Private Engines, Etiquette, and Elections

[Emberlyn Kislo]

Time: Evening
Location: Nubia StarDrives Exhibition Hall
City: Theed, Naboo

The exhibition hall had been transformed into a display of polished Naboo elegance.

Soft light shimmered across the vaulted chamber, reflecting from curved chrome surfaces and polished marble inlays that seemed designed as much for aesthetic beauty as structural grace. Nubia StarDrives had spared little expense in presenting their vision of refinement. Suspended holographic displays hovered throughout the hall, each projecting rotating models of their most celebrated propulsion systems—sleek hyperdrive assemblies, stabilizer rings, and precision-engineered components rendered in luminous detail. Faint blue light from the projections washed across nearby guests as the displays turned slowly in the air, their quiet hum barely audible beneath the room's conversation.

Servers moved quietly among the gathered guests carrying trays of wine and crystal flutes, the delicate glass chiming softly when lifted from silver platters. The scent of Naboo citrus wine and warm spiced hors d'oeuvres drifted through the hall, mingling with the faint metallic tang of polished starship components on display. The low murmur of conversation carried across the chamber in overlapping currents of quiet diplomacy while subdued orchestral music drifted from somewhere deeper within the hall, the gentle strings rising and falling like distant tidewater.

Tonight's gathering served two purposes.

Officially, it was a fundraiser for the reelection campaign of Naboo's sitting senator, Dominic Praxon —an evening of polite speeches, quiet endorsements, and generous donations from those who understood the value of political goodwill. Nubia StarDrives had graciously opened its halls for the occasion, lending both its prestige and its engineering marvels to the evening's display.

Unofficially, it had become what such gatherings always did: a convergence of influence.

Corporate representatives, wealthy patrons, starship captains, diplomats, and a handful of carefully invited outsiders moved through the room in slow conversational currents, the soft brush of fabric and the muted clink of jewelry occasionally punctuating the steady flow of voices. Some paused beneath the hovering engine displays, their reflections gliding across polished floors while others spoke in quieter clusters near the hall's curved balconies. Somewhere deeper in the chamber, a small gathering had formed near the senator himself, though the room's shifting conversations made it difficult to discern whether politics or industry had captured the greater share of attention.

Each guest seemed to evaluate the others with the subtle attentiveness common to rooms where power and opportunity shared the same air.

Emberlyn Kislo entered with the quiet composure expected of someone accustomed to such gatherings.

Her posture was effortless, her movements measured and confident as she allowed herself a brief moment to take in the room. The smooth marble beneath her steps reflected the glow of the suspended displays above, and the faint warmth of the hall's lighting brushed across her shoulders as she moved forward.

She had chosen her attire with deliberate restraint.

A gown of deep midnight blue flowed in clean Naboo lines, the fabric catching the light in soft shifting highlights as she moved. The cut was elegant but practical—fitted through the waist before falling freely enough to allow easy movement. It was the sort of design that favored quiet confidence over spectacle.

Her dark hair had been drawn up into a refined arrangement at the back of her head, secured neatly while a few softened strands framed her face. The style was understated, polished without appearing overly elaborate.

Her makeup followed the same philosophy.

A light touch across her features allowed the natural warmth of her complexion to remain visible, the faint constellation of soft freckles across the bridge of her nose left unhidden. Only her eyes carried deliberate emphasis—subtle shading and liner drawing attention to their unusual violet-gold color beneath the ambient light.

The result was neither ostentatious nor austere.

Simply composed.

Years spent among Naboo's aristocratic circles had taught her the language of events like this—how to move through them without appearing hurried, how to acknowledge a host with a glance, how to observe without being observed too closely in return.

But while many guests admired the décor, Emberlyn's attention drifted elsewhere.

Her gaze lingered on the propulsion displays.

One holographic assembly rotated slowly nearby, revealing the intricate geometry of a Nubia hyperdrive stabilizer housing. The projection shifted to expose the internal alignment lattice, its delicate engineering suspended in glowing cross-section while soft streams of data scrolled quietly along the edges of the display. The light from the projection shimmered faintly across the polished floor as the assembly turned in steady silence.

She tilted her head slightly.

Interesting.

Nubia engineers had altered the stabilizer geometry—subtle, but deliberate. The change would distribute hyperspace stress more evenly along the mount points. Elegant design… though she wondered how the system behaved when a pilot demanded something less elegant from it.

Her eyes traced the alignment points automatically, the same way a pilot studies a cockpit panel before takeoff, following the structural pathways as if she could feel the vibration of a hyperdrive spinning to life beneath them.

If the tolerances were as precise as they appeared, the drive would hold beautifully during a standard jump.

But how would it respond to a hard correction?

Emberlyn allowed herself a small, thoughtful smile.

Now that was a question worth asking.

And somewhere in this room, she suspected, stood the engineers who might have the answer.

She stepped closer to the display, the projection's cool blue light reflecting faintly in her eyes as the stabilizer assembly rotated once more above its pedestal. A small cluster of guests lingered nearby—some admiring the craftsmanship, others discussing performance specifications in the careful tones of people who understood at least a little of what they were looking at.

She studied the alignment ring again, her attention narrowing slightly as another set of data points flickered across the edge of the hologram.

"Interesting choice," she murmured quietly, more to the display than anyone in particular.

Her gaze drifted toward the gathered guests beside the pedestal, curious now whether any of them were responsible for the elegant piece of engineering turning slowly in the air before her.

 

[Dominic Praxon]

The gentleman speaking had reached that particular stage of polite enthusiasm in which words continued long after conviction had quietly excused itself from the conversation.

Dominic Praxon listened with the composed patience expected of a senator attending his own fundraiser. His expression remained attentive, even agreeable, though the faint stillness of his posture betrayed the quiet arithmetic unfolding behind his eyes. The man opposite him, an investor of respectable reputation and conspicuously careful phrasing, had now described, at some length, the admirable importance of civic responsibility, the stability of Naboo’s institutions, and the general desirability of continued prosperity.

Not once, Dominic noted, had the word donation entered the discussion.

“Of course,” the man continued, gesturing lightly with his glass, “one must always consider the broader economic climate before committing one’s resources to any particular initiative.”

“Of course,” Dominic echoed pleasantly.

Beside him, another member of the small cluster nodded with sympathetic gravity, as though the galaxy itself had recently conspired to inconvenience their generosity. Dominic inclined his head with the patient courtesy of someone who had heard variations of this performance many times before. One learned, in politics, that refusal seldom arrived bluntly. It preferred instead the elaborate costume of subtext.

“Well,” he said at last with gentle diplomacy, “prudence has preserved many fortunes that enthusiasm might otherwise have endangered.”

The remark was received with approving murmurs, the sort that allowed all present to feel sensible and responsible without committing themselves to anything remotely measurable. It was a pleasant conclusion.

Dominic lifted his untouched flute slightly in parting. “I shall leave you to enjoy the evening,” he added, the words delivered with easy warmth that carried no trace of dismissal. “Nubia has been most generous with their hospitality.”

The group responded with cordial thanks, and within moments the small conversational orbit dissolved into the wider currents of the hall. Dominic stepped away without haste.

Political gatherings possessed a rhythm not unlike orbital docking. Influence drifted through the room in slow gravitational tides. The trick was simply to move with them.

He passed beneath one of the rotating propulsion displays, the cool blue light from its holographic projection sliding briefly across his shoulder as the stabilizer assembly turned in the air above its pedestal. Nearby, a woman stood studying the schematics with an attentiveness rarely found at fundraising events. Most guests glanced at such displays as one might admire sculpture. She was examining it.

Dominic slowed half a step as he passed, his eyes following the line of the rotating alignment lattice before flicking briefly toward her. “A wise conversational partner,” he remarked lightly in passing. “Hyperdrives have the admirable virtue of rarely pretending interest when it has none.”

The comment was delivered with quiet amusement, little more than a passing observation offered to the air between them. He continued on without breaking stride, his attention already shifting toward a figure near the far side of the chamber — Ambassador Rhyllan of Chandrila.

An evening conversation with the ambassador would have been considerably more productive than the last. Dominic approached with measured confidence, offering the small diplomatic bow that etiquette demanded. “Ambassador. I was hoping...”

“My deepest apologies, Senator,” the man interrupted immediately, genuine regret lining his voice. He gestured faintly toward the hall’s exit where a pair of attendants already waited nearby. “A personal matter has arisen rather suddenly. I’m afraid I must depart at once.”

Dominic’s disappointment did not reach his smile. “Of course,” he replied smoothly, “I hope everything resolves itself favorably.”

“Thank you, Senator. Another evening, perhaps.”

“Another evening.”

The ambassador offered one last apologetic inclination of his head before disappearing into the slow movement of departing guests. And just like that, Dominic Praxon found himself standing alone beside a field of softly rotating hyperdrive schematics, the low murmur of the hall continuing all around him.

He glanced once at his wine glass. Still untouched. A faint breath of quiet amusement escaped him. It appeared the evening had momentarily run out of productive conversations.

Emberlyn Kislo​

 

[Emberlyn Kislo]

Emberlyn met his passing gaze, violet-gold eyes holding his brown ones for a brief moment before drifting back to the schematic before her. For the briefest instant something in the room seemed to settle around him—an unusual stillness beneath the layered currents of conversation that brushed faintly against her awareness before fading as quickly as it came. Her lips curled into a small smile.

"Machines have a way of talking," she chuckled softly, gesturing lightly toward the projection as he passed.

The holographic light shifted around them, the schematic rotating effortlessly in the air.

She watched his figure continue through the chamber, studying him through the faint blue haze of the display as the stabilizer assembly turned between them.

'Definitely a noble…' she mused quietly.

Her head tilted with mild curiosity. A few loose strands of brown hair slipped across her eyes, prompting her hand to rise and brush them aside before tucking them neatly behind her ear. The movement revealed more of her attention drifting toward the nearby conversation.

Something about an ambassador… and Mr. Observant who had noticed her quietly nerding out over a hyperdrive.

A senator.

Her brows lifted slightly.

'Ah… so this evening revolves around him.'

The realization sparked a flicker of quiet amusement. Her posture shifted almost instinctively as she stepped forward through the holographic projection, the rotating schematic briefly distorting around her silhouette as she passed.

Her eyes settled on the senator again, curiosity sharpening her focus as the ambassador excused himself and departed. With the conversation dissolved and the space beside him briefly unoccupied, Emberlyn allowed herself to close the distance.

Not hurried.

Simply timely.

Up close, the quiet composure she had sensed earlier remained—steady and controlled, like a calm center within the shifting energy of the room. Her expression softened as she approached, the polite composure of Naboo etiquette settling naturally across her features.

"You don't appreciate people gathering for you…?" she asked gently, a hint of playful curiosity in her voice. "Raising money so you may continue your good work?"

A subtle conversational feint. In truth, she knew very little about the senator beyond a few fragments from the holo-net and passing mention of his involvement with the Outbound Flight project.

But he had connections with Nubia StarDrives.

And if the engineers responsible for the elegant stabilizer turning behind her were anywhere in the galaxy tonight, logic suggested they would not be far from the evening's host.

That alone made the conversation worth pursuing.

Dominic Praxon

 

[Dominic Praxon]

Dominic had been studying the untouched wine in his glass with mild philosophical interest when the woman’s voice reached him.

He turned slightly, regarding her with quiet curiosity. For a brief moment his eyes searched her expression, as though weighing whether her question had been asked in earnest or merely offered as conversational sport.

A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth. “On the contrary,” he replied easily, “it would be rather alarming if no one gathered at all. A fundraiser at which the host stood alone would send the most unfortunate message to the electorate.”

The humour was light, the tone measured. His gaze drifted briefly toward the thinning knot of guests he had just left behind before returning to her. “But one learns,” he continued, “that gatherings have their own natural eddies.”

His hand lifted slightly, gesturing with the glass in a small arc that encompassed the surrounding hall. “Some conversations prove energetic, others…less so. The art lies in recognizing when an opportunity has already carried you as far as it intends.”

His expression remained pleasant, though the faint glimmer of amusement suggested he was well aware of how the observation might apply to the ambassador’s abrupt departure. “And in fairness,” Dominic added, glancing briefly toward the stabilizer projection rotating behind her, “one must occasionally concede defeat to superior company.”

For a moment he studied her again. Dominic inclined his head politely. “Dominic Praxon,” he said, as though the name were a practical detail rather than an introduction requiring ceremony.

His gaze drifted briefly toward the rotating stabilizer once more before returning to her. “And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”

Emberlyn Kislo​

 

[Emberlyn Kislo]

Emberlyn pursed her lips thoughtfully, violet-gold eyes flicking briefly toward the untouched wine glass in his hand. A faint smile tugged at the corner of her expression at the mention of currents in gatherings.

'Like the Force…' she mused quietly to herself.

Her gaze followed his as it drifted toward the stabilizer projection. She glanced over her shoulder at the rotating schematic for a moment before turning back to him, the smile growing a little warmer.

“We can agree that political gatherings have their own strange currents…” she said lightly, clearly amused by the shared observation. Her hand lifted in a small, casual gesture toward the holographic stabilizer rotating behind her.

“Machines are much simpler company,” she added with quiet amusement. “They rarely pretend to be interested in things they are not.”

She gave a small nod, half to him and half to the thought itself.

“At least when they disagree with you…” she continued, her eyes briefly drifting back toward the projection, “they do so honestly.”

'Dominic.'

The name settled into place in her thoughts with a quiet sort of recognition.

She inclined her head politely and stepped a little closer, extending her hand with easy grace.

“A pleasure, Senator Praxon.” Her smile brightened slightly. “My name is Emberlyn.”

A brief pause followed, just long enough to allow the introduction its proper courtesy. “Emberlyn Kislo.”

As their hands parted, her attention drifted once more toward the rotating stabilizer projection beside them. The hologram cast faint blue light across her features as the alignment lattice turned slowly in the air.

“Though I must admit,” she said thoughtfully, tilting her head toward the display, “that particular piece of engineering may still win the evening for most honest company.” Her eyes traced the geometry of the stabilizer housing again.

“Nubia engineers altered the alignment ring,” she observed, more to the schematic than the room itself. “Subtle, but clever. It would distribute hyperspace stress more evenly across the mount points.”

Her gaze shifted back to Praxon with quiet curiosity.

“I imagine the minds responsible for it are somewhere in the room tonight.”

A faint, playful note returned to her voice.

“And if they are, I suspect they would make far more interesting conversation than most campaign donors.”

Dominic Praxon

 

[Dominic Praxon]

"It is my pleasure. Emberlyn."

Dominic's shoulders relaxed slightly as she spoke. He listened with the attentive patience of someone accustomed to hearing enthusiasm applied liberally to many things throughout the course of an evening. With each additional observation she offered about the stabilizer's design, one of his brows rose a fraction higher.

At last he lifted the glass in his hand and took a measured sip. "Interesting conversations," he said mildly, "are not always the ones that accomplish the most." There was the faintest trace of amusement in his voice, though whether it was directed toward the evening's donors or toward the broader rituals of politics was difficult to say.

His gaze drifted briefly across the hall, taking in the clusters of guests still circulating beneath the soft glow of Nubia's projections. When he shifted his stance again it was with quiet intention, stepping easily beside her rather than opposite her. "Though I confess," he continued, "that fascination and generosity rarely occupy the same individual for very long."

The remark was delivered lightly, as though it were merely a passing observation rather than the professional conclusion of a man who had spent years navigating such rooms.

His attention returned to her then, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to acknowledge the shared understanding between them. He offered his arm with quiet ease. "Still," Dominic added, "one should make use of the more interesting company when the opportunity presents itself."

His eyes flicked briefly toward the rotating stabilizer before returning to her. "Unless, of course," he said, gesturing lightly toward the holographic display, "you feel a professional obligation to remain with the evening's most honest conversationalist."

Emberlyn Kislo​

 

[Emberlyn Kislo]

Emberlyn smiled with quiet amusement as she regarded the extended arm. When he gestured toward the stabilizer, her gaze followed briefly before she turned back and shook her head softly.

“No, I don’t hold any professional obligations with it—though I do have a personal interest,” she mused.

She knew it would be rude not to take his offered arm, just as it had technically been a breach of etiquette not to introduce himself immediately. But no matter. Politics had a way of bending etiquette into more… flexible shapes. And who was she to correct a sitting senator? No one in particular—just someone who happened to know how the game was played among nobility. At least for the first eighteen years of her life.

“I agree,” she continued as she stepped closer, her arm sliding comfortably into his. “Those who hide behind currency to fulfill their political ambitions…”

She gestured lightly toward the gathering around them.

“…don’t always have the capacity to comprehend the intricacies that allow them safe passage through time and space.”

The warmth of his arm beneath the fabric didn’t escape her notice. Her smile widened slightly, a faint tint of red brushing across her cheeks. She was well-versed in sociability—but not often in such direct proximity to the opposite sex.

A soft chuckle escaped her.

As her arm settled more comfortably within his, she brought her second hand gently over his wrist, securing the gesture with casual grace as they began to walk. Her blue dress flowed behind her with effortless elegance, like a wave folding quietly against a calm sea.

“Pilots…” she said suddenly.

“They tend to have a greater appreciation for the finer elements of engineering—and what happens when engineering is flawed.”

She nodded lightly as they continued their stroll.

“Machines, at least, have the courtesy of being honest about their displeasure.”

A brief glance returned to the stabilizer.

“And they don’t require campaign funding,” she added lightly. “Though I imagine if hyperdrives could vote, they would be very particular about their candidates.”

Her attention shifted toward the surrounding Nubian displays.

“Nubian design reflects the finer aspects of starship engineering in every way,” she said thoughtfully. “Elegant… smooth… yet capable of becoming quite fierce when provoked.”

Her smile returned.

“Rather like a falumpaset that’s decided it’s had enough of being admired.”

Finally, she glanced back toward him.

“Now, I know your background isn’t engineering… or is it, Senator?”

Dominic Praxon