Against the animosity of Cecelia’s sister and the rest of the family, however, evidence meant little. They had petitioned the court at once to set aside the bequest to Heris on the grounds of undue influence. Perhaps they couldn’t prove an assault, but they were sure of the undue influence. Ronnie sent word through Brun that he dared not call Heris directly; they were already recommending treatment for him on the grounds that he, too, might have been under her supposed spell.
It would have been funny, in a story about someone else. Heris found it infuriating and painful. How could anyone think she would hurt Cecelia? She had begun to love the old woman as if she were her own aunt. No—as a friend. She felt hollow inside at the thought of losing her forever. She tried to explain to Petris.
“They think I did this to her,” Heris said, looking up from the cube reader with the latest communication from the family’s legal staff. “To get the ship. They think I influenced her to change her will—I didn’t even know she’d changed her will!”
“I know that. Don’t bristle at me.”
“They think that I did it all for the ship. Which is why they’re insisting that I can’t have it.”
“Well . . . screw the ship. We can go back to the Service—”
“I’m not so sure. We refused their kind invitation; they may not be willing to have us now. And to find a berth, all of us, somewhere else—” Heris shook her head. It had all seemed to be coming together, a new direction not only possible but rewarding, and now—!
“Well, we’re still Lady Cecelia’s employees,” Oblo put in. He was demonstrating one of his less social abilities with a sharp knife. “As long as we’re her employees, we have a right to work on her ship, eh?”
“That’s another thing.” Heris thumped the hardcopy on her desk. “Since she’s believed to be permanently impaired, they say there’s no reason to maintain an expensive and useless ship crew. When the yacht’s ownership has been determined in court, then it can be crewed with whomever the new owner wants. We’re supposed to get out and stay out.”
“But you’re the designated owner, aren’t you?”
“Were you listening, Oblo? The family’s petitioned the court to have that part of the will thrown out; Cecelia’s own attorney, who drew up the new will, argues that it is an unreasonable bequest to an employee so recent. Apparently all of them think I did something—what, they don’t say—to influence the bequest, and some of them think I then did whatever it was that’s happened to her.”
“Which we aren’t sure about,” murmured Petris, his gaze sombre.
“Which I am sure isn’t just a stroke,” Heris agreed. “I told her she was going into danger . . . but that’s beside the point. This letter says we’ll be paid through the end of that sixty days they first promised—be glad I got that in writing—and then we’re no longer her employees. They’re cancelling the redecoration, permanently. They want the ship in deep storage until final disposition. I’m supposed to present my own petition to the court, at my own expense, of course, if I want to contest the petition. They think I’ll walk away . . .”
“What else can you do?” Oblo said, eyeing her. “You don’t have the money for an attorney. We’ve been depending on your lady . . .”
“It will split us up,” Petris said. “That’s what they want—we’ll have to ship out separately, because no one hires ready-made crews, especially not us. I don’t like this.”
“It’s not fair,” Sirkin put in. Everyone looked at her.
“Fair?” Oblo raised one scarred eyebrow. “You’re a grownup now, Sirkin. Another voyage, and you’ll be almost family.”
“Except there isn’t going to be another voyage.” Heris felt her mind slumping even as she held her body erect. “We don’t have the resources. The family’s offered me a settlement, not to contest . . . it’s enough for a couple of months living on Rockhouse Minor, but not for all of us. Not nearly enough for a ship.”
“For tickets away?”
“Yes, but where? Besides, I don’t want to leave Cecelia down there until I know what happened. Maybe even more if I did know what happened.” She took another breath. “I have savings, of course. Investments. Maybe enough to contest it, but not if they bring criminal charges for whatever it was that happened to her. They’re powerful enough they might be able to do it even without evidence. Since she didn’t tell me about the bequest, I wasn’t prepared—I don’t even know why she did it.” She paused. “But I do have legal help. Remember that young man George?”
“Kevil Mahoney’s taking your case?” Petris asked, eyes wide.
“No, not himself, but he’s recommended someone, and the fee’s not as bad as it could be. The problem is, he thinks the settlement might be reasonable. And in any case, he says we must comply with the court order to vacate. I asked about that old ‘Possession is nine points—’ you always hear about, and he says it has never applied to space vessels. And of course we’re not actually in the yacht; she’s sitting over there in Spacenhance, empty.” With Spacenhance grumbling almost daily about having one of their slots tied up uselessly. If it hadn’t been for the Royal connection, they’d have insisted on having the ship moved long before.
“And it’ll cost us to live . . .”
“If we can’t get other work.”
“Like what? Dockside work on Rockhouse Major’s simply not available for ship-certified. They don’t want crews spending time here, for political reasons. Downside—who wants to work on a dirtball anyway?”
“You’re not looking at this as a tactical problem,” Arkady said. “Think of Lady Cecelia. We have to stay mobile if we’re to help her at all. If we’re trapped, whether it’s broke, or working for someone else, or in custody, we can’t help her.”
“You mean get her out?” Sirkin’s eyes sparkled. “I like that. We could get a shuttle, and—” Petris put a hand on hers, and she subsided. Heris shook her head, and explained.
“We don’t know for certain that she’s a prisoner . . . if she’s really had a massive stroke, if she’s really comatose, we can’t just snatch her away from medical care. But if she’s not—”
“If she’s been . . . disabled . . . ?”
“Yes. Then she needs allies who aren’t bound by . . . er . . . the usual considerations.”
“Rules,” Oblo said with satisfaction. “Laws. Even traditions . . .”
“We need a ship,” Petris said. Heris felt the challenge in his gaze. She grinned back at him.
“We have a ship.” She took a deep breath. “It is highly illegal, and we will be fugitive criminals, the lawful prey of every R.S.S. ship, every planetary militia . . . but we have a ship.”
“Not quite,” Oblo pointed out. “You haven’t forgotten she’s over in refitting, with all her pretty carpets and plush walls gutted?”
“And all her new weaponry aboard,” Heris said. “What do we care what the decks and bulkheads look like?”
“You’re actually going to do it,” Petris said. She had, she realized, surprised him. “You, Heris Serrano, are actually going to steal a yacht and set off to rescue a friend in peril. . . . Do you realize how theatrical this is?”
“It will be even more theatrical when the shooting starts,” Heris said. “And we can’t just leap into it. We need to know exactly what her condition is. Sweet Delight’s not a planetary shuttle; we can’t use it to snatch her, even if it’s safe to do so. We’ll have to find someone with a shuttle first.”
She remembered Ronnie saying that both his family and Lord Thornbuckle had private shuttles onplanet, but didn’t mention it to the crew. Not yet. She would have Sirkin check with Brun at their next encounter.