Runaway Anniversary

For almost six pleasant years I have been driving heavy carrier-class trucks. Despite the huge size, in competent hands, those ships can exhibit unexpected agility. Ok, it's conceivable their InGrav engines help more than skilled hands. Point is, I often managed to find lots of fun delivering bars of pre-processed PTT to every factory that requested them. Most enjoyment comes directly from my recognized ability to quickly reach buyers before the fourth decayment cycle of the PTT, which starts roughly 2 hours once the containers are sealed. Customers usually show with money their happiness on being able to work with "loosely interlaced PTT", whatever it means. Of course no-one of them would like to approach the PTT during the first stabilizing cycle, unless they were equipped with very little appreciation for living. Or at least, they say so, because the containment cylinders have prevented me from insanely playing with the raw material just out of curiosity.

Poli-Tachionic-Tissues were a very new technology when I first landed in Venaris, then a planet uniquely famous for being unheard of. As a current major producer of PTT gadgets, this place has been experiencing a steady economic growth. Thanks to that stupid Sectorial Law prohibiting any kind of EG (short of Engineered Ghosts, for outsiders), there is plenty of jobs for people like me. As you have probably guessed, fragile devices based on electronics, or even optics, couldn’t really function anywhere in the solar system neighborhood, due to the intense and generalized field distortions inducted by the PTT decayment. Apparently having no idea about whether such effects could hurt human people, the local corps felt quite comfortable in hiring some of us for several roles, such as drivers.

Now tell me how was one supposed to guess I would finish locked into this ill-coloured room, pursued by Colostel officers under orders to burn my ass at all costs. I bet they are breaking in the main door real soon now. Can be this freaking suit, presumably made of refined PTT attached to some alien-like technology, is causing all of it? At the center of the room, I fear those unsealed, glowing-and-humming PTT columns are definitely an unavoidable doom, unless I find a way out, fast enough for a desperate travel to thousands miles away from any nearby mine.