Truck Drivers on Mars

Kitrpac loosened his tie.

As a project manager for a major government subcontractor, his duties changed as quickly as he could swap a baseball cap for a construction hat.

“Taking care of our species.”

That was the company motto.

And Kitrpac felt responsible for our species about an hour a day, in the morning, standing in the kitchen with his wife and kids as everyone hustled and bustled to drink their favourite caffeinated beverage, nibble a bite or two of carb-loaded snacks, hug, kiss and take off for their respective, if not always respected, places in society.

Kitrpac removed his tie.

His parents still lived in Haiti, avoiding the Rovers, robotic guardians sent by the ISSANet to protect Haitians.

Haitians laughed that the only thing they needed protection from was the software flaws in the Rovers, which tended to cause the machines to light up a road intersection with explosives at the slightest misunderstanding of the natural chaos of city streets.

Kitrpac missed his parents but accepted their absence as progress.

Most of his siblings had left for America after a devastating hurricane obliterated most of what counted as civilisation.

They were too ambitious to stay on the island to help rebuild although they did send money back home to assist those who stayed.

Kitrpac removed his sport coat.

Once a week, when his family scheduled allowed — that is, when his wife and he agreed they needed to spend more time with their kids than on their individual activities — Kitrpac liked to dance.

He had the typical Dad bod, tight upper body strengthened through gym workouts and lifting heavy machinery at work, a small protruding belly from sitting too much at work desks and drinking an extra beer at night, with gray hair that made the ebony skin on his face shine.

Kitrpac laughed loudly, purposefully too loud, getting the group’s attention.

“Where is Delymo?  She thinks I’m a total machine.  Class, let me show what she was talking about.  We’re going to accelerate through several dance moves in the next two hours.  If you can’t keep up, then you’ve got your work cut out to become a dancing machine like me!  Ha ha ha!”

He untucked his shirt and demonstrated a two-minute dance routine with a random person he picked from the group, showing that the best lead/follow team depends on trust as much as pre-knowledge of what either the lead or follow expects to be used in a song.

Matym nodded.  She looked forward to dancing her favourite song with Kitrpac later in the evening.

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