Singer & St. Jude Book 1: Lost Cause

By Lazette Gifford

When massive earthquakes bring Los Angeles to its knees and cut it off from the rest of the volatile US, the surviving inhabitants scramble for their own survival. Decades later, three policing forces -- often working against each other rather than together -- try to keep the remnants of the city under their control.

Singer and St. Jude, two members of the Local Police Force, navigate the risky job of patrolling the hazardous streets, while a secret one of them hides will lead them to even more dangerous levels of trouble.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A Conspiracy of Authors
• Release date: Feb 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9781955487023

Lazette Gifford

Lazette is an avid writer as well as the owner of Forward Motion for Writers and the owner/editor of Vision: A Resource for Writers.It's possible she spends too much time with writers.And cats.

Book preview

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Preview

About the Author

Chapter One

January 21, 2141 2:07PM

Tremble.

Elias Singer put his hand to the already cracked and crumbling wall and steadied himself before he even realized he'd felt another quake. The floor shifted unpleasantly, and the walls popped twice. Dust filled the air.

Damn, his new partner mumbled. I hate when they strike, and there's no quick way out.

Yeah, Singer agreed as he considered the ten flights of stairs between them and the ground level. Why the hell did people still live high in these buildings?

Eli drew his hand back from the wall, brushing paint chips from his fingers. He thought the color might have been light blue at one time, but age and dirt had changed it to a dull gray.

Nicholas St. Jude didn't appear to notice how much the quake had shaken Eli Singer, and that gave him a moment to recover. Nic had walked to a narrow window -- the glass long since gone -- and stared out at the bright day. The scent of dust blew through on the crisp, January breeze. Nic slid to the side when a squadron of four drones swept past the opening. One flipped, spun slightly, and a quick blast of a red laser traced a line on the wall opposite where St. Jude had been standing.

Bastard! I don't have a weapon in hand! he yelled out at the formation.

Don't antagonize the things, Eli said and made sure he kept out of the line of sight.

They shouldn't shoot at people, Nic replied. The drones had moved on. St. Jude moved with caution back to the window and stared out in silence. We lost one. A big one.

Eli realized St. Jude meant another building had collapsed. He forgot his own anxiety as he pulled the commlink from his inside vest pocket and thumbed it on. Singer did not go closer to the opening since he saw cracks in the floor where St. Jude stood. He wondered if he should point them out.

His hand trembled slightly. He had bad reactions to quakes when he was high up in a building. Eli almost wished for an implanted comm right then, but none of the forces used them since a simple scan detected the device and would get the unfortunate person killed out of hand in the wrong situation.

Besides, the idea of constantly being on call was not pleasant.

Can you tell the location? Singer asked, typing in the report with one hand.

Looks like something on Broadway, in the old jewelry district. St. Jude looked back at him, his head haloed by the bright daylight and his face in shadow. There were a lot of squatters in that area. Damn.

Chief Noble had assigned us as partners three days ago, and this was the first sign of any genuine emotion from the man. Eli counted it a sympathetic reaction to an unpleasant situation. Elias Singer had asked for a new partner when his last one showed an inordinate amount of joy every time that he got to knock someone down, as long as he didn't have to work too hard at it.

Eli typed in the location of the collapsed building and shut the comp link down before anyone traced their whereabouts. There was no use inviting trouble. He looked at the rickety and abandoned room where they had been searching moments before. Finding clues to Kanlyn's disappearance didn't seem so important now. Dozens must have died in the quake just near to them. What the hell did they care about one drug runner who might have gotten himself into trouble with others who were just as bad?

Eli kicked at a pile of trash and pushed the debris around with his foot, loath to put his bare fingers down there. Cockroaches scattered from their prizes: a piece of bread and a half-eaten apple, the scent too sweet from the rotting fruit. Damned waste, that apple, especially this time of year.

Something skittled out from the edge of a chair, and Eli was about to kick when he realized it was a still working bug catcher, its dozen metal feet clicking against the bare floor. Four of the legs were no longer moving. He watched in amazement as the ancient thing snared two roaches in quick succession, shoving them into the stomach compartment. A slight leak of red light showed along the seam. The bug catcher would leave nothing but dust behind.

Excellent work, guy, Nic said with some enthusiasm. He grabbed the device up, shut it down, and shoved it into the pack he wore at his hip. I'll fix him up and turn him loose at my place. I'm sure I'll appreciate the thing's work more than Kanlyn.

Eli nodded agreement and then wondered if that had been a test of some sort. Technically, they shouldn't have taken anything out of the apartment.

Technically, the Fed's drones shouldn't be shooting at weaponless people. One antique bit of tech? Not a problem.

The piece of fresh fruit, wasted or not, also meant Kanlyn wasn't as poor as this dump of a place seemed to indicate.

He doesn't live here, St. Jude decided. Eli nodded, glad to see they thought along the same lines. This stuff isn't more than the trash he leaves behind when he visits. I suspect he must use the place as a low-key meeting room.

That makes sense. No sign of trouble, either. Whatever happened to Kanlyn, it didn't happen here. No sign of trouble.

No, not here, Nic agreed. He looked back out the window. We might as well leave.

Singer didn't argue. Eli could hear sirens now; the Mayor had sent in the big equipment, and a couple aircars swept past. There were few of those vehicles in the city with so few landing spots. The streets were often strewn with debris from falling structures, and no one trusted landing on the rooftops of buildings still standing. Ground transport won out here, although most people moved around on foot. A few had archaic cars, some of them over a century old, and kept running with painstaking care. Those vehicles navigated the debris-filled streets where they could. Valrico's Shop out on the north edge of town put cars together from scavenged and Retrofitted pieces. Eli had bought his car from the place, a nondescript brown vehicle that could easily be reconfigured by the shop. That made it good for undercover work, although most of his Retro assignments were carried out on foot.

Eli had seen pictures of areas on the East Coast that had recovered from their own natural disasters. In comparison, Los Angeles and the Southwest had fallen behind by a hundred years or more. They held on, tenacious through all the quakes, riots, and even the darkness that humanity created all on their own.

Eli wanted out of the building, especially when it quivered again with an aftershock. He was looking at St. Jude this time, and Singer found it reassuring to see the man's face pale.

St. Jude offered a wane smile. No, I don't care to be here either. I don't imagine many people ever get used to the quakes.

Singer let St. Jude lead the way out of the cubby hole of an apartment and to the narrow stairwell. The elevator shaft looked like the maw to hell, and he imagined unwilling victims pushed down. He knew for a fact that there had been a few bodies dragged out of the basement landing. Lucky for them that others had already searched there for Kanlyn's body.

He glanced out the half-boarded window as they started down the less dangerous stairs. Eli could see smoke rising from the ruins and thought about people trapped there, dying.

Singer could hear nervous people on some of the floors below, but no one was rushing out of the building. You couldn't do that for every quake that shook a structure a bit. People took their chances, holding tight to what refuge they'd carved out for themselves.

Singer had seen vids of LA before the two big quakes that pulled down most of the city's infrastructure and killed thousands. The pictures and movies showed a town alive with light and life -- and trouble. It had been a dangerous and dirty place to live. No one ever imagined that it could get worse.

They descended those ten flights of rickety stairs as fast as they could manage, but by the time they reached ground level, both State Militia and National Feds had gathered on the streets and were herding people away from the disaster. Drones swept ahead of the Feds, shouting warnings to clear the area. The two groups were excellent at moving crowds with their shock fields and stunners, but Eli didn't think they did much else helpful these days. The Feds and the Militia should have pulled out a decade ago and put the city back in the hands of those who genuinely gave a damn what happened here. This was just one damn extended power play; the State Militia wouldn't pull out before the National Feds left. The Feds weren't going until they could find some gain in doing so. No one pretended that some East Coast authority ran things.

Damn glad we're not uniforms, Singer said, brushing at his beaded vest and torn tee shirt. The black-uniformed Feds were already harassing anyone in the gray uniforms of the Militia. If either group had known there were Local forces present, the Feds and Militia would have joined against them. Jurisdiction had gotten to be a sticky question with three 'policing' powers in place.

Best to walk away like a couple natives happy that their building hadn't collapsed as well.

Feds and Militia weren't interested in local drug runners in a town that was still overrun with them. Even Singer had given up that battle. The Locals couldn't pretend to make a significant dent in the drug trade -- or the gun-running trade, or even the military tech black market. Eli considered it luck alone that the last got little business. Too few people had the money to support anything that expensive. However, Mayor Lewis kept his personal guards well equipped with things that were not available to anyone outside of the Feds.

Kanlyn's link to someone in the city government had drawn the Local's attention. They'd rounded him up, and Kanlyn, who had been a small-time drug runner until recently, had offered names of people in authority who were helping import Dreamtime from the Far East. There were enough local drugs. No one needed to bring in something that damned dangerous as well. Not that much of it hit the streets of LA. Dreamtime wasn't a cheap thrill. No, the people used the devastated port as a simple route into the greater expanse of the U.S. Market. For that, though, they required people high up in the government to open a few gates to get the merchandise through.

They rounded a corner, and Nic whispered a short curse, grabbed Singer by the arm, and turned them back around.

What -- Singer began a protest, but he looked over his shoulder and saw the trouble. A group of Feds swept around the next corner in full gear and with scanners running. Bastards, coming out to do a shakedown now when they could be out helping at the collapsed building.

They don't care, St. Jude said as though that was news to anyone in LA. Let's clear out. We don't need the trouble.

Though the weapons Singer and St. Jude's carried were legal for Locals, being stopped would still entail messy explanations to people who wouldn't much care that they were Locals. Checks often took days while the Locals (and an occasional member of the Militia, if the Feds felt like it) sat in the Fed's Holding pens.

Sometimes that worked well for the Locals, who could often gather info from their fellow criminals. However, it had gotten one cop killed a couple months ago when the Feds pointed him out as a Local cop. There had been hell to pay over that incident and talk that the dead cop's partner had made good on threats to bring some less than legal Fed dealings to light. The Fed's Commander had left town to avoid charges. It hadn't helped the relationship between Feds and Locals, but hell -- it was good to see one of them take a fall.

St. Jude led him around a corner and down a trash-filled alley. He knew this area well.

St. Jude? The name stood out in his mind like a flashing red light.

Damn, Singer said. He caught St. Jude's arm, but his companion shook him off with a snarl. You're the guy -- the one whose partner died --

Yes. He glanced at Eli and then stopped at the end of the alley, looking unhappy and desperate as he leaned against the wall. I don't want the Feds to take me in. Dark eyes, almost hidden beneath a fall of dark hair, glanced back down the alley. Sastin didn't deserve what they did to him. I don't trust myself near the Feds. I don't want to do something stupid.

That's a good thing to know, Singer replied and forced himself to calm.

St. Jude watched him, the stare so intense that it stopped Eli from speech and movement.

I will not let them take you, Nic said.

Singer didn't doubt him at all. Nicolas St. Jude nodded as though they understood each other, and then he looked back out the alley again. In his three years with the Locals, Elias Singer had never partnered with anyone who might care about what happened to him.

I made a mistake with Sastin, St. Jude said with a shake of his head. I let him go in alone when they caught him. The Feds hadn't found me. I should have stepped out.

And got yourself killed with him? That doesn't sound like a good plan. Besides, there's no way you could have known what would happen to him.

St. Jude gave him one miserable nod but said nothing more as they slipped out of the alley. They walked the next three blocks in silence, moving well out of range of the two unfriendly regulating forces. A single drone shot over their location but must have been hunting for bigger prey. Lucky for it since St. Jude had reached for his weapon again. Eli said nothing. He had his right to a vendetta against the Feds.

Look -- I know this is something you don't want to hear or believe, but there are at least a couple Feds you can trust. The guy who lives down the street from me is one. His name is Takara. If you ever have a problem with the Feds again, try to get a message to him or his partner, Castro. Tell them you are my partner.

Nic looked back at him and nodded. I'll trade you. If you have trouble with the Militia, go to Commander Promeyer out of the Western Division. Yes, the head of LA's Militia. He doesn't like me, but he is as straight and legit as they come. He even went up against the Feds to get Sastin out, but it was already too late.

I'm sorry.

He nodded again and looked distracted. The sounds of panic and disaster dulled with each block, though they found more debris everywhere, just none of the other prominent places had collapsed. Yet. Another quake shook the ground, and they both moved out of the shadows and into the open street. They would have to hike a couple miles extra to get past the trouble area and return to Eli's car, but Singer was glad to do so if that kept them safe.

So, do you think we'll find Kanlyn? Singer asked.

If he's still alive, St. Jude said. He paused at another corner, looking around as though he expected to see a riot on the other side. Apparently, he found nothing dangerous since he walked on. We might get lucky. And we are the only people in the department who would have any chance at mixing in with Kanlyn's crowd.

True. Singer considered the other six people in their detective squad and shook his head. Hughes could handle it if he wasn't so busy carrying the work for everyone else. There are a few I wouldn't trust with an assignment like this one. Weasel, for instance.

Weasel? Winston Wilson? St. Jude grinned with a quick show of delight. I hadn't heard that one before, but it does suit him, doesn't it?"

MacNeil used it a couple times, and now I have trouble remembering Winston's actual name. He's pretentious and vain. I get the feeling the only person in the office who thinks Weasel's worth the space he takes up is Captain Franks.

Kindred spirits, St. Jude said. Working for Captain Franks was not top on my list for reassignments.

Franks is a slippery bastard, Singer admitted. He wasn't sure why he trusted St. Jude. Kindred spirits of their own? But a man doesn't get into a position like Franks' has and hold on without having some outside backing. I know Chief Noble doesn't care for him, but Franks still holds on. With all the internal investigations going on in the Locals, I keep expecting him to be brought up on some sort of charges, but nothing so far. Even so, this isn't the worst department to work in, though. I don't want to go into uniform.

You have to be suicidal to want to wear Local uniforms, St. Jude agreed. I refused to take that assignment. I was lucky they didn't just kick me off the force.

Yeah. Singer thought about it for a moment. Maybe it's because I was demanding a new partner. They had me teamed with Braken -- he just moved to a different division -- and I grew tired of doing all the work while he kept watch on the car.

Someone must have thought we'd team up well. Few Retros on the force.

Right.

They made excellent time moving out of the troubled area, ducking through the ruins of one of the Old 10's overpasses and into another neighborhood. This stretch of the city wasn't safe for reasons other than quakes. Singer never would have passed through any part of Alameda without a companion, and he would rather not have been here at all, even as Retros. He wondered if St. Jude knew about the trouble with gangs here. The dirty streets, broken windows in the scattered buildings, and the sullen stares from people half-hidden in shadows made Singer uneasy. Granted, it was not as bad as The Edge or the Barrio beyond that zone where the gangs ruled, but it was not safe.

Hey! someone shouted, startling Singer. Hola, Santo!

St. Jude waved toward the older man sitting on a window frame with a bottle of something in his hand.

Santo? Saint? Eli asked. He looked back at the man who took a long drink, almost falling backward into the building. These people know you?

Oh yeah, he said and leapt a crosswalk of splintered wood and broken cement. The hole below led to the sewers, and the reek sent them both hurrying on. I live a few blocks over from here.

I'd always heard this was a rough area.

It is. Nic looked at Singer, his eyes narrowing with worry. Don't try walking through here alone, not yet. I'll get you introduced. You aren't from LA, are you?

Yes, I am, Eli protested. It was still a sore spot with him, even after so many years, though St. Jude was right in some ways. Just not the LA, you know. I was born and raised out in the Olive Vista Relocation Camp, but not as a refugee. My father was the administrator for over twenty years until they closed the camp. We lived in a different world out there. We had our own little town. So, you grew up here?

Not in this neighborhood. I was one of the kids raised by the Saint Jerome Emiliani Orphanage after the Devil's Strike Quake. He paused and then shrugged. I was born the day of the quake. People found me in a ruined building -- no one knows for certain where. I left St. Jerome when I was fifteen and stayed out of trouble and away from the Church ever since."

Okay, I've got to ask. Why did you join the Locals?

Because someone has to at least try to make things better. Right? Singer made a sound of amusement. Oh. You joined for a different reason, did you? The great pay, the wonderful hours, and all this prestige?

Eli laughed, though the noise seemed too loud in the deserted street. That had been a good call on his partner's part. Damn -- it felt good to know they could get along. He'd worried that despite the St. Jude's disregard for the Local's usual clean-cut image that it had all been an act put on for the job. He had feared to find another Weasel beneath the Retro look.

An ad bot charged through the intersection ahead, screaming something about a new clothing shop. Both Singer and St. Jude had gone for their weapons at the sudden noise, and neither took the bot for granted. They'd been used to deliver bombs in the past, but City Gov still hadn't outlawed the things.

Which always made Singer wonder how much City Gov used the damned bots for their own purposes. Yeah, technically, the Locals were part of City Gov -- but that link didn't go any farther than a few lines on the city charter.

Besides, City Gov wasn't interested in the underside of LA. Mayor Lewis -- called King Lewis -- wasn't going to come visiting from his hillside estate.

Nicolas St. Jude lived among these people, more than Elias Singer, whose house was out in a gated community in the upper valley. That was an embarrassment.

There was another last question that might put a wedge of trouble between St. Jude and Eli. Still, given the man's admitted parting with the Catholic Church, it was doubtful that Nic was now a member of Christ's Chosen People. That had been Eli's central breaking point with two partners in the previous four years. Even though City Gov claimed to allow no discrimination anywhere in their departments, he'd faced growing antagonism on the force.

Get it out in the open. I'm Jewish, Singer said.

St. Jude looked at him and laughed. I bet you had all kinds of premonitions of disaster when you saw my name the first time.

There have been some moments of anxiety, Eli agreed and grinned despite that it was the truth.

You don't have to worry. I'm not one of the CCP, and I don't appreciate what those bastards are trying to do with the country. Though if they'd keep their work outside of the city, I wouldn't care much. Besides, even if I still belonged to the Catholic Church, I couldn't be a member of the CCP. They don't like Catholics.

I have never figured that one out, Eli admitted.

It's a long story of religious antagonism. Not as long as your story, of course, but we've had our moments.

Eli found himself amused. He couldn't remember the last time anyone dared make a joke about religion. His father used to joke with people at the camp before the CCP came into their paradise and began recruiting.

He'd lost playmates into that void where a good Jewish boy couldn't go.

I just wanted to make certain we wouldn't have a problem at a bad time. I didn't want to trust you too much and find out we were going to have a major falling out over something so fundamental.

That won't happen.

Good.

They were almost out of the neighborhood. The late January afternoon turned cold as gray clouds raced over the sky and the breeze kicked up dust. St. Jude skirted along the edges of streets and cut through alleys as they headed back toward the car. They passed back within blocks of the fallen building, but by now, the Feds and Militia had pulled out again, having made their little show of power and moved on. There were more people on the streets. Old women stood just outside the doorways of places that had once been shops but were now homes. They shook their heads, discussing the old days and the old city. Singer had an urge to remind them that they couldn't go back, no matter how much they regretted what had been lost. That was what he so often told Leah when she came home from her office snarling about the world and the way the others treated her.

They sometimes talked about applying to leave the LA Containment Sector and maybe head to the far east, maybe even New York. Life was different out there where people looked to the future. LA still tried to grab its lost past.

However, Christ's Chosen People had a far stronger hold outside of the American South West, and they made life hard for everyone who didn't follow their strict rules, whether Christians or not. The group had gotten increasingly rigid as they grew more powerful.

Someone should have stopped the CCP years ago. That would have at least helped.

Odd that after such a short walk, he felt he could trust his new partner. He hoped it held up for a while.

Chapter Two

January 21, 2141, 4:26PM

By the time they reached the private garage to retrieve Eli's car, St. Jude felt at ease with his new partner. However, he didn't trust his own judgment. Nic feared something would still unsettle this relationship. He had secrets, after all.

The concrete structure appeared untouched by the earlier quake, so the car had remained safe. The power cube was even fully charged which meant it should be good for several months still. Not that he would have minded walking (or heading back to Alameda to get his cycle). However, this was Singer's personal -- and damned expensive -- vehicle. Singer checked the tires and then double-checked the battery power before he even started the car.

I don't take the chance of being out someplace and the engine going dead, he explained.

St. Jude paid the man at the gate as they came out, and Eli nodded his thanks.

Any objection if we go grab a cup of coffee before we head back to the office? Singer asked. He'd pulled up to the edge of the garage entrance and peered both ways down the block as though looking for traffic. Other cars would have been amazing to find at any time. Today there weren't even many pedestrians out. I try to show up a few minutes late to miss most of the others as they arrive and check out for the day. Will that bother you?

I didn't take this job to be a nine-to-five man, Nic answered. Coffee sounds fine.

Any place you want to go?

You choose.

Singer nodded as he eased the car out into the street. The vehicle ran well, a pleasant rumble through the seats. Nic leaned back and rubbed at his forehead, hoping to ease the hint of a headache that had plagued him all day.

Eli drove in preoccupied silence while Nic watched the streets go by in a mosaic of ruins next to astonishingly beautiful rebuilds. Even after twenty-five years and countless lesser disasters, the city still stood in a fantastic display of splendor. Nic could lose himself here, staring at the wonder of it all.

Nic had read more than once that Los Angeles had died, and the inhabitants lived in the skeleton of what once had been. If so, this was a damn lively ghost living in a world that time forgot. He had seen shows about cities on the East Coast where the people used aircars and land vehicles went to museums. In that other world, they prepared to start a new colony on Mars, and people still traveled to Luna City on daily flights. Some scientists talked about going to the stars. Here, though, people kept their feet to the ground. St. Jude understood this place.

Hey, Nic said as he glanced up. Careful. You're about to miss your street.

Singer slowed the car as he eased around the corner, pulling to stop by a lot filled with broken bricks and rotting garbage.

All right, St. Jude -- how did you know where to turn? I didn't tell you where we were going.

Oh shit. Sorry. I shouldn't have done that. All his sense of ease disappeared in a single breath. His hand moved to the door handle. Maybe this was an excellent time to get out and walk after all.

That's not much of an answer, Singer said, still looking at him with an eyebrow raised.

Nic wasn't sure if Singer meant the words he'd given or the fact that he was getting ready to bolt. His head pounded with an intensity that threatened to make him ill. The reaction must have shown because Singer looked worried now.

It -- just happens, Nic explained. His hand fluttered up in an abortive gesture that was as vague as his words.

You know things sometimes.

"Yeah. Sense things, feel them -- pick up on