This is the 18th in a deep-dive series on the stories in Rick’s newest book, Random Precision. The following blog includes spoilers.
 
If you can’t rip yourself off, who can you rip off?
 
“The Margin” is a “tech-ier” version of an earlier short story of mine, titled “Out of Sight, Out Of Mind.” In the earlier story, a city mayor discovers an ancient portal through which he banishes homeless people, where they live in the same world as ours but slightly out of phase, neither seen nor heard. That piece didn’t go anywhere, unfortunately. So I stole the basic idea for “The Margin,” only the “portal” in this case is a hatch to an unused section of a massive, generational starship in deep space.
 
The approach in “The Margin” is a little less mystical, a little more realistic. The “undesirables,” as they’re considered, are shuffled off to the margins of society, just as they are in real life today. Our communities have a sad history of doing this; “redlining,” the effort to force minorities into specific neighborhoods, is an example.
 
“The Margin” has other inspirations, too. One is from a favorite episode of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, titled “Past Tense.” In that story, the homeless and impoverished people of San Francisco are banished to a walled-off district. Another inspiration is the biblical tale of the Good Samaritan, where a marginalized person helps another in need.
 
The most disturbing part of this story is the ending, and it’s disturbing because it illustrates a frightening modern reality. Charity Gritt’s father is willing to sacrifice her rather than step up to help those trapped in the Margin. It’s no huge mental leap to imagine that same scenario in our hyper-polarized society today.
 
A less-disturbing fact about this story: If you’ve read my book Radiance, you’ll recognized the design of starship Estera. It’s based on the Bernal sphere space station concept I used for Canaan. Again, why not rip off yourself if it works?

This is the 17th in a deep-dive series on the stories in Rick’s newest book, Random Precision. The following blog includes spoilers.

This story is rapidly on its way to becoming out of date.
 
The inspiration was two-pronged. Some scientists were speculating that our reality might be a computer simulation, akin to the holodeck on Star Trek. I don’t believe that, of course, but it was an intriguing and downright unsettling idea. The other driver behind this was the life-simulation video game “The Sims,” one I’ve never played but is still around.
 
Of course, there is also the biblical passage from John 1, among my favorites. This underscores the eternal nature of Jesus and his unwavering love for humanity—to the point of death.
 
Thus we encounter Taylor Wayne, the brilliant scientist who “creates” a universe as detailed as the one we inhabit, and how his desire to love his creation leads to his ultimate sacrifice.
 
It’s worth noting that this is a broad effort to get at an ancient question: If God loves us so much, and he’s all-powerful, why does he allow bad things to happen? I’m not sure there’s an easy answer for that—Billy Graham once said that there’s an element to evil in the world that we’ll never understand—but the perspective I offer here is one of allowing for genuine love. We want our children to love us because they truly love us, not because they’re “programmed” to do so. We teach them in the way they should go, then we release them to make their own decision and their own mistakes.
 
That’s not a satisfying answer by any means, and it raises lots of questions, ones we should ask. God is big enough to handle our hard questions, even our angry ones.
 
One could argue that “A Sheep Oneself” is pretty “on the nose.” I accept that. I don’t think every parable has to be vague or subtle. Sometimes we need our nose broken.

This is the 16th in a deep-dive series on the stories in Rick’s newest book, Random Precision. The following blog includes spoilers.

“Superhero” is the Christmas play that’ll never get produced. That’s how this story began—as a holiday stage show I planned at my church. But as I scripted it, I realized I’d never find a 10-year-old kid who could memorize all those lines and deliver the powerful performance the story needed.
 
I resurrected the tale a couple of years ago when a magazine put on a Christmas story contest. I dug up the script and turned it into a short story. A lot of the original story made the jump—in the script, Barry’s dad is much more involved and a MUCH bigger jerk, and the playground experience was far more involved (and embarrassing for poor Barry).
 
This isn’t a science fiction story, but it features a boy who lives in that sphere. In some ways, Barry Parker is me at that age—obsessed but unable to share it with anyone else. I distinctly remember how my interest in all things SF made me a pariah starting in second grade. I feel Barry’s pain.
 
But it’s not just the people around Barry who learn an important lesson about compassion, mercy and grace. Barry himself learns that his love for superheroes must be tempered with love for other people—real people, folks who need to know they’re loved.
 
I volunteer as a mentor in writing for a middle school, and “Superhero” is a favorite with the teacher and students I work with. I wonder how many of them can relate to Barry’s struggles. They need to know they’re loved, too.