Chapter 15: Candidate Search
"You're being too picky."
Elena's assessment came three nights into my progeny search, delivered with the blunt efficiency I'd come to expect from her.
"I'm being thorough."
"You're looking for a unicorn. Terminal illness, no family, useful skills, and what—personality compatibility? Most makers just grab whoever's convenient."
"Most makers create problems that last centuries. I'd rather take my time."
We sat in the security office, reviewing the candidate files I'd compiled over a week of careful observation. The pool was smaller than I'd hoped—terminal patients who met my criteria were rare, and those with useful backgrounds rarer still.
"Explain the requirements again," Elena said.
"Terminal illness means they want to live. That creates motivation, gratitude, loyalty. No close family means clean extraction—no one looking for them, no connections to sever. Useful skills means military, security, or business background—someone who can contribute rather than just consume resources."
"And the personality requirements?"
"Discipline. Self-control. The ability to follow orders without losing independent judgment." I pulled up the most promising file on the laptop screen. "Marcus Webb. Thirty-four years old, former Army sergeant, pancreatic cancer with a six-month prognosis. No spouse, no children, parents deceased. Last stationed at Fort Polk before medical discharge."
Elena studied the photograph—a hard face, military-short hair, the particular emptiness of someone who'd stopped expecting good things.
"How'd you find him?"
"Hospital reconnaissance. Evening visiting hours, observation of patient wards. Most candidates are either too connected or too broken. Webb is neither—isolated but functional, dying but not defeated."
"You approached him already."
"First contact only. Presented myself as a volunteer visitor. We talked for an hour about nothing important—the Army, his prognosis, his thoughts on mortality." I closed the laptop. "He's hostile, which is expected. Terminal patients often are. But there's something underneath. A refusal to accept the inevitable."
"That's what you want? Someone who fights death?"
"I want someone who refuses to surrender when surrendering would be easier. That's the quality that survives turning—the stubbornness, the refusal to quit. Everything else can be trained."
Elena considered this. Her expression was unreadable, but I could sense calculation behind her stillness.
"My maker didn't ask permission," she said finally. "Didn't explain, didn't negotiate. Just took what he wanted and left me to figure out the rest. I spent fifty years hating him for it."
"I'm not your maker."
"No. You're something else." She stood, checking the monitors one last time before heading to the door. "I hope this Webb can appreciate what you're offering. Most wouldn't."
The hospital's evening shift was understaffed, as usual.
I'd memorized their routines over multiple visits—which nurses took extended breaks, which security guards actually watched the cameras, which hallways offered access to patient floors without passing checkpoints. The hospital's blood reserve had even supplemented my feeding—donated bags destined for disposal proved adequate, if unsatisfying.
Marcus Webb's room was on the third floor, oncology ward. The door was closed, the lights dimmed, the equipment monitoring his decline with mechanical indifference.
I knocked.
"What." Not a question. A challenge.
"Sam Huffman. We spoke last week."
Silence. Then: "The volunteer. You actually came back."
"I said I would."
"People say lots of things. Come in if you're going to."
The room smelled like disinfectant and despair. Marcus sat upright in his bed, thinner than I remembered, the cancer's work visible in his hollowed cheeks and yellowed skin. A paperback novel lay open on his lap—military thriller, dog-eared and worn.
"You look worse than last time," I said.
"You look exactly the same. Weird."
"I age well."
Marcus's laugh was more of a cough. "That's one word for it." He set the book aside. "Why do you keep coming? Most volunteers do their hour and vanish. You've been here three times."
"Maybe I find you interesting."
"Bullshit. Dying men aren't interesting—we're just depressing." His eyes, still sharp despite the body's decay, studied me with military precision. "You want something. Everyone wants something."
Soldier's instincts. Good. That's exactly what I need.
I pulled a chair to his bedside, close enough for conversation, far enough to avoid triggering whatever defensive reflexes his training had instilled.
"You told me last week that the world doesn't owe anyone a second chance."
"I remember."
"You're wrong."
His expression flickered—irritation, maybe, or the beginning of interest. "Based on what?"
"Based on the fact that second chances exist, whether the world owes them or not. The question isn't about deserving—it's about opportunity. Do you take what's offered, or do you refuse and die to prove a point?"
"What exactly are you offering?"
The question hung between us. I could tell him the truth—or part of it—right now. Reveal the nature of the choice I was proposing, the impossible extension he probably wouldn't believe.
Not yet. Not until he's ready to hear it.
"I'm offering a conversation. Right now, that's all." I stood, replacing the chair where I'd found it. "Think about whether dying alone in this room is really what you want. When you have an answer, we can talk about alternatives."
"And if I don't want alternatives?"
"Then I'll stop visiting, and you can finish your paperback in peace."
I left without waiting for his response. In the hallway, a vending machine hummed next to the elevator bank. I bought a coffee—couldn't drink it, but the warmth felt familiar in my hands. A reminder of the life I'd left behind in another body, another world.
A nurse passed, noticed me standing there. "Are you okay? You've been staring at that cup for five minutes."
"Just thinking."
She gave me the sad smile people reserve for those they assume are grieving. "There's a chapel on the second floor if you need it."
"Thank you."
She disappeared around the corner, and I remained with my cooling coffee and my calculations. Marcus Webb was stubborn, hostile, and exactly what I needed. The question was whether he'd recognize the opportunity before his time ran out.
The system pulsed quietly at the edge of my awareness. Lineage requirements still unmet—the stats needed for progeny creation hadn't accumulated yet. But the groundwork was laid.
I took the elevator to the ground floor, discarded the untouched coffee in the lobby trash can, and walked into the Louisiana night.
One candidate. One dying man who doesn't know he's being recruited for immortality.
The Silver Dollar waited twenty minutes away. Elena would want a progress report. George might be awake, depending on how his evening had gone.
And Marcus Webb would spend another night in his hospital bed, refusing to consider alternatives to the death sentence he'd accepted.
Some people need more convincing than others.
I started the car and pulled onto the highway, already planning my next visit.
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