PBJ, Warm, Kinda Squished

by Regionalpancake

Summary:

“Imagine, Northern California, late twentieth century. You're cruising up Highway One, the woofers are pounding, the wind is whipping through your hair."

Seven helps out with Tom’s driving programme.

Notes:

Written for StarTrekPotluck2024!

Thanks as always to beta reader Lintila for the word wrangling, and Lili for being my partner in crime running this fest <3

                                                                         

 

“Hey! Seven!” Tom said cheerfully as he strolled into Astrometrics.

“Lieutenant Paris,” Seven did not look up from her work station. “You are not scheduled to review navigation data and proposed course changes for another three hours.”

Tom leant casually on the console. “Well, I just figured I’d swing by early and see how things were going.”

“If by ‘things’ you mean the process of updating Voyager’s navigational data, then it’s ’going’ slowly.”

“I meant how are you doing?”

“I am doing my job.” Seven began another set of calculations processing and tried to stop the frustration from creeping into her voice. “I suggest you do yours.”

“Sure,” Tom brushed off the suggestion and instead peered at the data flowing across Seven’s workstation. “Found any good nebulas lately?”

Seven sighed, since joining Voyager she’d discovered that Humans often conducted "wellbeing checks" with their colleagues, a particularly pointless social interaction given that the appropriate response was expected to always be positive. Begrudgingly she looked up. “What assistance do you require?”

“What?” Tom held his hands up innocently. “I can’t just come to catch up?”

“In my experience you are unlikely to engage in small talk around stellar phenomena unless you require my assistance.”

“So now I’m not allowed to be interested in Astrometrics? Y’know navigation is pretty key to my job?” Tom looked cartoonishly hurt for a second before he broke into a grin. “But… since you mentioned it, I do have a favour to ask you.”

Seven held her hands behind her back and cocked her head in response. “It seems my experience remains reliable.”

“Is that Borg for ‘I told you so’?”

Tom took the ghost of a smile and smug silence as confirmation.

“Right. Ok, so; I’m finishing up a new holodeck programme. Highway One, Californian Pacific Coast, Earth. It’s a driving simulation, so I can really put the Camaro through her paces. I’m just fine tuning the background stuff now. Which is where you come in. May I?” He gestured to a console.

Seven stepped aside and watched as Tom pulled up a set of images and sent them to the large Astrometrics display screen. A panoramic view of a road winding like a ribbon along a stretch of coastline filled the viewer.

“I’ve got all the details! Period appropriate weather, traffic, everything. I’ve even managed to create some pretty accurate musical broadcasts too to test out the Camaro’s sound system. I’m just having a few issues with synthesising an analogue data stream for transmission across this region.”

“What is the signal?” Seven asked, a hint of interest in her voice.

With a few taps Tom replaced the view of the Pacific coast with a series of undulating sine waves. 

“It’s a wide-band frequency modulation carrier wave.”

“FM radio.” Seven said, more of an observation than a question. “A crude technology. The terrain appears rocky. The signal will be repeatedly disrupted.” 

“Yes! Right! Only I have no way of knowing how or where those disruptions would occur.”

“Do you have a comprehensive survey of the location?” Seven asked, already searching Voyager’s data banks.

“Not a complete one.”

“Even limited data could improve the accuracy of the simulation. What have you obtained so far?”

“Er, there’s basic topographical data? And the ship's computer might have some general info on the geology-“

“Then your failure is not due to feasibility, merely a result of your own lack of skill.” Seven said abruptly, interrupting him with a new image on the viewer; a topographical view of the coastline, with each distinct rock type displayed in a different colour.

“Bit harsh,” Tom muttered, but Seven wasn’t listening. Her eyes scanned quickly over the fast moving data.

“The cliffs are largely charnockitic tonalite at an incline of between 50 to 60 percent. The region is then surrounded by areas of unconsolidated sediments as well as quartzo-feldspathic protoliths. There will be many variables to compensate for.” Seven zoomed in to examine the data.

“So you’ll do it?”

Seven glanced at her navigational calculations - they were still processing, she had time. And determining the wave geometry of multipath interference sounded… fun.

“I will comply.” She nodded. “The process should take no more than a few hours.”

“Perfect!” Tom beamed and clapped her on the shoulder. “I knew I could count on you! Meet me at Holodeck Two, say 1900 hours?”

Seven quirked her chin in response.

Tom turned to leave, throwing a mock salute over his shoulder.

“You bring the math, I’ll bring the snacks!”

 

---

 

Seven checked the time again on the console outside of Holodeck Two. 

 

19:07

 

She sighed heavily, she was unsure about how late it was socially acceptable for Tom to be, and was about to give up waiting when she heard the turbolift at the end of the hallway slide open.

“Sorry I’m late!” Tom panted as he sped his pace up to a guilty half-jog, awkwardly clutching a couple of brown paper bags to his chest. The Hawaiian shirt he’d changed into flapped at his sides. “I had to pick a few things up.”

“I’m sure it was necessary.” Seven said, uncertain if lying was the best response.

“Absolutely! Right,” He set one of the bags down by the holodeck door. Seven heard the rustle of paper and the clink of glass bottles. “Refreshments in that one! Aaand in this one-” Tom opened the second bag and pulled out a freshly replicated, folded triangle of white cloth.

“Here,” Tom passed her the silk scarf, “It’s for your hair.”

“Is my hair unsuitable?” She took the item.

“I mean, it looks great to me, but the wind while driving can really muss it up.”

Seven unfolded the silk, noting the faint pink floral pattern around its edge. “Then may I suggest lowering the environmental impact of your simulation?”

“And ruin the fun?” Tom teased. “I got you these too,” He dug in the pocket of his tan shorts and produced a pair of tortoise shell sunglasses.

Seven took the glasses and put them on. The frame clicked uncomfortably against her implants and her vision dulled to a polarised sepia. She passed the glasses back.

“One thematic addition is sufficient.” Seven paused, before tying the scarf around her hair. “Thank you. I prefer my vision to remain unobstructed.”

“You’re missing out!” Tom said as he put on his own aviators. He stooped to pick up their snacks and tapped the console with a knuckle.

“Computer run programme Paris Sierra 1.”

 

Seven’s heel crunched the gravel underfoot as they stepped into a hot summer’s evening on the West Coast. The smell of hydrocarbon-based fuel hung in the late afternoon sun that caught the chrome of the cars at the gas station.

“Tommy! There you are,” the attendant waved from next to a black and white muscle car. “I’ve finished filling her up for you-” the older man trailed off as Seven walked past him. 

She ignored him and opened a panel of one of the tall gasoline pumps to reveal Voyager's holodeck interface, before inserting an isolinear chip and uploading her updates.

“What y’doing there, Miss?” The attendant called out, trying not to stare at the lady in the catsuit.

Seven didn’t answer.

“It’s a full-service station, Miss, can I-”

“She’s er, she's from Europe.” Tom improvised. “They do things differently over there.” He laughed awkwardly and hurried over to Seven.

“Can you not do that right in front of him?”

Seven paused. “You asked me to help you with your programme.”

“Yeah, but not to freak out the characters. I’ll finish up here, you distract him. Give him a tip or something.” Tom passed her two pieces of green paper.

Seven looked at the paper. There were antiquated portraits on them, and some numbers. She raised an eyebrow, and walked over to the attendant.

“Tell me about this vehicle.” She said flatly, holding her hands behind her back and looking at the car.

“Straight to the point, aren’t ya? It’s a Chevy Camaro, nearly fresh off the factory floor. Though Tommy there’s been playing with the woofers. Really likes his music, that one. So, er, you his new girl?”

“No.”

“Right.”

“Lieutenant Paris is currently in a monogamous romantic relationship.” 

“Lieutenant? I didn’t know Tommy was an officer.”

“Yes. But only following his release from the penal colony.”

“A Russian one?” The attendant looked taken aback.

Seven glanced over her shoulder to see Tom waving his hand against his neck and shaking his head.

Seven turned back. “I’m not at liberty to discuss.”

“Gee.” The attendant worriedly took off his cap and wiped the sweat off his brow. “Guess you never really know someone, till you know ‘em. huh? Say, is your hand ok?”

Seven followed his eyes to the implants on her left hand.

“That some sorta wrist brace?” He asked, “y’know I had one of them finger traction braces in ‘57. Caught a bad turn in the Cadillac. Handbrake turn just about saved me but it was really hairy there for a second.”

“What is a handbrake turn?” Seven asked.

The attendant looked frankly relieved the conversation had moved in a decidedly non-Russian direction, and set about describing the manoeuvre.

 

Tom finished up with uploading the updates, retrieved the isolinear chip, clicked the panel closed and strolled over.

“Thanks for the fill up,” Tom handed the attendant a fold of bills and smiled, “keep the change.”

Seven watched carefully then handed the attendant her two dollars, “keep the change.”

“Europe sure is a whole other world, eh?” The attendant chuckled. “Enjoy your drive, Tommy. Miss.” He tapped the brow of his cap.

“So,” Tom looked expectantly at Seven as the attendant walked back into the shade. “Whaddya think?”

“So far it seems that even the people of this time period associate injury with their vehicle operation.”

“Ah, he’s just trying to be tough. And you haven't even heard the sound system yet!”

“Ma’am?” Tom held open the passenger door of the Camaro. Seven watched with interest as a large vehicle trundled onto the forecourt, before ducking into the car.

The leather was hot to the touch, even with the windows already cranked down, and the interior gleamed with chrome and high-gloss wood panelling. 

Tom gently closed the door and walked round the front, fondly tapping the hood as he passed.

Settling into his seat, Tom handed Seven their bagged lunch and nodded to the glovebox, where Seven stored it next to a weighty looking American road atlas. Tom turned the ignition, pushed up his sunglasses and took the exit out of the gas station heading south.

 

Seven’s silk headscarf buffeted in the clean, coastal breeze as they drove. She watched redwood forest give way to scrub brush clinging to the foreshore. All while the sun dipped lower towards the horizon, its dazzling reflection glittering across the waves.

She took in the beauty of the passing scenery in reverent focus; and was watching the huge, white seabirds wheel overhead when at last Tom broke the companionable silence.

“Right- it’s about this part of the drive where there should be changes in radio signal. You can tune us in,” Tom gestured to the radio. “The frequency you’re looking for is 1090.”

Seven looked at the stereo. “This is inefficient. Your equipment needs to be calibrated by hand.”

“That’s part of the fun!”

Seven didn’t reply, but twisted the radio tuner and watched with interest as the red needle slid smoothly along analogue display; the movement was accompanied by a keening, chaotic wail that briefly morphed into order as different stations dipped in and out of a sea of static. 

“zzzzzzz-ing a disturbance at McKinnley Rocket Base where two men were see- Hssssszchhh -nterview with Science Fiction author Benny Rus- schhhhhhzzz- Chronowerx Industries, we speak to the father of the Isogreted circuit and s- Hssssszchhh-”

“-elcome listeners!”

“You did it!” Tom lifted his hand from the wheel to offer a thumbs up.

“This is XERB Radio North America, Central Studios Los Angeles, at ten-ninety on your dial!”

Seven looked satisfied. The sound was excellent.

“-and the hits just keep on comin’! Next up, we hope you’re packing a surfboard for this record, it’s an oldie but a goodie from The Surfaris -”

The Camaro’s stereo rattled with the splintering, whipcrack-like sound of a surfboard snapping in two, followed by a heavily distorted, manic laugh as the track began.

“Ah haha hahahahaha! Wipeout!”

“A surf rock classic!” Tom grinned and tapped his fingers against the wheel in time with the music, the drums rolled like waves and a catchy electric guitar carried the infectious melody. “Here we go.”

The road ahead curved and a massive, concrete bridge came into view; arching high above the shoreline below. Beyond it, the road cut cleanly through the cliffside.

The radio began to sputter as the long shadows of the bridge’s arching guardrail made the sunlight flicker too.

“You have inverted my algorithm.” Seven raised an eyebrow at the stereo, which hissed again and began dropping more noticeably in and out of range as they cruised across the bridge. “Explain.”

“I used your algorithm, Seven.” Tom corrected.

“I had assumed you would be using the geographic data I collated to remove the auditory interference… not to add it.” Seven’s tone was serious.

“Gotta love that FM crackle?” Tom tried to joke, but it landed flat.

“I have been misled.” Seven said coldly. “You have used my work to make something imperfect.”

“In my defence, I didn't say I wanted the signal to be perfect! You just assumed!”

“It is natural to assume that an individual would seek to improve their work. To achieve perfection.” She noted Tom’s steering was less proficient as he argued, noting at least a 37% drop in accuracy. “Your trajectory-”

“Y’know not everything has to achieve perfection, right?”

“A very human view.”

“Look, it’s just got character , Seven!” Tom barked, pushing his sunglasses up with his wrist and glancing down from the road to play with the tuning of the stereo. “Are things not allowed to have character? It’s not always about it being perfect, it’s about-”

The end of Tom’s sentence was cut off by the deafening honk of an eighteen wheeler barreling round the corner towards them.

“Shit!” Tom yelled, looking up from the tuner to see headlights hurtling toward them and cliff walls either side.

“Clutch. Now.” Seven grabbed the wheel.

Tom didn’t have time to think.

He slammed his foot on the clutch.

Seven hauled the wheel round hard and yanked up the emergency break.

The Camaro’s rear wheels locked in place, her engine still roaring.

Tom shielded his eyes as sparks erupted, screeching through his window from where the side-view mirror used to be.

The semi careened briefly onto one set of wheels as the muscle car slid past, tires squealing against the tarmac through a cloud of dust.

“Jack ass!” The other driver yelled, leaning out of the cab to flip them off as his trailer jostled back into formation behind the big-rig and it rumbled away across the bridge.

 

In the heavy quiet that followed Tom slowly pulled the car over into the next turnout.

He shakily quieted the loudly clicking turn signal.

“Thanks, Seven.”

There was a long pause while Seven adjusted her scarf back in place. “Apologies for the mirror.”

A muffled thud sounded from the glove box as its contents settled.

“Are-” Tom blinked, baffled. “Are you kidding?” he laughed, in a release of incredulous, nervous energy. “You just saved me from yet another of Doc's lectures on automotive safety.” Tom sighed and let his head fall back against the leather headrest and let out a long breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. “Don’t sweat it.”

“I assure you, my perspiration level will remain unaffected.”

Tom looked over at Seven, who was straight faced as ever. “Was that… a joke?”

“The Doctor has advised me against explaining attempts at humorous wordplay, he says it ‘kills the fun’.”

“Yeah, well he would know all about that.”

“Agreed.”

“Listen, I should have figured you’d want to make the signal better.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I just really wanted this programme to be… authentic, y’know?”

Tom smoothed his palms against the steering wheel, and frowned. “I used to love this route. Might never see it again for real.”

“You have proven extremely resourceful and dedicated,” Seven said with as much comfort as Tom had ever heard in her voice.

“I have no doubt that dedication will lead Voyager to successfully return to Earth.”

He looked up from the wheel to meet her gaze, and for a moment there was a tenderness in her eyes that he hadn’t expected from a Borg.

She cleared her throat and the moment passed. “Though that may not be the case if your piloting proves as erratic as your driving.”

“All right. That's enough humour for one day.” Tom held up his hands, grateful to be back on familiar conversational ground. “Pass me those sandwiches?”

Seven opened the glove box. Inside, the brown paper bag was squished and almost buckled in half by a hefty American road atlas and two warm, glass bottles of Royal Crown Cola.

She passed the bag to Tom, who looked inside.

“Anyone order a PBJ?” He pulled a sandwich out of the bag and passed it to Seven. “Warm,” he added sheepishly, “and kinda squished?”

Seven inspected the sandwich. It contained a jellied fruit spread, combined with a smooth nut paste, on white bread. Someone had removed the crusts.

“Hey, er, sorry it’s a little messed up.”

Seven raised an eyebrow. She took a bite, chewed, and considered it for a moment. The imperfection hadn’t made the flavour worse. In fact it might have actually pressed the ingredients together more. It was sweet, and it was comforting, and decidedly Not Perfect.

And that might be ok?

She tucked that thought away for later and listened to the hiss of the radio melt together with the distant sigh of the waves

“It has… character.” She said finally. 

“Cheers to that,” Tom smiled. He took the bottles of cola, popped the caps with his keychain, and clinked their glass together before taking a drink.

Seven listened to Tom ramble cheerfully about historical “carbonated beverages”, and about how some used to have narcotics in them, or be used as health tonics. And that one variety was better than the other, but it’s actually the ‘mom and pop’ brands that are the most interesting and-

Seven found herself only half listening. Her attention strayed to the music she could only half hear through the carefully constructed interference. Static crackled like a campfire over surf-rock radio.

She was pretty sure that Tom was getting some of his dates mixed up. Perhaps it didn’t matter, he was an entertaining storyteller. 

She took another bite of the sandwich.

 

Not perfect, she thought.

 

Still good.

 

Notes:

If you're interested in hearing what's on Tom's radio, check out the Surfaris song 'Wipe Out' here 🏄

Thanks so much for reading and be sure to check out the other entries to StarTrekPotluck2024 here on AO3 or over on Tumblr!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 5 of [Regionalpancake’s StarTrekPotluck Stories]