Outside Brazzaville, former Republic of the Congo
For the men in the field, things were not tremendously better. Awolowa Mugabe had been shuttled from one port and airfield to another for the last half a year, his scheme to get rich quick now stretching toward a miserable seventh month. He could get out anytime he wanted…if he didn't mind a bullet through the head, that was. But he still could not shake the vision of the beautiful pile of money that would await him if he completed this job; then he could retire to a palace in Fiji surrounded by all the girls and drugs he could ever want.
But for today, at least, he was here…unshaven, dirty, and unkempt…just another of a long line of Oompa-Loompas chained together at the ankle and shuffling toward the gates of another godforsaken mine. A discreet message had undoubtedly been sent to the mine's management already, informing them of who he was, his assumed identity, and why he was there; he would put up a decent show of pretending to work, and the management would put up a decent show of pretending to beat him and call him names. In fact, they might beat him even more than the others…never hard enough to hurt him but enough to make a convincing bruise or two…then, as the victim, he would be all the more likely to garner the trust and sympathy of the mine's community of slaves. The Empress's assassin had not been kidding when she said that the concealed devices Mugabe carried would never be detected…these wonders of microelectronics had been implanted beneath his skin, made of materials which security scanners could not distinguish from the surrounding tissue. He enjoyed using them, though he did not have the chance very often…James Bond ain't got nutting on me, mon.
He shot a disinterested glance at the sign to one side of the mine's entrance gate as he passed…this particular hole in the earth was known as the Brighton Mine, owned by Chadworth Industries. Which was only natural, because Chadworth Industries owned everything. Mugabe suppressed a snort of derision and focused on making his expression properly sullen and dejected; the prisoners were being herded into a rough square, an intimidating man emerging from the nearest building to give them the standard "work well and you will be treated well" speech. Dot was a lie, sure enough. Mugabe glanced around and steeled himself, preparing for another long and fruitless tour of duty. In all the time he had spent in places like this, he had never heard the slightest hint of the Resistance…the usual wild rumors, of course, but nothing serious. And as the prisoners moved toward the open pit of the mine, more hopeless than before, Mugabe's despair became genuine. I'm gonna spent the rest of my life stuck in holes like dis one. Little did he know, however, that he was about to get the break he had been waiting for.
A week after Mugabe arrived, another group of slaves was brought in. About half of these were runaways, recaptured somewhere or other in the world…but not all. There were three Oompa-Loompas spread out through the formation who were not like the others; not only were they healthier physically, but there was something different in the way they acted, the way they held themselves. Clearly, these three were captured Resistance fighters, and the guards looked forward to…acclimating…them to their new condition. No beatings were administered on the first day…there would be time and opportunity and time for that soon enough. Instead, the proud trio was allowed to maintain its vestiges of dignity and self-respect for now, to make it all the crueler when these things were stripped away later. Mugabe identified these three at once and made a show of accidentally breaking a work light not long afterward…though the act was anything but accidental…a guard tapped him lightly on the side of the head with a baton for his stupidity, but Mugabe fell to the floor as if struck by a hammer. Their obligatory interaction complete, the guard returned to his post and Mugabe staggered off into the tunnels, ostensibly to find some help with his fractured skull. In reality, however, he spent the rest of the day shadowing the three newcomers, learning where they were stationed and what their work schedule looked like. At last, he was making progress.