In a more lucrative sector of Coruscant a humble merchant hoisted a crate of assorted farm-type fruits onto his shoulder with a sigh. "Are you sure there's not anything else you could sell me?" he asked the seller who lounged with cat-like ease against a barrel of tropical fruit from some exotic place. The seller shifted his weight a bit and frowned. "Not satisfied with what we've got, are we?"

The merchant gave a half-smile, "Let's just say that some fruit goes bad quicker than others."

The seller nodded as if he had been waiting to hear those words and immediately all pretense of ease fell away. He looked around the empty store as if he expected the walls to hear him, then pulled from a dusty crate an over-ripe mango. "This is what you have been looking for," he said as he handed it to the merchant.

"Some people would be very happy to have this fruit, I suppose," replied the merchant gingerly taking the fruit and placing it in an airtight container, then securing the container under his flowing robes.

Stretching, the seller leaned against the barrel again. "I hear that some of the low-down Coruscant scum find it quite valuable," he said in a conversational tone. The two men stared hard at each other, and it seemed that many things passed unspoken between them. A customer entered the fruit store and began examining some melons. The merchant nodded sharply at the seller and said in a light voice, "I'll be back in a month once I take care of these."

"Be safe!" the seller said cheerfully then turned his full attention to the new customer.

The merchant hurried his way through the fruit district, shifting the heavy crate from shoulder to hip then to shoulder again. He passed many impressive fruit stores ran by aliens from all over the galaxy, but without glancing at them he headed for the lower-end fruit stores. At last he came to a stretch of old-fashioned outdoor markets. Perusing them carefully he finally decided on one ran by a shabby, disreputable-looking human. "I'm looking to dispose of this fruit," he said.

The other man growled to himself and knocked some rotten fruit and seed from the counter. "Put 'em here and lemme look at 'em." The merchant put them down obediently and patiently waited as the marketer pinched and prodded. Finally he grunted, "Looks good. Come into this shack while I arrange payment." He motioned for the merchant to follow him into the tent behind his display area.

As soon as the two were safely in the market-man's façade melted away. "Did you secure it?" he asked in a breathless voice.

The merchant fished the airtight container from his robes and put it in the other's filthy hand. The fruitier slid it open and removed the mushy mango. With a shiny probe that looked out of place in the dark and dirty tent he tested the center of the mango. When he found what he was looking for he lay the mango on a nest of towels and carefully cut it open with a weak laser. In the center of the two stinking, smoking halved was a tiny plexiglass ball holding an even smaller chip. The fruitier's breath escaped him with a soft "woosh." "It's here," he said picking up the ball and cradling it in his palm.

"What is it?" queried the merchant.

"Can't tell you that," answered the other. "The less you know the less dangerous it is for you."

"Dangerous?"

"You know. You know what we're facing; I don't need to spell it out."

The merchant smiled sadly, "Sometimes it's nice to remember…" he trailed off and when he spoke again his voice was very low, "It's bad already, and this is only the beginning. What will our children face?"

The fruit-seller had been working at the precious chip but at that comment he spoke icily, "Let us pretend to believe that it can be stopped."

Seeming to remember something the merchant put his hand on the other's arm. "You owe me something."

"I'm sorry?" the fruit man was caught up in his work.

"Tell me about Padmé Amidala," said the merchant smoothly.

"Why the interest?"

"I just think that we need her, that she might be some help or…" he shrugged.

The other man frowned for a moment then moved aside a stack of empty crates revealing a small computer console. After pecking away at the keyboard for a few moments he cleared his throat. "Padmé Amidala Naberrie. Former Queen of Naboo, now Senator representing her home planet. Strong history of support for the Chancellor."

"Interesting. Not looking encouraging," the merchant murmured, sitting on an old barrel.

"Ehh.. There's more." The other said raising his head to look at his companion. "Don't sit on that it'll break." The merchant stood guiltily and the other man continued. "It seems that she spent a long time fighting the creation of an army and managed to make herself the enemy of someone really powerful. Rumor has it that Dooku isn't real fond of the Nubian senator. Just a few months ago she was placed under the protection of the Jedi by guess who?"

"Possibly Palpatine?" the merchant asked.

"One and the same." The computer hacker typed away at his keyboard. "Hmm…" he stopped his typing and looked up. "Well, this is interesting. Apparently she's dead."

"What?" in an instant the merchant was hanging over the hacker's shoulder peering anxiously at the screen.

"Officially she's dead, killed in a bombing of some type," he shrugged apologetically.

"She's dead? Are you sure?"

"No."

"No?"

"I said officially dead. I'm pulling up some files that can tell me the truth behind the facts."

The merchant grunted in understanding and watched the screen, rubbing his fingers together. When he could wait no longer he cleared his throat, "Well?"

Smiling, the fruitier/computer hacker kicked back from his computer proudly. "Apparently this was a failed assassination. There was someone who blew up in the speeder, but it seems to be a petty thief. The interesting thing is that the news of her death was posted four hours before the actual bombing."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that someone high up doesn't care for Padmé Amidala." He smirked and turned off the computer, secreting it in a crate of greasy rags. "Is the price satisfactory?"

"This low-down persona isn't all an act is it?" asked the merchant good-humoredly.

The reply was grim, "Even scum doesn't like what's happening."

The merchant nodded respectfully and ducked out of the dark tent. He needed to find Padmé Amidala.