Stronger Than Swords: A Collection of Fantasy & Science Fiction Short Stories

By Costa Koutsoutis

The line between science fiction and fantasy is a thin razorblade, more closely-related than you might think. STRONGER THAN SWORDS is a collection of short scifi and fantasy fiction by author Costa Koutsoutis, looking at worlds that could have existed, and worlds that are coming faster than we think. In "No Grave But the Fields," two children raised by a sword-weilding warrior find different ways to express violence and mercy, only to be struck by tragedy. "Terms & Conditions" shows us how our online shopping habits will ultimately guide interstellar colonization, and it ain't pretty. A young man begins to do his share of work in the far-flung future of "Bold" despite his fear and anxiety, and titans now stride the atmosphere, changing how life works forever in "Skies Dance." In these short stories and others, author Costa Koutsoutis delves into not only the future, but what could be our past, to show us tales of those who adapt, those who learn, those who survive, and those who thrive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Costa Koutsoutis
• Release date: Mar 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201698270

Costa Koutsoutis

Costa Koutsoutis is a writer who lives and works in his hometown of New York City. His fiction & nonfiction has appeared in print and online in places like Akashic Books’ “Monday Are Murder” short crime fiction series, the book Team Cul De Sac: Cartoonists Draw the Line at Parkinson’s from Andrews McNeel, the horror fiction podcast The Alexandria Archives, the long-running punk subculture magazine Razorcake, and more. Some of his work include the sci-fi near-future novella The Go-Between, the essay collection Lightning Crashes Here, and the detective fiction of Running The Train and All The Stories, featuring the adventures of PI/bondsman Ben Miles. Besides burying his head in the keyboard writing things, he can be found chasing the cat around, watching cooking shows and horror movies, and generally plotting how to get his hands on a full suit of steel-plate armor. You know, for fun.

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Table of Contents

Stronger Than Swords: A Collection of Fantasy & Science Fiction Short Stories

STRONGER THAN SWORDS

A Collection of Fantasy & Science Fiction Short Stories

By Costa Koutsoutis

© 2022 costa koutsoutis

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STORIES

Appreciation In Value

No Grave But the Fields

War Grass

Her the King of Barrows

Alla the Hunter

The Pass

Our Sun Also Rises

A Memory of Bones

Bold

Terms & Conditions

The Bell

Skies Dance

Appreciation in Value by Costa Koutsoutis

~

The sounds of what I figured was a reggae cover of Stiff Little Fingers’ Alternative Ulster filled the hallways of backstage, mixing with the actual music being performed onstage, and we stood around listlessly, waiting. There was a moment when I thought something might happen and I stood against the wall, flush with the freight elevator door, the doorknob in the sock dangling in my tightly-clenched fist, but Trav looked at his phone and shook his head wordlessly, so I slipped it back into my coat’s outside pocket, going back to just pacing listlessly on worn and scuffed linoleum floors while the bass thumps of the concert downstairs or upstairs or wherever the stage space was. In black jeans, black faux-laced stompers with dull carbon fiber clips at the ankles, sweater, and light but hip-length nylon and carbon-fiber all-purpose coat, I looked just hip enough to work there, which is what we were going for. In the coat pockets, my fists clenched, unclenched, relaxed, and clenched again.

We good? Trav said, tall and black and bald with humorous green eyes catching most of what went on around him without looking like he did. He dressed for all the world like he really worked here backstage, even managing to have gotten a walkie-talkie that didn’t work but he clipped to his faded blue jeans, the hem of his brand-name New York Giants sweater tucked up under it. Hansa, we good? he repeated, using my name, and I started, nodding. Yeah, we’re good, I said, stopping the pacing, breathing hard. The music was softer now, the song  in a lull, and through it the hum and throb of bass from somewhere else was louder, enough to vibrate my skin as I leaned against a corner. Why do I have to do this? Why not you? He motioned at the narrow space of the music venue hallway, I’m telling you, they’d see me against the wall, relax. Just crack the one, I’ll get the other, we get what we need, biff-bam-boom. He checked his phone again, pocketing it, fleshing the knuckles of fingerless Kevlar gloves, the palms fixed with the civilian version of the neuro-disruptor pads that cops used during riot grabs, and security guards sometimes used whenever they played soldier these days. They weren’t technically illegal, but they were definitely sketchy to carry and only really good for one or two grabs. Showtime, he said, and I nodded. I got up against the wall again, the doorknob in the sock back in my hand, cocked back, ready, and Trav standing loosely, hands relaxed half-up as if shrugging in front of the elevator doors. The thumping of the live music had died down, the reggae cover of Alternative Ulster suddenly loud again as it faded awkwardly into what slowed-down-gothy version of what I thought might be a Britney Spears song, pop culture awareness tickling the back of my brain. Had to be a Britney song, I thought, and the elevator dinged.

Heya, Trav said, and his big arms snagged out to grab the one guy, white and pink-haired and sweaty and shirtless, tattooed from throat to belly button and shoulders to fingertips, the stun of the gloves’ palms making him yelp and drop the already half-drained Corona beer in his one hand. The bottle thudded against the elevator floor and the security guard-cum-assistant, thick and squat with real muscle, not the wiry amphetamine-fitness of the one Trav grabbed, looked for a second around and snarled, eyes on me while he cocked a fist back. Fucking bitch! before the arc of my arm brought the doorknob in the sock right on top of his head, one arm coming up to try to catch it. He wasn’t quick enough though, and you could hear the brass hit flesh through the thin fabric of the cheap dollar-store gym sock, the light in his eyes winking out like a candle as he dropped. Let’s go, come on, Trav said, all business while I breathed hard, dropping the homemade cudgel like we planned in the trash can at the end of the hall and we bustled out of there, Internet-savvy pop idol and sorta-rapper AK Aaron Konnor between us shaking off the stun from Trav’s gloves as we hit the fire stairs, heading downstairs, the fire door behind us slamming closed, the hallway already a memory. The stairwell was dark and dingy concrete slab, UV light strips concrete-glued to the walls in the shape of arrows, barely enough light for someone to see, which was sort of the point. Places like this didn’t like having back entrances that were easy to navigate unless you had to, which is why we’d gotten in hours earlier, pacing and standing around, listening to the background music of the building as we waited in music venue’s back hallway. God I had to piss, I thought.

What the fuck?! he shook, but it was obvious Trav’s iron grip and a quick nerve pinch at the elbow of his other hand that made him yelp, plus the sudden movement down the stairs and outside into the alley had him scared. It’d rained earlier, and the wet chill of the night and the faint sounds of the boulevard a hundred or so feet in each direction barely filled the air. The other building was just a solid wall of black steel with no windows or doors, not even vents or pipes or wires visible, and Chrissy was standing at one end of the alley keeping an eye out, with Benny at the other, standing casual but also clearly marking a do-not-fucking-cross line. In the distance, a car drove by blasting thick heavy bass, the kind that would make the car doors vibrate in time with the rhythm of the music, fading quickly as whoever it was drove past, cruising on a Saturday night in a city that all-but-ignored it, a sort of weird passive defiance of the oppressive static of urban noise. The alley was, for all intents and purposes, as isolated as a rooftop. Mister Konnor, Auntie said, sitting in the backseat of the dull-gray Escalade, its electric motor softly thrumming as it sat there idling. I didn’t know who was driving her these days, someone new, but they knew enough not to turn the car off entirely. Where is it? she asked, the honestly-ugly wine-red pea coat with the brass-button collar trim thrown over her shoulders, clashing with the green long kurti and slacks she wore in the way that only she could.

What? He said again, looking around confused, Look, is this about the crypto thing? The feds said I was in the clear! Y-you can apply to the...the relief thing! The fund, yeah! He shivered in the fall evening, looking up and down the alley as if someone at either end might see and help him. Just call my manager, he’ll set it up, he said, fumbling at his pocket for a phone before I smacked his hand away, shaking my head. Do we fucking look like the feds? Trav said, patting Konnor on the back just a bit too forcefully as I managed to get the singer’s phone out of his pockets, swiping at the screen. Dipshit has a face lock, I sighed, holding it up. You should really invest in some real security, cannot be too careful these days, young man. Look straight please, mister Konnor, Auntie said, and from next to her I could hear Aakav laughing, handing the older woman a printout. She refused to read off screens, even the fake paper ones that were advertised as no-glare, so anything she had to read or sign got printed out from a micro-drum one that fit in a shoebox you could put under the backseat. He looked straight, confused as I held his phone up, and when it dinged open, I started flipping through texts, dick pics, and finally found the investment app. You don’t even password protect any of this? I asked him, and he just shrugged. Hey, come on man, let’s talk, Trav said, putting a cheap plastic jacket we around his shivering shoulders and led the young man away. Hansa, Auntie waved the paper around, It says it’s, uhm, she turned back, and Aakav leaned over her, it’s labeled PKMLTD47. Whatever that is.

I swiped through the app, looking for it, shaking my head. Nothing here, I said, frowning. I swiped up to bring up the phone’s search function, tapping the letters and numbers in there, finding nothing, checking the rest of his apps before going back into the supposedly-ritzy investment app for cryptocurrencies. This is all just junk, here, I wonder if he even knows what half of it means? I handed the phone to her, who handed it to Aakav.

Me and Trav were all-around types, but Aakav went to school for this sort of stuff, and despite his partying, managed to actually graduate. It’s where I met him, and then he asked if I ever wanted a job with his aunt, especially after that one time when I talked two shitheels out of curb-stomping him. Of course, I used a little homemade screamer to talk to them, the focused one-use toy screaming hypersonic into their eardrums so they couldn’t notice the billiard cue to the head, but that’s besides the point. Trav, who worked for Auntie since he was a teenager, caught me up real quick.

I could see Aakav frown in the backseat, scrolling through the phone and then plugging it into his laptop. That doesn’t make sense, he’d have needed some kind of collateral. Otherwise how’s he doing anything at all since the lawsuit? Tell Trav to ask him, maybe?

Like it’s physical? I looked over my shoulder at the door we’d exited. Someone would come looking for the little shit soon, and honestly, I was tired and just wanted to go home. No way, that’s his whole shtick, right? It’s all digital bullshit for these types.

Honey, go tell Trav to ask him where it is, be a good girl, Auntie said, Then go get it for me, OK? I see you tomorrow, you come for dinner to the house, meet someone, she’s nice. The older woman reached out for the car door, a sign for me to close it for her. She’s a nice girl, you’ll like her, I know her mother, runs the grocery store. I sighed, Yes Auntie, I said, smiling as the seal of the bulletproof car breathed with suction to start the air filtration inside its explosion-proof and reinforced luxury interior, the car she kept parked at a garage a mile away from her house because You know the neighbors, so nosy. As if they didn’t all give her kickbacks and come to her with problems at the kitchen table, I thought as the SUV slid away near-silent, Trav jogging up to me. Where’s the little shit? I asked, and he pointed over his shoulder, then patted his pocket. Let him go, got his hotel key. It’s physical, in there.

No shit? No one used anything physical as collateral anymore, and after the last big token crash a decade ago, chasing down people who’d insisted that the market meant they didn’t have to honor I.O.U’s and just took virtual coinage and ran meant that often it was just circulating as investments.

Physical cash was for the poors, mostly, I thought, as we got into my car, an American remake of a Japanese two-door sedan that had the shadow of a cool sports car body but mostly just got me from point A to B as well as maybe carrying groceries in the tiny backseat from the Greek grocery. Trav struggling with the seat, grumbling about how I should get something that didn’t hug the ground like them new little Jap cars, y’know. I turned the autokey in the slot and hit start, thumping darkwave immediately boiling out of the speakers while he yelped at the noise and