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08 January 2022


Selection from the prologue of Resistance, Book Three of my as-yet-unpublished novel Echoes of a Future Truth.


   On this day, if anyone had been keeping count, a final migrant completed her own journey west. A middle-aged Irish psychologist, youngest child of a Catholic schoolteacher and a gaeilgeoir Somali; this daughter of the old world arrived by way of studies at Cambridge and a recent professorship at Berkeley. She came to take her place at the California company that was both the greatest failure of its era and also its greatest hope. Neither she nor any other was aware that she would be the last to arrive. Nobody was keeping count.

   The woman did understand that she would be taking part in the final act of the Great Story: she knew the role that she’d been cast in, and she knew where to stand on the stage. But what she did not know – what she could not know – was the true nature of the play. Whatever destiny had been made manifest in ages past was no longer accessible to plain sight. The veil had been dropped once more to shroud the doom of humankind.


image: Night Watch, Spyros Vasilliou, 1945