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For three and a half centuries, the artificial man hides in plain sight across the opening solar system: medic on Luna, settlement engineer on Mars, salvage master in the Belt, shedding identities the way others shed jobs, carrying every face he has ever loved in perfect, unfading resolution. The Accord's inquisitors hunt rogue material with ever-better instruments; every census, every scanner upgrade, every war shrinks the shadows he can stand in. Around him, humanity becomes plural: Martians, Belters, the first Long March ships burning sunward-out full of people who will never arrive, and, late in the era, the fold drive that breaks the sky open. A handful of people learn his secret and keep it (a Martian doctor who chooses silence; a matriarch who asks him to remember her ship when no one else will). When a colony-killer bloom erupts on Iapetus in 2404, Andre must choose between the hiding that has kept him alive for 361 years and the eighty thousand people only he can reach. He walks into the bloom on every feed in the system, and it recognizes him. The colony lives. The masquerade dies. The last page is the first morning of a world that knows.
Deep time, at body temperature.
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