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Bail Organa appeared in one picture with Nejaa and the Caamasi. Other individuals joined them in group and individual shots, but I didn’t positively identify any of the others. The old-style clothes, the youthful faces, could easily have become countless senators and leaders whose aged faces I would have easily recognized. Some struck me as very familiar—annoyingly so—but without someone to tell me who they were or images to use for comparison, I was stuck not knowing.

Suddenly the war holograms ended and I found myself looking at peacetime shots. The first showed my grandfather standing there with Nejaa. Nejaa was handing him one of the Jedi Medallions marking Nejaa’s elevation to the rank of Master. Then I saw Nejaa with his face pressed cheek to cheek with that of my grandmother. It shocked me because I’d only ever seen her with my grandfather, Rostek. Then, in a picture where the image ran wider, I saw Scerra, Nejaa and a boy who would become my father.

I sagged against the wall and shut my eyes against tears. During my life I’d long heard the cries of downtrodden people who kept saying the Empire was robbing them of their lives and their dignity and the rights they deserved by the simple virtue of their sapience. I’d listened, but not too closely because I found their arguments weak and self-serving. They’d always warned me that someday it would be my turn, that the stormtroopers would be coming for me, and that day it would be too late. I laughed at them then because, with my family, I never imagined the Empire could hurt us.

But hurt us it had. The Empire hadn’t even existed when Nejaa died, but the actions of the Emperor forced my father and grandmother to live a lie. Fear of discovery had to have nibbled on my grandfather every day of his life. Knowing he had saved people might have been an antidote for that, but having to endure that fear for so very long was incredible. My respect for him doubled and doubled again. He is a hero who will never be celebrated for what he has done. And there must be more people like him throughout the galaxy—heroes unsung from a dark time.

I slipped the holograms into my pocket, then returned and replaced everything save the Corellian Jedi uniform, cloak and boots in the box. I resealed it, then carried my booty out and hid it in the greenhouse. I closed the storm cellar door and reburied it, laying back down the diffusion pad and shoveling the manure back over it.

My grandfather joined me as I finished the job. “Find anything of interest down there?”

I nodded. “A past I never knew about.” I gave him a brave smile. “And renewed respect for someone who proved himself a better friend than anyone could ever hope to have.”

His eyes misted over for a moment, then he smiled and nodded slowly. “Busy day, then. You have a lot to think about.”

I smiled. “I do, but that can wait. Right now, a grandson would like to spend time with his grandfather, potting plants, delivering flowers, cruising Treasure Ship Row looking for trouble. What do you think?”

Rostek Horn smiled broadly and threw an arm over my shoulder. “I think Coronet City is in for some excitement. It’s been a while since two Horn men made their presence felt. It’ll be a night to remember.”

THIRTY

It was a night to remember, but for more than just the great time I had with my grandfather. We did hit Coronet City and dined at the finest restaurant on all Corellia: Nova Nova. Normally reservations were comlinked in several months in advance, but my grandfather just showed up bearing a bouquet of flowers, and we were admitted to a private room. The food was all served techno—tiny portions arranged on the plate as if they were art. Sensors in the utensils relayed data to discrete holoprojectors, so one knew the exact contents of each mouthful, including hints of what subtle flavors one should expect to taste, or anecdotes concerning the creation of the dish.

Made me wonder if Siolle Tinta’s chef, Chid, was working in the kitchen.

After