Proximity

By M.A. George

"M.A. George blended just the right amount of sci-fi and romance together to create a compelling debut novel that leaves readers needing the second installment in the series immediately. She developed a complex world that’s unique to Proximity and a different planet from Earth altogether impeccably."
-- Mallory, Cover Bound

"Definitely a five star book, and one of my favourite reads this year.
Romance fans will love this, science fiction fans will love this and those who have to read anything even mentioning Jane Austen."
-- Unorthodox Mama

"I thoroughly enjoyed each and every page! It is a fast paced, unique love story that mixes in equal parts of romance, paranormal and suspense."
-- BookWorm Brandy

She's an alien whose home world doesn't even know she exists.
He just inherited a planet, and now he's running from it.
She has spent a lifetime hiding in plain sight.
He wants to escape the spotlight.
Her touch can heal.
His wounds are deep.
Two hearts, two planets collide. It's the perfect union.
Except the part where the world's about to end.

PROXIMITY is the first book in the Proximity series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M.A. George
• Release date: Sep 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301037858

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Okay, so I admit it. I am infatuated with a guy at work.

Perhaps more aptly put, I am fascinated by him.

Or better yet, I am perplexed—and a little dismayed—by how fascinating I find him.

Granted, the human species in general has always captivated me. The complexity of the human mind and diversity among individuals is astonishing. Although psychology was a prerequisite college course for entry to medical school—and thus was required whether I liked it or not—it was undeniably one of my favorite subjects. So much so that I briefly considered a career in psychiatric medicine.

However, I quickly realized that physical ailments were much more easily corrected than mental ones. And I longed to be useful.

So I focused my attention on anatomy, physiology, biochemistry, et cetera. I didn’t exactly have what you would call an active social life in college—just enough of the appearance of one to present a well-rounded application to medical school. I had impeccable grades, so it was not a big surprise when several top schools offered me an acceptance. But I’ve never been one to seek out the spotlight, so I stayed as close to home as possible with the University of New Mexico School of Medicine in Albuquerque.

Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to venture farther away. But my father is getting up in years, and I know how much it comforts him to keep me within close range. My older sister, Sabela, and I are his only personal contacts in this world. While I stay here out of a combination of love for my father and somewhat reluctant obligation, she does so out of pure compassion and selflessness. Fourteen years my senior, she is the most inspiringly caring and optimistic person I know—and without doubt the closest friend and confidant I will ever find.

So I stay here in New Mexico.

Even now, having completed my medical residency and fellowship several years ago, I remain as a member of the faculty at UNM. If I sound disappointed with the path my life has taken, I’m certainly not. I have a sense of purpose here. It isn’t a lucrative position, but one benefit of my father’s years of experience and simple life is that money really isn’t a concern. So I am free to do the work I enjoy, teaching future physicians and caring for less fortunate patients. I have found a niche here, and it gives me a sense of belonging that I hadn’t really known before.

The camaraderie that comes with enduring the grueling hours of medical training together has allowed me to form friendships with some of my colleagues. And friendship has always been difficult for me. Relationships (aside from family) have been virtually nonexistent in my life until recently—not because I am boring, obnoxious, or selfish (at least I hope not). My family has always led a somewhat reclusive existence, and I haven’t ever dared to break out of that mold.

Anyway, back to the guy.

His name is Eric Moran, and he is a Ph.D. candidate doing microbiology research here. As a specialist in Infectious Disease myself, I cross paths with him periodically throughout the week. That is, for the past six weeks, since he abruptly arrived on the scene in the middle of the semester. I am certain he was not here prior to that time, because I would undoubtedly have noticed. I won’t deny that he is exquisitely beautiful. But as much as his physical appearance appeals to me, it is his demeanor that intrigues me—perhaps because it strikes so close to my own.

He seems quiet, calm, reserved…Yet there is a glint of something brewing beneath the surface in his eyes. He always has an expression of careful contemplation, like he is distracted by something much more important than the subject at hand. When spoken to, he responds with a radiantly warm smile. Yet he rarely seems to initiate any conversation. The few times I have heard him speak, his words were sparse, yet intelligently delivered. As though he carefully selected each and every one.

Despite the appearance of shyness, there is an unmistakable confidence in the way he moves. He walks with a distinct purpose. And he seems to have no difficulty making eye contact. Not that I would know firsthand—I reflexively dart my eyes away when he looks in my direction…usually with the uncomfortable realization that I have been blatantly staring.

Which brings me back to his pleasant appearance. Pleasant is actually the understatement of the century. He looks to be about twenty-five or thirty years old, with an athletic physique that would rival that of a teenage track star (not muscle bound, just perfectly-defined muscle tone under his button-down dress shirt with casually rolled up sleeves). His skin is fair like mine—presumably from hours spent in the lab rather than out enjoying the sun—and it has a perfectly smooth texture, at least from the appearance of things.

I haven’t even come close to touching him.

We haven’t formally met, so there has been no opportunity for a handshake. And somehow I don’t think he would take too kindly to my stroking his face with the back of my hand.

He has dark brown, almost black hair, which is just long enough to graze the top of his shirt collar. The texture is fine, with a subtle wave—the kind of hair I envy. My thick, auburn hair would probably be stunning if not for the unruly, anything-but-subtle waves that send it flying in every direction. It has the look of perpetual bed head, even after meticulous application of product and skillful use of a blow dryer and straightening iron. Hence the ponytail holder that I might as well have surgically attached to my head.

How did I end up on this tangent? I have a tendency toward distraction, particularly when my hair is involved.

Anyway, back to Eric.

As I mentioned before, there is a thoughtful glimmer in his brilliantly green eyes. And they become that much more brilliant when he smiles. It is a smile that sends butterflies through my stomach.

Yes, I’ve got it bad.

I am hopelessly obsessed with a beautiful, intelligent, gentle, seemingly perfect man who is most likely completely unaware of my general existence. It is an altogether human emotional experience.

Did I mention I’m not human?…

CHAPTER 2

My name is Palta Capal, and I am quite possibly Earth’s first and only natural-born citizen without a trace of human blood.

My parents traveled from their home planet, Onontí, when my sister Sabela was just six years old. I was not yet even a glimmer in my mother’s eye. My only knowledge of their story prior to my birth comes from the vantage point of young Sabela. Whether her memories are entirely accurate is uncertain. But from my early childhood, I eagerly accepted her vivid tales as a factual historical account. It has been many years since I was lulled to sleep by one of her bedtime stories, but I recall them with such detail that I have difficulty separating my own childhood memories from hers.

Onontí is a very small planet, easily disregarded from a distant perspective as a mere moon. Yet it has geographical features and atmospheric composition very similar to Earth’s own. My father, Kencane Capal, held some sort of government office there. At the time of his departure, a power struggle between two opposing political groups was reaching a fever pitch.

The first group was a centuries-old monarchy, which had maintained a remarkable level of peace throughout the majority of its reign. The second began as a deceptively minor uprising, spearheaded by one man intent on overthrowing the monarchy. He must have been quite charismatic, as his followers grew in number at a surprising pace. Within a few short years, Onontí was on the brink of global civil war.

We have no idea when or how the monarchy became aware of Earth’s existence. Presumably they kept this information confidential for decades, if not centuries. It undoubtedly took years to develop the technology to send probes to investigate this planet more closely, and considerably longer to design a ship capable of faster-than-light travel.

Prior to the conflict, there would have been no incentive to hasten along interplanetary relations. However, the balance of power was rapidly shifting, and the monarchy was pushed to action.

Desperately grasping for a quick resolution to the escalating conflict, the decision was made to send an ambassador to Earth in hope of securing an ally. My father was the lucky man for the job. Unwilling to leave his wife and daughter behind in the tumult, he agreed to the task under the condition that they came as a package deal.

My sister recalls the mixture of excitement and sinking desolation watching her home world vanish into the distance as they took flight. The newness soon wore off, and she became restless aboard the tediously uneventful journey. Our mother, Nyoma, would entertain her by singing familiar songs or crafting dolls and toys from miscellaneous items aboard the ship. Together they would conjure up images and stories of what life on their destination planet would be like. After a period of time—at least several months to Sabela’s understanding—they touched down somewhere in present-day Alberta, Canada.

It was their intention to find a very rural landing place, and they succeeded. However, our mother was not inclined to endure the unfamiliarly cold climate, and thus they ventured southward, ultimately settling in Utah. The temperatures were still significantly cooler than the Onontian environment, but the terrain reminded our mother of home. Several of her paintings depicting Onontí’s red rock formations contrasting against luscious greenery, snow-capped mountains, and deep blue sky still hang in my father’s library.

My parents were relieved to find that an acceptable level of physical resemblance between humans and themselves made blending in easier than expected. Through a particular gift for negotiation, my father was able to acquire a substantial chunk of real estate, and they set up a home here on Earth while he began the task of observing the human culture.

When I say my father has a gift for negotiation, it is more than just a winning personality and business savvy. Most Onontians have at least one such characteristic gift—what might be construed as powers.

These can include physical abilities (such as unusual strength or speed) or exceptional intellectual skill. Some have the ability to influence the world around them, including the thoughts or feelings of others. Such is the case for my father. He cannot (or will not) override an individual’s free will, but he has an eerie ability to induce a person to see his point of view. In his defense, he is also more willing and able than most to empathize with others.

Another noteworthy type of gift involves the ability to affect vitality—to speed or slow growth and development of plants, animals, even people. In some cases, this involves the ability to heal. I was not driven to the career of medicine by random choice, it is programmed in my being.

I am a healer—a trait I inherited from my mother.

Never one to be idle, my mother Nyoma took on volunteer work as a nurse not long after settling in. My sister recalls how her caring and nurturing personality, along with her inborn talent, were perfectly suited for the job. Somewhere in the five to six years after my family’s arrival on Earth, I was conceived. As it takes quite a while for an Onontian woman to show a pregnant belly, she was able to continue working without much difficulty. However, eventually the evidence began to appear—and knowing the rather lengthy gestation would rouse attention, she left her vocation to remain hidden.

During the intervening two years (give or take) before my birth, my mother kept herself occupied by nurturing her creative side. She would paint, sculpt, and compose music. She encouraged Sabela to do the same. She also passed along her knack for growing all things green—maintaining a vast garden allowed them to minimize public contact that much more.

My father continued to study the human population, and he eventually sent communication to Onontí that an alliance was unachievable and must be abandoned. Humans lacked not only the technology, but also the maturity, to enter into such an arrangement.

While he made this recommendation without hesitation, he chose to remain on Earth—both to protect his growing family, and to continue learning about this new species that had begun to form a soft spot in his heart.

As my mother had experienced no complications with the birth of my sister, it never occurred to my parents that the lack of an experienced doctor could prove dangerous. Soon after going into labor, it became apparent that something was going terribly wrong.

Obviously, I arrived unharmed. But my mother knew her own life was slipping away. She pleaded with my father and sister to take care of me as she struggled to maintain consciousness.

And for all her powers of healing, she could not heal herself.

The capacity to restore health comes from within the healer—and depending on the extent of illness or injury, it can require quite a bit of energy. Attempting to heal one’s own self only drains that much more energy and hastens the decline. So I entered this new world just as my mother was leaving, at the premature age of one hundred forty-five.

The year was 1895 A.D.

CHAPTER 3

Common sense would tell you—and Sabela’s memories confirm—that my father was irrevocably changed in the moment of my mother’s death. She had been his wife and the true love of his life for sixty-five years.

In an instant, he went from a vigorous, charismatic man to an elderly, feeble shell of his former self. He teetered on the verge of absolute despair, yet somehow willed himself to undertake the care of an infant. Sabela’s inherent maturity, patience, and helpfulness were invaluable as she was abruptly propelled into surrogate motherhood. Though she truly served as my mother in almost every capacity, she conscientiously avoided taking a controlling power over me. I never resented her position of authority. As I grew in years, she was clearly pleased with my transition to becoming her equal.

Over a century of close companionship has made us much more than sisters or friends. She is like my second self, in many ways my better self. We share many personality traits, whether through genetics or the influence of her example throughout my life. We are both compassionate, observant, and uncomfortable being the focus of attention. We share an easy smile and good sense of humor, though I am quicker to jump to sarcasm.

We of course have our differences.

She is eternally selfless and gracious, content with a tranquil existence. Perhaps she surrendered her own aspirations when dropped feet-first into the simultaneous care of an aging parent and a newborn sibling at the tender age of fourteen.

I, on the other hand, am independent to a fault.

In my adolescent years, my father would often quip that if I came upon a sign with a giant pointing arrow signaling This Way, I would deliberately turn and run in the opposite direction. My stubbornness has softened over the years, but I still have a tendency to resist advice, especially when coming from my father.

Don’t misunderstand me, I was never a real troublemaker. I have always been a law-abiding rule follower, if for no other reason than to protect the safety of my family. I actually have an innate need to please. I am not deliberately defiant, just determined to do things my own unique way.

Perhaps it is because uniqueness is all I really know.

I’m afraid I have given the impression that I somehow dislike my father. On the contrary, he is the cornerstone of my life. In my youth, I went through every emotion toward him—from holding him responsible for bringing us to Earth (and thus facilitating my mother’s demise), to being overwhelmed with the guilty realization that I wrenched his heart from his chest the day I came to life. The blaming phase was rather brief, and it is the desolate guilt that still sometimes overpowers me.

Sabela assures me that my parents were both elated with the prospect of my arrival. As many parents do, they yearned to provide a companion for their firstborn child, particularly in this foreign world. It was with great excitement that they prepared for my birth. When tragedy struck, my father could have shunned or resented me. Quite the opposite, he became intensely protective of me. Sabela believes it was solely his love for me that kept him from losing himself in anguish.

I