Sorry for the delay! But with everything that happened in the last week, especially in Paris, I didn't feel like spending my time with something as mundane as writing fanfiction. I just couldn't take my eyes away from the news channel. From where I live, it's just a few hours to France. This felt like it happened to my neighbors next door. And then, the next day, everyone's talking about war. Then there's this apparently barely averted attack in Hannover. What a crazy week!

For that reason, you get two chapters. This one wasn't really planned. It's rather short and may feel a little bit rushed. But I felt like I had to add this little scene. Hope you like.

Chapter 12: Cottle's Cold Cuts

The sore skin of his neck itched like crazy. And the damned shot Doc Cottle had injected him in his typically unmotivated, but no less dutiful, manner wasn't helping things much. A decongestant, supposed to make sure that the bruises healed quickly and that he could breath and speak easily. But so far, the effect was minimal. His lungs still ached and his vocal cords felt like they'd been used as shoelaces. Annoyed, he put another bonbon in his mouth. Nurse Montgomery had smuggled them into his pockets before Cottle had a chance to shoo Jack out of the infirmary. The essential oils really eased the pain.

But he refrained, a streak of acute wisdom, from complaining to Doc Cottle about the medicine's poor effect on his injuries. Not when Cottle was this special kind of grumpy, holding a sharp scalpel in his hand and ready to perform the autopsy on Loeben Conoy's dead body. One should not be fooled by his white hair, the deep wrinkles or the age marks on his hands, because his mind was as sharp as his work tools. And he sure knew to use it. His hands didn't tremble. Not even a bit. Quietly and evenly, Cottle slid the sharp scalpel over the corpse's torso. Cutting through the pale skin and cold flesh underneath. A fine line of blood seeped through the cut, Cottle's fingers dabbing it off thoroughly with soft cotton.

Normally, he had aides for such mundane tasks as wiping blood. But no one else was present during this autopsy. Just Doc Cottle and Major O'Neill were there. Only a hand of people besides them knew about what was happening in the cold and sterile room. It was because of the precarious reason for this autopsy. Because of what Conoy had said before he passed away. That he was a Cylon. A humanoid Cylon which was, externally, indistinguishable from a real human. And now, they needed a confirmation that the dead body on the table in front of them was indeed a toaster. Something official, something more substantial than the fact that - whatever Conoy had been - his face had melted like a candle. Commander Adama had called a meeting with the leading officers and their civilian counterparts, discussing what had happened and what had to be done in the future.

Therefore, Doc Cottle was here. He was the expert and it was expected that he found clear evidence. Ideally, some kind of hint how to distinguish between Cylon and human. Accordingly to that task, the doctor approached the matter soberly. Dealing with the man was difficult, no question. But there was no need to feel intimidated by this rugged, sometimes disinterested, man. Jack suspected that it was Cottle's self-defense mechanism. He hid and isolated his emotions from all the misery that ended up on his operating table, letting bad temper define his outer appearance. Just that was Cottle's strength. The doctor knew exactly what depended on this autopsy and still, it was easy for him to shake off the pressure. He was not impressed by the requirements, simply doing his job like he was doing it for more than 40 years now. That was exactly what O'Neill liked about the older man. He was always honest. Always spoke the truth, never talked in riddles or hid something behind flimsy arguments. With Doc Cottle, you always knew how things stood.

Jack watched as Cottle took the rip retractor from a metal table and applied it on Conoy's torso, the two blunt metal hooks boring into the cold meat. The doctor used the attached winder and slowly, the chest of the other man was forced wide open. O'Neill looked away in disgust. There were some things he really, really, really didn't have to see.
Of course, the good Doc noticed his evasive glance and addressed it in his usual charming way.
"You're not gonna blow chunks on my table, right Major?"
For Cottle's conditions, the question was indeed humorously.
Jack cleared his throat and dangled his legs from the edge on the table he was sitting on.
"Nope. There'd have to something in me to in order to throw anything up."
Fittingly, his stomach chose this particular moment to rumble.
Cottle shook his head amused. "Hard day at the office?"
Jack sighed. Suddenly, unusual for him, not in the mood to joke around.
"The hardest."
The Doc grumbled on. "You'll survive it, boy."

O'Neill didn't know why, but there was something about the old man that he sincerely liked. Although he hated needles in any kind of way, talking to the good ole Doc always made him feel better. He was like the bad uncle no one of the rest of the family liked, but all the kids knew that he told the funniest stories. You just had to like that guy.

Cottle slipped on a new pair of transparent gloves and looked at him out of the corner of his eye. Nodding approvingly when he saw that the pilot had recovered himself.
"Good. Now, here comes the really yucky part."
"Yippie." Remarked Jack ironically, forcing himself to look at the Doc digging his hands and arms in the open chest. He was rummaging through the bowels like Jack used to rage through his sock drawer. When the bloody hands emerged again, they carried a slimy organ. Cottle looked around for the needed scale that was sitting on another table, just out of his reach. With a grunt, he requested Jack's help. The Major avoided the need to stand up and be forced to see the goo more accurate that he wanted, by giving the table a solid kick. The rolls on the table legs squealed over the greenish floor as the desk slowly rolled towards Cottle.

The Doc boycotted a 'Thank you' and instead let the organ fall into a provided bowl. Jack grimaced at the splashing sound.
"Lung weights about 1,3 kg." growled Cottle, wiping his hands on the white coat. He looked like a butcher.
"And….that's normal? I mean, for a human?" Jack asked. After all, they were looking for anything that proofed the cold body's otherness.
"Yes. Are you writing that down, O'Neill?"
"Me?"
The doc searched the small room with his eyes, emphasizing the fact that there was no one else here but them. "I don't see anyone else and I've got my hands full."
Hands full indeed, the pilot thought and dutifully grabbed a notepad and pen from the table. He noted: Lung 1,3 kg. Result: normal.

This way, the two men worked their way trough the entire interior of dead Conoy's body. Cottle fishing the organs and Jack noting weight and results. Unfortunately for them, they found no evidence indicating that the inner workings of a humanoid Cylon were different in any way from a real human. Doc Cottle stood undecidedly in front of the wide opened chest.
"Hmm?"
"What's up?" Jack wanted to know, hoping that the older man had found something at last.
"Maybe this Conoy guy was lying? Maybe he's just as mortal as the rest of us?" the doctor mused to himself.
O'Neill shook his head. "No. I was there when he died. Conoy believed the shit he told me."

The chief medical officer beckoned the CAG to him. "Come over here."
Jack swallowed his protest. He refused to act like a kid. Reluctantly, he stepped up to the autopsy table. Cottle pointed to the chest and O'Neill's eyes followed.
"What do you see?"
The Major pursed his lips, not sure what to say. What was there to see? He wasn't a doctor, had no ideal what he was supposed to discover.
"Uhm….a lotta gloo?"
It really resembled this gelatinous stuff that was sold in small pots as children's toys.

Cottle didn't respond to the joke, instead he threw another pair of bloody gloves in the carbage can.
"There is nothing not-human to see. Everything looks perfectly normal. "
"What about the blood?" Jack pointed to the blood samples that were being analyzed. The Doc had taken a number of samples before the actual autopsy. He grumbled as he walked to the blood analysis machine and studied several sheets of the results of the blood exam. In the meantime, Jack tried to ignore the dead body in the room.

Somehow, it felt like Conoy was watching him out of his open, milky eyes. But of course, that was nonsense. Yet, O'Neill had to admit in retrospect , that the Cylon had spooked him. Not so much because he had almost succeeded in killing him, but with the prospect of human Cylon's creeping into their crew. He resisted the impulse to cover Conoy's face with a sheet. That was childish. Loeben Conoy was dead. At least, his body was. There was no immediate harm coming from him.

"And? Found something interesting?" O'Neill asked.
The doctor snorted angrily, slamming the results on the table.
"Nothing! Nothing at all! Not a single conspicuity. This has to be the healthiest man I've ever seen!"
Jack frowned. "Would make sense, assuming that this resurrection stuff Is true. They can't get sick if they replace the body regularly." He warned and turned contemplatively to the body, leaning with his hands on the table. Ignoring the corpse's unblinking eyes, he stared at the empty chest. Jack didn't want to attend the meeting empty-handed.

He heard Cottle rummaging through his instruments.
"Let's try something else." Murmured the doctor and appeared beside Jack with a shiny ax in his hand. The words had just left his mouth, when the sharp tool rushed down. The Major pulled his hands back instinctively. "Hey! Watch that!"
The doc had chopped off one of Loeben's hands with a single blow and for Jack's taste, there had been far too little distance between the severed hand and his own.

"What now?"
"I'll cremate one hand to take a look at the ash."
"Oookay…why?"
Cottle opened the door to the incinerator and threw the hand in. "So far, we've looked at the cellular level. We may have more luck at the molecular level."
Well, that sounded logical, even in Jack's ears. Considering that he was no scientist at all. He knew almost everything there was to know about Vipers and Raptors and possessed a keen interest in celestial bodies, although that was more of an hobby. But molecular biology? That was too nerdy for his little grey cell's.

"Why just one hand?" He inquired while the fire was working in the oven.
Cottle looked at him like he was an idiot. "You've got any idea how long it takes to burn a human body?"
A whole human body? Well, if a hamburger needed about four minutes on each side, then a grown man needed….uh, yuck.
"No idea."
The doctor had expected this answer. "Too long, O'Neill. Much too long."

O'Neill passed the waiting time working out the kinks in his neck. Cottle covered the body with a large cloth. When they were done, someone would come to get rid of the rest. For those who were not privy to Loeben Conoy's secret, he was just someone else who died today.
Jack looked at his watch. The meeting between the military and civilian leaders would begin soon, but he would be late anyway. They had to wait for him. After all, they were meeting to discuss this autopsy's results. Thinking about the possible consequences, he felt a pulsating headache announcing itself. What the heck should they do, if Conoy had told the truth?

The oven beeped. Cottle opened the door and took a sample of the ash. He placed the particles under a microscope. Squinting one eye, he used the other one to find something unusual under the microscope's lens. O'Neill was waiting behind him, impatience rolling off him in waves.
"Well, kiss my ass!" The doctor finally exclaimed.
"What? Found something?"
The older man moved away from the microscope, motioning for Jack to take a look himself.
"See yourself."
Jack mirrowed Cottles moves and studied the sample. Unfortunately, he had no clue what he looked at.
"What exactly should I look for?"

The doc knew him well enough to know that the Major didn't need a lengthy answer. So he, bless him, made it short. Coming straight to the point.
"This guy there, is definitely not human."
Jack's eyes grew wide, his pulse quickening.
"For real? So, it's a Cylon?"
"I've never seen something like that. The skeleton, the material constituting the bone and cartilage, is artificial. Not organic. No doubt. Whatever this man was, he was not human."

O'Neill grabbed the table's edge, taking in the consequences of these results. Beside him, Cottle was breathing heavily. A seldom sign of his advanced age.
"This changes everything, or does it not Major?"
Jack ran his hand through his hair, hesitating. What should he say? He was no oracle with the ability to see the future.
"No. It doesn't change anything." He finally answered. Cottle's irritated eyes met him, demanding an explanation.
O'Neill shrugged. "We've been in deep shit before, and we're still in deep shit now."

This drew a rare laugh out of the old doctor. He patted the tall pilot's shoulders reassuringly as he walked past him.
"Truer words were never spoken."
Then he disappeared through the door, leaving Jack alone with the corpse. When the clinical silence became to much, O'Neill left too. Preparing himself to report to his superiors.