Or is anyone’s identity a matter of fragments held together by convenient or useful narrative, that in ordinary circumstances never reveals itself as a fiction? Or is it really a fiction?
Ancillary Justice by Ann Leckie was published in 2013. It won the Hugo, Nebula, and Arthur C. Clarke awards. Some sci-fi/fantasy fans did not think this book should have won those awards, arguing it did so for political reasons and not due to the quality of the writing. It has languished in my TBR stack for years, but I finally got around to reading it.
It’s a solid, flawed first book of a fairly standard space opera with some original ideas clumsily executed.