Even now, the field with its tall grass is my favorite place to be. I slip off my shoes and walk barefoot, feeling the soil beneath my feet, spreading my arms to let the tips of the grass tickle my palms and let my shoulders soak up the light of the Shipsun. I ignore the red light flashing at the carefully-concealed entrance to the field. I ignore the periodic buzz from my SmartWrist, except to quiet it with a tap. I ignore the rattles running through the ship. I only start to worry when the Shipsun flickers.
They blow the door and run in, looking like the people that I pay people to pay people to hire off planetside streets for day labor. They are every color of person in ratty of clothes, unified only by their white-and-green armbands. They frog-march me to the shuttles baying about my economic crimes, and I stop quieting my SmartWrist.
I stop them before they shove me in that sieve they call a boat. "Listen up, welfies. I'm a boostrapper. That means I take what I want, and I don't give a fucking thing back!" They think I'm crazy, until the Shipsun goes critical.