"Let's stop by my office and I'll show you the new artwork Starfleet installed," Kirk suggested, leading Chekov into the darkened office building.

It was late. They'd had dinner with Captain Brice and his wife and then stopped for drinks. The Brices were nice people but very boring so the drinks and the walk were Chekov's reward for helping Kirk with his social obligation.

At this point in his relationship with Kirk, he would have happily sat through dinner with Cossacks if that's what Kirk wanted. So he was also delighted to look at a new painting that annoyed Kirk.

The diplomatic section's offices were absurdly lavish and Chekov readily agreed that the new painting in the conference room was offensively ostentatious. Even the frame was a nightmare. The Russian's request to see Kirk's office was happily granted.

Kirk watched Chekov toss his overcoat on the couch and move about the room. He sat at his desk admiring his young lover. Very considerately, Kirk moved his chair back for Chekov to go down on his knees before him.

Chekov was working Kirk's cock down his throat when they were startled by a noise in the hallway. Some ancient survival instinct inspired the ensign to dive under Kirk's desk.

Kirk had barely fumbled his erection back into his pants when Admiral Pynchon (better known as Admiral Psycho), his section chief, barged into his office.

"NO, NO, DON'T GET UP!" He waved Kirk, who had half risen, back into his chair. "WHAT KEEPS YOU HERE SO LATE, KIRK?" Pynchon boomed. He'd seen lots, many said too much, combat and was always on 'red alert.' It was hard on his staff but he was a great diplomat in spite of, or perhaps because of, his quick wit, surety and, oddly, volume. Non-Terrans, even the Vulcans, were impressed that someone could talk so loud and make so much sense.

"I'm..."

"WORKING! OF COURSE. THAT'S WHAT I LIKE ABOUT YOU, KIRK. YOU GET THE JOB DONE! WHAT ARE YOU LABORING OVER?"

"Ah... the..."

"TOO BAD YOU'RE NOT INVOLVED IN THE MIRC 6 NEGOTIATIONS." Pynchon began to stalk around the room, as he did when thinking something out. "I COULD USE YOUR GOOD HEAD THERE."

Kirk gently kicked at Chekov, whom he could feel laughing against his legs.

"THESE ARE DIFFICULT TIMES, KIRK," Pynchon continued, pacing like a tiger. "IN THE OLD DAYS, WE WERE ALL BUILING A BETTER GALAXY. A SAFER FUTURE. AN INHERITANCE FOR FUTURE GENERATIONS. NOWADAYS, WE ONLY SEEM TO BE INTERESTED IN TRADE AGREEMENTS, FINANCIAL ARRANGEMENTS AND EXCHANGE RATES. WHERE IS THE ROMANCE IN THAT, I ASK YOU, KIRK; WHERE IS THE SOUL, THE FIRE, THE PASSION IN MARKET DRIVEN DIPLOMACY?" The admiral focused on Chekov's overcoat on the couch for a moment before continuing: "THESE ARE NOT TIMES FOR AN OLD WARHORSE LIKE ME. IN THE OLD DAYS, WE KNEW WHERE WE STOOD IN SPACE. ANY DOUBT WAS A REASON FOR THE KLINGONS TO ATTACK US." He seemed momentarily distracted by Kirk's overcoat, neatly hung on its peg by the door. "THERE'S NOTHING QUITE LIKE A BORDER SKIRMISH THAT BLOSSOMS INTO WAR TO FOCUS A FEDERATION'S PRIORITIES. STRESS AND ANXIETY KEEPS EVERYBODY IN LINE. EVERY ENERGY IS FOCUSED ON THE THREAT OF BEING OVERRUN BY THE KLINGON OR WHATEVER BARBARIAN HORDES AND NOBODY'S WORRIED ABOUT CURRENCY FLOWS OR TARRIFFS. HELL, KIRK, NOWADAYS EVEN THE KLINGONS HAVE A CENTRAL BANK AND ARE MAKING DEALS WITH FINANCIAL TYPES DOWNTOWN. WHERE, I SAY, WHERE HAVE THE CLEAR CUT NEEDS AND OBJECTIVES GONE, I ASK YOU, KIRK, WHERE HAVE THEY GONE?" Pynchon lunged for Chekov's overcoat and shook it like a terrier shakes a rat until he could read the identifier tag in the collar. "AND JUST WHO IS ENSIGN PAVEL A. CHEKOV, SERIAL NUMBER 656-5827B AND WHY IS HIS COAT HERE?" He tossed Chekov's coat back on the couch and loomed over Kirk's desk as if challenging the captain to make a run for it.

"Ensign Chekov is under my desk, sir." Kirk said this in a level voice, calmly meeting Pynchon's captain-frying gaze.

"IS HE? WELL, HAVE HIM COME OUT." Pynchon surveyed the ensign before him. "CHEKOV, WELL, LET'S HAVE A LOOK AT YOU." Pynchon always assumed a bluff, good-natured attitude with younger officers not in his command and he was genuinely interested to hear Chekov's history and punctuated it with various comments of his own: "ONE OF THE BEST ACADEMY CLASSES EVER; FINE TRADITION IN NAVIGATION (YOU WERE THERE ONCE, KIRK); WONDERFUL SHIP, THE ENTERPRISE, FORMER XO'S FATHER IS ONE OF THE MOST REASONABLE DIPLOMATS I'VE EVER MET; EXPERIMENTAL NAVIGATIONS IS ONE OF THE FINEST DEPARMENTS IN THE FLEET, LUCKY YOU WERE POSTED THERE AFTER THE FIVE YEAR MISSION, ARLO CALHOUN IS ONE OF THE BEST ADMIRALS WE'VE GOT, HE'S A WONDERFUL CHIEF, I HEAR, WE CALL HIM ADMIRAL TEDDY BEAR 'CUZ HIS STAFF ADORE HIM. SO, KIRK'S YOUR OLD CAPTAIN; FINE THING TO KEEP TRACK OF YOUR OLD SHIPMATES, FINE THING. . ." While spinning out his pleasantries at the top of his voice, Pynchon was staring at the desk, actually, staring under the desk as if trying to get his mind around something. He fixed Kirk with a steely eye while still addressing Chekov, "AND WHERE DO YOU LIVE, YOUNGSTER?"

"Orinda, sir."

"DON'T YOU LIVE IN ORINDA, KIRK?"

"Yes, sir." Kirk blandly met the admiral's eyes, which narrowed menacingly, and added, "with Chekov."

"AH HA!" Pynchon slammed his fist on the desk. "WELL, CARRY ON, GENTLEMEN, CARRY ON." He left the room in the highest good humor, fondly remembering his own youthful romps, and glad to know the younger generation still knew how to have a good time. It was refreshing, and he had a good, long, loud, laugh about it as soon as he got the door of his office closed.

**end**

On to The Diplomatic Situation