“Your records indicate,” Jazz continued, “that the resultant luminal reaction destroyed your ancestor’s simple organic oculars. But it apparently left a coded physical imprint as well.”

  Sam blinked. “What d’you mean ‘coded physical imprint’?”

  “On his portable prosthetic lenses,” Optimus explained.

  “His …” Thoughts swirled inside Sam’s head, finally coalescing into a blinding flash of realization. “His glasses? The map to this Cube is imprinted on his glasses? But—how’d you know all this? Or that I was even related to Great-Great-Grandpa Archibald, or that I even had them—his spectacles?”

  Ironhide explained. “eBay.” Snatches of World Wide Web flashed briefly across his lenses.

  “No way,” Sam exclaimed.

  “The Cube still resides on your world,” Jazz continued. “But we can no longer detect its signal. It has been—blocked by something.”

  Mikaela was trying hard to keep up. “Blocked? By what?”

  “We do not know.” Ratchet managed to sound a bit sorrowful. “But if we find it we will return it to our homeworld.”

  “If the Decepticons reach it first,” Optimus added, “they will use it to rebuild their armies. They will begin this process by transforming Earth’s machines. Once that is accomplished, there will of course no longer be any reason or need for your world to continue to provide support and sustenance to irrelevant carbonoids. Megatron will see to it that these wasteful life-forms are extinguished.”

  “Excuse me?” Sam murmured uncertainly.

  “Plants. Animals. You.”

  A significant silence ensued. It was only broken when Mikaela eventually looked over at Sam.

  “Please tell me you have those glasses …”

  The interior of the C-17 was big enough to carry cargo as well as personnel. Among the latter were the remnants of a special operations team who were using the air time to contemplate anything other than their military specialties. Relieved of any immediate duties, at least until the plane landed back in the States, Lennox and his men sat resting or conversing quietly among themselves.

  Farther up the belly of the big military transport, a team of a different kind was laboring over a table that was half surgery, half machine shop. The specialists in attendance were similarly equally divided between experts in repairing bodies and those who could take apart and put back together again everything from a muscle car to a microchip. On the table before them, a segment of mechanical tail that had once belonged to the alien creature called Skorponok was slowly but steadily repairing itself.

  Leaning slightly over the table, the leader of the research team was watching the process unfolding before him in utter disbelief.

  “Unbelievable. It’s some kind of self-regenerating molecular armor. A multiplicity of super-refined metals blended with ceramics and a few other components we still haven’t been able to break down.”

  Drawn by the conversation, one by one Lennox and his men ambled over to observe the observers. As the ones who had recovered the tail piece in the first place, he and his men had been given unrestricted access to the dissection. Lennox was the first to arrive tableside. Intently, he scrutinized a torn edge where the artillery round had severed the tail from the rest of the body.

  “The scorch marks show where the sabot round hit,” he pointed out. “Melted right through.”

  The research team leader nodded as he nudged a magnifier into position over the spot. Leaning close, the interested captain noticed right away how the burned edge was different from the rest of the slowly regenerating tail. The team leader confirmed what he was seeing.

  “It’s the only part of the severed appendage that isn’t regenerating.”

  Straightening, Lennox pondered the implications. “Aren’t sabots hot-loaded for a six-thousand-degree magnesium burn? An explosive round would generate similar heat, but only briefly. But a mag burn would linger on the site and stay hot for a lot longer. Maybe long enough to overcome the resistance of whatever this thing is made of.”

  Their exchange was rudely interrupted as the severed tail gave an abrupt, explosive twitch. The hypodermic-sharp tip slammed completely through the table as guards and researchers leaped or stumbled backward. One woman fell down close to the table and had to be dragged into the clear, but the danger had already passed. The tail went limp again, and the convulsive reaction was not repeated. For the moment.

  A cautious Epps contemplated the newly inert alien relic. “Someone please tell me that was a postmortem reflex.”

  His tone low and urgent, Lennox turned to the staring tech sergeant.

  “Get on the horn to Northern Command. I don’t care how you have to get in touch—use smoke signals if that’s all that’s available. But they have to know something. Tell ’em our effective weapon is high-heat sabot rounds; the larger the volatile magnesium content and the longer the afterburn, the better. Recommend we load ’em in anything that’ll handle ’em. Go.”

  Leaving a curt nod in his wake, Epps hurried to find the nearest functioning communicator. As soon as he had gone, the medical sergeant who had been waiting for their conversation to end stepped toward Lennox. The captain knew the medtech: the man had been working on the injured Figueroa. Instead of speaking, the tech shook his head slowly. Coupled with his grave expression, he needed no words to convey the information he carried with him. Lennox eyed him a moment, then rushed toward the front of the plane.

  Figueroa was lying on a pallet in the temporary infirmary area along with other wounded who were being evacuated from the devastated base. The medical staff had made him as comfortable as possible. The chief warrant officer did not look comfortable, however. He looked bad, really bad. Which, after all the treatment he had received since leaving the Middle East, was not a good sign at all.

  Stepping into his comrade’s field of view, Lennox managed to muster up what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “Hey, amigo. ¿Qué pasa?”

  Figueroa did not react immediately. Plainly, he was fighting something beyond his control. Something beyond that of the medics as well. Each syllable his mouth formed required a separate, physically taxing effort. His words emerged in weak, rasping gasps.

  “Wouldn’t have believed any of this if—I hadn’t seen it for myself.” His gaze focused unblinkingly on his friend. “Just got one thing to—say. You promise me. You’re gonna—stop these things.”

  Lennox tried his best to shrug it off. “Once you’re out of that damn bed you can stop ’em yourself.”

  Figueroa ignored the optimistic suggestion. Both of them knew the captain was lying. “Promise me.” The warrant officer was as insistent as his debilitated condition would allow. “I don’t wanna die for nothing, man. Not with sand in my shoes …”

  Lennox started to protest again. There were a lot of things he could have said; a lot of things he wanted to say. But it was clear that there wasn’t time.

  “Promise,” the warrant officer persevered.

  At a gesture from the mortally wounded man, Lennox leaned closer. Figueroa was holding something small and shiny. He pressed it into the captain’s open palm. Looking down, Lennox recognized the Saint Christopher’s medal his friend had always worn around his neck. As soon as it was in the captain’s hand, the other man’s eyes closed. It was impossible to tell whether he was hurting when he died.

  Anyone seeing Lennox’s face at that moment would have known that the captain was.

  It was a singular collection of brand-new vehicles that raced through the network of residential avenues late that night before halting just up the street from the home of Ron, Judy, and Sam Witwicky. Even though they were careful to muffle the noise of their engines, the machines still drew the occasional curious glance out an open suburban window. All that those who bothered to do so saw was a shiny new pickup truck here, an eighteen-wheeler on the wrong street there. A fancy but slow-moving sports car and an emergency vehicle with its lights and siren off. Nothing to be alarmed about. Definitely nothing worth abandoning dinner or a favorite TV show to check out further.

  Certainly that was the feeling inside the Witwicky house itself. Ron and Judy sat in the living room eating TV dinners on tray tables as they watched the local late-night news. Though Ron used the remote to surf through multiple channels, it seemed as if every one was playing someone’s home video footage of the fiery visitor from space slashing across the sky. Absent any alternatives, he put the remote aside and returned to his food. Sports and weather would be on soon enough.

  “Police stations are inundated with calls reporting unidentified lights in the sky,” the perfectly coiffed and clad reporter of the moment was declaiming breathlessly. “At this point in time, astronomers believe that it was likely a sizable nickel-iron meteor that broke up on contact with the Earth’s atmosphere.” She turned to face the screen mounted behind her. “We just picked up and verified the authenticity of this most recent eyewitness video, which appears to show one of the fragments actually striking a building right here in our own downtown.”

  Ron and Judy paused in their eating to watch as something flashed across the screen. This was followed by explosive noises and the shouts and screams of the three teenagers who had been eating in a nearby café. So absorbed were Sam’s parents by the new footage that they scarcely noticed the sudden vibration in the floor that set their dinner trays trembling. Nestled snugly in Judy’s lap, a somnolent Mojo suddenly perked up. However loud and garish they were, it was not the sounds blaring from the TV that had disturbed his rest. It was something else. Something much more real.

  In the alley behind the house, the eclectic line of vehicles that had carefully worked their way through the neighborhood braked to a stop. Sam and Mikaela exited the shiny new Camaro.

  “Stay with ’em,” he told her. “I’ll be right back.” He took a step toward the house, was restrained by a thought, and turned toward the idling convoy. Looking past Mikaela, he addressed the line of idling vehicles with as much sternness as he could muster. “Stay. Stay here. Stay.” It was all he could think of to say. It worked with Mojo.

  Making next to no noise he crept toward the screened rear door. He was convinced he had not made a sound, but that didn’t stop his dad from appearing magically in the portal. Mojo appeared between Ron’s feet, barking like all hell as he pawed madly at the screen to get out.

  Doing everything he could to keep from glancing toward the alley, Sam smiled pleasantly. “Uh—hi, Dad.”

  Ron let a little time pass. As Sam stood there, each successive second seemed to weigh more and more heavily, until he thought time itself would grind to a halt.

  “I bought half your first car, bailed you outta jail, and tonight just kinda felt like doing your chores.” His father stared down at him. “Been an interesting day. Not a dull moment. Life’s great, isn’t it?”

  A slight crunching sound drew Sam’s attention leftward, toward a dark part of the spacious backyard. One after another, huge alien robots were stepping over the fence out of the alley and onto the grass. From where he was standing Sam could see them but his father could not. This, he knew straightaway, was a good thing. He uttered a nervous laugh.

  “Right—take out the trash cans. I can hear the cats getting into them. I’m on it, sorry.”

  A master of fatherly facetiousness, Ron smiled thinly at his wayward son. “Don’t strain yourself, really. I can do it later. I only have to get up early tomorrow and go to work and make a living. I wouldn’t want you to lose any sleep.” He started to open the door and come down the steps. Sam hurriedly banged it shut in time to block his dad’s exit—but not Mojo’s. Still barking wildly, the Chihuahua nearly spun out on his rear legs as he banked right and headed for the section of backyard adjacent to the alley.

  “No no, got it!” Sam had to make himself not run after the dog. “Seriously, my bad.”

  Ron studied him a moment longer. Then he turned and, shaking his head dolefully, headed back toward the living room. He didn’t want to miss the local sports. As soon as his father turned, Sam whirled and raced toward the alley. He was just in time to see the massive right foot of Optimus Prime turn some patio furniture into Frisbees while the other reduced his father’s new and laboriously installed imported stone path into gravel.

  “Oh, nono, watch the path! The path, the path!” he yelled frantically.

  Consumed in a barking frenzy, Mojo was racing around and around Ironhide’s feet, occasionally leaping upward to snap at an alloyed ankle. Peering down, the mechanoid flicked at the dog with one foot, sending the yelping Chihuahua flying into a patch of flowers. One bounce, one roll, and Mojo returned to the attack. A panicked Sam darted forward.

  “Whoa whoa whoa, that’s my dog! Mojo, off! Off the robot!” As if corralling the dyspeptic Chihuahua didn’t present enough of a problem, Mikaela came striding through the alleyway gate. Turning on her, he indicated the yard full of giant robots. “I told you to watch ’em!”

  She put her hands on her hips and eyed him challengingly. “Well, I think they’re kind of in a rush.”

  “Well,” he countered feebly, “you shoulda done something.”

  Lower lip pushed forward, she nodded thoughtfully. “Right. Give me a minute to find the on/off switches.”

  Ironhide was tracking the unceasingly irritating small mammal that continued to dart in and out between his feet. “I detect that you have a highly localized vermin infestation. Shall I terminate?”

  “Nono,” Sam yelped wildly. “It’s Mom’s Chihuahua.” Clearly Ironhide was not the brains of the outfit.

  Mojo chose that insightful moment to lift a hind leg and pee on the robot’s foot.

  Sam rushed toward the dog. “Mojo, no!” He looked up at the impassive alien. “Sorry—he’s got this male dominance thing.” He wagged a finger under the Chihuahua’s nose. “Bad dog!” Mojo gave him a lick, then resumed barking.

  Still engrossed in the TV, his parents didn’t notice as Sam dumped a squirming, protesting Mojo back into the house and then hurried silently up the stairs to his room. The glasses—where had he last put them down? Anxiously he rummaged through the mess that was his daily life: school materials, dirty clothes, game manuals, library books. Behind him, an immense metal hand rose to the level of the open window. Unceremoniously, it dumped Mikaela through the portal and onto the floor of the room. Making a face, she climbed to her feet and straightened her clothes, leaving her purse where it fell on the floor.

  “You must help him look,” Optimus informed her solemnly.

  She threw the robot a dirty look, then moved to lend Sam a casual hand. “They really want those glasses.”

  Instead of motivating him to look harder, her presence caused him to take a breather from the search. Counting his mother, Mikaela was one of only two women ever to set foot in his room. And—the place was a total disaster. Junk was scattered everywhere, tastefully decorated with dirty clothes and—underwear. Embarrassed, he started snatching up the most personal items.

  “Underwear—underwear—underwear.” Having recovered the last of the briefs on display, he hurriedly tossed them in a closet, shut the door, and turned back to his welcome yet disconcerting visitor. “So, yeah. This is my—room.”

  She was surveying her surroundings. “It’s nice. Your whole house is really—big.”

  “Old house, big lot, lots of room.” While he explained, he resumed rummaging through the mountain of fabric on his bed. When the last trivial item had been hauled off and tossed aside, a single used Kleenex floated to the floor in its wake. His expression darkened. He had cleared the bed, but without finding what he had been looking for.

  “It’s not here.”

  She stared at him. “What d’you mean?”

  “The spectacles were in my backpack. It isn’t here.”

  Her expression turned pensive. “Okay, I understand. Dibs on not having to tell the giant alien robots.”

  “It’s got to be here somewhere.” He resumed searching. Having no idea where to look, she stood off to the side and watched him work.

  So did the transformed Sidekick buried in her purse. If there is one quality all mechanicals share, it’s patience. Continuing to bide its time, a transformed Frenzy waited eagerly for the human to produce the crucial set of primitive artificial lenses.

  Glancing over a shoulder, Sam encountered the enormous, reflective face of Optimus Prime staring back at him.

  “Have you found them?” the robot inquired worriedly.

  “Ssssh!” Sam hissed. Even muted, the robot’s voice threatened to resound throughout the length and breadth of the house. “No, I haven’t. I dunno where my backpack is!”

  Outside, the other robots had crowded close around their leader. Optimus scanned the interior of the upstairs bedroom, seeking anything that might give an inkling of glass mounted in metal.

  “Did you look within the oblong clothing-storage device?”

  Sam gaped at him. “The what?”

  “I think he means the dresser,” Mikaela suggested helpfully.

  “Perhaps it is beneath the four-point floor sheath,” Ratchet proposed.

  Standing in the middle of his room, Sam pivoted slowly. “Okay, totally stumped.”

  Mikaela eyed Ratchet querulously. “The rug?”

  Sam turned on her. “No, it’s not in or under any of those things. I know where it is. It’s in a backpack. My backpack, the same one I take to school with me every day. The backpack that is definitely not here.”

  Outside, Optimus took a step forward, closing the last remaining gap between his massive bulk and the house. “There can be no ‘definite’ in this matter. You must continue searching.”

  “Hey!” Sam exclaimed as he glanced out the window, “my mom’s flowers, watch it!”

  The enormous mechanoid looked down. Crushed roses splayed outward beneath his foot. “I am sorry,” he declared portentously. “The brightly colored weeds will be replaced. But we must have the glasses.”

  “Look,” Sam pleaded, “will you just—get outta here? If my parents see you, they’re gonna freak. Go! Hide! I promise I’ll keep looking.”