They meandered around the city, its gargantuan red buildings a huge contrast to Andor's barely above the ground ones, though for good reasons. A small building had a better chance to outstand Andor's stormy weather. And if it fell down...well... rebuilding one story building was easier than a hundred's one. Even the rich neighborhoods never exceeded three stories high.

“Let's go see the memorial,” Jomaira said. “We're already here.”

Yahya smiled at her, grateful.

It was easy to find the memorial. A huge monolith red stone in the middle of a vast palm tree garden. The stone was surrounded by five fountains where water cascaded from the mouth of roaring lion statues.

The place was full of visitors. Children playing in the fountains despite their parents' half-hearted attempts to get them out of the water. Yahya couldn't fault them. It was a hot day and the sun gave no sign of abating. Any other day he would have thrown himself into the water.

There were no markings on the stone. No names, nor dates. Nothing. Yahya figured the stone, while huge, wouldn't suffice to carry the names of all those that had fallen.

A data screen was put on a podium in front of the memorial.

“Type the name you're looking for. If it's there, it will show you the squadron and the way the person died,” the guard positioned there told them in a nonchalant way. Then turned back to the magazine he was skimming through.

If it's there...

The guard didn't need to elaborate. If the name of a fallen soldier wasn't amongst the list it only meant one of two things. He either died a coward...

Or a traitor.

Yahya didn't know which was worse.

But Yahya's father was none of those. He was a hero who had given his life for the galaxy. For peace. He had laid down his life so that people like him, like this guard, could stand at ease skimming through magazines instead of running through ravaged lands with blasters in hand and the only source of light the burning starships as they collapsed under enemy fire.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Yahya huffed. He shot a glare at the aloof guard. The least the guard could do is look grateful for the sacrifices of his brethren in front of their memorial.

Yahya slowly made his way to the platform, his heart trying its best to burst out of his chest. The drums roaring in his ears drowned the other buzzing sounds. There was only him and the memorial.

Only him…and a memory of his father.

He stared at the data-pad, hesitating. How did his father die? His mother had never told him. Did he suffer? Did he feel pain as the vacuum of space tore at his body when the ship he was stationed on was destroyed? Or was he shot down by enemy fire?

Yahya wanted to know and didn't at the same time. He wanted to know that his father's journey to the afterlife was peaceful and painless, that he thought of him and his mother when the angel of death took hold of his soul. He wanted to know that his father left with no regret, no worry over him and his mother. But he wouldn't find this here. They wouldn't tell him his father's last thought.

Still, it was something. He had fought tooth and nail to get here. It wouldn't do to back out now. Not after all that happened. This might be his last chance to find out anything about his father. Even if it was the way he had died.

He typed his father's name into the data-pad and waited. It loaded for a while, a couple seconds at most, but Yahya felt as if it was an eternity.

Then, the results came back.

No match found.

Yahya gawked at the screen. He typed the name again and waited.

No match found.

He turned to the guard, his eyes pleading. It was a mistake. It must be. They had to fix it.

The guard didn't even spare him a glance.

A man, waiting down the platform grunted. “Hurry up kids, we don't have all day.”

Yahya looked down at the data-pad. He typed the name again, and again, and again.

The results were the same.

Always the same.

No match found.

He clicked harshly on the screen, ready to type his father's name, again, when Jomaira's hand took hold of his. She put the data-screen back and gently steered him away.

Yahya allowed himself to be dragged, too numb to protest.