Happy St. Patrick's Day

You're in luck! Here's your pot of gold with your favorite IRISH COMMANDO, His Jedness.

Sorry, Lady Zannah, Chapter Eight didn't have a hint of Number Eight in it. Lots of Armando, though ;-).

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“Where were you exactly?” Jed asked.

Armando shrugged again in answer and hooked a thumb in his black leather belt, bracing his weight so Helen could lean on his arm. “I was having one of my weird blind attacks while I was walking on the floor above this one. I didn’t have far too run. What about you two? Why were you here at this time?”

“Just done with debriefing,” Jed replied, studying Armando closely. Blind attacks meant the younger man was in pain. “I thought the attacks were getting rarer.”

Armando ignored his comment, and instead cocked a dark eyebrow at Helen. “Debriefing with Hell? Fascinating.”

Jed said nothing, waiting for Eight Ball as well as Armando, staring intently at the younger man, looking for clues. Armando was in one of his moods. It was in the bored tone of in his voice, the little furrow in his brow, which he knew appeared when the younger man had another migraine attack. When his own schedule was a little lighter, he was going to resume training him, but for now, it was up to Heath. Right at this moment, he just wanted to get to the bottom of what just happened. He watched as Armando took Helen’s hand in his, looking deeply into her eyes.

“How’s the chosen one’s hypothalamus doing?” Armando continued.

Most people paused, smiled politely, looked puzzled, or frowned whenever Armando asked one of his offbeat questions. But Helen wasn’t anyone. Jed had had many months of looking into those hazel eyes on the screen and knew every nuance in their expression. He had seen that barely discernible calculating look entering those hazel eyes before, many times, while being tested during training. He blinked. She was in GEM mode.

“It’s functioning,” she said. “How’s yours?”

“Mine haven’t been tricked by drugs lately,” Armando mocked. “My neuro-hormones haven’t been over-producing but all this sexy talk might start the process.”

“I’m beginning to realize that certain drugs have a habit of tricking the user for longer than they think, Armando,” Helen said, the careless casualness in her voice catching Jed’s attention. For two people who had just collided with the floor, these two were acting way too calmly. “Are you so sure there’s nothing wrong with your limbic system?”

She’d obviously paid attention to all the doctors and scientists at the group debriefings, Jed noted, slightly amused such mundane talk would include the hypothalamus and brain stem. During the ones he’d attended when the first version of the SYMBIOS serum was introduced, he’d sat through hours of lectures about how the drug could, would, and should affect the hypothalamus, the part of the brain in control of body temperature, hunger, thirst, emotions, and—he slid another glance at Helen—sexual activity.

Nothing new. Except he didn’t like the way those two were standing so closely together, as if they were having a private communication. He pushed away the sudden urge to interrupt. Something else was happening here and he wasn’t going to let his personal feelings come between him and finding the answer.

Jed looked at Armando again. Helen’s problem had been pinpointed. Sort of. But what about Armando? The man admitted to migraine and periods of blindness that lasted up to an hour. None of the scientists and doctors had come up with an explanation. Almost the same drug, but different effect. What else wasn’t he telling them?

“Location confirmed, yo,” Eight Ball’s surfer lingo added another odd touch to the ongoing conversation. “Agent Chang’s location was exactly right above where you and Hell were standing four feet back from your current location. Using Agent Sullivan’s words, dudes, woo-woo simpatico shit.”

Armando looked surprised for a moment, then burst out laughing. Helen grinned.

“Thank you for your diagnosis, Eight Ball,” Jed said wryly. He needed to talk to the COMCEN supercomputer programmer one of these days about Eight Ball’s choice of persona…when he found a slot of free time. “Make two copies of both recordings and send one to my quarters and the other to Dr. Kirkland’s. Send a message to him that we need him at his office now.”

“Affirmative.”

“It’s late, isn’t it?” Helen asked. “What if he isn’t there? Aren’t we supposed to be going to dine with the admiral?”

“You’re limping,” Jed pointed out, “and I thought we’d all compare our hypothalamuses and limbic systems at Dr. Kirkland’s office. I’ll just have to cancel my meeting with the admiral till later.”

“But I’m hungry,” Helen said.

“Brains for dinner. Yum,” Armando murmured. “I think I should carry her the rest of the way, Jed, what do you think?”

Jed looked at the younger man. The inscrutable Asian face was firmly on, revealing nothing, but a male challenge was universal. He could say no and therefore show his hand, that Helen was his weakness.

He looked at Helen. She was still too quiet. Either she was still processing what had happened or she was using NOPAIN to nettle him. It didn’t matter. There were other ways to win a pissing contest.

His gaze traveled lower on her body and he knew from the slight twitch of her leg that she was affected by it. His gaze slid back up leisurely to meet hers.

“By all means,” he said softly.

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