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“You know, we used to use the word ‘Earth’ to mean ‘ground’ or ‘dirt’,” James Macready said conversationally over the inter-helmet comm. “Synonymous with ‘habitable land’, you know?”

I was young then, all productivity and numbers, so I didn’t really care, but I mumbled something affirmative to keep the peace. In my hands, the ozone sensor beeped, and the holographic display scrolled through a few digits. A gust of hyperwind tugged the Kevlar of my hazard suit’s outermost layer, just enough for me to feel. It would have taken my face off had I removed my helmet.

“I remember shipping the last embryos out,” Mack continued. “Thirty years ago now. Huh. Hard to believe.”

I set the sensor to its last cycle and raised my head to gaze out at the earth-landscape while it recalibrated. I couldn’t see much for details through the swirling clouds of grey dust, but the glare of the too-bright sky was painful even with my heavily mirrored visor. It was hard to believe that my great-grandparents would have lived somewhere on this godforsaken world, and walked outside without protective gear. All I wanted was to get away from the dust and the white-burning sky, back to the pristine cleanliness of Matheson VIII and the thick green foliage that crowded her G-COSM sections: Somewhere where there was life, no matter who owned it.

“Back then there were days in the winter where all we needed were respirators,” Mack said, distant. “Wind was nasty, sure, but, you know, at least there was wind.”

“Must’ve been nice,” I said, checking the sensor. Why they even bothered to have us come down here was a mystery to me, since the ozone levels couldn’t have improved that much. But this, after all, was to be the last manned surface run. It was down to twice a metric year anyway, after it got turned over to automation, and I hear now that the only mech forays are corporate ones to watch for returning polar ice and the chance to drill again.

Mack was silent for a minute or two, and the sensor beeped once more.

Almost done, a professional female voice said in my helmet. I’ll have your kafe ready for your return to home section.

“Thank you, Calypso,” I said.

When Mack spoke again, I was surprised to hear the gruff constriction in his voice. “I, uh, sort of can’t believe this is the last time we’re coming down here. Damned strange, huh?” He cleared his throat, awkward. “Makes you wonder if we could’ve done something different, you know?”

I made some vague reply, wishing to deflect a philosophical and possibly emotional conversation. It was going to be a long night, packing up Matheson VIII in preparation for the last return journey, and my feet were getting sore in the heavy grounding boots. I just wanted to get done.

Mack didn't pursue the subject, and a moment later the sensor chimed twice. As I waited for it to finish compiling the data into a report zip for transfer, I felt the oddest thing; a momentary wave of surreality—as though Mack and I were relics, mummified in white-coated, copper-faced suits of flexible armor, standing on the shores of a world that had once revered us, beneath the endless burning white of a dead sky. I shuddered, thought the vision would pass, and it did, but only in part. Even as I write, that bright dead sky, beneath which my oldest ancestors evolved and multiplied and loved, is with me still.

I thumbed the key to send the results of the test back to the station, and we were done. I turned to look at Mack and found him standing awkwardly, arms at his sides, gazing away across the blowing grey waste.

“Come on, Mack,” I said. “Calypso’s got our kafes ready.”

“You go on, son,” he answered, very quietly. “Just give me a moment.”

I didn’t quite know what to do with that. “All right,” I said.

Mack knelt to gather a gloved handful of the grey dust, letting it fall through his fingers slowly, like sand through an hourglass. A moment’s hesitation, and, fumbling slightly, he drew a heart-shaped locket on a golden chain from his utility pouch. He made as though to open the locket, but it seemed his suit’s gloves were too thick, or maybe his hand was unsteady. Instead, he cradled it in his palm for a moment, and then laid it to rest in that soft hourglass dust. I have no doubt it sleeps there still.

I turned away, feeling a touch of a voyeur's shame. I never lived on that dead planet, and I knew even then that I could never fully understand what it was to leave it. Instead, I looked to the lander, hovering above the electromagnetic receiving pad, and then above it, to the glowing white sky: To the place where, if it were dark, New Earth would be a scarlet star.

A gloved hand landed on my shoulder, and I turned my head to see Mack’s reflective visor beside mine.

“Come on, then,” he said, in a strong voice with just a hint of soreness in it. “It’s a long road home.”

He led the way to the lander.

We were cordial on the return journey, and we never spoke of the locket, although I almost asked him twice. When I heard, a few years ago now, that he had died, I felt the strangest pang, though we had never been close. It was as though something, perhaps several somethings, that I had never consciously known I longed for, slipped away from me just as I perceived them, like dust through a hazard glove.

That was the last day that humans stood on Old Earth.