It was my turn to take the GDV (gravity defying vehicle) to check on an unusual tower reading of carbon dioxide and methane gas emissions. It was a calm day, almost warm; a great day for a ride out over the tundra. The thawing Alaska North Slope tundra stretched out jaggedly in all directions. Since the GDV rode a foot or so above the ground it left no unsightly tracks on the landscape and the carpet of delicate mosses and shrubs remained undamaged.

Pulses of CO2 and methane gases during the arctic spring are common. For about a month after the tundra surface freezes, microbes in the layer of soil between the frozen surface and the frozen permafrost are still actively producing carbon dioxide and methane until the freeze deepens. These trapped gases are then released in the spring thaw.

“How far are we from tower 185?” I asked Molly the onboard computer.

“17.4 km; estimated time of arrival is 15.8 minutes.”

“Thanks, Molly.” While the GDV may be ideal for traveling across the tundra without marring it, the vehicle will never set any speed records.  I notice a dark band across the horizon to the NW. “Looks like we have some weather coming in. Would you agree, Molly?”

“Leading edge of approaching atmospheric disturbance 28.2 km NW; barometric pressure 29.18 and falling.  Current temperature 48◦F (8.8◦C); predicted to drop to 33.2◦F (0.6◦C). Crystallized precipitation anticipated to a depth of .89 inches.”

“You mean a late spring snow storm.”

“A watered down description of the facts.”

“ETA now 5.6 minutes,” Molly undated. And 5.6 minutes later, “We have arrived.”

“Thanks, Molly.” I bit off the snide remark that almost followed about stating the obvious, shut down the GDV and gathered my instruments. The air outside the GDV measured well into breathable range, but I took along a gas mask just in case.

The cause of the pulse reading from the tower appeared self-evident. Gaseous bubbles rose to the surface at the edge of a shallow lake sink hole. Snow melt bored deeply into the disintegrating permafrost releasing CO2 and methane gases produced by cryogenically preserved microbes trapped in permafrost like a well preserved woolly mammoth since the last ice age.

Walking on thawing tundra is no easy matter; it is not smooth and flat anywhere. Hidden rocks and stubby foliage aim to bring you down every step of the way. I made it upright to the mushy slope of the depression of standing water monitoring the air quality every couple of steps.

Molly beeped as I collected soil and water samples from the field. Then her pale featureless holographic face appeared before me. “What is it, Molly?”

“The boss is calling.”

The boss is Dr. Alex Haywood, head of our research lab. “Put him on video.”  My boss’ bristled rugged face appeared before me replacing Molly’s computer generated one. “Hi, Alex, what’s up?”

“Celeste, how are things out there?”

“Fine, Boss. I’m at tower 185, almost done. I thought I would check a couple more sites in the area and collect samples, then be done for the day.”

“Negative.  I want you to head back to camp headquarters as soon as you are done there.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked noting the urgency in his voice.

“There’s a fast moving cold front coming in. Winter is not quite over yet.”  I looked out toward the dark cloud band masking the horizon.

“It will only take me another hour at the most.”

“Forget it. Head in now; that’s an order.”

“Yes, sir.”

As I was finishing up, Molly’s hologram appeared before me again, this time shouting frantically. “Danger, danger! Large predator closing in at 100yds.” It was the most expression I’d ever seen on her countenance.  Jerking around, I spied a huge brown bear stalking steadily toward me. These powerful brutes are the meanest thing you ever want to run across. I had my tranquilizing dart gun, but didn’t feel confident of my accuracy in using it.

“Molly! Start the vehicle!” Molly’s image disappeared and to my relief the GDV hummed to life. I moved cautiously toward it.

The bear dipped out of view momentarily in the uneven landscape then suddenly reappeared fearfully close.

“Predator closing in at 50yds,” Molly undated.

“Move the vehicle toward me.” As the vehicle approached I closed the distance. “Open the hatch.”

“Predator closing at 20yds.”

I tried to aim the dart gun, my heart pumping hard.

“Molly, do something!”

As the bear readied to charge, Molly’s computerized image appeared directly in front of the bear’s face growling energetically. While the bear clawed furiously at the hologram, I dove into the GDV. “Let’s go!”

What happened next isn’t really clear. It seemed like a freight train rammed into the side of the GDV. Apparently I blacked out for a while. When I regained consciousness the GDV lay tilted at an awkward 10◦ angle, the engine off. Carefully I sat up. Except for the bump on my head, I seem to have survived intact.

“Molly, damage report.”

“Damage? I do not understand ‘damage,’ Molly’s voice came back.

Molly’s response came as a shock. I tried again.

“Can you locate the bear?”

“Bear?  I do not understand ‘bear.’”

“You know, ‘bear’, large predator closing in,” I shouted.

“You sound upset,” Molly interjected lazily. “You should learn to relax more.”

Molly was right. I need to take a deep breath and accept that I am in a survival situation which requires calm and rational thought. I tried to call camp headquarters, but couldn’t get a signal.

The GDV is well equipped with mandatory survival gear. I quickly located everything I needed including sleeping bag, flameless heater, emergency food and water, and a locator beacon.

Opening the hatch manually, I stepped out.  The wind had picked up and the temperature had dropped. From what I could see of the under carriage of the vehicle, the damage was extensive. I set up the locator beacon and retreated back into the GDV to escape the cold wind. Soon it started to snow.

At least it won’t get dark. The sun hasn’t set here so far above the Arctic Circle in weeks. But the sheeted cloud cover and blowing snow kept the lighting dim. There was nothing left to do but wait it out. Time dragged.

“Molly, what is the meaning of life?” To my surprise, a fractured holographic image appeared.

“Life is for living.”

How was it that Molly could still function, albeit off-kilted, when nothing else worked?  I continued speaking to Molly to dispel the loneliness.

“Is this living?  Sure, I have a career in environmental research, some expensive material possessions that I rarely find time to enjoy, but it feels like something is missing.”

“Life is missing?” Molly asked.  The fractured hologram gave her a puzzled look.  Her image remained as though offering me comfort with her presence.

“Do you know I was once proposed to? Yes, about 5 years ago. I went back home to see the folks and connected with my old high school sweetheart. We enjoyed some good times together.”

I paused a moment in happy reflection. “Before I left, he dropped down on one knee and proposed. It was a choice between continuing to pursue my career or move back to my home town. I turned him down. Do you think I did the right thing, Molly?”

“Right thing is right.”

“Yeah, he ended up marrying a local girl a year later and recently they had a baby boy.

“I’m 37 and I have no one.”

“You have me,” Molly said in the prolonged silence that followed and then gradually faded away.

Eventually I fell asleep. I woke to sunshine and a helicopter rescue. The GDV was later airlifted out and taken in for repair.

Weeks later the repaired GDV arrived back at camp. I eagerly sought the opportunity to speak to Molly again.

But Molly wasn’t there.  The onboard computer had been replaced.  A holographic image appeared and introduced itself as George.