DISCIPLINE

WATCH THE DISCIPLINE TRAILER:
“If you caught a glimpse of your own death, would the knowledge change the way you live the rest of your life? You might think the answer is obvious, and in my youth I might have agreed. But that was before I learned how elegant—and misunderstood—our universe really is...”
DISCIPLINE IS AVAILABLE AT BOOK STORES EVERYWHERE.
ORDER YOUR COPY AT AMAZON.COM, OR WHEREVER BOOKS ARE SOLD.

“...after all, I was in shock, stoned, a little drunk, and I had just hit my head. And it so happens that I did, in fact, for some time, use my disoriented state as a convenient explanation for what I saw next.
An old man stood in the corner of the room beside my mother’s bed. He had long, greasy, gray hair and black eyes. He stooped, staring at my mother, smiling with a mouthful of sharp black teeth, waving a bony finger over her corpse. His head snapped up, his cold hateful eyes melting with mine. He opened his mouth, pointed the curled finger at me and hissed, ‘You’re next.’
Then the image vanished...”
"Science, politics, economics and spirituality fuse explosively in this visionary thriller. In some far future--or is it past?--Philip K. Dick nods with satisfaction."
-- Jeffrey Satinover, physicist and psychiatrist, author of The Quantum Brain.

THE DISCIPLINE SCHEDULE OF EVENTS:

INCLUDING SIGNINGS, INTERVIEWS, AND SPEAKING ENGAGEMENTS

WWW.PACOAHLGREN.COM/EVENTS.CFM

PRAISE FOR DISCIPLINE

"For two nights in a row, I stayed up past 3AM reading Discipline … In the hands of a lesser talent, the treatment of so many deep topics could easily turn superficial or stupefyingly dull. But throughout this exciting white-knuckle metaphysical adventure story, Ahlgren maintains a surprisingly light touch…expect to learn some edge physics, to peek into the details of exotic financial transactions, and perhaps to gain new insight about what it might really feel like to be an enlightened being."
-- Nick Herbert, Ph.D., author of Quantum Reality , Faster Than Light , and Elemental Mind
“Ahlgren deftly melds the intimacy of one man’s personal journey of self-discovery with cosmic, mind-expanding concepts of quantum physics, time travel, and multiple universes. This stunning and skillfully constructed story is a page-turner that haunts you long after you’ve closed the book. Discipline is a masterful first novel that rivals the works of many more mature authors with dozens of books to their credit. I look forward with delicious anticipation to everything Ahlgren writes in the future."
-- Marie D. Jones, author of PSIence: How New Discoveries in Quantum Physics and New Science May Explain the Existence of Paranormal Phenomena .
DISCIPLINE SAMPLE CHAPTER ONE: MISPERCEPTIONAustin, Texas

Spring, Year Nineteen

Ellison took deep breaths, sobbing, sending clouds of vapor into the freezing air, his body trembling—as much from terror as from the cold. He hung over the tub in the dark bathroom, semicircles of fatigue under his eyes. A droplet plummeted from the faucet and exploded into the half-full tub.

I watched him reach into the water with his left hand and splash his face. He babbled quietly to himself, his eyes twitching. A pistol rested in the palm of his right hand, which lay limply on the floor. His index finger stroked the trigger slowly, rhythmically. "I can't do this," he mumbled. "I can't."

His fingernails were clean and well manicured, but that was all that remained of his usual neat appearance. He wore an expensive suit—appropriate for an accountant in his mid-twenties—well-pressed not long ago, but now rumpled and stale. His hair was a tangled mess. For days, he had endured a fever so intolerable that he had shut off the apartment's heat, hoping to find some respite, but even the icy air in the bathroom failed to stop the perspiration that ran down his forehead. Trails of sweat, tears, and mucus ran through his developing beard, soaking the sleeve of his shirt.

He was going insane, and there was nothing I could do to help him.

--

A few days ago, I had watched him slipping. I was aware of almost the exact moment the voice had begun talking to him—the rumbling distortion in his mind I had known only too well so many years ago. Ellison started muttering to himself, and soon after had tried to drown the voice with booze and muscle relaxants, but it was clear that neither chemical had diminished its persistence, nor allowed him even a minute of sleep in the last seventy-two hours. As it grew worse, he had reacted by locking the front door, ripping out the phone cords, and barricading himself in his bathroom.

He had no way of knowing I had been here through it all—was here now, watching him, fighting every impulse to appear to him, to help him endure. His desperation tore at me, and at times, I wondered why I remained—why I didn't just leave him to face the inevitable alone. But I couldn't abandon him; I was as responsible for this as anyone, and I would stay with him, suffer with him, even if he didn't know.

Now panic was setting in, and I watched as Ellison started openly negotiating with his own mind, trying to convince himself that it was all just a temporary glitch in his software. "If I can . . . just last a . . . little longer . . ."

So Ellison sat in his bathroom, accepting what seemed to be imminent insanity. But at the very moment it looked like he would cave to the onset of his own madness, he sat bolt upright, and I knew that the whispering must have stopped. He lifted his head and scanned the floor in front of him, and the relief seemed to wrap around him like his mother's arms. He drew in a long breath and held it, unable to understand what was happening. I wondered how it could possibly get any worse. And yet I knew without a doubt that it would.

--

The old man simply appeared in the corner of the bathroom, a specter forming out of brumal emptiness. I had wondered for so long what he would look like in this moment, but even after all the wicked things I had watched him do over the years, I wasn't prepared for the hideous thing before me, and I felt an icy shiver trickle down my spine.

I had expected him to make a dramatic appearance, but he arrived silently, unceremoniously, a shadow shifting with the moonlight, moving across the bathroom walls. He climbed up onto the counter, his stringy gray-black hair hanging in front of his face as he stared vacantly at a blade in his right hand. He twisted the knife back and forth, as though puzzling over some complex issue, and were it not for the slight movement, he might have passed for a vulgar statue.

Light glinted off the blade and danced on the bathroom wall in front of Ellison like rippling water, breaking the blackness with restless brilliance. Ellison twisted his head in a panicked reflex, and when his eyes reached the old man perched on the edge of the counter, he shrieked and scrambled into the far corner of the bathroom. He lifted his arm and pointed the pistol at the man."Whoever you are, get out of my house or I swear to God I'll blow your fucking brains out!"

The old man stopped twisting the knife and lifted his head. His face was a mask of hatred.

Ellison recoiled at the sight but continued to point the pistol unsteadily at the bent figure, who squinted and smiled a mouth full of sharp rotting teeth. The old man sucked air into his throat and let out a wheeze, which transformed into rattling laughter. He pointed the blade at Ellison.

"You are a craven piece of human filth, and you're not going to shoot anybody."

"Get the fuck out of here!"

The old man's smile hung for a moment and then abruptly disappeared. He leapt from the counter and landed hard on the floor, arms spread wide. "Do it, motherfucker!"

Ellison squinted and fired twice. Tile shattered on the wall and the old man staggered backward, staring at his chest as the echoes of the gunshots faded. He lifted his head, his eyes wide with surprise. Then his face slipped back into a malicious grin. "You missed."

Ellison fired two more rounds, but the man just waved his hand dismissively, vanishing into nothingness, and while he was nowhere to be seen, his voice echoed in the bathroom. "I know you're here," he said, and I knew he was talking to me. "Why don't you come out and show yourself to the boy." The voice exploded in another fit of harsh laughter. I remained still, watching the scene with increasing dread.

Ellison trembled as his eyes darted about the bathroom searching for the grisly creature at whom he had just fired four shots, almost point-blank. "Oh fuck! Oh fuck !" he said, his voice quavering. "What's happening to me?"

He slid his back up the wall and crab-stepped to the doorway, holding the shaking pistol in front of him. The faucet released another droplet, which cracked like thunder when it hit the water. Ellison's head turned left and right, his wide eyes sweeping every inch.

"I don't want to hurt you." The old man appeared for an instant to the left of Ellison, and then vanished again.

Ellison wheeled and stumbled backward, falling hard on the floor, pointing the pistol at the doorway. No one was there.

He started weeping again, taking a large handful of his hair and pulling it hard. "What the fuck is happening to me?" He pushed his back against the tub, his body succumbing to exhaustion and fear. And I knew, with every second of this madness, that he came ever closer to the only way out.

"It doesn't have to be this way." The old man was back, sitting in the darkest corner of the bathroom, gently running the edge of the blade over his pants. He stared at it impassively. "This can all end," his head remained bowed but his black eyes drifted up to Ellison, "if you want it to."

Ellison shrank against the tub and pointed the pistol at the old man again. Although he knew it would have no effect, he fired one more shot, shattering the mirror on the wall behind the scraggy body.

"Jesus," the old man said. "Will you please stop doing that? Somebody's going to call the police." He broke into another fit of gravelly laughter, and I winced, knowing the police would be here soon enough.

"Why are you doing this to me?" Ellison moaned.

"Don't be so maudlin," the old man said. "You don't mean anything to me, you piece of shit. You're a pawn. I just need you to do one little thing and then I'll leave you alone." He paused. "I need you to help me find him."

"Who?" Ellison said.

The old man scanned the room, looking for me. He chuckled and a drop of saliva seeped from the corner of his mouth, stretching toward his shirt. He sucked hard, pulling it back in, and his neck began to pulsate, making a gurgling sound in his throat. He opened his mouth, the lips curling back in a snarl, dilating, spreading ever wider, struggling to give birth. A geyser of black liquid exploded from the hole in the old man's face and landed on the floor with a sickly splash.

He crouched down, hunching over the mess to examine it. He put his finger in the puddle, stirring it, and after a few seconds the pool of black vomit began to roil and bubble. Tiny white worms squirmed in the substance, then separated into thousands of smaller puddles, turning into an army of insects, scrambling in every direction. They scratched at the floor with their spindly legs, looking for any crevice.

Ellison writhed, frantically trying to avoid the bugs speeding toward him. The old man put his hands behind his back and began pacing slowly, crushing hundreds of the insects with each step. "The thing is, I'm not from around here, and I really need your help."

He paused midstride and turned his head, squinting menacingly. Then, with a low snarl, he launched himself, driving the younger man further into the corner. But just before he reached Ellison, he froze, hovering, slowly bringing the blade toward Ellison's face, stopping less than an inch from the younger man's eye.

I tensed, fighting the urge to do something— anything . But I knew exposing myself to this monster would be an incalculable mistake. Everything would be lost.

"This is how it's going to work," the old man said, slowly twisting the blade in front of Ellison's eye. "If you do what I ask, I'll go away." His mouth stretched into a broad smile, the wrinkles on his face pinching into the appearance of scales. "And if you don't help me, I'll cut your fucking head off." His grin broadened. "Here's what I want you to do . . ."

After days of relentless agony, Ellison had no choice but to listen, clearly hoping it would bring some end to the lunacy. But soon he began to shake his head, becoming nearly hysterical. "No, no ! Leave me alone ! No !"

"That's not a very promising attitude."

Ellison stopped crying, the last vestiges of sanity pushing him into defiance. "You're not even real."

The old man chuckled and shrugged, holding the knife up to his own face, examining it. "This is real . . . at least it was when I fucked your sister and ripped her guts out."

Ellison began to tremble again, emitting a piercing scream, " Get out! "

The old man yelled, " Shut the fuck up! " He sprang from the counter and jumped up and down on the floor in front of Ellison. " Shut the fuck up! "

Ellison covered his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. "Get out!"

Then they both suddenly stopped screaming and became still, panting and staring at each other. The old man began chortling again quietly.

"What did you do to her?" Ellison said.

The old man put his hand on his hip, rolling his eyes in mock frustration. "How many times do I have to tell you? I fucked her . . . and ripped her guts out. Then I put her uterus in a box and mailed it to you."

"This isn't real."

"And what if it isn't?" the old man asked, and leaned over Ellison. "I can stay as long as it takes. I'm part of you now."

Ellison's eyelids fell, his lower lip wet with saliva. "I can't . . ."

I stood behind the old man. Ellison looked up slowly, and I allowed myself to appear for an instant. His eyes widened when he saw me, my face twisted with sorrow, trying to tell him with my eyes to cling to hope. But there was no hope to be found, and I knew it.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

The old man whirled around but I faded too quickly for him to catch a glimpse of my face. "Get the fuck out of this!" He screamed in my direction, his expression furious. He turned back to Ellison and said, "You do what I tell you to, you little shit!"

Ellison stared at the old man for a moment, and then his eyes filled with resignation. He raised the pistol. "I can't."

"Don't do that," the old man said.

But Ellison put the barrel of the pistol under his chin, closed his eyes tightly, and pulled the trigger.

The old man didn't even blink at the explosion. He merely tilted his head and gazed at the body—the eyes fixed open, red lumps of tissue and brain sliding down the wall. He crouched and brought his face close to Ellison's. "I needed you, you little fucking worm. What a goddamn waste." He sniffed twice, stood erect, and grunted. Then he turned around and scanned the room, still looking for me, his eyes black with rage. "I'm going to find someone, you cunt , and when I do, I'm going to delight in watching you die."

A drop of water fell from the faucet to the tub, pealing for a million years. Then the old man was gone—a thread of smoke dismissed by the wind.

I stared at Ellison's body, a part of me dying with him in that moment. A tear rolled down my face, tickling my skin. The first in decades , I thought, almost puzzled by its appearance. I touched it, and then looked at the moist tip of my finger. Will I ever be ready ? Then reality descended on me with the full magnitude of its crushing weight. As though I have a choice . . .

I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, breathing deeply as I fell into the void.

See more sample chapters at www.pacoahlgren.com .

Look for DISCIPLINE July 1, 2007, from the Greenleaf Book Group. Pre-order your copy today at Amazon.com.
Find out more at www.pacoahlgren.com
Join the DISCIPLINE discussion group: DISCIPLINE -- by Paco Ahlgren
DISCIPLINE
Building on the vision of Kurt Vonnegut, the suspense of Michael Crichton, and the rich characters of Stephen King, Paco Ahlgren's first novel Discipline paints a chilling picture of a world that defies human perception. Douglas Cole is being hunted --and protected--but he doesn't know it. His life has been shattered by inexplicable tragedy, his waking hours haunted by ominous visions, but the more he pursues the questions plaguing him, the more elusive the answers become. Pushed to the brink of insanity, Douglas begins a desperate psychological battle with an enemy he cannot see, the outcome of which will determine the past, present, and future of human existence. Fusing blunt, gritty realism and philosophical passion with electrifying suspense, Discipline dissects our assumptions about reality.
About the Author
Paco Ahlgren has spent the last two decades examining quantum physics and its implications on modern scientific, economic, financial, and psychological theories, as well as its incontrovertible similarities to eastern philosophies and religions--most notably, Taoism. His first novel, Discipline, is a confluence of these passions.
THE BOOK
In 1992, I sat down in front of a computer keyboard and hammered out 60 pages of a short story that, in the end, went nowhere. I forgot about it and turned my attention to theoretical physics, modern psychology, finance and economics, philosophies of science, and eastern religions.
From 1996 to 1999, I tried to write several non-fiction treatises establishing the connections between these seemingly disparate disciplines. The operative word here is "tried," and let's make no mistake about it: I failed, and I buried the work as deeply on my hard drive as I could.
But the effort wasn't in vain; out of this maelstrom of this epistemological mess came the seeds of something I never would have expected.
In 2000, while driving from Austin, Texas to my new home in Durango, Colorado, I remembered the the short story I had started eight years earlier. I don't know what exactly brought it back to mind, but three months later, it was the raw 750 pages of the DISCIPLINE manuscript.
There was no writer's block. There were no drugs. I didn't drink. There were no workshops or classes. I simply sat in front of my computer for 16 hours a day while a constant deluge of words rushed out of me.
For those of you who have read it, you know why the story scares the hell out of me. The idea that the inspiration might derive from the very story I wrote -- that this is some sort of self-perpetuating loop -- sends a chill down my spine every time I think about it.