Archaeopteryx is an icon of evolution and is often called the first bird. Scientists have long debated just how it took off from the ground but a recent study published by my colleagues and I has brought new insights to the mystery.

Our study compared Archaeopteryx with the anatomy of modern birds, and our findings suggest it generated the force needed to take off by taking several jumps forwards.

Archaeopteryx, a fossil uncovered from the Jurassic rocks of Germany, dates back 150 million years. It was covered in feathers and it had wings. But it retained a number of distinctly dinosaur features such as a long bony tail, claws on separate fingers and teeth in a beakless jaw.

Charles Darwin predicted, in the first edition of On the Origin of Species published in 1859, that fossils would later be found linking major groups of animals. A year after publication a feather, and within two years, an entire skeleton of Archaeopteryx had been discovered, showing clear links between birds and the dinosaurs. Archaeopteryx is one of those transitional forms that links one group to another.

The “first bird” was not perfectly developed, as birds have evolved to be today. We would not expect them to be. It had relatively weak flight muscles, with no keeled sternum for strong muscle attachment, and could not have raised its wings above the horizontal.

Rather than call it the first bird, it is better to describe it as the earliest branching species, yet known, on the lineage of birds after the whole bird group split from non-avian dinosaurs some time more than 150 million years ago.

In 2016 my friend Colin Palmer asked a colleague, Markus Heller (professor of biomechanics) and me to join him in exploring a tricky problem: how did early birds slip the bonds of Earth and take to the sky?

Palmer had been working on the flying cousins of dinosaurs, the pterosaurs for over a decade, and also a peculiar (although now one among several known) four-winged, feathered and flying dinosaur called Microraptor. However, pterosaurs are not dinosaurs and Microraptor is a dinosaur closer to Velociraptor (small meat-eating dinosaurs) than to birds.

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Read more: How ancient flying reptiles ruled the skies – new research

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There have been a number of suggested mechanisms for the evolution of flight and takeoff, quite literally from the ground up, or the trees down, to flapping while running to climb a slope. The problem is that these are difficult to test experimentally. So we turned instead to the best example of takeoff there is: birds themselves.

Palmer had already filmed a number of birds, out of curiosity. As some other scientists had observed, but had never followed up, Palmer saw that they all showed the same sort of pre-takeoff behaviour. Two leg jumping. The wings appeared to do little in getting the bird off the ground, and this opened up some possibilities for research into the earliest of birds.

The ancestors of birds, the theropod dinosaurs, had powerful legs. They could definitely jump, and jumping could provide an important evolutionary advantage. Being able to get out of the way of a hunter, and maybe adding in a flap of your feathered arms to extend your leap, might just save your life.

The first bit of this research, which we carried out with then undergraduate student Erik Meilak, was developing a means to see how much force the hindlimbs of birds generate in getting off the ground. We used a force plate (a modified kitchen scale) and a Raspberry Pi computer controlling some high-speed photography, along with CT scanning of the skeleton to see exactly how bones were articulated. We worked out how magpies got off the ground. They used their legs as the primary generator.

This undergraduate summer project became a fully-fledged PhD project, with Meilak looking at several birds such as starlings and crows. We worked with evolutionary biologist Pauline Provini in Paris who had done work with doves and finches, demonstrating how all of these birds used their legs in takeoff.

And with detailed kinematics, all of the forces and moments generated by the muscles around the hindlimb joints, we fitted the model to Archaeopteryx and looked to see if the first bird could get into the air in a similar way to modern birds.

Archaeopteryx is by definition 150 million years behind the “leaps” of modern birds, and couldn’t take off as we had observed modern birds do when startled, explosively, with a single jump and then add flapping into the sky. Archaeopteryx couldn’t do that, and as I said couldn’t rely on its wings for powerful flaps. So we had asked what its legs could do. And like birds today, when taking off more leisurely, we demonstrated that Archaeopteryx could have got into the air with two leg leaps. Archaeopteryx could have used three jumps increasing in velocity, and once airborne its flapping wings could have maintained a flight speed of 7 metres per second.

However, if Archaeopteryx had added in a flap, it would have got to that speed – jump-flap-jump – with just two leaps. And all this without the highly evolved and flight-adapted anatomy of pigeons, crows, hawks and even chickens.

In the future we may find a fossil that is still a bird rather than a non-avian dinosaur, but is less, well, “birdy” than Archaeopteryx, and then that would become the earliest branching taxon. But we haven’t yet. So Archaeopteryx still sits on its perch as the first bird that we know of.

Neil J. Gostling is an Associate Professor in the School of Biological Sciences at The University of Southampton. The work described here was funded by the Natural Environment Research Council (grant number NE/L002531/1).

If you’re thinking about moving house or just feeling nosy about your neighbours, your first port of call may be an online property marketing site: Rightmove and Zoopla in the UK, Zillow in the US or Magic Bricks in India.

They offer 3D plans of their properties and a video walkthrough, sometimes with added interactive tools. It all seems very modern – yet it turns out, at least one pioneering London estate agent was offering its clients 3D visual walkthroughs long before the advent of commercial photography.

In the UK, estate agents came into being as a specialised profession in the mid-19th century, as rapid urbanisation and greater social and geographic mobility led to a dramatic increase in the demand for housing.

But in this pre-photography era, how did the Victorian era’s newly monied see what they could buy with their gains from trade or industry? One high-end London estate agent, Brooks & Green, came up with a novel answer.

In 1838, the year of Queen Victoria’s coronation, this Old Bond Street estate agent began advertising an early form of immersive visual technology called a “cosmorama”, to offer prospective buyers a virtual tour of the properties it was selling.

A cosmorama involved looking at paintings or artists’ prints through a large convex lens, which magnified the image and enhanced the perspectival depth, creating a basic 3D effect.

A blackened square frame between the lens and picture hid the edges – enhancing the viewer’s sense of looking at a large scene through an extended opening. Clever lighting effects further enhanced the depth and immersive effects.

To create this cosmoramic view, a skilled artist would have had to visit the estate to prepare the sketches. For 20 years, Brooks & Green promoted its “cosmoramic gallery” as a proto-version of a digital walkthrough. This was nearly 50 years before photography was widely used to advertise property.

The estate agent advertised heavily in the London press. An 1842 advert claimed its office property gallery included “several hundred views of different estates”. Prospective buyers of one property were promised an “aerial perspective, the site and architectural elevation of a mansion, the local scenery and features of a park [and] ornamental grounds”.

The viewing experience of the cosmorama supposedly offered much more realism and detail than a written prospectus – without rich London buyers having to travel miles to inspect the property in question.

But this service was definitely not available to ordinary families. Only high-value mansions and estates were valuable enough to be visualised in this way. Entrance to the Brooks & Green gallery was supposedly free, but you needed an admission card – probably granted only to those who looked like they had suitably deep pockets.

Exhibits around the world

For the first half of the 19th century, the cosmorama was one of the most common forms of visual show across Europe and the Americas. It was first revealed at a Paris exhibition in 1808 by the French showman Abbot Constant Gazzera. His success led to many more exhibitions throughout Europe during the 1820s and ‘30s.

In London, the Cosmorama Rooms opened in 1821 at 29 St James’s Street, moving to Regent Street in 1823. The gallery became one of the established London attractions for over 30 years. With Regent Street only a mile from Old Bond Street, it may have prompted an ambitious Brooks & Green employee to have the idea of using this innovation to market its property.

Also shown across Europe in pleasure gardens, popular science institutions, retail bazaars and fairgrounds, the cosmorama was successful because urbanisation and population growth had created a critical mass of middle-class audiences. It offered a new kind of immersive visual exhibition, reaching audiences who would never visit a fine-art gallery.

Cosmorama means “views of the world” in Greek. It was mainly used to display picturesque landscapes, renowned European sites and striking architectural interiors – such as the eruption of Mount Vesuvius, the canals of Venice or the interior of Saint Peter’s Basilica in Rome. The interest in this device reflected the public’s growing desire to be cultivated, and to learn about the wonders of the wider world.

Fascination with 3D worlds

But the cosmorama is just part of the story of immersive pictorial entertainment from the early 19th century. Other popular technologies included peepshows, panoramas and dioramas, all of which offered users a sense of virtual travel.

Panoramas were large circular paintings – the Imax cinema of the age – and dioramas were illusionistic spectacles created from 3D models. At the same time, itinerant exhibitors of peepshow boxes travelled the country’s fairgrounds displaying scenes of national events and sensational murders. Picturegoing had become part of everyday life.

I came across the Brooks & Green adverts for its cosmorama in my research for a historical project led by the Universidade Lusófona in Lisbon, which has mapped cosmorama exhibits across Europe and beyond. In all, Curiositas: Peeping Before Virtual Reality has catalogued more than 650 cosmoramas in Portugal, Spain and the UK.

Many more of these devices were exhibited in countries as far apart as North America, Brazil, Cuba and Australia. The famous US showman P.T. Barnum installed a cosmoramic gallery in his American Museum in New York.

The cosmorama was ultimately superseded by the stereoscope, which also created a 3D photographic experience by looking through lenses. Thus, the cosmorama was an early part of the story of our fascination with virtual worlds – of being taken outside and beyond ourselves, and immersed in another environment.

John Plunkett does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment. He is the co-author of Popular Visual Shows 1800-1914: Picturegoing from Peep Shows to Film (Oxford University Press, 2025)

Scientists have crossed an important line in biological engineering. In a recent study, researchers used artificial intelligence to design complete sets of genetic instructions for bacteriophages, viruses that infect bacteria. Some of those computer-generated designs produced working viruses when they were built and tested in the laboratory.

These viruses were designed to infect bacteria rather than people. The researchers worked with bacteriophages that target E. coli, and one of the AI models they used, Evo 2, was developed with safety restrictions. Its developers excluded viruses that infect organisms such as animals, plants and humans from the data used to train it.

Even so, the experiment raises an important question: if AI becomes increasingly able to help design biological systems, are our safeguards developing fast enough?

As engineers working in vaccine manufacturing and public health security, we see good reasons to continue this research. Bacteriophages could potentially be used to treat bacterial infections, including those that are becoming harder to treat with antibiotics. But advances in biological design also create new challenges for biosecurity.

Genome language models work in a broadly similar way to AI language models that learn patterns in text. Instead of learning from words and sentences, they learn patterns in genetic code. Evo 2, for example, was trained on trillions of DNA building blocks taken from many different forms of life.

This gives researchers a powerful new way to study biology and generate possible DNA sequences. It also means that part of biological design can now happen on a computer, before anything has been made in a laboratory.

An AI-generated DNA sequence is still several steps away from becoming a real biological threat. A digital design has to be turned into physical genetic material, assembled correctly and tested under the right laboratory conditions. Each of those stages also creates an opportunity to reduce risk.

One safeguard can be built into the AI model itself. The developers of Evo 2 deliberately removed viruses that infect humans and other similar organisms from its training data for safety reasons. Their research found that the model performed poorly when tested on proteins from viruses that infect humans.

Such precautions will need to be tested and strengthened as AI tools for biology become more capable. Researchers have already argued that AI and biosecurity need to be considered together, so that safeguards develop alongside new capabilities.

Another checkpoint comes when digital DNA is turned into physical DNA. Companies that manufacture DNA to order can check both the requested genetic sequence and the person or organisation ordering it for potential security concerns. Researchers working on DNA synthesis screening have argued for common international approaches as this technology becomes more widely available.

Screening may also need to become more sophisticated. A system designed mainly to recognise DNA that resembles known dangerous pathogens may struggle if AI produces something genuinely new. Recent research on identifying “sequences of concern” has therefore considered what a genetic sequence might do, as well as whether it resembles one already linked to a dangerous organism.

Laboratories and research institutions provide another layer of protection. Potentially risky research can be assessed before experiments begin, including questions about how biological material will be contained, who will have access to it and whether the expected benefits justify the risks.

Research funders can also influence how security risks are managed. UK Research and Innovation (UKRI), for example, has established a Trusted Research and Innovation team to help researchers and institutions identify and manage security risks in collaborative research.

Public health preparedness belongs in this discussion too. If biological design becomes faster and more accessible, health authorities will need to be able to detect and investigate unusual outbreaks quickly. The Metagenomics Surveillance Collaboration and Analysis Programme (mSCAPE), led by the UK Health Security Agency, analyses genetic material from samples to help detect and track emerging pathogens.

The programme is not specifically designed to find AI-created viruses. But its approach is relevant because scientists do not have to know exactly which pathogen they are looking for in advance. Systems capable of detecting unusual or previously unseen organisms could become increasingly valuable as biological technologies develop. Preparedness also means being able to develop diagnostic tests, treatments and vaccines quickly when a new threat appears.

In our view, one of the biggest weaknesses in global biosecurity is that countries are not equally prepared. Some already have established systems for identifying and responding to biological risks, while others are still developing them. We see a similar gap in vaccine regulation, where countries vary considerably in their ability to assess new products. Biological threats can cross borders, so effective preparedness will depend on strengthening these capabilities internationally.

There are difficult trade-offs. Heavy restrictions can slow useful research, including work aimed at understanding disease or developing treatments. Weak safeguards can allow scientific capability to develop faster than the systems intended to prevent misuse.

Open science makes this harder. Evo 2 was released openly, including the code and technical information needed for other researchers to use and develop it. Openness can accelerate discovery and widen access to powerful research tools. But once such tools are widely distributed, controlling how they are used becomes harder.

No single safeguard can deal with all of these risks. Biosecurity will need to operate at several stages, from how biological AI models are developed and released to DNA screening, laboratory oversight and public health preparedness.

The recent bacteriophage study does not show that AI can design a pandemic virus. What it shows is significant enough: AI can already help design complete viral genomes that work when they are physically created.

We have an opportunity to decide what responsible safeguards should look like while this technology is still developing. Waiting for more dangerous capabilities to emerge would leave scientists, governments and public health systems trying to develop protections after they are already needed.

AI is beginning to change what humans can design in biology. Our ability to govern that power needs to develop alongside it.

Tuck Seng Wong receives funding from Department of Health and Social Care (DHSC), UK Research and Innovation (UKRI), and Foreign, Commonwealth & Development Office (FCDO).

Kang Lan Tee receives funding from Department of Health and Social Care (DHSC), UK Research and Innovation (UKRI), and Foreign, Commonwealth & Development Office (FCDO).

Most people set out in life wanting to believe the world is fair. They expect people to wait their turn in queues, to be treated equally in their job, and to be rewarded for hard work. These expectations influence how they understand the world around them, and shape their responses to it.

But what happens when life repeatedly challenges those assumptions? Psychologists have long been interested in this question. Our new research, published in the British Journal of Psychology, suggests adverse experiences shape both how fair people believe the world is, and how they view their place in society.

Over the course of a lifetime, personal setbacks – from illness and bereavement to being a victim of crime – may have a cumulative effect, leading to a growing sense that the world is unfair. We think this is important in the context of today’s increasingly polarised societies, in which trust in institutions has declined severely in the UK and many other countries.

Adversity and unfairness

Our research set out to answer two key questions: do experiences of adversity influence whether people see the world as fundamentally unfair – and if so, what are the societal consequences? We conducted three surveys involving more than 1,200 British participants with an equal gender split and average age of 39.

In one study, we found that people who reported experiencing more lifetime adversity – including illness, bereavement, financial hardship and violence – were more likely to believe the world was unfair.

In another, we compared people who had experienced violent victimisation with those who had not. After accounting for demographic factors, people who had experienced violent crime reported stronger perceptions of injustice.

Our final study found that greater lifetime adversity was associated with lower trust in institutions through perceptions of injustice. This is important because trust underpins many aspects of society, from confidence in public institutions to democratic participation.

Together, these findings suggest that people don’t simply interpret information based on the facts available to them. They also interpret it through the lens of their previous experiences.

Two people can read the same news story, watch the same political debate or hear the same public health advice, yet come away with very different conclusions that may not simply reflect differences in knowledge or politics. It may also reflect differences in how they have come to see the world as a result of the hardships they have faced.

Furthermore, if someone increasingly believes that the world is unfair, they may be more likely to notice fresh examples of perceived injustice, corruption or hidden motives – and interpret new events through that lens.

Belief in conspiracy theories

Previous research has shown that people who feel uncertain, powerless or threatened are often more likely to endorse conspiracy theories. Most of this work, however, has focused on their identities, traits and beliefs.

In our investigation of the impact of adverse life experiences on people, we found a remarkably consistent pattern. When these hardships are associated with stronger perceptions of injustice in the world, the same people more strongly endorse conspiracy beliefs.

Conspiracy theories rarely describe events as random. Instead, they tend to suggest that powerful individuals or organisations are secretly responsible for what happens. They offer explanations that identify intentional causes behind events that might otherwise seem confusing or unjust.

Research suggests that across societies, the level of belief in conspiracy theories is relatively stable over time. But once these beliefs become part of how someone understands the world, they can be difficult to shift.

This makes it all the more important to understand the experiences and psychological processes that may contribute to these worldviews developing in the first place. Our findings suggest that perceptions of injustice are one such pathway.

For someone who increasingly feels the world is unfair, conspiracy theories may become more psychologically appealing – providing a way of making sense of experiences that otherwise feel difficult to understand.

Our research does not suggest that adversity inevitably leads to conspiracy beliefs; nor that conspiracy theories are an inevitable consequence of trauma. Rather, it highlights a long-term psychological process that may help explain why some people become more receptive to these ideas.

In an increasingly polarised world, the media and political focus is often concentrated on what information people consume. But our research suggests we should pay more attention to the experiences that shape the lens through which people interpret information. This could help explain why people can look at the same events and reach very different conclusions.

Ultimately, people’s experiences don’t just affect them in the moment. They shape their worldview – which can influence how they interpret and respond to events and other people’s behaviour far into the future.

So, we believe any effort to reach greater consensus in society may require a deeper understanding of the hardships people have lived through over the course of their lives – and how these can affect their sense of injustice.

Daniel Jolley has received funding from the Leverhulme Trust, the British Academy, and the Engineering and Physical Sciences Research Council (EPSRC). The studies mentioned in this piece were funded by the British Academy/Leverhulme Small Research Grants Scheme (SRG23/230720) and carried out in collaboration between Daniel Jolley, Laura Blackie, and research assistant Anna Maughan.

Laura Blackie has received funding from the British Academy.

The first time I saw it, I wasn’t quite sure what I was looking at. A northern white-cheeked gibbon at Shanghai Zoo was holding and caressing a mouse that had wandered into its enclosure. It wasn’t trying to eat it or chase it away. Instead, the gibbon treated the tiny rodent with remarkable gentleness. I couldn’t stop wondering why.

Years later, while studying wild black-and-white snub-nosed monkeys in the mountains of south-west China, I watched playful juveniles repeatedly trying to climb onto the backs of domestic pigs. Again, these weren’t the kinds of interactions I expected to see between different species.

A new study my colleagues and I conducted brings together 427 documented cases of primates interacting with other species, spanning several decades from the 1970s to 2025. Our findings reveal that these encounters are far more widespread than scientists had realised.

Over the years, I had begun collecting reports of similar encounters from scientific journals, photographs, videos and observations shared by other primatologists. What initially seemed like a handful of quirky anecdotes gradually turned into a much broader pattern. These interactions appeared to represent a surprisingly widespread aspect of primate behaviour.

This behaviour may shed light on one of the defining features of our own species: our extraordinary relationships with other animals.

I’ve long been interested in how tolerance evolves, not only between members of the same species but also between strangers more generally. Humans are unusual in the degree to which we cooperate with unrelated people. We are perhaps even more unusual in the close relationships we form with other animals.

Scientists have long known that different animal species often associate with one another. Monkeys, for example, can improve their predator detection or increase foraging opportunities when they move around as a mixed-species group. Another example is how birds frequently follow monkeys through forests to feed on insects disturbed by their movements.

But our study focused on social interactions.

The cases we reviewed involved 88 primate species and their interactions with 127 other animal species. The diversity of these species was astonishing. It included mammals such as sheep, tapir, deer, domestic pigs, cats and dogs, as well as owls, lizards, toads and even insects.

The most common behaviour was play and grooming. But we also found reports of primates carrying, huddling and sharing food with and occasionally adopting members of another species. Most interactions were initiated by the primates themselves.

One of my favourite examples is the now well-known case of Japanese macaques grooming and riding on the backs of sika deer. It remains a remarkable example of two very different species repeatedly interacting peacefully over long periods.

I was also fascinated by some of the less familiar observations, such as a langur attentively stroking a squirrel, a silverback gorilla carefully cradling a tiny wild bushbaby, a bonobo gently holding a mongoose pup and macaques grooming stray dogs.

Many of these interactions may provide benefits similar to those seen within species. Grooming can help remove parasites, improve hygiene and reinforce social bonds. Play contributes to the development of motor coordination, social skills and cognitive flexibility.

Some interactions happen where primates and other animals spend time together because of shared foraging opportunities or protection from predators. For example, tropical primates form associations with other primate species and jointly forage in the tree canopy. In these cases, social interactions, such as grooming or play, may simply emerge from repeated contact and social familiarity.

Yet not all observations fit this pattern. Why would a langur stroke a squirrel, or macaques groom stray dogs? Such interactions suggest that primates may possess a broader capacity for social flexibility, curiosity and tolerance towards other species than researchers previously appreciated.

We also found consistent patterns in who interacted. Young primates were much more likely to play with members of another species, whereas adult females were more often involved in grooming. This mirrors well-established age and sex differences in many primate societies, where juveniles spend much of their time playing and females often invest more heavily in caregiving.

It would be tempting to describe all these encounters as examples of friendship. But the reality is more complicated. Some primates carried infants of another species in ways resembling adoption or caregiving, yet rough handling or neglect sometimes resulted in injury or death. We also documented cases where primates appeared to abduct a young animal from its group, while a small number of interactions were clearly abusive, involving violence.

Most interactions were probably of relatively short duration. However, there are some reports of cases that lasted for weeks. For example, the adoption of a marmoset by a capuchin monkey.

In zoos and other human-care settings, some species appear to form long-lasting relationships with animals of other species. In 2017, a macaque living in an Israeli zoo called Niv adopted a chicken and treated it like it was her own baby.

Our study found these interactions were not more common among great apes – they occurred across all major primate lineages.

These unusual encounters are more than fascinating natural history.

As forests become increasingly fragmented and wildlife is forced into closer contact with people, livestock and domestic animals, opportunities for cross-species interactions are changing rapidly. Primates now encounter dogs, cats and other human-associated animals more often than they once did.

Some of these interactions may be benign or even beneficial. Others could increase the risk of diseases spreading between wildlife, domestic animals and humans. Understanding when and why different species tolerate one another therefore has important implications for both conservation and public health.

The findings may also help improve animal welfare. Zoos increasingly house compatible species together, and understanding which species are more likely to form positive relationships can help managers make better decisions.

Perhaps most interesting of all, our findings suggest that some of the ingredients (curiosity, tolerance, caregiving and play) underlying those relationships may have deep evolutionary roots.

Cyril Grueter does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

Have you ever heard the phrase “you only use 10% of your brain”? In reality, there is no way of measuring the percentage terms of consciousness – partly because the brain has no static baseline.

However, there is a general consensus among neuroscientists now that most of the brain’s processes are unconscious. That doesn’t mean you’re not using most of your brain though – it means there’s much more happening than you’re probably aware of.

Modern cognitive neuroscience has brought us right back to Sigmund Freud’s psychoanalytic view of the unconscious mind. This is partly because the once-thought untestable theories are gaining scientific ground.

Freud, in 1895, proposed that the unconscious mind hides sexual and aggressive wishes, in his book with his colleague Josef Breuer Studies in Hysteria. They wrote that mental health symptoms like anxiety, phobias and compulsions emerge from unresolved unconscious thoughts.

Freud’s model (conscious, preconscious, unconscious) – maps onto our current understanding of memory. Nobel laureate, neuroscientist and psychoanalyst Eric Kandell says we have declarative and non-declarative memory processes. Declarative memory recall is conscious, like trying to remember the sequence of numbers on your credit card. Non-declarative memories involve unconscious, automatic recall.

And Freud’s structural model of the mind again arguably fits in with our understanding of cognition.

Freud proposed id made up the primitive part of your psyche and that the superego stands for our moral consciousness. Last, your ego mediates between your id and super ego. His idea of the id could be equivalent to unconscious neural processes – although there are convincing arguments that pleasure processing in the id is conscious too. Ego could also be represented by metacognition (awareness of your own thought processes) which is linked to the brain’s prefrontal cortex, right behind your forehead.

The superego could be reflected in the brain’s limbic system, which regulates your emotions and behaviour, and tells you whether something feels good or not.

However, behaviourism became dominant in the 1920s, with psychologists like J.B. Watson, in his “behaviourist manifesto” championing the view that only measurable behaviour should be considered in science.

The unconscious brain is back

From the 1980s it became clearer that people’s decision making and behaviour could be influenced without their awareness.

Later, it was also clear with neuroscience experiments and brain scanners, as my team and I showed in two meta-analyses, that both unconscious memory and conscious memory play a role in brain processes. For example, neuroscientists can show study participants hidden flashes of “subliminal” happy or horrified faces and the person will have no conscious recollection of the faces. But their amygdala (the arousal region of the brain) will show increased activation, which can influence people’s decision making.

Psychologist Daniel Kahneman in his 2011 book Thinking Fast and Slow built on some of Freud’s ideas of primary and secondary processes. He proposed we have two modes of thinking where system 1 is a fast process that is impulsive and largely unconscious, whereas system 2 is a slow process that takes effort. The secondary process is reserved for when you need to pay attention to something new, dangerous or uncertain.

What neuroscience can tell us about the unconscious mind

Essential functions, like heart rate, body temperature, hunger and thirst regulation are unconsciously rooted. Similarly, coping strategies to diminish painful feelings, learned in early childhood, are not necessarily conscious. Infantile amnesia occurs until about three years old but remain in our unconscious brains for life. However, some aspects of unconscious processes could be brought into conscious awareness via talking therapy.

Other theories about how the conscious and unconscious brain areas interact, come from two prominent ideas. The Global Workspace Theory (GWT), and the Intergrated Information Theory (IIT).

GWT proposes that the mind is like a theatre stage, where the unconscious agents are busy behind the scenes making sure that the “conscious spotlight” on stage is in the right place.

IIT suggests that there are gradients of consciousness. The degree and complexity of integration between brain regions determines how “much” consciousness (“phi”) an organism has. So for example, a human with a complex network of brain regions has more “phi” than, say, a sea slug with far fewer connections. However, the problem with this theory, is how to validate the “amount” of consciousness different species have.

The founder of neuropsychoanalysis Mark Solms – along with neuroscientist and psychoanalyst Karl Friston – in 2010 pioneered a new theory integrating the idea that unconscious activity is the major force influencing our conscious decision making. In my view, it’s the best model we currently have.

This theory – called the Free Energy Principle (FEP) suggests the brain’s main role is to predict what will keep you alive and feeling good, within the predictable bounds we have evolved to survive in. Most of the time we do this unconsciously, with an internal model of the world, as well as pages of memories from our evolutionary rulebook.

But when something uncertain or surprising happens, it is like free energy in the brain that is not bound to a prediction. This causes our brains to be ultra-conscious for a brief period of time to create a new prediction that binds our thoughts, costing the brain a lot of energy. As Kahneman stated, we do sometimes need our conscious brain to help make more difficult decisions for us, when there are many unknowns.

More recently, consciousness research has started to move away from humans altogether. Solms has argued it is possible to give AI consciousness. If he turns out to be right, then according to his own work, the unconscious processes of AI entities will be shaped by their interactions with us.

Samantha Brooks does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

Millions of people will take to the roads this holiday season, only to end up spending frustrating hours sitting in traffic jams. Congestion costs drivers time, fuel and patience – while also increasing pollution and placing huge pressure on transport networks.

If you’ve ever found yourself staring enviously at the lane next to you, convinced it’s moving faster, you’re not alone. Most of us instinctively believe that changing lanes will get us home sooner. But mathematics suggests this intuition is usually wrong.

As an applied mathematician, much of my research is driven by one question: how can we predict and control the behaviour of complex systems operating under uncertainty? And this can apply as much to holiday traffic as it does to emerging quantum technologies.

We tend to think traffic jams need a trigger: an accident, roadworks or a lane closure. Yet some of the most frustrating queues have no obvious cause at all. These are known as phantom traffic jams – stop-start waves that travel backwards through traffic even though every vehicle is moving forwards.

In 2008, Japanese researchers asked 22 drivers to drive around a circular track while maintaining a constant speed and safe distance from the vehicle in front. Within minutes, tiny and unavoidable differences in braking and reaction times grew into a stop-start wave that travelled continuously around the circuit, despite there being no obstacle anywhere on the road.

The explanation is surprisingly simple. One driver brakes slightly more than necessary. The driver behind reacts a little later and brakes a little harder. The next driver does the same.

In this way, the initial tiny disturbance grows as it travels backwards until drivers hundreds of metres behind are forced to stop completely, even though nobody can identify what caused the queue in the first place.

The mathematics behind traffic

Rather than modelling every driver individually, mathematicians treat traffic as a continuous flow – borrowing ideas from fluid dynamics, where the movement of vehicles is analysed much like the flow of water through a pipe.

One of the simplest relationships in traffic flow theory is q = ρv, where q is the traffic flow (the number of vehicles passing a point each hour), ρ is the traffic density (amount of cars on the road) and v is their average speed.

This deceptively simple equation explains a counterintuitive phenomenon. Initially, adding more vehicles obviously increases the overall traffic flow, as more vehicles pass along the road.

But once the road becomes too crowded, everyone is forced to slow down. Eventually, this reduction in speed outweighs the increase in number of vehicles such that the overall flow is reduced.

The equation shows there is an optimal traffic density that maximises the number of vehicles passing through the road each hour. Beyond that point, adding more cars reduces the efficiency of the road – and increases the time it takes everyone to get to their destination.

The same mathematics explains why constantly changing lanes is rarely worthwhile.

A lane change creates a small disturbance that neighbouring drivers must react to. If many drivers behave in the same way, these disturbances accumulate and increase the likelihood of traffic waves. So, what feels like a clever decision for one driver can ultimately make conditions worse for everyone.

Can maths help reduce traffic jams?

In my research on probabilistic mathematical methods, I develop approaches that combine prediction, coordinated decision-making and feedback to keep complex systems stable, even when the available information is incomplete or “noisy” (full of extraneous data).

In traffic, the disturbances we seek to prevent are the stop-start waves that create phantom traffic jams. In other complex systems, they might be power failures, communication bottlenecks or unstable autonomous systems.

Rather than designing solutions for one specific application, applied mathematicians develop general mathematical frameworks. That’s one reason why ideas originally developed for engineering systems can also help us think differently about traffic – with each of our mathematical tools playing a different role:

1. Signal processing transforms measurements from road sensors, cameras and connected vehicles into useful information.

2. Stochastic modelling accounts for uncertainty arising from driver behaviour, weather conditions and changing traffic demand.

3. Machine learning identifies patterns in all this data, and forecasts where congestion is likely to develop.

4. Control theory then closes the loop by determining how traffic systems should respond, whether by adjusting traffic-light timings, introducing adaptive speed limits, recommending alternative routes or coordinating fleets of autonomous vehicles.

Rather than optimising the journey for one driver, the objective becomes improving the performance of the entire traffic network.

Perhaps the most striking demonstration came in 2018, when researchers repeated the Japanese circular-track experiment with one key difference. They replaced one of the human-driven vehicles with a single autonomous car, programmed to accelerate and brake smoothly.

Remarkably, that one vehicle, less than 5% of the traffic, was enough to dampen the stop-start wave around the entire circuit, improving traffic flow and reducing fuel consumption for every driver involved.

Tips for your next car journey

Traffic congestion is unlikely ever to disappear completely. Population growth, increasing travel demands and the unpredictability of human behaviour will always put pressure on our roads.

But mathematics is helping us move away from reacting to congestion, towards preventing it.

One important aspect is understanding how large networks of interacting agents can make coordinated decisions using only local information, without requiring every component to know the state of the entire system. These ideas are central to the design of intelligent transport systems, where connected vehicles and infrastructure must cooperate to improve traffic flow.

In the meantime, if you’re about to set off on holiday in your car, here are three driving tips all backed up by strong mathematical evidence. If everyone adopts them, this should reduce the time you spend in traffic queues.

• Maintain a safe following distance;

• Accelerate and brake smoothly;

• Resist the temptation to keep switching lanes in search of tiny gains.

Applied mathematics shows the fastest way to your destination isn’t to drive more aggressively. It’s to help keep the entire system stable.

Randa Herzallah have received external research funding from the Leverhulme Trust ("Control of Behavioural Dynamics"), the Engineering and Physical Sciences Research Council (EPSRC), and Isansys (ECG-derived biosignals PhD studentship, 2016–2019)

Airline passengers are being warned not to pack power banks in their hold luggage ahead of the summer holiday travel period.

Devices with rechargeable batteries, like mobile phones, laptops, tablets, and smartwatches can be plugged into power banks on the go, where charging sockets may not be available. However, power banks are not danger-free or environmentally friendly.

The warning has come from the UK’s Civil Aviation Authority (CAA), which believes that many travellers still aren’t aware of the rules – or the fire risk.

Passengers on UK flights must take power banks – and other items containing lithium batteries – with them into the cabin. They must never be used to charge another electronic device while on the plane. Additionally, only two power banks per person are allowed on a flight.

Consider a scenario where you are about to take off on a flight. You have settled into your seat, started using your mobile phone, and put it in airplane mode. All of a sudden, an unusual hissing sound comes from your bag; smoke starts rising, and within seconds, there is a fire inside your luggage.

This actually happened on a flight between South Korea and Hong Kong in January 2026, when a power bank caught fire in mid-air. The accident on this flight is not a rare occurrence; hundreds of fires, explosions and other safety incidents involving lithium batteries and power banks have been recorded by the US Federal Aviation Administration (FAA).

The main reason for accidents involving power banks is the lithium-ion battery, the most common battery type used in them. The lithium-ion battery has a tendency to overheat, which can trigger a thermal runaway in which the temperature rises rapidly, leading to the battery’s explosion.

Such an explosion can occur for many reasons, including poor design, manufacturing issues, and improper use. In 2017, a family in the UK woke to smoke filling their home. The cause of the fire was a power bank charger, plugged into an electrical outlet. It overheated and set itself ablaze. Their rooms were burned down.

From a scientific point of view, the answer is obvious: heat is the sworn enemy of lithium-ion batteries. Each time you recharge or discharge a power bank, chemical reactions produce heat in the battery. And if that heat is not properly controlled – whether due to inadequate design or excessive environmental temperature – a thermal runaway occurs (an uncontrolled, self-heating chain reaction).

In 2026, an Australian man left a power bank in his vehicle on a hot day in Mount Nathan in Queensland. The extreme heat caused the battery to explode, starting a fire. Luckily, no one was injured in the incident.

Electric shocks

Fire and explosions are not the only hazards associated with these gadgets. They can also cause a dangerous electrical shock to users. This is despite the fact that they are operating at lower direct current voltage.

If the power bank becomes faulty due to being dropped, getting wet or because of manufacturing defects, the circuitry inside may fail. This would cause the device to shoot a surge of electricity into the user’s body.

In May 2026, a 75-year-old woman in the US died when her power bank exploded while charging it.

China, which manufactures many of the world’s power banks, has seen manufacturers recall hundreds of thousands of devices due to defects. Some of these faults have been blamed on downstream suppliers.

Another alarming trend has been the rise of counterfeit power banks.

I have spent a great part of my career and life caring about the environment and developing eco-friendly technologies, and the widespread use of power banks is a serious concern due to their negative environmental impact. The manufacturing and disposal of power banks may generate large amounts of electronic waste that can pollute soil, water and air.

Moreover, the extraction of lithium and other materials for power-bank production poses environmental and societal risks. For example, lithium mining in Chile’s Atacama desert has resulted in pollution and friction with indigenous communities.

As a scientist and professor of engineering, I urge people to be aware of the potential dangers posed by power banks and how these risks can be mitigated. By adhering to precautions, such as charging devices on hard, non-flammable surfaces, we can ensure the safe usage of these devices.

In addition, it is vital to understand the significance of responsible innovation and sustainability to ensure that technologies can be safely developed and deployed.

Your power bank is a powerful tool, but it demands respect. Treat it with the caution it deserves.

Amor Abdelkader does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

The defence investment plan sets out the UK government’s funding choices for the British armed forces. Over a year late, it allocates an additional £15 billion to the ministry of defence.

Its priorities are the nuclear deterrent and submarine programmes, a sixth generation fighter jet and an expansion of autonomous systems and guided weapons.

Across land, sea and air, the defence investment plan points towards a force that depends more on space-based systems, not less. So it is disappointing that the new plan is unclear on its long-term plan for space.

Both the 2025 strategic defence review and the 2026 defence investment plan tend to speak of space-based capabilities in the broadest terms, providing no clear sense of direction in many areas.

The newest planp is following the tradition of past defence reviews by approaching space as a list-making exercise, where generic capability categories are listed as desirable and important but no prioritisation is made. The DIP does not offer any rationale for which specific capabilities the UK military should develop first.

Some space-based capabilities remain sovereign – operationally controlled by the UK. Others are acquired from external providers: allied countries such as the US, or commercial entities.

Limited defence budgets mean that many space services rely on a mixture of sovereign and external systems. These include satellite communications, space control (ensuring freedom of action in space and denying it to others) and intelligence, surveillance and reconnaissance. This is a broad category and includes many different kinds of imagery and other data gathered from spy satellites.

Political leaders have a responsibility to explain the trade-offs and why they are made. But the defence investment plan does not explain which specific space services the UK armed forces will demand from its allies and from commercial third parties, or how the rest of the force will operate within those constraints.

High-intensity warfare

The headline treatment of space – across one and a half pages – appears positive. Space is recognised as “critical national infrastructure” by the UK government, in line with years of established policy.

Space infrastructure is seen in the defence investment plan as “the central nervous system of modern, high-intensity warfare”. The defence investment plan allocates £3.2 billion to space capabilities up to 2030 and promises at least £9 billion more between 2030 and 2035.

But most near-term spending remains concentrated in satellite communications, with £2.3 billion allocated to the Skynet satellite system, which provides secure communications to the British military. Delayed by two years, the Skynet 6A satellite is scheduled for launch in 2027.

Plans were underway for Skynet satellite systems that would cover the wideband and narrowband frequency ranges respectively. The narrowband system has now been cancelled, but the defence investment plan does not explain the operational consequences of this move, or what will replace it.

The planned Deep Space Advanced Radar Capability (Darc), along with Skynet, is one of the few specific space related programmes named in the plan. It will provide radar coverage of the geostationary belt, a region of space where satellites orbit at the exact speed of the planet’s rotation.

Darc will monitor satellites, space debris and potential space-based threats from other nations. Based in Wales, Darc will be networked with similar installations in the United States and Australia to provide global coverage.

A worrying omission in the defence investment plan is the relationship between its £880m allocation for intelligence, surveillance and reconnaissance and space control and the existing Istari programme. Istari is described as a £970 million multi-satellite programme to support global surveillance and intelligence for military operations.

One of the satellites under the Istari programme, Tyche, launched on August 16 2024. Tyche is the ministry of defence’s first sovereign optical imagery satellite. Another Istari satellite programme, called Oberon, is expected to provide two synthetic aperture radar satellites for day and night, all-weather 3D radar imagery.

Yet the defence investment plan does not clarify whether the £880 million allocated for intelligence, surveillance and reconnaissance in the plan continues, replaces, or accelerates specific capability types within Istari – or whether it will go to services acquired from external providers.

New or old?

It remains unclear how much of the £3.2 billion for space represents new spending or restates earlier commitments in the 2021 integrated review, the 2021 national space strategy, the 2022 defence space strategy and the 2023 national space strategy in action.

The UK requires a much clearer account of what space services its future force assumes responsibility for, which of those services it must own or control, and which it is willing to access through allies or its commercial providers.

Much of the defence investment plan’s wider logic amounts to a rediscovered faith in old 1980s-era reconnaissance-strike battle doctrines. It prioritises finding and neutralising the enemy’s command and control, logistics, and reconnaissance capabilities using long-range precise weaponry.

The issue is not that this model is the wrong way to organise combat forces, but that it is highly dependent on space infrastructure. This will require multiple integrated technologies that are able to convert raw operational data into actionable intelligence, not least from space.

The defence investment plan recognises this in rhetoric but does not explain how the UK will secure access to the required space infrastructure.

The consequence is that British military operations will continue to depend on a “central nervous system” that is not sovereign. That places greater weight on UK diplomacy, foreign policy, and contracting mechanisms to ensure continued access to US, European, and transnational commercial space infrastructure.

More spending on space is not always the answer given other pressing needs. Rather, detail is lacking about what the UK military intends to invest in with its existing funding. It is also unclear whether UK government understands the strategic consequences of Britain’s reliance on allies and commercial third parties for essential military space infrastructure.

The defence investment plan was a moment in which the government could have converted five years of strategy documents into a modestly funded order of clear, specific capability development priorities. The government declined to do so.

Until it can, the £3.2 billion buys continuity rather than direction: a communications programme, a new ground radar, a small down payment on divergent types of intelligence, surveillance and reconnaissance, and another list. Admitting the limitations would set a more grounded foundation for public and professional debate on British defence policy in the space age.

The authors do not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and have disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

Wifi on the go is often unreliable – on buses, trains and, increasingly, planes. Whether via cellular or satellite systems, connectivity at speed suffers from highly variable signal coverage and strength. This leads to delays, degraded data speeds and service interruptions.

To address these issues, the UK government has announced a major upgrade to wifi connections on hundreds of intercity trains.

They will use low Earth orbit (LEO) satellite communication systems such as Starlink (a subsidiary of Elon Musk’s SpaceX company) and OneWeb (part of the of French Eutelsat group). Operating much closer to Earth than traditional satellites, these systems can provide near-global coverage and higher-speed communications.

So, as LEO networks are rapidly adopted for air, rail, road and maritime transport, how will this change our experience of wifi on the move?

Trains

At present, train wifi largely depends on aggregating terrestrial 4G and 5G signals along each route, with the available bandwidth shared between passengers. As a result, wifi often degrades in rural areas, tunnels and other locations where signal coverage is limited.

Such challenges are even harder on high-speed trains operating at speeds of 150mph (250km/h) and more, with some services in China reaching 220mph.

One technical fix is dedicated trackside communication networks that use advanced technologies to deliver ultra-fast, low-lag connectivity even at such high speeds. But they are still constrained by limited coverage and significant installation costs.

In contrast, LEO satellite systems could offer near-global coverage without requiring costly deployment trackside infrastructure. Following successful trials on LNER, South Western Railway and Great Western Railway services in 2025, the UK government recently announced a £57 million, five-year rollout of LEO satellite connectivity across nationalised mainline rail services.

Up to 1,400 trains will receive satellite-enabled connectivity, with onboard wifi availability increasing from around half of UK train journeys up to 90% by the early 2030s.

Integrating LEO systems with existing terrestrial wifi networks should combine the strengths of both technologies. When one link becomes unavailable or degrades, alternative connections can seamlessly take over, reducing service interruptions and improving the reliability and quality of onboard wifi.

Planes

Since German airline Lufthansa introduced the first commercial in-flight internet service in January 2003, wifi on planes has expanded rapidly.

Today, approximately 70% of airlines worldwide offer onboard internet connectivity. Their wifi is provided either by air-to-ground or satellite communication systems.

Air-to-ground systems use an antenna mounted on the plane’s underside to connect to a network of land towers. While this approach ensures relatively low delays, coverage is limited to regions with terrestrial infrastructure so is unsuitable for most oceanic routes.

The preferred option for long-haul and transoceanic flights is using an antenna mounted on top of the aircraft to communicate with satellites. But maintaining reliable inflight connectivity remains challenging due to rapidly changing conditions and frequent satellite handovers at high speed (upwards of 500mph).

Climbs, descents and turbulence can all disrupt an antenna’s alignment with satellites. Continuous satellite tracking and antenna steering is needed to maintain accurate beam alignment throughout the flight.

In recent years, LEO satellite systems have accelerated midair wifi provision, in some cases delivering “superfast” inflight internet speeds exceeding 100 megabits per second. With signals travelling up to 3,000 miles, though, transmission delays are still unavoidable.

As technologies such as electronically steered antennas and AI-driven network management mature and satellite capacity continues to expand, onboard wifi should become comparable to terrestrial broadband for most passengers. This will enable in-flight video streaming and cloud-based services with minimal disruption.

Buses

Many long-distance coaches use roof-mounted antennas with onboard routers to share a cellular connection among their passengers. Wifi performance thus depends heavily on mobile network coverage and capacity, and can degrade in rural areas, tunnels, or simply when the coach is full.

Connectivity has been enhanced with the transition from 4G to 5G networks. However, since coach and bus wifi relies on a shared cellular connection, passengers often have a better experience using their own mobile connectivity.

This means wifi provision on local bus services has slowed in recent years. In 2025, 13% of buses in England offered free wifi, down from a peak of 32% in 2020.

On rural and long-distance routes, where mobile coverage is limited or unavailable, reliable wifi can be essential not only for passengers but for operational services such as ticketing and CCTV.

With LEO satellite networks emerging as a promising solution, several UK bus and coach initiatives – including trials by Transport for Wales from 2024 – are exploring hybrid 5G-satellite systems. These can seamlessly switch between cellular and satellite links to reduce coverage blackspots and provide more consistent connectivity along rural routes.

Ferries

Ferries and cruise ships operating more than a few tens of kilometres from land rely on satellite communications. These have evolved from low-bandwidth systems used primarily for safety, navigation and crew communications in the 1980s and ’90s, to broadband passenger wifi services supported by geostationary satellites orbiting around 22,000 miles above the Earth.

Maintaining stable satellite communication at sea is particularly challenging. Ships roll, pitch and yaw because of the waves and wind. This can misalign satellite antennas, leading to performance degradation and temporary communication interruptions.

Harsh maritime conditions including salt corrosion, high humidity and heavy rainfall can also damage electronic devices, reducing the strength of high-frequency satellite signals.

Furthermore, the ship’s large steel structure can cause signal degradation and coverage dead zones. This makes onboard wifi provision especially difficult on large cruise ships with multiple decks, thick walls and narrow corridors.

LEO satellite technology has, however, significantly improved wifi provision at sea. As of 2025, more than 25,000 commercial and passenger vessels worldwide were using LEO satellite broadband services, primarily through Starlink.

And as with other modes of transport, this rate of adoption is projected to continue increasing rapidly. The prospect of seamless wifi coverage, whichever way you travel, should soon be a reality.

Li Zhang does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

In a laboratory in Broomfield, Colorado, 98 atoms are suspended in mid-air, held in place by electric fields and cooled to temperatures close to absolute zero.

Each atom is far smaller than anything the naked eye could ever see, yet each carries information in a form that has no counterpart in classical physics.

Together, they form Helios, a new quantum computer built by the British-American company Quantinuum. Quantum computers use the power of quantum mechanics, the rules that govern how physics operates at atomic and sub-atomic scales. Those that use Helios’ model of suspended atoms are known as trapped-ion.

A paper published in Nature describes it as a 98-qubit processor with very high accuracy and performance that pushes beyond what can easily be simulated on classical machines. That sounds impressive, but the important question is not simply whether this is a bigger quantum computer (the previous biggest, System Model H2, had 56 qubits). It is whether it is a better one.

Quantum computers are not just faster versions of ordinary computers. The qubits (quantum bits) that they use to process information can exist in quantum states that do not behave like the ones and zeroes of conventional digital technology.

This allows some calculations to be arranged in ways that may eventually outperform even the largest supercomputers. The possible applications are fascinating: new materials, better optimisation methods, improved chemistry simulations and new approaches to cryptography.

The difficulty is that qubits are extremely fragile. They are disturbed by temperature variations, imperfect control, unwanted interactions with the environment and, in some systems, even the act of moving information around the device.

For this reason, the race in quantum computing is not only about having more qubits. It is about having more good qubits, controlled accurately enough to perform long and meaningful calculations.

Why it matters

This is why Helios’ result matters. Quantum computing has been promising to change the world for decades, but many announcements still tend to focus on the number of qubits.

This is like judging a race by the number of runners at the starting line. What matters is how many reach the finish, and in what condition. Helios takes both sides of that challenge seriously. Not only is the 98 qubits relatively large; it also reports very low error rates at this scale.

Errors are more common with quantum computers than with classical ones, so error correction is a big challenge in this area.

The Nature paper gives an average error rate for single-qubit gates of about 2.5 in 100,000 for Helios. A quantum gate is the building block of a circuit in quantum computers. For two-qubit gates in Helios, which are harder and more important for useful computation, the average error rate is about 7.9 in 10,000. This is similar to the best demonstrations of around 5 in 10,000 errors.

Quantum operations are cumulative. A small error in one step may not matter much, but a useful quantum algorithm may require thousands, millions or more operations. Lower error rates mean that more complex calculations become possible before the quantum information falls apart.

Helios’ other notable feature is all-to-all connectivity. In many quantum computers, qubits can interact only with their nearest neighbours, rather like people who can speak only to those sitting next to them. If two distant qubits need to interact, the information must be moved through a chain of intermediate steps. Each extra step adds time and error.

In Helios, any qubit can in principle interact with any other. This is especially valuable for algorithms where the required pattern of interactions does not fit neatly onto a fixed grid.

Quantum railway

The hardware behind this is also interesting. Trapped-ion quantum computers such as Helios use charged atoms as qubits. These ions are held using electric fields and manipulated with laser pulses.

The approach is known for high accuracy, but scaling it up while preserving that accuracy is technically difficult. Helios uses barium ions in what is called a quantum charge-coupled device, or QCCD, architecture. A useful way to picture it is as a tiny quantum railway.

Ions can be stored in memory regions and physically moved into operation zones when the computer programme needs a calculation to be performed using particular qubits. In those operation zones, carefully controlled laser pulses perform the basic steps of a quantum algorithm, known as quantum gates. These gates change the quantum state of one ion, or link the states of two ions together, allowing the computer to process information. In Helios, a ring-shaped storage area and a junction help route the ions around the device.

This separation of storage, movement and computation is not just smart engineering. It is a sign that quantum computing is becoming more like a full computing system, rather than a collection of impressive laboratory components.

The machine also uses software that can make routing and control decisions while a program is running. In practice, this means deciding which physical ion should represent each qubit, which ions need to be moved into the operation zones, and in what order the quantum gates should be carried out. This is important for more advanced quantum programmes, especially those where later steps may depend on measurements made during the computation.

And the paper reports that Helios can run random quantum circuits that would be extremely difficult to simulate on classical machines. That is an important benchmark, but not the same as having a generally useful quantum computer. Random circuit sampling tests the power and complexity of the machine; it does not, by itself, solve problems in medicine, climate science or engineering.

So how big an advance is Helios? It is a serious one, because even if it is not the arrival point of a quantum revolution, it brings together scale, accuracy, connectivity and programmability in one machine.

It is a reminder that transformative technologies rarely arrive in a single leap; they are built step by step, atom by atom, until the impossible starts to look engineered.

Domenico Vicinanza does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

Ferrari’s new sportscar, the Luce (pronounced Loo-che), raises some interesting questions about the future of hi-tech, high-cost supercars in the electric era.

The Italian sportscar maker’s first move into the electric vehicle (EV) segment – with an eye on the Chinese luxury market – signals strategic pragmatism rather than ideological continuity.

Compounding this is the decision to collaborate with LoveFrom, the company founded by Apple’s former design supremo Sir Jony Ive. Ferrari has imported a design philosophy from outside the automotive world that appears to sit uneasily with its historically internalised design culture.

At US$535,000 (£400,000), the Luce is insulated from conventional market scrutiny. It will most likely sell out. That outcome is assured by brand equity, scarcity and speculative luxury consumption.

Yet commercial success should not be conflated with brand legitimacy. The critical question is not whether the Luce succeeds as a product, but whether it succeeds as a Ferrari.

Rational design v emotional deficit

Any assessment of the Luce must acknowledge the constraints imposed by being electrically powered. This introduces a series of fundamental design compromises – most notably, weight penalties.

Ferrari’s legacy is rooted in lightness, precision and immediacy. Electric vehicles, by contrast, privilege stability, silence and computational control. The Luce, as a large four-door sedan, amplifies these contradictions.

It offers generous space for four adults, improved ingress and egress (its petrol-driven predecessors were famously tricky to climb into, despite the cost) and a suite of innovations aligned with luxury mobility.

These are markers of design functionality, usability and comfort. Yet Ferrari – by a distance the world’s most profitable sportscar brand – has never been defined by rational competence.

Its identity resides in the immediate emotional charge of encounter. The sculptural tension of its surfaces, the auditory drama of its engines, the sense of latent aggression even at rest. In design theory terms, this is the domain of instinctive, sensory response. And it is here that the Luce appears deficient.

The widespread negative reaction, including from past owners – that “this is not a Ferrari” – is not simply nostalgia or resistance to change. It represents a failure of instant recognition and emotional impact.

The Luce does not provoke, it resolves. Its typology demands comfort and accommodation. Its propulsion system introduces physical characteristics that run counter to Ferrari’s historic emphasis on kinetic intensity.

Contemporary high-performance EVs routinely carry battery packs exceeding 500-700kg, resulting in vehicle weights that often surpass 2½ tonnes. This has profound implications for a car’s driving agility and responsiveness, particularly in corners and under braking – characteristics that are the essence of any self-respecting sportscar.

Design error?

Ferrari’s design language has historically emerged from an interplay of engineering constraint, racing heritage and stylistic evolution. By contrast, the Luce appears to impose a different aesthetic.

The involvement of Ive and fellow industrial design giant Marc Newson introduces a design language characterised by reduction, clarity and formal restraint. This philosophy has proven highly successful in product design, where usability and material precision dominate.

But its translation into automotive design, particularly with a brand like Ferrari, has proved controversial. It would be interesting to know how much input and influence Ferrari’s chief design officer, Flavio Manzoni, and his team had in the Luce’s gestation.

The limitations of the Luce are further exposed through comparison. Porsche’s Taycan has shown how brand identity can be preserved within an electric framework. Similarly, the Jaguar I-Pace, though more radical in typology, maintains a sculptural dynamism consistent with Jaguar’s design heritage.

Both vehicles succeed because they understand that technological change must be anchored in emotional continuity. In contrast, the Luce appears to prioritise conceptual clarity over sensory resonance.

An overlooked power alternative

The Luce’s emergence also raises broader questions about technological commitment. Battery-electric vehicles have, for now, achieved dominance, but they are not the only pathway to decarbonisation.

Hydrogen-based powertrains, particularly hydrogen internal combustion engines, offer an alternative model that may align more closely with performance-oriented brands.

While hydrogen infrastructure remains underdeveloped, its potential lies in preserving elements of the visceral and sensory experience that define marques like Ferrari – including a roaring engine and responsive handling – as well rapid refuelling times.

In 2024, automotive and transport design students at Coventry University were challenged to design a clean-energy supercar for the British manufacturer Riversimple. The result was a lightweight prototype design that used an innovative hydrogen powertrain to prioritise the driving experience.

Full electrification risks erasing these qualities in favour of efficiency and refinement. So, Ferrari’s commitment to battery-electric power appears to reflect a narrowing of its drivers’ experiential possibilities. The Luce risks being a product shaped as much by infrastructural momentum as design intent.

An existential question

The Luce still represents a strategic success. It secures Ferrari’s entry into the EV market and aligns the brand with global sustainability narratives. Its association with LoveFrom enhances its reflective value, positioning it as an object of intellectual as well as financial capital.

But it also exposes a deeper tension.

EV platforms impose constraints – particularly on weight and the driving experience – that challenge the foundations of Ferrari’s identity.

Alternative powertrains – including hydrogen internal combustion engines – and the use of biofuels such as those now adopted in Formula 1, suggest that different pathways could help preserve more of the brand’s experiential core.

Ultimately, the question is not whether Ferrari can build an electric luxury sedan – it clearly can. The question is whether, in doing so within the limits of current EV architectures, it can still produce something that feels unmistakably like a Ferrari.

Aamer Mahmud does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

From election debates to job interviews, language shapes our perceptions of how trustworthy other people are. This power can be used to build healthy relationships, but it can also be used to manipulate and deceive.

To better understand this darker side of building trust, my colleagues and I turned to the corporate world – a domain that offers plenty of cautionary tales. Our case study was among the most notorious, involving one of the world’s largest energy companies of the 1980s and 90s: Enron.

This Texas-based company went bankrupt in 2001 after it emerged it had been systematically falsifying its financial records on a massive scale. Its West Power division manipulated California’s electricity markets by exploiting flaws in the state’s newly deregulated system, boosting profits while triggering one of the worst energy crises in US history by creating artificial power shortages.

To manipulate the markets, Enron traders had to win – then keep – the trust of partners, clients and regulators. Subsequent US federal investigations led to the release of more than 500 of their telephone calls in 2005.

These conversations have offered our team of linguistic experts a rich source for analysing the tactics traders used to build and retain confidence in their criminal strategies.

The trust playbook

Our research combined discourse analysis (a forensically detailed breakdown of the language used and how it was delivered) with behavioural science insights to establish the Enron traders’ “trust playbook”. This, we found, comprised four steps.

1. Foster ideological alignment

Among close business partners, the Enron traders relied heavily on verbal bonding to build emotional connections. This was all about intense, emotive language including frequent swearing – locker-room talk, essentially (most conversations involved male traders only).

Regulators were often dismissed as “stupid”, “crazy” and full of “bullshit” to help cement bonds between participants while reinforcing their shared ideological stance.

This kind of language can be a powerful trust-building tool because it fosters what psychologists call identification-based trust – the highest level of interpersonal trust, rooted in emotional attunement and shared purpose.

This bonded Enron traders and their accomplices into a tight in-group with its own moral logic of: “We understand the market; they just want to stifle business.”

Inside Enron, the overt flaunting and celebration of success may also have helped override any individual moral concerns, by recasting questionable actions as innovative and market leading.

2. Be competent, credible – and benevolent

For the Enron scandal to succeed at such scale, traders needed to persuade clients and partners that they would deliver on their promises and weren’t trying to take advantage of them. To do this, they leaned heavily on energy-trading jargon to showcase their expertise and credibility.

This elicited what psychologists call competence-based trust – the sense not only that they knew what they were doing, but that they knew valuable information their partners and clients did not.

This encouraged clients and partners who were unaware of the manipulation, but whose cooperation made it possible, to go along with market moves that were later ruled unlawful.

But another important part of the playbook was benevolence – emphasising the opportunity and mutual benefit for their partners and clients. “We don’t win unless you guys win. And that’s good for you guys too.”

According to an influential 1995 study, organisational trustworthiness comprises three essential qualities: ability, integrity and benevolence – the degree of care and positive intention the recipient feels. Our analysis shows these qualities can be constructed through language to mould relationships in your favour.

3. Confide in close partners

Of all the ways we use language to build trust, confiding is probably the most powerful. It requires someone to not only demonstrate trust by sharing a secret, but consolidate it by signalling they believe the other person will keep that secret.

In the Enron case, this was information that would damage reputations, or worse, expose traders to legal consequences. Each disclosure deepened the bond of secrecy between Enron traders and their accomplices, creating feelings of mutual vulnerability while quietly normalising the wrongdoing.

The traders even developed a set of playful nicknames for their unlawful tactics, including “Death Star”, “Fat Boy” and “Get Shorty”. Members of the inner circle spent a lot of time discussing these schemes, coordinating their next moves, and celebrating the millions they were raking in.

4. Repair trust to deflect suspicion

When trust was damaged or at risk, the traders showed interesting language techniques to try to repair it. For example, metapragmatic expressions – which comment on the speaker’s own words – were used to highlight transparency: phrases like “I’ll be honest with you” or “To tell you the truth”.

If that failed, traders went on the defensive: denying (“We didn’t do anything wrong – we weren’t going to manipulate anything”); shifting blame (“They changed the rules on us in the middle of the game”); and making excuses (“Well, guess what: your pricing mechanisms encourages people to take it out of the state”).

These strategies aimed to preserve trust by eliciting the benefit of the doubt. A favourite technique was reframing: recasting suspicious events as routine and unremarkable.

This is a powerful trust-repair tool because it lets the speaker concede the facts while disputing what they mean. By shifting the dispute on to technical ground, the traders moved it away from questions of honesty to questions of expertise, where they felt they still had more room to manoeuvre.

Of course, these kinds of techniques are not unique to the Enron traders. The same strategies run through all kinds of persuasive and manipulative discourse – from social media influencers to online scammers and AI advice chatbots.

Which makes learning to read the language of trust – and how it can be abused – more important than ever.

Matteo Fuoli does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

Growing evidence suggests that excessive outdoor lighting at night may be harming wildlife.

For generations, rural communities worked to the rhythms of daylight and darkness. Today, the amount of harsh light switched on at nightime is having profound consequences for many living things.

Agricultural properties are often remote and vulnerable to equipment or livestock theft. In response, many landowners have now installed security floodlights, powerful halogen beams, and unshielded external LEDs to illuminate yards overnight.

The North York Moors National Park, an international dark sky reserve in the north of England, has been working with farmers to reduce the impact of artificial light on the natural environment.

The initiative is about ensuring that lighting is used in the right place, at the right time, and at the appropriate intensity. This might involve installing downward-facing fixtures, reducing glare through shielding, or switching to warmer-coloured lighting that is less disruptive to wildlife.

The best places to start trying to reduce bright nighttime lights are those rich in wildlife, and farms in the park are often in the darkest areas.

Since 2021, the national park has worked with more than twenty farms in key dark sky locations, with many more projects in development.

Carefully designed lighting systems can use shielded or motion-activated lighting, which reduce impact on wildlife.

How does it affect the environment?

Over-illumination disrupts complex regional ecosystems, extending daylight artificially and changing the behaviour of animals that depend on natural darkness. Research suggests that light pollution caused by humans, harms ecosystems because of the critical role light has on the timing of biological systems, which artificial light disrupts.

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Read more: Why walking in a national park in the dark prompts people to turn off lights at home

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The damage extends from the soil upward. Scientific research indicates that pressures on ecosystems due to habitat loss, pesticides, invasive species and light pollution could create a devastating decline in the insect population, with a knock-on effect on the food chain.

Benefits for farms?

There’s also evidence that suggests that changing lighting could help farms. This light disruption affects crucial agricultural allies. Moths, which serve as vital nocturnal pollinators, are heavily affected, alongside bats facing shrinking feeding grounds. Bats can help farmers control insect pests.

Artificial light exposure also alters vital plant cycles, for instance, and light at night can affect plant growth.

Small changes, such as switching to down-facing lights, can lead to significant environmental improvements.

Changing lighting around farms could also open up new tourism opportunities. Farms that also operate as B&Bs, for instance, can flag to tourists that they are part of a dark skies friendly community programme. This is an accreditation scheme for businesses that improve their lighting systems in accordance with international dark sky standards.

While UK national park authorities have powers to enforce planning restrictions on lighting, in places outside national parks, the UK lacks a comprehensive national regulatory framework to govern rural skyscapes.

The lesson in North Yorkshire and beyond is not that farms should switch off their lights. It is that lighting can be used responsibly to contribute to the stewardship of one of the countryside’s most valuable resources: the natural night sky.

The authors do not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and have disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

In the early 1990s, crime-loving television audiences could choose mainly between cozy, fictional detective series such as Columbo and Murder, She Wrote. The US docuseries Unsolved Mysteries brought a few real cold-case investigations to light, but coverage of forensic science on screen was still relatively simple.

Then, in May 1991, The Silence of the Lambs was released. Based on Thomas Harris’s 1988 novel, this big-budget thriller was darker, more disturbing and psychologically complex than most crime films of the time.

The protagonist, FBI trainee Clarice Starling (played by Jodie Foster), is a young woman working in a predominantly male environment – who is often underestimated by her colleagues. When she discovers key evidence through a suspenseful process of extraction from a young victim’s mouth, viewers are introduced to a field of criminal investigation they may never have considered before: forensic entomology.

Some kind of seed pod?

No, sir … that’s a bug cocoon.

Entomology – the scientific study of insects – is one of the oldest branches of the natural sciences. And the application of insects to criminal cases dates back almost as far. In the forensic text The Washing Away of Wrongs (1247), written by Chinese investigator Sung T’zu, flies attracted to traces of blood on a sickle helped identify a murderer.

However, it was not until the late 19th century that forensic entomology was formalised as a scientific discipline – thanks largely to the studies of Jean Pierre Mégnin. Influenced by his experiences on the battlefield, the French vet began investigating which insects were attracted to animal and human remains at different stages of decomposition.

These days, carrion insects are used to tell criminal investigators about the time since a victim’s death, whether their body has been moved, and if any drugs or toxins have contributed to their death.

Human remains are commonly colonised by blowflies and their maggots. But in The Silence of the Lambs, Starling was faced with something more unusual: the cocoon of a death’s-head hawkmoth (Acherontia atropos).

The cocoon, which the serial killer inserts into his victims’ throats, is identified by two entomologists who are clearly not forensically trained. Otherwise, they would have thought twice before cutting open the only piece of insect evidence without seeking permission for such a destructive analysis.

The film introduces murderous concepts such as “staging” – the intentional alteration of a crime scene – and a perpretrator’s modus operandi and criminal signature, relating to any distinctive methods they use.

Today, many of us working in forensic entomology and taphonomy (the study of what happens to organisms between death and discovery) are still told our work is “just like The Silence of the Lambs”. But 35 years after the film’s release, forensic entomology is no longer limited to microscopes, forceps and entomologists working alone.

Today’s criminal investigations often feature complex interactions between environmental conditions, decomposition processes and human activity. This makes collaborations between multiple scientific (and non-scientific) disciplines essential.

How the science has progressed

In the two decades preceding the film’s release, the biomedical and life sciences journal PubMed listed 37 publications on the subject of forensic entomology. Since then, there have been more than 1,800.

Methods used for insect identification and age estimation have changed dramatically. Today, molecular and chemical techniques can identify insect species and determine their stage in the lifecycle and geographic origin. These techniques are especially useful in cold cases or poorly preserved crime scenes, where samples may have been damaged or improperly stored.

Insects are also playing an increasingly accurate role in determining the time of death. As well as feeding on decomposing remains, they help spread the bacteria and other microorganisms involved in decomposition. These microbial communities change in predictable ways over time – even in extreme environmental scenarios – offering investigators a further indicator of the postmortem interval.

Chemical profiling of insect cuticular hydrocarbons (insect skin) provide definitive species and age signatures. These can reduce the risk of error associated with identification by people, and the time and costs of DNA sequencing.

Forensic entomology has also expanded into areas such as entomotoxicology, where insects feeding on decomposing remains are analysed for the presence of drugs, toxins or other chemical compounds. It is even possible to recover the DNA of the individual on whom an insect has been feeding directly from that insect’s gut contents.

In The Silence of the Lambs, investigators assume that “water leaves no trace evidence of any kind”. Yet today, aquatic forensic researchers examine not only insects but crustaceans, microorganisms and bone proteins associated with decomposing remains in water.

Revisiting the moth cocoon scene

The film’s infamous moth cocoon scene – which saw the extracted evidence collected with forceps, then taken for visual inspection at a museum – would be approached rather differently today.

Firstly, spoons are now recommended over forceps to avoid damaging the sample. Modern forensic practice aims to preserve specimens by taking photographs before any manipulation. Where possible, insects are reared to the adult stage which is often easier to identify with certainty.

Rather than opening the cocoon, it could be compared as is with museum reference collections or analysed using technology such as hyperspectral imaging. This would confirm the species and estimate its developmental stage without altering the evidence.

Many high-profile cases, including some wrongful convictions, have demonstrated how forensic entomology can be a key tool in the investigation of current and historical crimes – as well as of natural disasters and war crimes.

However, technological advances are not enough. The reliability of forensic entomology depends on appropriate crime scene protocols, evidence collection, ongoing research and, perhaps most importantly, specialist training and attention to detail. These qualities are certainly embodied by agent Starling.

But there is another major difference since the film came out in 1991. Unlike Starling’s experience, women now represent a major part of the forensic science workforce. They contribute to a discipline that has become far more diverse, collaborative and scientifically advanced than the one portrayed in The Silence of the Lambs.

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This article features a reference to a book included for editorial reasons, and a link to bookshop.org. If you click on this link and go on to buy something from bookshop.org, The Conversation UK may earn a commission.

Noemi Procopio receives funding from UK Research and Innovation (UKRI) via a Future Leaders Fellowship, from National Institute of Justice (NIJ), and from Science and Technology in Policing.

Paola A. Magni does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.