The news of Balkan's death had traveled fast, the air electrified with narrow-eyed suspicions and finger-pointing. Yet, the specifics of his death were undisclosed to the public.

And the fewer the morsels, the more rumors mushroomed. For the next forty-eight hours, the wires and Internet imagined the gamut of possibilities -- that this was an assassination by a rogue faction in the military; that a rival fief had a hand in it; that it was a hit from Montana anarchists and Freemen. Whatever the truth may be, the stink went no further and began dissipating. The remains were fully disseminated and chewed on until they had no more meaning, until the media bluebottles buzzed off to find other scents to chase.

The District Medical Examiners central facility handled the lion's share of mortuary affairs for the central sector of Megacity East. At 1,500 victims per 100,000 residents, a much higher rate of violent crime than the concentrated average saved for Red City, the morgue never saw downtime. The usual dead under white sheets were laid head to toe on wheeled gurneys to be ID'ed and recorded. Forensics delved into the business of the mundane -- what was in the stomachs, what type of food and where it came from, ethnic or mainstream. They tested urine and sought the levels of contaminants to shed further insights, for example, a higher concentration of iron might show the crime took place in a sector with rusted water pipes. Unclaimed bodies were cremated. But two corpses were exempt from all that probing -- per orders that came down.

Displayed on wall monitors, the same headline repeated every fifteen minutes: "Two hours ago, the Tsar Protector and Cabinet Secretary Victor Balkan was assassinated by persons unknown. The attack also involved the deaths of brave men and women of federal law enforcement. We have little information -- whether this was perpetrated by one individual or abetted by others. Federal authorities and police are doing a full canvassing . . . "

"And we have all seven of them here," a mortician in a white coat said offhand, as he listened to the news. He tied a toe-tag on a stiff splayed foot.

Balkan's body was cleansed, dressed on-site, and prepared for an elaborate horse-drawn state ceremony, while the other six bodies were put on ice.

"What do you think really happened?" his colleague said in a stained apron. "This can't be the work of anarchists?"

"I bet the bushwhackers out there from Montana and Idaho did it. Gotta be from one of those places."

"Heads up, body snatchers," ME 1 whispered.

A group of suits marched into the main complex, having passed the front desk security. The moment they stepped into the inner sanctums, they recoiled and grimaced with disgust. At first, the smell was like an egg-diet fart. The sulfuric odor got progressively worse the deeper they went in, ratcheting up to the stench of decomp. Mixed with cleaning detergents, the sweet odor had a sickening dimension that lingered on your skin and clothes.

The medics rolled their eyes and shrugged off the intrusion.

"Hey, you by the door! In or out, dummy." ME 2 with the yellowed apron looked up. "You lettin the coolant out. Want to stink up this place some more?"

"You can't get worse than this," one suit said, stepping forward and looking around. "Damn ripe in here."

"Here," ME 2 tossed him a small vial. "Minty."

The man unscrewed the top and smeared a streak of ointment onto the dent above his upper lip. He sniffed the air with his nose. "Thanks."

"This is nothing, man. It gets so bad sometimes we have to wear HAZMAT bio-suits with our own air."

"You authorized to be here, buddy?" ME 1 looked at the suit with wariness, partaking in no pleasantries.

"Special Security Service," the visitor said without making eye contact as he flashed his credentials.

"You're here for pickup or deposit?" ME 2 said knowingly.

"Pickup."

"Ah, give us a few minutes, the Secretary will be ready."

"Not him. I'm here for the one called -- Mars, Ken."

"Figured someone's gonna come for that one," ME 1 said. "He's in the freezer."

"We'll taking possession when you're ready." The suit snapped his finger as two black uniforms appeared at the door.

"You got paperwork?" ME 1 said.

"Yeah, right here." The stranger pointed to his badge.

"Let sleeping dogs lie, Joe," ME 2 said

"None of my business, as long as my boss knows," ME1 set the rules.

"Yeah about that one . . . since you're here, maybe you can riddle me this," ME 2 said, waving the suit over. The agent followed the morticians to the refrigerated unit. ME 2 opened the cooler's door and pulled out the body tray. One toe tag was tagged Mars, Ken: NPD -- Not for Processing or Disposal.

"See this?" ME 2 said, touching the naked torso.

"Yeah?" The agent said.

"DOA, jugular laceration, lungs punctured, the vic bled out -- that would have been my prognosis."

"So?"

ME 2 scratched his head. "But you cut away the skin, just beneath you'd find massive scar tissue buildup. I'm seeing tissue damage response -- rapid blood clotting and the massing of epidermal cells to the injury. But I've never seen scar tissue like this -- as if he had a protective layer like packing bubbles around his organs."

"Who authorized you to cut into him?" The agent berated the MEs.

"You see any Y incision?" ME 1 said in their defense. "Like the man said, we're not authorized."

"He's got to know," ME 2 said.

"Joe, you said enough." ME 1 gave his colleague a sharp look.

"Know what?" the agent demanded.

ME 2 said, "We did a cursory exam -- cause of some anomaly we found."

"And what are those anomalies?" the agent muttered, frowning at what he was hearing.

"Look here. No rigor since admission." ME 1 bent Warchild's fingers. "No cardiac activity means there shouldn't be any morphological, cellular, or molecular activities, right? But you'd call me a liar with this one here --"

ME 2 interrupted excitedly, "Chemical scan picked up a thermal blip I thought was some residual chemical reaction when a body decomposes. But nope, that's --" ME 2 touched the corpse's chest. He halted, eyes widened. "What the hell -- the body's hot."

"This is X-Files freaky, man," ME 1 said, feeling the warmth himself. "Is there a pulse?"

The mortuarist bent down to check for vitals, but the agent pulled ME 2 back. "Stop what you're doing -- now. And step back."

The examiners froze and looked at each other. The undertone was unmistakably hostile.

"How many of you examined Mars?"

"Just us."

The agent sighed. "Winnie the Pooh poked his nose in too many beehives and got stung."

"What the hell, our job is to poke," ME 1 said.

"Not this one. I'm taking him off your hands." The agent nodded to his men. "And you're coming with."

"What?" Joe said, incredulous.

"Get your hands off me," ME 1 snapped.

"Help these nice gentlemen pack up," the agent called to the Praetorians.

The black uniforms corralled the MEs and led them out.

At that moment, Warchild's right hand and forearm slipped and dangled off the table. Dead fingers that should have been stiff as wood, twitched.

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