The stars were a scattered few. There was even more cogitator extrapolation than with the fleet positions. The Ruinstorm made even the most basic navigational measurements uncertain. Entire star systems, even ones that were theoretically in the near vicinity, were as invisible as Terra. There was still enough data for Guilliman to see the strike force’s position. The Samothrace and its escorts were on the north-western fringe of Ultramar, a bare few light years from their previous position. They had moved laterally along the border. If there had been any progress towards Terra, it was well disguised. The nearest system was Anuari, and it was on the western edge of the chart, hardly close enough to register. The strike force had emerged in the deep void.

‘We’re scattered,’ said Drakus Gorod, commander of the Suzerain Invictus bodyguards.

The tacticarium table blinked and rearranged its runes to reflect the new positions of the strike force. The ships had been thrown like a handful of bones across the region. Only the strike cruiser Cavascor was still attending the Samothrace.

‘Your theoretical may still be worth pursuing,’ Guilliman said to Prayto. He tried to push away the suspicion he was grasping at straws. Self-doubt had become an unwelcome, frequent companion. He had believed he had thought through all the possible consequences of Imperium Secundus. He had included, at its very inception, the contingency that his father was still on the throne of Terra. He worried that had been lip service to something he had not really believed was possible. If he had thought there truly was a chance that Horus had not conquered Terra, he wondered if he would have made the crime of Imperium Secundus a reality.

He didn’t know.

The Imperium Secundus had been a practical in response to a theoretical whose foundations he could not trust.

Prayto’s idea engaged with active conditions, and proposed a possible course of action. The search for a way forwards had failed so far. The signals from the other strike forces were becoming more broken and erratic, and they were no closer to finding the path to Terra.

‘We regroup,’ Guilliman said, ‘and then we make another attempt following the last route.’

‘And the other strike forces?’

Guilliman scanned the parchments chattering out of servo-skulls hovering over the table. They were transcriptions of astropathic communications arriving from the other battle group. They were more and more vague. The distances were taking their toll. The Ruinstorm was becoming a wall between his ships. He had gone as far as he dared down this path. ‘Signal them,’ he said. ‘We’ll gather the fleet and start the search again, spreading outwards from this position.’

The tacticarium table blinked.

‘Contact,’ said Caspean. ‘Not ours.’

‘Analysis and theoreticals now,’ Guilliman ordered. ‘Doors open.’