Peter Bradley

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“You think we’re nothing but a Chinese Room,” Rorschach sneered. Jack stumbled toward collision, grasping for something to hang on to. “Your mistake, Theseus.” It hit something. It stuck. And suddenly Rorschach snapped into view—no refractory composites, no profiles or simulations in false color. There it was at last, naked even to Human eyes.
Blindsight (Firefall, #1)
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