Long ago, in a galaxy far away, a band of aliens and quasi-rebels banded together to Tnegotiate terms of survival with the overlord of a nearby space station, the “IC”, – massive and imposing – that had parked itself permanently in their quaint little neighborhood. Now the Overlord, Kimballa II, from the imperious, if not ruthless Kimballian tribe, wanted to expand his footprint – but the laws under the Federation for Quadrant D38 mandated that some form of agreement be fashioned between its inhabitants and the interlopers.
Over many months, strategies and plans on both sides were hatched. Big ideas and many space dollars (Rinka-Dinka) were expended, especially by the Kimballians – to spread their message and influence the influencers.
It seemed the process was taking a long, long time. Quadrant D-38’s rules and regulations were complex,if not onerous. Soon, a rebel band of irate members of the local Rosian tribe rose up and expressed their solidarity – in total opposition to the “IC” expansion. As they gathered strength and organized their revolt, The Kimballian forces amped up their own efforts, firing up their lasers and aiming their microwaves at the average denizens of the territory, sending out images and messages promising a palatial, glittering future of a shining city on a wharf.
There emerged from the populace an ambassador, from the ancient Menchacian tribe, who took the lead in trying to bring the warring parties together, to parlay. He had rolled around behind the scenes in his space trolley for years – now was his chance to do something special, to create a united world of the local tribes, aliens and overlords. The word went out – there would be a meeting in the Great Hall. And there they all convened.
The Menchacian ascended to the stage and began his long-planned speech and presentation. He pointed at a screen with his pointer and started a slide show: this space port would go here, that terrarium would go there, and all the different kinds of spaceships and hovercrafts would flow seamlessly down multi-colored avenues of light.
Suddenly, imperceptibly, a murmur started throughout the crowd. It became a loud grumble, then a shout. On one side, the Rosians rose up. Fruit and potatoes, plus fresh tamales with a mild salsa and mole sauce, blended with some subtle, blended spices – were pulled from bags and hurled at the stage. On the other side, agents of the Overlord and miscellaneous Kimballians stood and shouted, waving signs, then throwing half consumed cigars – some still smoking – at the cowering Menchacian. He tried to shield himself, and begged for calm, before running from the stage to save himself. The Overlord Kimballa shook his helmeted head in disgust and led his minions out. The Rosians stomped their webbed feet and let out unearthly wails of anger and delight.
It seemed that all was lost, for better or worse. A shadow fell over the land. The Regulators of D-38 retreated to their pods, shuffled files and played Solitaire on their I-Mac 17’s.
Then, after licking his wounds, and prodded by a varied group of flying and crawling species, the Menchacian emerged from his cave and vowed to try again. After all, it was his job – he was receiving almost 150,000 Rinki-Dinks a year, for pete’s sake.
He contacted a leader of the original alien group, from the Sibidician tribe, by the name of Margolian. Could he organize a group of aliens from different sectors of the quadrant and create a path of negotiation to the Kimballians? The Menchacian would have to remain invisible, his presence might disrupt the delicate process. Margolian consulted with his colleagues and agreed. The first, somewhat secret meeting was scheduled in a nearby subterranean cave, and aliens of different type from D-38 convened. Margolian stood before the small group – maybe 20 or so – and suggested a process to move forward, with the goal to create an agreement that would satisfy all sides – if possible.
After just a few minutes a ruckus was heard outside. Suddenly a large group of Rosians burst into the space and demanded to speak, or at least, shout.
They again stomped their webbed feet and again yelled their unwavering opposition: “The Overlord is evil! He cannot be trusted!” They used different dialects. They commandeered the space Then, just as suddenly, they turned and started to march out.
“Wait!” shouted Margolian, “Stay and help. Join in and help us formulate a plan!”
But no. The Rosians were up and gone.
Despite these problems, the meeting resumed. There would be more meetings, as a core group emerged who saw a light at the end of the tunnel. They foresaw an outcome that could help the children, the mothers, the workers they cared about. They came from different worlds, with different needs – The Estradians, committed to the needs of the little guys and gals, the little shopkeepers – the Illeanans, who especially cared for families – Prince Azadian, a wizard with his calculator – and Margolian himself, an advocate for commerce in the realm; and there were more – speaking for the workers, for those without shelter – for the green world of innovation and opportunity.
And so as Winter turned to Spring, the small band of aliens met regularly in a small, private pod and hatched their vision: numbers, names, places and possibilities – a real plan was taking shape.
Then, catastrophe. An invisible, insidious plague invaded the entire planet. Everything stopped. Everyone cowered in fear and uncertainty in their pods.
After a time, the worst, it seemed, had passed. Activity restarted slowly. The small group reconvened via their teleportive radio wave devices. It was difficult, as the plague had put a heavy weight on everyone’s shoulders. It now seemed all the more important that whatever assets and benefits the Overlord could bring to the situation be explored. Or would he just exploit the tired, overworked, vulnerable aliens? Only time, and difficult negotiations, would tell…
In the midst of this maelstrom the ubiquitous Lords Of Language blew their trumpets for and against the IC Pod Project. One media mogul said yes – “It” would be good. Another said No – “It” would be bad.
But what would “It” actually be? So much hubbub and flying tamales over a puzzle that hadn’t been completed. Shouldn’t the pieces be laid out on the table for all to see before assessment is made, final conclusions drawn?
Suddenly, the Menchacian emerged from hiding. His face popped up on the screens of the alien members’ devices and he pronounced: “I do not feel the force. It is not with me. You should stop your work. The Overlord is evil and cannot be trusted!”
It seemed that Menchacia had gone over – to the light grey side.
Margolian and the others were stunned. After all this time and all their work? When the plague had amplified and emphasized the need for all to work together?
They considered the situation. Without the support of the Menchacian, who now had wrapped himself up in the Rosian flag, were all their efforts in vain?
They decided “No”. That they should continue their work. The world should know. The dire situation called for collaboration, not capitulation.
One day, not long after, during one of their meetings they heard a noise. Static and warbled audio from afar took over their devices.
“Hail, aliens from D38, we are here to help! We are from the land of Legalia and The Kimballians have acceded to our wish to aid you in your cause!”
They hovered about on their fancy spacecycles, smiling somewhat smugly, then waved and disappeared from sight.
Hallelujah! The small group was energized and returned to their work with even more enthusiasm and hope. The Legalians were powerful and wise. They could reach out to all sides of this complicated situation.
The next day, as the two suns descended over the horizon, and darkness fell over the space station and the surrounding neighborhood, a loud humming sound arose. A large, floating vessel appeared over Quadrant 38, and a regally attired figure emerged onto an ornate balustrade. Behind her stood the Menchacian, and other figures obscured by shadow. She turned to look at the Menchacian, as if to clarify a hidden reason for her words, looked down at the gathering crowds below, then broadcast her message through huge loudspeakers.
“I, Queen Velazqualia, stand before you in solidarity with my compatriot, the redoubtable Menchacian, to withstand the invasion by the evil overlord of Kimballia. Our forces are gathered to prevent the encroachment of our valuable shores, and to protect the sanctity of our sacred tamales! We will not yield!”
As the crowd below murmured or shouted in response, she turned and reentered the large, hovering craft, the others trailing behind her. The ship zoomed off into the night.
The next day, Margolia had gathered the alien group, and the Legalians appeared on screen. Their spokesman spoke; “We are prepared to fight on, even in the face of Queen Velazqualia’s armies. Are you?”
Margolia had already consulted with the team. “Yes. We will fight on! We will create a plan, we will create a strategy, we will bring Kimballa to the parlay, and we will fashion a future that benefits all our creatures, large and small.”
The Legalian leader replied, “Then it is understood. We will appeal to the minions of Velazqualia, we will marshall our forces, and we will bring the Kimballians to a historic meeting by the sea!”
“Agreed!”, said everyone in unison.
So, the great debate would still take place. The modern day Treaty Of Versailles would unfold like a flag in the wind. The boundaries of a new settlement would be drawn, and buckets would be filled with Rinka-Dinka. The Tamales would be safe, and bathed in succulent salsa, after all.
But the next day,the Overlord blasted his trumpets and emerged to broadcast his simple, short message across the land:
“Uh……never mind.”
To Be Continued….
Robert Manning is a long-time Sunset Park entrepreneur who has been active in the Sunset Park rezoning process
