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​