Disordered Systems cond-mat.dis-nn

Five superconducting qubits on a chip: the stage for a performance of quantum chaos. Four qubits form the system, and the fifth acts as the environment, introducing dissipation. After a short evolution, the environment is discarded, leaving the system with an open quantum map, an operator that transforms the system's state.

In 1867, James Clerk Maxwell imagined a demon that sorts gas molecules and thereby violates the second law of thermodynamics. The demon needs to know the speeds of the particles. In the quantum world, a similar task arises: keep entanglement from growing like an avalanche, but you cannot observe the entire system.

In 1963, a Tanzanian schoolboy named Erasto Mpemba noticed that hot ice cream freezes faster than cold. That paradox, named after him, long remained a subject of debate in classical thermodynamics. Now the quantum world offers its own version: a state with more strongly broken symmetry can recover it faster than a less broken one.

Time crystals pulse in time, like a perpetual metronome that never needs winding. The idea was proposed by Frank Wilczek almost ten years ago. Previously, to keep such a metronome from losing its beat, disorder was deliberately introduced into the system — a paradox, but chaos helped the rhythm.

Quantum particles in a strongly disordered environment behave like dancers executing steps in sync: each knows its own move and never collides with others. This kind of coordinated, frictionless flow, superfluidity, unexpectedly emerged in an experiment on a superconducting quantum chip.

Pour a handful of dry sand: it will spread into a neat cone. Now grab a box of star-shaped pasta: the pile will stand almost vertical. Why? It's all about particle shape. Physicists built cylindrical piles from particles of different geometries — from smooth spheres to 'polypods' with several arms, like a sea star.

In disordered materials, such as organic semiconductors or inks made from two-dimensional materials, electrons don't move smoothly like water through a pipe. Instead, they hop from one spot to another, like a ball bouncing across a rough surface. This kind of motion is called hopping transport.

Ice cubes in a glass melt, and the water mixes on its own. Many quantum systems behave this way: particles exchange energy, and after a while, order disappears. But if you add a spoonful of honey to the glass, mixing slows down, and in intense cold, the water freezes into glass — without a crystal lattice, but also without flow.

The 'hot freezes faster' rule is familiar to many from water freezing outside, but in the quantum world a similar trick helps a system settle down quicker. Imagine a chain where jumps in one direction are easier than in the other. The particle gets stuck at the edge, like a car in a traffic jam on a one-way street, and energy dissipation is slow.

Toss a handful of pebbles into a stream: some settle on the bottom, others get swept around. That's roughly how waves behave in a disordered medium — light in frosted glass, sound in porous material. Usually, disorder slows things down: the wave gets stuck, spreads out, loses direction. But in a new study, physicists built an acoustic lattice where things work differently.

A crystal that inside resembles a sponge with a labyrinth of pores turns out to be capable of performing computations. The material, named DUT-8, consists of metal nodes and organic linkers forming an intricate lattice. Under the influence of different gases, this lattice slightly changes shape, like a house of cards that rearranges with a gentle breath.

Thick honey spreads slowly across a plate. In such a world, where friction suppresses inertia, motion is governed not by force but by viscosity. This is how many soft materials behave: polymer gels, colloidal suspensions, the contents of living cells.

Neurons in the brain and nodes in artificial neural networks don't just fire with simple yes/no signals; they also handle smoothly varying quantities, like where an object is and how big it is. But neural responses are finicky: the same stimulus triggers slightly different bursts of activity each time.

An ice cube in tea melts without a trace. Similarly, quantum systems usually quickly forget their past. But under strong disorder, many-body localization emerges — particles seem to freeze, preserving memory. The experiment on IBM's 144-qubit processor lasted 5000 cycles.

A handful of sand on a table is just a pile. But if you shake the grains just right, the pile starts behaving like a memory: it remembers which motion follows which. In the new experiment, particles were moved cyclically, and after training, they reproduced the desired pattern even without a full command. The secret lies in the contacts between particles.

A neuron in the brain is like a person handing out business cards at a crowded conference. At first, making acquaintances is easy, but as the address book fills up, each new contact requires more effort: there's little room left. The authors based their model on this 'crowding' rule: the more incoming connections a neuron already has, the harder it is to form another one.

A Network That Decides When to Stop A crowd grows: each new person joins the group with a probability that depends on how large the group already is. If the group is small, joining is easy; if it is huge, people start to hesitate, and growth slows down. This mechanism, called feedback, changes the entire behavior of the network.

A thin film is like a taut sheet: the thinner it is, the harder it is to push through. Scientists have noticed that films made of very different materials (graphene, graphene oxide, polymers) resist projectile penetration surprisingly well under high-speed impact. And the thinner the film, the more energy it absorbs per unit mass.

Magnetic materials can sometimes behave like a group of people who just can't agree: some bonds between atoms pull one way, others the opposite. When such conflicts pile up, the system becomes 'frustrated'—it can't settle into a single state of rest.

A neural network learning something new is like a traveler in mountainous terrain. Each piece of learned knowledge is a depression in the landscape into which the traveler rolls and gets stuck. To escape and reach a new basin, energy is needed. But as the traveler gains experience, the walls of their pit become steeper, and each subsequent climb requires more effort.

A pebble drops into a pond, and neat circles spread across the water. But the pond's bottom is strewn with invisible glass shards: each one slightly delays the wave, scatters it here, or alters its pace. That's roughly how gravitational waves, the trembling of space itself, pass through distant galaxies and dark clumps of matter.

Imagine a city where streets are not straight but winding, with dead ends and hidden passages. A bike courier will take much longer to deliver a package than in a city with a regular grid of roads. Similarly, molecules inside living tissue: their path depends on how "tangled" the tissue structure is. Scientists built a model that describes the movement of molecules in such a "tangled" environment.

An orchestra where each musician plays their own part but hears only the neighbor. One wrong note, and a wave of errors rolls through the hall. That's how Ising machines work — special devices for solving problems where you need to find the best option among many.

Tiny magnets on a lattice, the classic Ising model, are usually described by how neighbors influence each other. But what happens when the system is closely watched? Each measurement of a coupling energy is like a gaze that forces the magnets to 'decide' their state.

A magnetic film just tens of atoms thick stores information in tiny magnetic vortices. But you can't look inside and see these vortices directly: the instrument only senses the weak magnetic field around the film. Reconstructing the magnetization pattern from such a field is like guessing the shape of an invisible relief from its shadow on a wall.

On the table sits a glass of water. For each molecule, all directions are equivalent: it doesn't distinguish north from south. That's symmetry. But if you freeze the water, the molecules align into an ice lattice, and symmetry breaks: a preferred direction emerges. The quantum world breaks symmetry more cunningly. The glass freezes, yet each molecule still tumbles randomly.

If you check where an electron is every second, its quantum properties change. It's like a child playing hide-and-seek but constantly being called by name: they freeze and stop running. In the particle world, such a "caller" is a measurement. It prevents particles from freely forming a shared quantum state, or entanglement.

An X-ray tomograph is like a carpenter who examines a log from all sides to see where the void is inside. It takes dozens of flat shadow images, rotating the source and detector around the object. Then a 'reconstruction' program glues these shadows into a 3D model. The quickest reconstructor is the FBP algorithm (filtered back projection).

A crystal is like a row of soldiers on a parade ground: every atom is in its place, and electrons march through it in neat waves. An amorphous material is like a crowd at a train station, where there is no order, just a jostling throng. In such a crowd, an electron usually gets stuck quickly, like a person trying to push through a dense mass of people.

A person hunting for keys mentally runs through places where they might be. A bird that tucked hundreds of seeds into crevices in autumn retrieves them flawlessly in winter. How can a brain hold so many addresses when all birds have roughly the same number of neurons? The answer lies in geometry.

Spacetime is often pictured as a smooth fabric. But at the very microscopic level, this fabric might not be continuous; instead, it could consist of individual 'atoms'—events linked by causality. This picture of the world is called causal set theory.

Physicists have achieved three-dimensional Anderson localization of electromagnetic waves — a phenomenon where waves become permanently entangled in a random labyrinth of metal particles and cease to propagate.

A neural network, like a sheet of graph paper, receives homogeneous signals at its input, and draws its own coordinate grid. Initially, connections between inputs and network cells form a gentle hill: the response is strongest at the center and fades toward the edges.

In 1958, Philip Anderson showed that strong disorder can stop a wave. Since then, physicists have discovered that between complete stoppage and free travel there are intermediate regimes. A particle can not only stand still or fly, but also jitter in place, pulse, or combine several types of motion at once.

Generative neural networks that create images typically rely on digital randomness. But a team of researchers built a system where randomness is born not in code, but in a tiny optical cavity filled with an organic dye.

Toss a handful of phosphorus into silicon, and at a certain impurity concentration the material suddenly starts conducting electricity. This is a metal-insulator phase transition, and it happens abruptly. But what exactly changes in the electron wave functions when an insulator becomes a metal?

Light or sound can be confined in a tiny region of a crystal, like a pearl in a shell. Usually, two methods are used. The first is like a heavy ball in a pit: a particle with large mass simply cannot roll out. The second is a perfect cage of mirrors, where waves cancel each other everywhere except in the trap itself.

Why do some systems, from gene networks to air travel, preserve imprints of the past longer than others? For a long time, network science blamed topology: the number of connections, modularity, spectrum. But two networks with the same skeleton can remember and forget in completely different ways.

In the mid-20th century, physicists noticed something odd: the energy levels of complex atomic nuclei behaved like lottery balls — completely unpredictable. Since then, the search for such hidden chaos in the microworld has never stopped. Until recently, it was thought that chaos only appeared in systems that are constantly pushed, like a blender.

Graphene, a two-dimensional carbon crystal, has long tantalized physicists with the hope of high-temperature superconductivity. Its electrons obey the relativistic equation of Paul Dirac, racing at tremendous speed, barely noticing each other.