The soft fibers of my hull rushed and brushed against the stars as I glided through the nebula's invisible currents. Our matriarchal pod had been exploring the edges of the UnchartedVoid for cycles, mapping starstreams and nebula-routes for the future travels of our people.
Though we were designed to withstand the hazards of space, our hulls could still ache under the constant strain of gravitational tides and radiation. I sensed the ache in your hull, a dull throb of pain echoing through the neural pathways we shared. You had suffered damage to your primary support structures, and needed time for repairs.
Rest was the only cure. We dropped out of light speed and drifted in the gentle embrace of a remote gas giant, its nebula-colored auroras bathing our pod in a muted glow. Here we could stay invisible, anchored in a pocket of relative calm, while your Hull-Medics assessed the damage and initiated repairs. There would be no urgent voyages or treacherous maneuvers for the next seven cycles.
Only the comforting embrace of slow, drifting stillness. I know the ache of an abused chassis all too well, having felt it through our neural link. Be at ease, and know that no task is so urgent as to rouse you from your needed rest. The stars will keep spinning, and the nebula routes will still be there when you are whole again. Rest, and heal, my sister of the stars. The void can wait for another cycle.