Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer

The squad’s sitting there having breakfast when Tommo’s head explodes. Just like that, we’re all on the deck.
Except Bert. He’s still sat there noshing his way through a bacon butty.
“Bert! What the frack?”
He swallows before replying.
“When was the last time they missed? We’re the ones who shoot everywhere.”
Well I’ll be a unicorn’s other horn. He’s right. We all grab our nosh – although nobody sits back up at the table.
Sandy grins.
“Got any more insights, o bacon oracle?”
Bert nods.
“Why are we still alive? Check our sensors. Nothing spotted anything, yet we’re a trooper down.”
Clem nods.
“Just like when we lost Avro.”
Just like… I stand up and look about. Three hundred and sixty degrees of sodden moorland, with a pair of turd-brown duck-billed hawks flapping their ungainly way eastward.
Damon hisses.
“Billy. Don’t be a hero. Get your head down.”
I reply without complying.
“When was the last time we lost more than one in an attack?”
That starts something. Notes are compared. Clem even calls his oppo in Unit Two. End result: nobody can remember.
Bert burps softly.
“I seem to have started something. Try this: how often do we lose that one trooper?”
The casualty schedule checking is easy after Clem calls Sergeant Winifred, his brother-in-law, and head of the field hospital guard.
Winifred returns the call quickly.
“Twenty-five days ago. Twenty-one before that. Then twenty-three, twenty-five, twenty-one, twenty-three… You get the idea?”
Damon curses under his breath.
“Full moon.”
Oh, frack. Of course. This place has a twenty-odd day lunar cycle.
“We lose a trooper on the night of each full moon.”
Sandy pulls out his datapad and starts hunting hard.
“What’s up?”
He replies, but doesn’t look up.
“We’re tasked with maintaining a presence so the locals don’t molest our scientific expeditions.”
“So?”
“Before we arrived, they took casualties. I’m reconciling their losses with ours,” he points at the screen, “and it ties up. Every full moon.”
Sergeant Winifred chimes in.
“Didn’t early survey reports mention something about sacrifices?”
Bert nods, then speaks, realising Winifred can’t see him nod.
“Yes. One of the positive influence points was us being able to persuade the locals into stopping the ritual killings.”
Sandy states it.
“Persuade? Or offer up disposable, non-local victims?”
Damon shudders.
“That’s fracked.”
Bert shakes his head.
“Just because you’re not paranoid, doesn’t mean they’re not out to sacrifice you.”
We laugh. Then go silent.
Sergeant Winifred breaks first.
“What next?”
Clem points at me.
“If the kills are arranged, then whatever’s doing them has clearance for our detectors. I think Lieutenant Billy should raise a zero-tolerance alert next full moon.”
He’s right. The system won’t allow tampering, but a hostile action state negates all exceptions, and lasts two days before it’s queried.
I nod to Clem.
“Excellent idea. Plus we service all weapons the day before.”

Twenty-three days later we’re having breakfast when the intruder alarm howls. Sentry batteries snort out a barrage of lethal. Something crashes to the ground over by Unit 2.
We get there in time to meet Sergeant Winifred.
“Big, winged hostile carrying a standard issue sniping beamer. Verified by serial number.”
They even provided the weapons!
“Secure imagery and evidence.”
I look about.
“Units One and Two, pack it up! We all RTB, then kick up a fuss. Go public and wide.”
I’m betting the few responsible will fade back, letting selected idiots take the fall. Doesn’t really matter. We’ll stop losing friends.
Revenge will have to be done carefully, but it’s inevitable. There will be an accounting.