Awolowa Mugabe was busy for the next several days. After a long shower and a fresh change of clothing, he felt much better and his confidence returned. Soon it would all be over. He spent his first forty-eight hours in the base exploring, walking through the mine corridor by corridor. He looked at everything, the frequent swivels of his head seemingly the wonderment of an awed newcomer. But while he would admit that he was impressed with the development, he was also trying to get the best possible visual of every area. All that he saw was relayed to a recording device behind his right eye, the synthetic bio-chip gathering a continuous stream of information. Once transmitted, the visual feed would be processed by computer to form a complete, three-dimensional map of the Resistance fortress…or at least the civilian sector. Naturally, Mugabe could not be expected to make a tour of the military sector, but it hardly mattered. Any intelligence at all about the main rebel base would be appreciated greatly, and Mugabe was already considering how he would spend his fortune. His walks led him all the way down to the lower cave where the Resistance kept its evacuation tunnel; while he could not actually enter the area, he managed a good, long look at it while chatting with one of the guards. More importantly, he identified a camouflaged set of charges installed in the tunnel ceiling, an emergency measure to seal the passageway to pursuers…retracing his steps through the other main passageways, he soon found such charges in all the tunnels linking the primary caverns. He was glad he had caught this particular piece of information; warned in advance, these safety mechanisms could easily be turned to the service of his overseers.

After forty hours of observation, the recorder had reached capacity; Mugabe was confident he had covered the entire civilian sector thoroughly, and had even managed a look into a few military areas. Now he needed somewhere to transmit. He could not tap into the rebel communications network without raising suspicion…what he required was a single window to the open sky, where he could bounce a signal to an Imperial satellite. And so he headed up. A network of observation platforms lined the mountain's flank, but he was not allowed onto any of these without a military escort…which would have attracted attention. Undaunted, he looked for another way, and quickly found it. Slipping into a restricted area, he located a large ventilation pipe which angled upward through the rock; by climbing up into the base of it, he could see open sky above. It would have been better if he could have climbed even higher, but the embedded display in his vision called attention to several laser tripwires, almost invisible, which crisscrossed the inside of the pipe. And so Mugabe pulled himself up as far as he dared, the vent pipe being really quite spacious for an Oompa-Loompa, and activated his transmitter. The video feed took longer to relay than a simple message, and so he held on for minute after agonizing minute, unable to relieve the burning in his arms as he struggled to remain as still as possible. Finally the transmission was complete, including the brief message he had attached to the beginning; while SC-80 had not recognized Mugabe when he saw him in the motor pool, Mugabe had most certainly recognized the Captain. A new message was received even while the Oompa-Loompa was still transmitting the last of his video record…a final set of orders, not mandatory but a bonus to his contract if he could carry them out. And for the offered price, Mugabe would certainly do his best.

Communication complete, Mugabe slid down and eased himself out of the pipe, making his way out of the maintenance area just as unobtrusively as he had entered. He was on leave for the next few days, as it were, and he was on his way back to the residential area of the caverns with a spring in his step. On the way down, however, he met IP-101. At first there was no recognition; a Resistance soldier rounded the corner ahead, and shot a suspicious glance at Mugabe. "What are you doing up here?"

Mugabe shrugged broadly. "Sorry, boss, I was jus' goin' for a lit'l walk, gettin' a lit'l fresh air, ya know? I's stuffy down deah in dem caves."

Something flashed across the other's face, an expression of surprise. Mugabe looked closer and saw a younger iteration of the man he had recognized in the motor pool, recognition clicking instantly in his own brain. It was not often that one encountered five identical men, and Mugabe certainly had not forgotten. "You…" the pilot growled, his hand involuntarily twitching toward the pistol at his hip.

Mugabe's face split into a grin. "I din' expec' to see you heah, mon…you heah wit de rest o' yo friends?" Mugabe knew perfectly well, but he feigned ignorance. "You remembah me, and dot craz' time we had in London? We should all get togethah sometime, reminisce and all o' dot."

"I remember you were going to shoot us and dump our bodies in the river," 101 said darkly.

Mugabe spread his arms. "Hey, I'm sorry, mon. Dot was anudah life…I foun' Jesus and all dot. You know, convershun when de soul is weak and whatnot? Dey done make me a slave, but den yo' Resistance done break me out. And now here I am, a changed mon." Despite relating the story of his supposed transformation, he sounded bored.

"Congratulations," 101 said, pushing past him. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm on duty."

"Take it easy, mon," Mugabe said, aiming a rude gesture at 101's retreating back. The spy continued back down to the caves, while the pilot continued up to his post on the side of the mountain.

Upon completion of his shift, 101 headed directly to the command center. "I need to see Colonel Carver." The guard nodded and allowed 101 into Carver's office. It was somewhat smaller than the General's, but just as well appointed; 101 stopped in front of the desk and saluted.

Carver nodded to him. "What can I do for you?"

101 did not waste time. "A man named Awolowa Mugabe is here in this base; I assume he arrived with the recent transfer, as my superior mentioned something familiar about one of the new civilians. I can report from firsthand experience that this man used to be a drug dealer and a regular collaborator with the enemy. A few hours ago, I found him snooping around one of the surface access points; when questioned, he gave me some nonsense about 'needing fresh air.' I don't know what he's up to, but I feel we would be well advised to post a tail on him."

Carver leaned forward in his seat, his expression mild. "When you say 'firsthand observations'…"

"I mean, sir, that he held myself and my compatriots at gunpoint, threatened to kill us, and would have done so had it not been for the timely arrival of the police."

Carver's brow lowered. "And you're absolutely sure you have the right man?"

"Positive, sir. He recognized me."

"All right." Carver nodded. "I'll see to it that someone watches him. You said his name was Mugabe, but he may be under an assumed identity. We have a photographic record of all the new transfers, if you're willing to identify him."

"It may not be necessary, sir. He's fairly distinctive: dreadlocks, heavy accent…"

Carver nodded. "Yes, I know the man you mean. Not often you hear a Loompanese accent that pronounced. He's presently quartered with the other new transfers down in the public housing block. And rest assured I will have a man down there to keep an eye on him; he won't be able to go to the loo without it being reported."

101 nodded. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

But though the tail was well advised, just as 101 said, it was also too late. Mugabe's actions were indeed scrutinized closely over the next few days, but he did nothing more interesting than go to the marketplace tunnel and buy food from the vendors. Unfortunately for the Resistance, Mugabe had already completed his mission. Now there was only one more bit of work to be done.