#SciFriday

Basic Rule

A/N: This submission to @sciencefiction 's Proximalympics contest is one of two twin stories telling the same tale from different POVs. It's sibling lives in @RainerSalt 's book 'Fleeting Thoughts', chapter 'Milking the Wimots.'

Basic Rule

Goro had a plan. This was not his first plan, but definitely the best. It wouldn't fail. This time, the prince would be at his mercy, and all the world would witness it on the screens of their homekits.
All the hard work and time spent in the gym would finally pay.
He'd always been good at sports, especially traditional ones, like wimot-milking and bogfrog-racing. Unfortunately, to implement his plan, he would also have to excel in a third discipline, and this would be hard: Hornutting was a team sport. Goro hated teams almost as much as he hated crown prince Oswal. But given the opportunity to get rid of Oswal, he was even ready to join a team.
He would do everything to win the Proximalympics and meet Oswal personally.

~ ~ ~

Day 1 — Wimot Milking

It took a lot of self discipline to present a straight face while prince Oswal held his pompous inaugural speech. Goro, in the line of Proxima athletes, kept his eyes on the wimots lazing in their pen. Far better than to watch the giant screen where the treacherous crown price droned on about humanity's success in space exploration, its united future and everlasting greatness. Yes, Oswal was a humanist, convinced all humans should be united, joined in the endeavour to colonise space.
Goro snorted. Every child knew Earthlings were unworthy scum, the bitter dregs left in the cup when the human elite emigrated to Proxima B centuries ago. So why bring those losers into the game again? They could rot away on their famous Earth for all Goro cared. Stifling another sigh, he ran a well muscled hand through suntiger-striped orange hair. Better to concentrate on the wimots and the task ahead.
The three-legged, half-sentient, fickle native animals were untameable. But a true Proximan, and Goro considered himself one of the best, prided himself in his wimot-handling skills. He set his mind on choosing a victim for the first round of the games. He only needed to fill the provided cup with the milk of one of the beasts. An easy task, normally. But today, fifty filthy Earthmen competed with the best Proxima had to offer. Probably half the wimots would find a way to flee the pen before this round was over. And half the athletes would be severely wounded by sharp front claws or tail spikes.
Finally, he spotted the perfect quarry: one elderly wimot, bright green primary eyes crisscrossed by silver veins. At this age, the udderbag would be easier to pry open, and even if it didn't provide a lot of milk, it would be way enough to fill his cup.

Suddenly, the athletes to Goro's left and right dashed forward. He watched in consternation, slow to realise Oswal had finished his speech and the games officially begun.
By the time Goro reached the pen, fifty Earthlings and forty-nine Proximen already fought wimots. His selected prey was on the run, secondary eyestalks swivelled back to keep track of possible followers.
Cursing himself, Goro abandoned the chase. Nobody would catch a wimot in this state, not even a desert whirlrunner. Then his gaze fell on a wimot with half-closed primary eyes, munching thoughtfully on the remains of a queue-comber, contemplating life and the universe—or whatever wimots contemplate while feeding.

Goro walked up, softly whistling an old milking tune called 'bohemian rhapsody'. The debate amongst scientists over the wimot-seducing quality of this particular song had lasted centuries. Proxima wimot herders didn't care for the reasons, as long as the tune worked. Goro had already lost enough time. Looking into the sky and shuffling sideways, he got closer to the wimot who, in the way of its species, didn't consider anyone a threat as long as there was no direct eye contact.
When Goro was well inside the animal's escape distance, he assessed the situation with a single glance out of half-closed eyes and jumped.