A Separate War and Other Stories by Joe Haldeman

by now.
    â€œI am a descendant of the first Strike Force, nearly half a millennium ago. I await your questions.” He sat back in his chair, in a featureless room. He crossed his legs and picked up a notebook and began flipping through it.
    We immediately got a high-resolution image of the portal planet. It was small, as they usually are; cold and airless except for the base. It was actually more like a town than a base, and it was as obvious as a beacon. It wasn’t enclosed; air was evidently held in by some sort of force field. It was lit up by an artificial sun that floated a few kilometers above the surface.
    There was an ancient cruiser in orbit, its dramatic, sweeping streamlined grace putting our functional clunkiness to shame. There were also two Tauran vessels. None of them was obviously damaged.
    All of us 5-and-above officers were on the bridge when we contacted the planet. Commodore Sidorenko sat up front with Garcia; he technically outranked her in this room, but it was her show, since the actual business was planetside.
    I felt a little self-conscious, having come straight from the prep bay. Everyone else was in uniform; I was just wearing the contact net for the fighting suit. Like a layer of silver paint.
    Garcia addressed the man in the chair. “Do you have a name and a rank?”
    It took about forty seconds for the message to get to him, and another forty for his response: “My name is Eagle. We don’t have ranks; I’m here because I can speak Old Standard. English.”
    You could play a slow chess game during this conversation, and not miss anything. “But your ancestors defeated the Taurans, somehow.”
    â€œNo. The Taurans took them prisoner and set them up here. Then there was another battle, generations ago. We never heard from them again.”
    â€œBut we lost that battle. Our cruiser was destroyed with all hands aboard.”
    â€œI don’t know anything about that. Their planet was on the other side of the collapsar when the battle happened. The people here saw a lot of light, distorted by gravitational lensing. We always assumed it was some robotic assault, since we didn’t hear anything from either side, afterwards. I’m sorry so many people died.”
    â€œWhat about the Taurans who were with you? Are there Taurans there now?”
    â€œNo; there weren’t any then, and there aren’t any now. Before the battle they showed up now and then.”
    â€œBut there are—” she began.
    â€œOh, you mean the Tauran ships in orbit. They’ve been there for hundreds of years. So has our cruiser. We have no way to get to them. This place is self-sufficient, but a prison.”
    â€œI’ll contact you again after I’ve spoken to my officers.” The cube went dark.
    Garcia swiveled around, and so did Sidorenko, who spoke for the first time: “I don’t like it. He could be a simulation.”
    Garcia nodded. “That assumes a lot, though. And it would mean they know a hell of a lot more about us than we do about them.”
    â€œThat’s demonstrable. Four hundred years ago, they were supposedly able to build a place for the captives to stay. I don’t believe we would have any trouble simulating a Tauran, given a couple of hundred captives and that much time for research.”
    â€œI suppose. Potter,” she said to me, “go down and tell the fourth platoon there’s a slight change of plans, but we’re still going in ready for anything. I think the best thing we can do is get over there and make physical contact as soon as possible.”
    â€œRight,” Siderenko said. “We don’t have the element of surprise anymore, but there’s no percentage in sitting here and feeding them data, giving them time to revise their strategy. If there are Taurans there.”
    â€œHave your people prepped for five gees,” Garcia said to me. “Get you there in a few