BZRK: ORIGINS. Майкл Грант

      

      First published in Great Britain 2013

      by Electric Monkey – an imprint of Egmont UK Limited

      The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London, W11 4AN

      Copyright © The Shadow Gang 2013

      The moral rights of the author have been asserted

      First e-book edition 2013

      ISBN 978 1 7803 1491 4

       www.egmont.co.uk

       michaelgrantbooks.co.uk

      A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

      Please note: Any website addresses listed in this book are correct at the time of going to print. However, Egmont cannot take responsibility for any third party content or advertising. Please be aware that online content can be subject to change and websites can contain content that is unsuitable for children. We advise that all children are supervised when using the internet.

       EGMONT

      Our story began over a century ago, when seventeen-year-old Egmont Harald Petersen found a coin in the street. He was on his way to buy a flyswatter, a small hand-operated printing machine that he then set up in his tiny apartment.

      The coin brought him such good luck that today Egmont has offices in over 30 countries around the world. And that lucky coin is still kept at the company’s head offices in Denmark.

      For Katherine, Jake and Julia

       “I am not a brave man.”

       Grey McLure started a war.

       In his own words,

       he tells us why.

      Contents

       Cover

       Title page

       Copyright

       Dedication

       Epigraph

Plath

ONE

       TWO

       THREE

       FOUR

       FIVE

       SIX

       Back series promotional page

       Praise for the GONE series

       Praise for the BZRK

       ALSO BY MICHAEL GRANT

Plath

      I should destroy this. There’s no such thing as secure data. Once a thing is written it will somehow escape. But I can’t. I never knew my father wrote anything about himself.

      Mr Stern recovered this from a laptop my father once used. A long time ago, now. Or seems a long time ago to me.

      This was his story. Mine, too, though at the time I understood almost nothing of what was happening. But this is how . . . well, it’s at least part of how everything began.

      My father, Grey McLure. Burnofsky. Lear. Even Caligula. It’s all here. And I could trash can it all, wipe it clean. Except that these are my father’s words, and he’s talking about my mother and my brother. And he’s talking about me. And I find now that every word is infinitely precious.

      Soon secrecy won’t matter. Soon very little will matter. But love will matter as long as anything. And I loved my dad.

      I am Plath. My enemies have come to fear that name, and I revel in their dread.

      But once I was just Sadie. Sadie who loved her dad.

ONE

      I am not a brave man.

      I am not well-armored against fear. Fear now rules my world, or perhaps I should say ‘fears’ plural; unless you believe that all fears are only one fear, the big one, the fear of death.

      I don’t believe that. To me, fear is granular. Fear is specific. Each fear has its own smell and taste, its own picture and face.

      The great fear for me now is not death. The great fear is madness. The destruction of a creature smaller than the full stops on this page can drag me down, helpless, like being sucked into a whirlpool.

      I fear that madness. I fear it so badly that I shake from it as I write this.

      The things I have seen. And touched, though not with my own hands.

      We live in a series of comforting illusions, beginning with the illusion that we are a human, a singular, separate and discrete object called a human. We say, “That’s a man,” or, “That’s a woman,” and we mean only the parts that are undeniably human, and not any of the bits and pieces that live on or in that human.

      We are not, any of us, a singular object. We are an ecosystem. We are a Brazilian rainforest of life.

      Some of us may understand this intellectually, we may hear the statistics about how we have more bacterial cells within us than strictly human cells. We may even make a disgusted face when we hear the fact. But that kind of fact? A bit of math? A line of data? That’s nothing to give a sane man sweaty nightmares. That’s nothing to twist his every notion of reality.

      There are facts, and there is truth, and the two are not always quite the same. Facts are dry. The truth is sometimes soaked in blood.

      My wife is dying. Her name is Birgid. Mine is Grey. Grey McLure.

      Our