said Latimer. He was her private instructor in firearms and infiltration, running her through trial after trial, race after race, a kind of shadow biathlon: running and shooting without ever being seen. Heron knew that her accuracy was more than just “improving”—it was better than his now. Accuracy was the least of her accomplishments. She could cross the entire course, ten square miles of rugged northern forest, without once being tagged by the guard drones or autoturrets, and she hadn’t failed an assassination in ten straight days. His praise was rare, and she was grateful when she got it, but to mention only her “accuracy,” and with the faint praise that it was “improving,” was practically an insult. “Thank you,” said Heron. “You’re too kind.” “It’s time to start you on a new course,” said Latimer, gesturing for her to follow him. She was still calming down from the last time trial, her breathing and heart rate slowly decelerating, but she kept her recovery internal, showing no signs of weakness as she followed him across the room.
