superconductivity dome

A superconductor is a material that conducts electricity without loss, like water flowing through a perfectly smooth pipe. In copper-based superconductors, tiny oxygen additions act like a volume knob: a bit more and the material starts superconducting; a bit less and it stops. But the oxygen atoms themselves are so small that seeing them directly was impossible.

Two dancers on one stage: the triangle and the stripe. In a quantum gas of dysprosium atoms cooled to 62 nanokelvin, these two spatial structures have met for the first time in a single experiment. The gas is held in a trap shaped like a surfboard, and its atoms are among the most magnetic in the periodic table.

A quantum spin liquid is a state of matter in which the magnetic moments of atoms behave like a fluid: they constantly fluctuate and never settle into a rigid order, even at extremely low temperatures. One of the most famous theoretical models of such a liquid was proposed by Alexei Kitaev.

A tiny sandwich of oxides, grown layer by layer, becomes perfectly conducting at about minus 200 degrees Celsius. This is not a magic trick but a new chapter in the search for high-temperature superconductors.

Under pressure, the layered crystal La₃Ni₂O₇ behaves like an orchestra where the conductor adjusts the volume of different instrument sections. Compression increases electron hopping between layers — which, one might think, should boost superconductivity. But at the same time, some electrons become too mobile.

A superconductor is like a perfect wire — current flows through it with zero loss. The catch is that you have to cool it way down. Physicists have long hunted for materials that superconduct at more practical temperatures. One approach: don't wait for nature to oblige — build your own material, layer by layer, like a Lego set.

At low temperatures, many materials become superconductors — current flows without resistance. But how exactly does this happen if electrons were initially trapped in an insulator? Half a century ago, Philip Anderson suggested that the answer lies in a special quantum dance of particles.

The uranium-arsenic crystal UAs2 under pressure behaves like a house with two rooms. In one room, electrons sit still; in the other, they roam freely. Under normal conditions, it's a classic "lattice Kondo" system: heavy, almost immobile electrons on 5f5/2 orbitals are surrounded by a sea of fast conduction electrons.

Lossless current is the dream of energy technology. Some materials become superconductors, but usually only at extreme cold. Recently, in the family of nickelates, compounds based on nickel, candidates were found that work at higher temperatures.

In superconductors, electrons pair up and flow without resistance. Usually, these pairs are distributed uniformly, like water in a calm lake. But sometimes ripples appear in the material — pairs bunch up and thin out with a certain period. This state is called superconductivity with pair-density waves.

A pot of extremely thick and hot glue: that's roughly what the early Universe looked like. It wasn't ordinary glue, but a 'gluon soup': particles carrying the strong force (gluons) zipped freely through space. The temperature was so high that even quarks and gluons didn't stick together into protons and neutrons. Over time, the Universe cooled.

Honeycombs filled with electronic 'honey.' In the normal state, electrons move chaotically, but upon strong cooling they can pair up: this is how superconductivity emerges. The shape of these pairs, or pairing symmetry, determines the material's properties: some dance a waltz, others a foxtrot.

A piece of metal is cooled to minus two hundred degrees, and electric current begins to flow through it without the slightest friction, like water in a pipe flowing without touching the walls. This behavior is called superconductivity.

A thin film of a special crystal (for instance, molybdenum disulfide) sits on a microscope stage. The temperature is just above the point where the material becomes a superconductor.

Dim the lights. The stage belongs to a shadow theater, with just r puppeteers, but the screen obeys the laws of hyperbolic geometry. Every wave of the hand births a pattern that mathematicians call a discrete group of isometries.

Superconductivity and magnetic field are age-old foes: the field barges in like a whirlwind, tearing apart the delicate pairing of Cooper pairs, destroying order.

Imagine a skyscraper assembled not from individual bricks but from entire studio apartments. That's exactly how the Au₆Te₁₂Se₈ crystal is built: its nodes are not atoms but superatomic clusters of gold and chalcogens that behave as single quantum objects.

A sheet of rubber is squeezed from two sides. At first glance, it's just deformation. But inside, deep within the material, a hidden order awakens. This is not just wrinkles on the surface. It's the birth of special zones where vibrations become trapped, as if in a cage. Previously, it was thought that such effects require intricate lattices and periodic structures.

In a long corridor, a crowd of people tries to keep as far apart as possible. In a spacious hall, they would simply spread out, but here the walls squeeze them so tightly that they have to move single file, coordinating every step. Electrons in graphene layers twisted by a tiny angle behave in a similar way.

In a pool, water usually spreads in circles from a thrown stone. But if you direct the flow strictly along the rim, it will run only along the edge. Something similar has been noticed in pieces of the superconducting crystal FeTe0.55Se0.45.

Usually, superconductivity is a story about cold. The lower the temperature, the easier it is for electrons to pair up and flow without resistance. But in a new study, physicists grew thin films of nickelates doped with europium and saw the opposite picture.

A thin film of yttrium barium copper oxide warms under a stream of infrared light, and suddenly stops dissipating energy. That's superconductivity: electrons pair up and move as a single quantum swarm. But in underdoped samples, the harmony breaks long before the pairs fall apart. The pairs are there, but the collective rhythm isn't.

In some materials, electric current can flow without any loss: this is superconductivity. But before becoming a superconductor, a substance often passes through a strange state: electrons already sense each other and form pairs, yet they cannot move in unison.

Using laser spectroscopy — a method akin to listening to the echo from a crystal — physicists examined the layered material. They found regions where electrons move freely (Fermi pockets) and noticed that each such region behaves in its own way.

A long, narrow pan, and a thin pancake sets in uneven stripes. For decades, scientists saw a similar picture when modeling the behavior of electrons in superconductors — materials that conduct electricity without loss. They used elongated "cylinders," and the result was always the same: rigid magnetic "stripes" that were thought to hinder superconductivity.

Imagine a sandwich where the bread is made of copper oxide layers and the filling is a thin layer of strontium ions. That's the infinite-layer cuprate, the simplest version of superconducting ceramics, conceived nearly 40 years ago.

A rubber band that gets thicker the harder you pull it. In electricity, this behavior is called negative capacitance: the more charge accumulates on the plates, the lower the voltage. A regular capacitor works the opposite way — voltage rises with charge.

A crowd of people who can move freely but suddenly start acting as one: that's how a superconductor carries current without resistance.

A bridge made of two rows of planks bends under the feet of pedestrians, and each step gets a boost from the elastic motion of the deck. A similar principle underlies superconductivity: electrons glide without resistance because the atomic lattice itself adapts to them. In nickel-based materials, this picture has long been elusive.

A superconductor does not let a magnetic field penetrate its interior. But if the field is strong enough, it does get in — not as a continuous flux, but as individual vortex filaments, like tiny tornadoes. Inside each filament, superconductivity is destroyed, and around it flows a persistent current.

A fabric that stretches lengthwise but not crosswise. That's roughly how a semi-Dirac material works: electrons can move freely in one direction but barely budge in the other. Because of this unusual anisotropy, special tracks, one-dimensional channels, emerge at the edges of the two-dimensional crystal. Electrons race along them only along the perimeter, like water in a trough.

Ordinary magnetic measurements only see the surface of a superconductor, where barriers and viscous flows of magnetic field get in the way. Inside, in the so-called intermediate state, superconducting and normal domains coexist, separated by thin walls. These walls can oscillate, but hearing them directly has been difficult.

The dance floor is packed with people, each moving on their own. Suddenly, some of them break into pairs (spinning around, barely noticing their neighbors) while the rest line up in chains. That's roughly how atoms behave in the metal CsCr₃Sb₅, a member of the kagome metals, whose crystal lattice resembles a woven basket.

Picture a packed bus where every passenger is an electron. In a superconductor, passengers pair up and move in sync, losing no energy. But in high-temperature superconductors like cuprates, this idyll only works when extra passengers are added. If you drop some off, the pairs start acting strangely.

A superconductor is a material that, when strongly cooled, loses its electrical resistance: current flows through it without losses. Scientists took a layered crystal of PdTe2, similar to a stack of sheets of paper, and cooled it to temperatures below 1.8 kelvin (that's about -271°C).

A struck tuning fork fades: its vibrations leak into the air. But there are systems where the oscillation does not decay, even though there are plenty of free waves around, ready to carry energy away. Physicists call such 'captured' states bound states in the continuum (BIC).

A copper crystal is squeezed in diamond anvil cells. As pressure mounts, a battle unfolds inside the material between two states: one prepares electrons for superconductivity, the other hinders their pairing. Scientists tracked this struggle using ultrashort laser pulses.

Water in a kettle, as it boils, clearly separates into liquid and steam. But under enormous pressure, the boundary vanishes: the substance enters a supercritical state — neither one nor the other, but something in between. Black holes can do this too.

An alloy of palladium and tellurium with a small amount of gold added behaves like a wire that loses its resistance when cooled. At ambient pressure, the three samples with different gold contents had superconducting transition temperatures of 2.7, 4.1, and 4.6 kelvin — colder than a freezer, roughly like deep space.

In a crystal lattice that resembles a woven basket, electrons sometimes pair up and flow without resistance. Such a material, a superconductor based on a kagome lattice, behaves like a temperamental orchestra: add a bit of titanium, and the conductor's baton switches from one order to another.