large-scale structure of the universe

A filament of the cosmic web stretches through the young universe, and strung along it like beads on a necklace are galaxies. In the core of the SSA22 protocluster, which in a few billion years will become the center of a massive cluster, these beads are still hot and dusty: stars are being born inside them, and cold gas serves as fuel.

A census by body shape: that's one way to describe what astronomers did with 6348 massive galaxies. Instead of height and weight, they measured how concentrated the light is toward the center, how flattened the galaxy is, and how asymmetric its shape is. Then they ran the same measurements on galaxies from three computer models of the universe and compared the results.

A river drawn on a map is always a single line. But stand on the bank, and you will see that within the channel there are faster currents, eddies, and branches that merge and split. The cosmic web is like that river, but made of dark matter, and until recently astronomers drew it as a single line.

A river drawn on a map is always a single line. But stand on the bank, and you will see that within the channel there are faster currents, eddies, and branches that merge and split. The cosmic web is like that river, but made of dark matter, and until recently astronomers drew it as a single line.

An accountant tallies up all the factories, warehouses, and shops, but the balance doesn't add up — half the inventory seems to have evaporated. That's roughly how astronomers have spent decades searching for ordinary matter in the present-day Universe.

The night sky looks like a random scattering of stars. But zoom out to enormous distances, and the chaos disappears. Galaxies gather into long filaments and flat walls, with colossal voids gaping between them — cosmic voids. This structure is called the cosmic web.

The night sky looks like a random scattering of stars. But zoom out to enormous distances, and the chaos disappears. Galaxies gather into long filaments and flat walls, with colossal voids gaping between them — cosmic voids. This structure is called the cosmic web.

A flashlight beam cuts through fog. The denser the fog, the more the light scatters and the later it reaches your eye. A similar principle works with fast radio bursts — mysterious, super-powerful pulses from distant galaxies. As their radio waves travel through space, they interact with free electrons — particles stripped from atoms.

Cosmologists are facing a curious situation: two reliable tools draw slightly different maps of the same universe. One tool is the map of ancient light (the cosmic microwave background), and the other is the map of galaxy distribution. They broadly agree, but in details they diverge.

A pot of boiling porridge: bubbles burst, steam escapes, and everything gets mixed up. Massive stars in giant gas clouds behave in much the same way. Their radiation and stellar winds blow out enormous cavities, molecular bubbles, scattering material all around.

Cosmologists are like cartographers — only instead of mountains and rivers, they map invisible forces. Dark energy, which drives the accelerating expansion of the universe, remains a mystery. One idea is the 'kinetic gravity braiding' (KGB) model. In it, dark energy interlocks with gravity. The celestial map's paper becomes elastic. It alters the path of light rays.

Right after the Big Bang, space cooled unevenly. In some places, folds could have formed — threads of energy as thin as a hair but incredibly dense. Physicists call them cosmic strings. They oscillate, collide, and emit gravitational waves — ripples in the fabric of space itself.

In the quiet of the quantum world, there is no emptiness. Particles are intertwined by invisible threads — entanglement. The authors of the work proposed that the very fabric of spacetime is woven from these threads. This is not just a metaphor: they built a mathematical framework where the distance between points is determined by how much shared information they hold.

In the first fractions of a second after the Big Bang, the universe was a stage of rapid change. A stretched rubber sheet that cools quickly becomes covered with microscopic cracks. A similar process on a cosmic scale could have given rise to cosmic strings — ultra-thin but super-dense threads of energy stretching across the entire universe. These strings are not just defects in space.

Gravity is a remarkably weak force. A small magnet holds a paperclip against the pull of an entire planet. Physicists have long sought the reason for this weakness, and one guess leads us into hidden dimensions. Perhaps gravity 'leaks' into them, losing strength in our three-dimensional world.

In the early universe, as it cooled after the Big Bang, defects could have formed, like cracks in ice. One such defect is a global monopole, a tiny clump of field where energy is trapped in a knot.

The cosmos resembles silk fabric with threads of the dark web showing through. We only glimpse tiny swatches of the real tapestry — through telescopes, in actual galaxy catalogs. To separate the fundamental signal from astrophysical noise in the cosmic pattern, statistical analysis demands thousands of plausible sketches — synthetic sky maps.

4 610 universes — that's exactly how many cosmological models astrophysicists needed to show that the familiar Gaussian mask no longer works for next-generation data. Future sky surveys, such as the Euclid mission and the Vera C.

In the first moments after the Big Bang, cosmic symmetry breaking divided the hot plasma into regions with different vacuums — the lowest energy states of a field.

The world around us is three-dimensional, but perhaps that's just an illusion. Some theories allow for extra dimensions of space, curled up or stretched in special ways. One such model depicts a five-dimensional universe with a "diluted" dimension (called a linear dilaton).

Imagine an ancient manuscript, where a new story is written over an old text. Over time, the upper layer wears thin, and lines of the past show through. That’s exactly how globular clusters, the oldest stellar systems in the Universe, are structured, like a palimpsest.

When the cooling cosmos, in the aftermath of the Big Bang, lost its primordial symmetry, tensions arose in the fields, like microcracks forming in solidifying glass. Global monopoles, predicted by Gerard 't Hooft and Polyakov, became such “scars” on the fabric of the universe. Each monopole is a tiny but incredibly massive knot of field.

Dark matter — the invisible foundation of cosmic architecture — makes up 85% of all mass, yet eludes direct observation. In the 1920s, Edwin Hubble discovered the expansion of the universe and the realm of galaxies; by the 1930s, Fritz Zwicky suspected hidden mass in their clusters.

The standard model of cosmology, based on the field equations proposed by Einstein, describes the Universe as a cocktail of dark matter (discovered thanks to Vera Rubin) and dark energy in roughly a 1:3 ratio.

The cosmological principle – the notion that the Universe is homogeneous and isotropic on large scales – has guarded our understanding of the world since the time of Edwin Hubble and Georges Lemaître, whose ideas formed the basis of the Big Bang model.

The explosion of a distant supernova told us something hard to believe: the universe is expanding faster and faster. The engine of this acceleration is dark energy — nearly 70% of everything that exists.

Light from distant galaxies travels to us for billions of years, but along the way it gets bent and twisted by the invisible web of dark matter. This effect, predicted by Albert Einstein within general relativity, is called gravitational lensing.

A cosmological map is like a snapshot of ripples on water: from it you can reconstruct what stone was thrown. The stone is the properties of the universe — how much ordinary matter it contains, how much dark matter, how fast it is expanding. The ripples are the pattern of galaxies that telescopes measure.

Galaxy clusters are the greatest gravitational ensembles in the Universe. In X-ray glow from hot plasma, the story of cosmic expansion, hidden dark matter, and enigmatic dark energy is encoded.

From childhood, we're used to thinking of space as infinite and isotropic. But Einstein and Lemaître were already asking: could the Universe be closed in on itself, like a Möbius strip or a 3-torus?

The hot broth of the early universe cooled unevenly. At some point, bubbles of a new phase began to pop within it, like steam bubbles in boiling water. But these bubbles weren't made of steam; they were made of a new state of matter in which particles of the dark sector clumped into larger lumps. That's how dark matter could have been born.

In the first instants after birth, the universe might have been multidimensional, like a sheet of paper that suddenly gained thickness. This "thickness"—the extra dimensions — began to inflate rapidly. Such superfast growth is called inflation.

Our universe is expanding, and its future, according to cosmologists, is empty, cold de Sitter space. Understanding its quantum nature is like trying to read a book by looking only at its cover. The holographic principle suggests that all information about what happens inside a volume can be encoded on its boundary, like a picture on a film.

The Universe grows like a metropolis: galaxies skyscrapers are erected on an invisible scaffold of dark matter: its gravity pulling in construction material. Meanwhile, dark energy makes the city itself continuously expand.

The Universe resembles a dense forest: up close, individual galaxy-trees are visible, gathered into groves, but from a distance everything merges into a solid green canopy. The boundary beyond which the cosmos becomes homogeneous is called the angular scale of homogeneity: it's the size of a patch of sky from which galaxies are distributed evenly.

Through the ripples on the water, pebbles at the bottom of a pool look shifted and warped. In a similar way, the gravity of invisible dark matter bends the light of distant galaxies — a phenomenon known as weak lensing.

Just a few hundred million years after the Big Bang, in the ocean of invisible dark matter, giant black holes were already taking shape. They were born from the matter itself — without any help from stars. This mechanism, based on the equations of Lemaître, explains their early appearance.

Astronomers build maps of galaxies and listen to the radio whisper of neutral hydrogen. The signal is so faint that even a working TV would drown it out, but sensitive antennas pick it up from the depths of the Universe.

Imagine a huge layered cake, where the layers of dough are space and the filling is a special region resembling an invisible wall. This wall is not made of bricks but of energy, and it could be as thick as the entire universe. If such a wall exists, it should stretch the dough layers differently: those lying along it spread apart faster, while those across it spread slower.

A heavy ball rests on a trampoline, and the fabric sags beneath it. Any rolling ball nearby inevitably rolls toward the center. This is roughly how gravity works on the scale of the entire Universe. But what if the fabric were arched upward, like a dome? Then the ball would tend to roll outward.