asking the wrong questions.
Michael leaned back in the copilot’s seat, boots hooked under the console, expression thoughtful in a way that mirrored his father more than he liked to admit. You know, he said, when I was sourcing parts, running favors, calling in debts I didn’t technically have the right to call in yet, I kept thinking this was just helping you rebuild something old.
He shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Turns out, and I am more than glad to say, we were building something new. For both of us. He tapped the console once, affectionately. This ship doesn’t belong to a Vanagor or an Angellus. It belongs to what comes after them.
Connel nodded, not solemn, not burdened. Just certain. Outside, Null Vector held her course, carrying two legacies forward without weighing them down, content to be exactly what they had chosen to become.
