Fierce combat erupted in February 2016 at the northern Iraqi village of Kudilah. A Western-backed coalition of Arab Sunni tribesmen, Kurds in the Iraqi army and Kurdish government forces advanced on Islamic State fighters who had taken over the dusty outpost.

Islamic State combatants, led by young men wearing explosive vests, fought back. The well-trained warriors scurried through battle lines until they reached their enemy. Then they blew themselves up along with a few coalition soldiers, setting the stage for an Islamic State victory. These suicide bombers are called inghamasi, meaning “those who dive in deep.”
The inghamasi’s determination and self-sacrifice inspires their comrades to fight to the death, says anthropologist Scott Atran of the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor. Outnumbered about 6-to-1, Islamic State fighters still retained control of Kudilah after two days of heavy fighting. Coalition forces retreated, unwilling to lose more soldiers.

Atran and colleagues arrived in northern Iraq a couple of weeks later. Their plan: study “the will to fight” among soldiers on both sides of the Kudilah clash, even as fighting in the area continued. Their goals: try to understand what motivates people to join brutal organizations such as the Islamic State, and describe the personal transformations that push people leading comfortable, peaceable lives to commit acts of incredible violence and self-destruction.

Atran wondered whether there were common individual traits that explain the fierce devotion held by fighters for the Islamic State (also known as ISIS, ISIL or Daesh) as well as troops trying to take down ISIS. Scientists typically treat extreme sacrifice for others as premised on a careful weighing of pros and cons by “rational actors” who behave in a way that best satisfies their own interests even if others benefit as well. But it’s hard to see how a “what’s in it for me” formula applies to inghamasi, Atran says, much less someone who operates in a more conventionally altruistic way, such as a Navy SEAL. It’s a mistake to write off ISIS fighters as lonely losers, each seeking death as a gateway to a heavenly rendezvous with a private stock of virgins, he contends.
To break out of the rational-actor rut, Atran shifted his experimental focus nearly a decade ago to examine cherished values that mobilize people to take collective action, regardless of risks or rewards. In the last several years, he has moved his studies to the field, to focus on combatants in current conflicts and their sympathizers. And he’s finding that extreme personal sacrifices made for outfits such as the Islamic State can be understood, but only by accounting for values he describes as “sacred” and by tracking the way in which individuals identify with like-minded comrades.

Collective identity
Academics who study warfare and terrorism typically don’t conduct research just kilometers from the front lines of battle. But taking the laboratory to the fight is crucial for figuring out what impels people to make the ultimate sacrifice to, for example, impose Islamic law on others, says Atran, who is affiliated with the National Center for Scientific Research in Paris.

Atran’s war zone research over the last few years, and interviews during the last decade with members of various groups engaged in militant jihad (or holy war in the name of Islamic law), give him a gritty perspective on this issue. He rejects popular assumptions that people frequently join up, fight and die for terrorist groups due to mental problems, poverty, brainwashing or savvy recruitment efforts by jihadist organizations.

Instead, he argues, young people adrift in a globalized world find their own way to ISIS, looking to don a social identity that gives their lives significance. Groups of dissatisfied young adult friends around the world — often with little knowledge of Islam but yearning for lives of profound meaning and glory — typically choose to become volunteers in the Islamic State army in Syria and Iraq, Atran contends. Many of these individuals connect via the internet and social media to form a global community of alienated youth seeking heroic sacrifice, he proposes.

Preliminary experimental evidence suggests that not only global terrorism, but also festering state and ethnic conflicts, revolutions and even human rights movements —  think of the U.S. civil rights movement in the 1960s — depend on what Atran refers to as devoted actors. These individuals, he argues, will sacrifice themselves, their families and anyone or anything else when a volatile mix of conditions are in play. First, devoted actors adopt values they regard as sacred and nonnegotiable, to be defended at all costs. Then, when they join a like-minded group of nonkin that feels like a family — a band of brothers — a collective sense of invincibility and special destiny overwhelms feelings of individuality. As members of a tightly bound group that perceives its sacred values under attack, devoted actors will kill and die for each other.

His team’s studies of devoted actors may help to explain why a growing number of people from around the world are leaving their families and home nations to join ISIS. Congressional and United Nations reports suggest that by October 2015, nearly 30,000 recruits from more than 100 countries had become fighters in Syria and Iraq, primarily for the Islamic State.

“The rise of the Islamic State is a revolutionary movement of historic proportions,” Atran says. “Many of its members are devoted actors with an apocalyptic belief that they must destroy the world to save it.” That uncompromising vision feeds off the promise of a global caliphate — a joint political and Islamic entity that kills or controls nonbelievers — that will bring on the end of the world and replace it with God’s true kingdom. Volunteers to that cause have participated in more than 50 terror attacks in 20 countries since June 2014. Muslim militants carried out 450 suicide bombing attacks in 2015, with 174 attributed to the Islamic State.

Atran’s research may provide a rare tool to study soldiers’ will to fight, whether or not they’re Islamic State adherents, says psychologist and terrorism researcher John Horgan of Georgia State University in Atlanta. Too many investigators have dismissed those deemed to be terrorists “as either incomprehensible or not even worthy of understanding,” Horgan says.

At the time of the Kudilah battle, the Islamic State controlled hundreds of thousands of square kilometers in the Middle East. It had successfully defended a 3,000-kilometer-long military front stretching from Iraq to Syria against multi-national forces. It’s certainly possible to destroy the Islamic State with overwhelming military might, Atran says, but that approach would come at a price. It would leave a fragmented Sunni Muslim world, from which the Islamic State arose, as well as a global pool of passionate young men and women seeking liberation through sacrifice and martyrdom. A military takedown alone might trigger “a volcanic resurgence of rebels with a cause, even readier for doomsday,” he predicts.

Sacred apocalyptic values are best opposed by the spread of deeply held, life- and freedom-affirming values that supporters are willing to defend unconditionally, Atran argues. The Kurds have had success with this approach.

Sacred kin
In the Middle East, only Kurdish people living in northern Iraq have consistently held off Islamic State attacks. The Kurds, Atran finds, display a will to fight equal to that of captured Islamic State fighters. As important as guns and other material support are to a military operation, an indomitable will to fight may be even more crucial, he says. Both the Islamic State and the Kurdish army have achieved considerable military success without all the hardware of Western armies.

At Kudilah, Kurdish soldiers showed their mettle in a fierce clash. Several of these men later described the event to Atran. As Iraqi army units withdrew, Islamic State forces rapidly pushed forward. A small company of Kurds stood their ground. After the fight raged for several hours, Iraqi army reinforcements arrived, enabling the Kurds to live to fight another day.

Atran’s team interviewed 28 Kurdish soldiers plus 10 Kurds who provided supplies, medical care and other frontline assistance. Seven Islamic State fighters, six of them prisoners, also agreed to be interviewed. One had been freed and changed sides, working with groups opposed to the Islamic State.

Among the 38 Kurdish volunteers, 22 reported devotion to a homeland of “Kurdistan” as a sacred value that they would fight and die for, even overriding family ties and their Islamic religion, Atran reports in the June Current Anthropology. All but one of the 22 reported feeling a collective bond, or what Atran calls identity fusion, with the Kurdish people.

Captured ISIS members reported visceral, family-like bonds with their fellow fighters. All Islamic State prisoners cited an absolute commitment to an imposition of Islamic law, or Sharia, on nonbelievers.

Investigators measured identity fusion by presenting participants with touch-screen computer tablets showing a small circle labeled “me” and a large circle with a group label, such as “Kurds” or “family.” To represent their relationship to a particular group, individuals could move the circles together so that they partly or completely overlapped. Those who moved the small circle inside the large circle were regarded as fully fused with that group.
Atran adopted this test from ongoing research initiated nearly a decade ago by psychologist William Swann of the University of Texas at Austin. An international team led by social anthropologist Harvey Whitehouse of the University of Oxford, including Swann, studied Libyan men who tried to overthrow their government in 2011. The researchers found that nearly all the men reported intense, family-like bonds with fellow combatants. Revolutionary leaders granted the researchers access to 42 Libyan soldiers and 137 support personnel, including mechanics and ambulance drivers, as hostilities wound down in late 2011.

On the overlapping circles test, 45 percent of fighters reported being more strongly bonded to their battalions of three to five comrades than to their families, the researchers reported in 2014 in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences. A smaller portion of support personnel, 28 percent, identified more with revolutionary battalions than with their families. That’s consistent with the idea that frontline fighters most often bond tightly to their units, upping their readiness to give their lives for comrades.

Libyan soldiers who felt intense connections to their battalions probably qualified as devoted actors, says psychologist Hammad Sheikh of the New School for Social Research in New York City, who was not involved in Whitehouse’s study. The soldiers’ commitment to the revolution’s goals probably transcended even family loyalties, Sheikh suspects. He bases that opinion on Atran’s findings. Whitehouse’s team did not try to identify devoted actors among Libyan fighters.

People willing to sacrifice everything in defense of the Islamic State’s sacred values also exist outside of the war zone. Among 260 Moroccans who lived in either of two city neighborhoods known as pro-ISIS hotbeds, testing indicated that about 30 percent were devoted actors. They described the imposition of Sharia as a nonnegotiable necessity, Sheikh and his colleagues, including Atran, report in a second paper in the June Current Anthropology.

On the overlapping circles test, devoted actors in Morocco depicted especially close bonds with family-like groups of friends, ranging from Islamic State supporters to soccer buddies.
Western weakness
Such dedication to collective values may be tougher to come by in Western nations. Online testing of 644 people in Spain identified only 12 percent as devoted actors willing to sacrifice all for democracy, even after being reminded of threats by ISIS and Al Qaeda. Frequent corruption scandals have left many Spaniards disillusioned with democracy, Sheikh says. Whether a similarly weak devotion to democratic values applies to citizens of other European countries or the United States remains to be tested.

Field research suggests that collective commitments to democratic values may be weaker in the West. When devoted actors among Islamic State fighters, Kurds and members of a Kurdish-speaking religious community known as Yazidis were given a hypothetical choice between abandoning their sacred values if others in their group do, or leaving the group to fight on for their sacred values, they nearly always opted to fight on for their values, Atran says.

Devoted actors in Spain, however, typically say they’d follow their group if it rejected democratic values. People in France and Spain tested by Atran’s team also rate their own society’s “spiritual force,” or the strength of collective beliefs and commitments, as much weaker than that of ISIS.

Among U.S., British and former Soviet soldiers, there have long been indications from interviews, field reports and personal letters of a stronger willingness to die for close comrades in war than in defense of broader values, Atran says. Historical evidence, however, suggests that certain relentless fighters, including Nazi troops during World War II and Viet Cong soldiers in the Vietnam War, were devoted actors inspired by beliefs in a higher cause, he says, adding that the same may have been true for soldiers on both sides of the U.S. Civil War.
Sacrificial appeal
Atran and his colleagues now have their own cause: describing more fully how some people go from holding extreme beliefs on the sidelines to becoming devoted actors at the front lines of extreme movements.

It would help, says political psychologist Clark McCauley of Bryn Mawr College in Pennsylvania, if researchers could clarify what counts as a sacred value and why some sacred values outweigh others. Identity fusion is also a tricky concept to pin down, McCauley says. Further research needs to determine whether a person who moves a “me” circle inside a circle representing a fighting unit still feels a sense of individuality or totally buys into a collective identity, he suggests.

Only by venturing into war zones can researchers begin to understand the will to fight on all sides, from the perspectives of the fighters themselves, Atran argues. It’s daunting work. He has seen ISIS fighters advancing on an Iraqi army outpost, then detonating their explosive vests in the ultimate show of commitment to their cause. He has spoken to Kurdish veterans missing arms or legs and men who had joined the Kurdish army back in the 1950s, all of them now fighting at the front to defend their homeland.

A young Yazidi fighter told Atran that he used vacation time from college to train for a week with Kurdish Marxists in Syria to defend his Kurdish religious community against the Islamic State. Fighting with a few comrades in August 2014, the student-soldier fended off ISIS attackers long enough for reinforcements to arrive. He helped save thousands of Yazidis from slaughter. The young man then returned to his studies. He wanted to be an archaeologist.

“You learn more in five minutes in the field than in five years of analysis from afar,” Atran says.

Despite careful planning, Atran’s team sometimes gets distressingly close to warring parties while conducting research in Iraq. It’s an unavoidable risk but not a deal breaker for the researchers. “There’s something so compelling,” he says, “about trying to figure out humans in extreme circumstances such as war.”
This article appears in the July 9, 2016, issue of Science News under the headline “Deadly devotion: New studies explore why ordinary people turn terrorist.”

There’s an osprey nest just outside Jeffrey Brodeur’s office at the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution in Massachusetts. “I literally turn to my left and they’re right there,” says Brodeur, the organization’s communications and outreach specialist. WHOI started live-streaming the osprey nest in 2005.

For the first few years, few people really noticed. All that changed in 2014. An osprey pair had taken up residence and produced two chicks. But the mother began to attack her own offspring. Brodeur began getting e-mails complaining about “momzilla.” And that was just the beginning.

“We became this trainwreck of an osprey nest,” he says. In the summer of 2015, the osprey family tried again. This time, they suffered food shortages. The camera received an avalanche of attention, complaints and e-mails protesting the institute’s lack of intervention. One scolded, “it is absolutely disgusting that you will not take those chicks away from that demented witch of a parent!!!!! Instead you let them be constantly abused and go without [sic] food. Yes this is nature but you have a choice to help or not. This is totally unacceptable. She should be done away with so not to abuse again.” By mid-2015, Brodeur began to receive threats. “People were saying ‘we’re gonna come help them if you don’t,’” he recalls.

The osprey cam was turned off, and remains off to this day. Brodeur says he’s always wondered why people had such strong feelings about a bird’s parenting skills.

Why do people spend so much time and emotion attempting to apply their own moral sense to an animal’s actions? The answer lies in the human capacity for empathy — one of the qualities that helps us along as a social species.

When we are confronted with another person — say, someone in pain — our brains respond not just by observing, but by copying the experience. “Empathy results in emotion sharing,” explains Claus Lamm, a social cognitive neuroscientist at the University of Vienna in Austria. “I don’t just know what you are feeling, I create an emotion in myself. This emotion makes connections to situations when I was in that emotional state myself.”

Lamm and his colleagues showed that viewing someone in pain activates certain brain areas such as the insula, anterior cingulate cortex and medial cingulate cortex, regions that are active when we ourselves are in pain. “They allow us to have this first person experience of the pain of the other person,” Lamm explains.
When participants viewed someone reacting as though they were in pain to a stimulus that wasn’t painful for the viewer, the participants showed activity in the frontal cortex in areas important for distinction between “self” and “other.” We can still sympathize with someone else’s pain, even if we don’t know what it feels like, Lamm and his colleagues reported in 2010 in the Journal of Cognitive Neuroscience.

This works for animals, too: We ascribe certain emotions or feelings to animals based on their actions. “You know you have a mind, thoughts and feelings,” says Kurt Gray, a psychologist at the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill. “You take it for granted that other people do too, but you can never really know. With animals, you can’t know for sure, so your best guess is what you would do in that situation.”

When people see an animal suffering — such as, say, a suffering osprey chick — they feel empathy. They then categorize that sufferer into a “feeler,” or a victim. But that suffering chick can’t exist in a vacuum. “When there’s a starving chick, we think, ‘oh, it’s terrible!’” Gray says. “It’s not enough for us to say nature is red in tooth and claw. There must be someone to blame for this.”
In a theory he calls dyadic completion, he explains that we think of moral situations — situations in which there is suffering — as dyads or pairs. Every victim needs a perpetrator. A sufferer with no one responsible is psychologically incomplete, and viewers will fill in a perpetrator in response. In the case of suffering osprey chicks, he notes, that perpetrator might be an uncaring osprey mom, or the camera operator who refuses to intervene in a natural process. Gray and his colleagues published their ideas on dyadic completion in 2014 in the Journal of Experimental Psychology.

Anthropomorphizing animals — whether or not it is logical or realistic — is usually pretty harmless. “It’s probably OK to say a cat is content,” says John Hadley, an ethicist at Western Sydney University in Australia. Similarly, it’s OK to say that a mother osprey is being violent when she attacks her own young. People are describing what they see in emotional terms they recognize. But this doesn’t mean that these animals should be held responsible for their actions, he says. When we judge an animal for its parenting skills, “in one sense it implies we want to hold these animals up as objects of praise or blame.” The natural tendency to ascribe emotions to animals, he says, is “only really problematic if [the emotions] are inaccurate or if they lead to some kind of ethical problem.”

People can’t put an osprey on trial for being a bad parent. But as in the case of an abandoned bison calf in Yellowstone, people do sometimes intervene — even though their actions might not be helpful. “That’s a question of ethical systems coming in to conflict,” Hadley says. “National parks apply a holistic ethic, try to let nature run its course…. But a more common-sense approach would be that you can intervene, there’s suffering you can stop and you should try and stop it.”

The feelings of pity and the desire to intervene is really all about us. “When we look at nonhuman animals and we read them as if they are humans … that might just be our being narrow and unable to imagine any creature that is not somehow a reflection of us,” says Janet Stemwedel, a philosopher at San Jose State University in California. “There’s a way in which looking at animals and reading them as human and imagining them as having emotions and inner lives is maybe a gateway to caring,” Stemwedel says. This caring might be erring on the side of caution, she explains, “acknowledging the limits of what we can know about how [animals] experience the world.” If we fail to imagine what animals might be feeling, “we could do a great deal of harm, [and] put suffering in the world that doesn’t need to be there,” she notes.

Our caring for the suffering and the lonely is part of what makes us a social species. “Evolution endowed us with a moral sense because it was useful for living in groups,” Gray notes. “It’s not crazy. It’s the same impulse that leads us to protect children from child abuse, and it so happens that we extend that to osprey children.” Those anthropomorphizing impulses aren’t stupid or useless. Instead, they tell us something, not about animals, but about ourselves.

ORLANDO, Fla. — Organisms as different as plants, bacteria, yeast and humans could hold genetic swap meets and come away with fully functional genes, new research suggests.

Researchers have known for decades that organisms on all parts of the evolutionary tree have many of the same genes. “How many of these shared genes are truly functionally the same thing?” wondered Aashiq Kachroo, a geneticist at the University of Texas at Austin, and colleagues. The answer, Kachroo revealed July 15 at the Allied Genetics Conference, is that about half of shared genes are interchangeable across species.
Last year, Kachroo and colleagues reported that human genes could substitute for 47 percent of yeast genes that the two species have in common (SN: 6/27/15, p. 5). Now, in unpublished experiments, the researchers have swapped yeast genes with analogous ones from Escherichia coli bacteria or with those from the plant Arabidopsis thaliana. About 60 percent of E. coli genes could stand in for their yeast counterparts, Kachroo reported. Plant swaps are ongoing, but the researchers already have evidence that plant genes can substitute for yeast genes involved in some important biological processes.

In particular, many organisms share the eight-step biochemical chain reaction that makes the molecule heme. The researchers found that all but one of yeast’s heme-producing genes could be swapped with one from E. coli or plants.

About 20,000 kilometers beneath the sun’s surface, magnetic fields rise no faster than about 500 kilometers per hour. That speed (roughly one-third of previous estimates) is about the same speed that gas rises and falls within the sun, implying that moving parcels of gas help steer magnetic fields toward the surface, researchers report July 13 in Science Advances.

Aaron Birch of the Max Planck Institute for Solar System Research in Göttingen, Germany, and colleagues estimated the speed by combining observations of the sun’s surface with computer simulations of how gas moves within the hot orb. By studying the sun’s inner workings, researchers hope to understand what drives sunspots and flares — the blemishes and eruptions triggered by magnetic fields punching through the surface.

A new genetic discovery could equip researchers to fight a superbug by stripping it of its power rather than killing it outright.

Scientists have identified a set of genes in Clostridium difficile that turns on its production of toxins. Those toxins can damage intestinal cells, leading to diarrhea, abdominal pain and potentially life-threatening disease. Unlocking the bug’s genetic weapon-making secret could pave the way for new nonantibiotic therapies to disarm the superbug while avoiding collateral damage to other “good” gut bacteria, researchers report August 16 in mBio.
Identifying a specific set of genes that control toxin production is a big step forward, says Matthew Bogyo. Bogyo, a chemical biologist at Stanford University, also studies ways to defuse C. difficile’s toxin-making.

C. difficile bacteria infect a half million people and kill about 29,000 each year in the United States. In some individuals, though, the microbe hangs out in the gut for years without causing trouble. That’s because human intestines normally have plenty of good bacteria to keep disease-causing ones in check. However, a round of antibiotics can throw the system off balance, and if enough good bugs die off, “C. difficile takes over,” says lead author Charles Darkoh, a molecular microbiologist at the University of Texas Health Science Center at Houston. As infection rages, C. difficile can develop resistance to antibiotic drugs, turning it into an intractable superbug.

Darkoh’s team reported last year that C. difficile regulates toxin production with quorum sensing — a system that lets bacteria conserve resources and launch an attack only if their numbers reach a critical threshold. That study identified two sets of quorum-signaling genes, agr1 and agr2, that could potentially activate toxin production.

In the new analysis, Darkoh and colleagues tested the ability of a series of C. difficile strains to make toxins when incubated with human skin cells. Some C. difficile strains had either agr1 or agr2 deleted; others had all their quorum-sensing genes or lacked both gene sets. Agr1 is responsible for packing the superbug’s punch, the researchers found. C. difficile mutants without that set of genes made no detectable toxins, and skin cells growing in close quarters stayed healthy. Feeding those mutant bugs to mice caused no harm, whereas mice that swallowed normal C. difficile lost weight and developed diarrhea within days. In the skin cell cultures, agr2-deficient strains were just as lethal as normal C. difficile, showing that only agr1 is essential for toxin production.

Based on their new findings, Darkoh and colleagues have identified several compounds that inactivate C. difficile toxins or block key steps in the molecular pathway controlling their production. The researchers are testing these agents in mice.

In a mouse study published in Science Translational Medicine last year, Bogyo and colleagues found a different compound that could disarm C. difficile by targeting its toxins. And several companies are trying to fight C. difficile with probiotics — cocktails of good bacteria. Results have been mixed.

Two days after my first daughter was born, her pediatrician paid a house call to examine her newest patient. After packing up her gear, she told me something alarming: “For the next few months, a fever is an emergency.” If we measured a rectal temperature at or above 100.4° Fahrenheit, go to the hospital, she said. Call her on the way, but don’t wait.

I, of course, had no idea that a fever constituted an emergency. But our pediatrician explained that a fever in a very young infant can signal a fast-moving and dangerous bacterial infection. These infections are rare (and fortunately becoming even rarer thanks to newly created vaccines). But they’re serious, and newborns are particularly susceptible.

I’ve since heard from friends who have been through this emergency. Their newborns were poked, prodded and monitored by anxious doctors, in the hopes of quickly ruling out a serious bacterial infection. For infants younger than two months, it’s “enormously difficult to tell if an infant is seriously ill and requires antibiotics and/or hospitalization,” says Howard Bauchner, a pediatrician formerly at Boston University School of Medicine and now editor in chief of the Journal of the American Medical Association.

A new research approach, described in two JAMA papers published in August, may ultimately lead to better ways to find the cause of a fever.

These days, for most (but not all) very young infants, their arrival at a hospital will trigger a workup that includes a urine culture and a blood draw. Often doctors will perform a lumbar puncture, more commonly known as a spinal tap, to draw a sample of cerebrospinal fluid from the area around the spinal cord.

Doctors collect these fluids to look for bacteria. Blood, urine and cerebrospinal fluid are smeared onto culture dishes, and doctors wait and see if any bacteria grow. In the meantime, the feverish infant may be started on antibiotics, just in case. But this approach has its limitations. Bacterial cultivation can take several days. The antibiotics may not be necessary. And needless to say, it’s not easy to get those fluids, particularly from a newborn.

Some scientists believe that instead of looking for bacteria or viruses directly, we ought to be looking at how our body responds to them. Unfortunately, the symptoms of a bacterial and viral infection are frustratingly similar. “You get a fever. You feel sick,” says computational immunologist Purvesh Khatri of Stanford University. Sadly, there are no obvious telltale symptoms of one or the other, not even green snot. In very young infants, a fever might be the only sign that something is amiss.
But more subtle clues could betray the cause of the fever. When confronted with an infection, our immune systems ramp up in specific ways. Depending on whether we are fighting a viral or bacterial foe, different genes turn up their activity. “The immune system knows what’s going on,” Khatri says. That means that if we could identify the genes that reliably get ramped up by viruses and those that get ramped up by bacteria, then we could categorize the infection based on our genetic response.

That’s the approach used by two groups of researchers, whose study results both appear in the August 23/30 JAMA. One group found that in children younger than 2, two specific genes could help make the call on infection type. Using blood samples, the scientists found that one of the genes ramped up its activity in response to a viral infection, and the other responded to a bacterial infection.

The other study looked at immune responses in even younger children. In infants younger than 60 days, the activity of 66 genes measured in blood samples did a pretty good job of distinguishing between bacterial and viral infections. “These are really exciting preliminary results,” says Khatri, who has used a similar method for adults. “We need to do more work.”

Bauchner points out that in order to be useful, “the test would have to be very, very accurate in very young infants.” There’s very little room for error. “Only time will tell how good these tests will be,” he says. In an editorial that accompanied the two studies, he evoked the promise of these methods. If other experiments replicate and refine the results of these studies, he could envision a day in which the parents of a feverish newborn could do a test at home, call their doctor and together decide if the child needs more care.

That kind of test isn’t here yet, but scientists are working on it. The technology couldn’t come soon enough for doctors and parents desperate to figure out a fever.

Use it or lose it, triathletes.

Muscles don’t have long-term memory for exercises like running, biking and swimming, a new study suggests. The old adage that once you’ve been in shape, it’s easier to get fit again could be a myth, at least for endurance athletes, researchers in Sweden report September 22 in PLOS Genetics.

“We really challenged the statement that your muscles can remember previous training,” says Maléne Lindholm of the Karolinska Institute in Stockholm. But even if muscles forget endurance exercise, the researchers say, other parts of the body may remember, and that could make retraining easier for people who’ve been in shape before.
Endurance training is amazingly good for the body. Weak muscle contractions, sustained over a long period of time — as in during a bike ride — change proteins, mainly ones involved in metabolism. This translates into more energy-efficient muscle that can help stave off illnesses like diabetes, cardiovascular disease and some cancers. The question is, how long do those improvements last?

Previous work in mice has shown that muscles “remember” strength training (SN: 9/11/10, p. 15). But rather than making muscles more efficient, strength-training moves like squats and push-ups make muscles bigger and stronger. The muscles bulk up as they develop more nuclei. More nuclei lead to more production of proteins that build muscle fibers. Cells keep their extra nuclei even after regular exercise stops, to make protein easily once strength training restarts, says physiologist Kristian Gundersen at the University of Oslo in Norway. Since endurance training has a different effect on muscles, scientists weren’t sure if the cells would remember it or not.
To answer that question, Lindholm’s team ran volunteers through a 15-month endurance training experiment. In the first three months, 23 volunteers trained four times a week, kicking one leg 60 times per minute for 45 minutes. Volunteers rested their other leg. Lindholm’s team took muscle biopsies before and after the three-month period to see how gene activity changed with training. Specifically, the scientists looked for changes in the number of mRNAs (the blueprints for proteins) that each gene was making. Genes associated with energy production showed the greatest degree of change in activity with training.
At a follow-up, after participants had stopped training for nine months, scientists again biopsied muscle from the thighs of 12 volunteers, but didn’t find any major differences in patterns of gene activity between the previously trained legs and the untrained legs. “The training effects were presumed to have been lost,” says Lindholm. After another three-month bout of training, this time in both legs, the researchers saw no differences between the previously trained and untrained legs.
While this study didn’t find muscle memory for endurance — most existing evidence is anecdotal — it still might be easier for former athletes to get triathalon-ready, researchers say. The new result has “no bearing on the possible memory in other organ systems,” Gundersen says. The heart and cardiovascular system could remember and more easily regain previous fitness levels, for example, he says.

Even within muscle tissue, immune cells or stem cells could also have some memory not found in this study, says molecular exercise physiologist Monica Hubal of George Washington University in Washington, D.C. Lindholm adds that well-trained connections between nerves and muscles could also help lapsed athletes get in shape faster than people who have never exercised before. “They know how to exercise, how it’s supposed to feel,” Lindholm says. “Your brain knows exactly how to activate your muscles, you don’t forget how to do that.”

To human observers, bumblebees sipping nectar from flowers appear cheerful. It turns out that the insects may actually enjoy their work. A new study suggests that bees experience a “happy” buzz after receiving a sugary snack, although it’s probably not the same joy that humans experience chomping on a candy bar.

Scientists can’t ask bees or other animals how they feel. Instead, researchers must look for signs of positive or negative emotions in an animal’s decision making or behavior, says Clint Perry, a neuroethologist at Queen Mary University of London. In one such study, for example, scientists shook bees vigorously in a machine for 60 seconds — hard enough to annoy, but not hard enough to cause injury — and found that stressed bees made more pessimistic decisions while foraging for food.
The new study, published in the Sept. 30 Science, is the first to look for signs of positive bias in bee decision making, Perry says. His team trained 24 bees to navigate a small arena connected to a plastic tunnel. When the tunnel was marked with a blue “flower” (a placard), the bees learned that a tasty vial of sugar water awaited them at its end. When a green “flower” was present, there was no reward. Once the bees learned the difference, the scientists threw the bees a curveball: Rather than being blue or green, the “flower” had a confusing blue-green hue.

Faced with the ambiguous color, the bees appeared to dither, meandering around for roughly 100 seconds before deciding whether to enter the tunnel. Some didn’t enter at all. But when the scientists gave half the bees a treat — a drop of concentrated sugar water — that group spent just 50 seconds circling the entrance before deciding to check it out. Overall, the two groups flew roughly the same distances at the same speeds, suggesting that the group that had gotten a treat first had not simply experienced a boost in energy from the sugar, but were in a more positive, optimistic state, Perry says.

In a separate experiment, Perry and colleagues simulated a spider attack on the bees by engineering a tiny arm that darted out and immobilized them with a sponge. Sugar-free bees took about 50 seconds longer than treated bees to resume foraging after the harrowing encounter.

The researchers then applied a solution to the bees’ thoraxes that blocked the action of dopamine, one of several chemicals that transmit rewarding signals in the insect brain. With dopamine blocked, the effects of the sugar treat disappeared, further suggesting that a change in mood, and not just increased energy, was responsible for the bees’ behavior.

The results provide the first evidence for positive, emotion-like states in bees, says Ralph Adolphs, a neuroscientist at Caltech. Yet he suspects that the metabolic effects of sugar did influence the bees’ behavior.
Geraldine Wright, a neuroethologist at Newcastle University in England, shares that concern. “The data reported in the paper doesn’t quite convince me that eating sucrose didn’t change how they behaved, even though they say it didn’t affect flight time or speed of flight,” she says. “I would be very cautious in interpreting the responses of bees in this assay as a positive emotional state.”

Butterflies look so delicate as they flitter from flower to flower. And yet, they are capable of migrating incredibly long distances. The monarch, for example, migrates between Canada and Mexico, covering distances of up to 4,800 kilometers, riding a combination of columns of rising air, called thermals, and air currents to travel around 80 to 160 kilometers per day.

No single monarch makes this entire journey, though. The round trip is done by a succession of as many as five generations of butterflies. But now scientists have found that there’s a species of butterfly that may rival the monarch’s migratory record — the painted lady (Vanessa cardui).

Painted ladies are found throughout much of the world, except for South America and Australia. They’ve been seen as far north as Svalbard, Norway, and nearly as far south as Antarctica. The butterflies are known to migrate, particularly between Europe and Africa, but their route has been largely unknown. Scientists had tracked the butterflies to northern Africa (the region known as the Maghreb), but there have been hints that they may fly across the Sahara. Two new studies back up this claim.

Gerard Talavera and Roger Vila of Harvard University visited four sub-Saharan nations — Benin, Chad, Ethiopia and Senegal — in 2014. They found butterflies moving south through Chad. There were dense aggregations of breeding butterflies in Benin and Ethiopia. And as the dry season approached in Senegal, the pair found butterflies old and worn, as if they had just finished a long, tortuous journey. Plus, the timing of these appearances coincided with the butterflies’ fall and winter disappearance from Europe.

“Taken together, the results of our fieldwork provide evidence suggesting that most European populations may undertake long-range migratory flights to tropical Africa, thus crossing the combined hazards of the Mediterranean Sea and the completely hostile Sahara,” the pair write September 21 in the Biological Journal of the Linnean Society.

If butterflies truly are making that flight, they could be traveling more than 4,000 kilometers in a single generation — a potential record for a migratory insect, the researchers note. And while this seems nearly impossible, it may not be. A previous study found that with favorable winds, painted butterflies could travel as fast as 45 kilometers per hour. At that speed, it would take them as little as four days to make it from Central Europe to Central Africa. Since an adult painted butterfly lives for around four weeks, such a journey is feasible, Talavera and Vila argue.

But this evidence is only circumstantial; it doesn’t prove that butterflies are truly making that journey. So while Tavalera and Vila were in sub-Saharan Africa, they collected hundreds of adult painted ladies and larvae. Some of these were used in a second study, published October 4 in Biology Letters and led by Constantí Stefanescu of the Natural History Museum of Granollers in Spain. In this study, the team analyzed the isotopes of hydrogen found in the adult butterflies’ wings.
The hydrogen in the water that falls as precipitation can come in different isotopes, or forms, that vary in the number of neutrons. The ratio of these isotopes varies geographically. And the ratio present wherever the butterflies lived as larvae correlates with that later found in the adults’ wings. So researchers can tell where the adults were born.

Stefanescu and his team analyzed butterflies collected in seven European and seven African countries and developed a rough map of where the adults were moving. Those in sub-Saharan Africa had indeed started in Europe. But those in the Maghreb came from both sub-Saharan Africa and Europe.

What explains all this movement? The butterflies are following a combination of prevailing winds and favorable conditions for breeding. As rains come and go, the butterflies breed and move on. And while crossing the Sahara may seem like quite a way to go just for some rainy days and lush vegetation, painted lady butterflies are hardly the only creatures willing to go that far, Stefanescu and his colleagues note. There are plenty of other insects that make such a journey — as well as billions of birds.

It may sound like science fiction, but it’s not: Scientists have created the first time crystal, using a chain of ions. Just as a standard crystal repeats in a regular spatial pattern, a time crystal repeats in time, returning to a similar configuration at regular intervals.

“This is a remarkable experiment,” says physicist Chetan Nayak of Microsoft Station Q at the University of California, Santa Barbara. “There is a ‘wow factor.’”

Scientists at the University of Maryland and the University of California, Berkeley created a chain of 10 ytterbium ions. These ions behave like particles with spin, a sort of quantum mechanical version of angular momentum, which can point either up or down. Using a laser, the physicists flipped the spins in a chain of ions halfway around, from up to down, and allowed the ions to interact so that the spin of each ion would influence the others. The researchers repeated this sequence at regular intervals, flipping the ions halfway each time and letting them interact. When scientists measured the ions’ spins, on average the ions went full circle, returning to their original states, in twice the time interval at which they were flipped halfway.
This behavior is sensible — if each flip turns something halfway around, it takes two flips to return to its original position. But scientists found that the ions’ spins would return to their original orientation at that same rate even if they were not flipped perfectly halfway. This result indicates that the system of ions prefers to respond at a certain regular period — the hallmark of a time crystal — just as atoms in a crystal prefer a perfectly spaced lattice. Such time crystals are “one of the first examples of a new phase of matter,” says physicist Norman Yao of UC Berkeley, a coauthor of the new result, posted online September 27 at arXiv.org.

Time crystals take an important unifying concept in physics — the idea of symmetry breaking — and extend it to time. Physical laws typically treat all points in space equally — no one location is different from any other. In a liquid, for example, atoms are equally likely to be found at any point in space. This is a continuous symmetry, as the conditions are the same at any point along the spatial continuum. If the liquid solidifies into a crystal, that symmetry is broken: Atoms are found only at certain regularly spaced positions, with voids in between. Likewise, if you rotate a crystal, on a microscopic level it would look different from different angles, but liquid will look the same however it’s rotated. In physics, such broken symmetries underlie topics ranging from magnets to superconductors to the Higgs mechanism, which imbues elementary particles with mass and gives rise to the Higgs boson.

In 2012, theoretical physicist Frank Wilczek of MIT proposed that symmetry breaking in time might produce time crystals (SN: 3/24/12, p. 8). But follow-up work indicated that time crystals couldn’t emerge in a system in a state of equilibrium, which is settled into a stable configuration. Instead, physicists realized, driven systems, which are periodically perturbed by an external force — like the laser flipping the ions — could create such crystals. “The original examples were either flawed or too simple,” says Wilczek. “This is much more interesting.”

Unlike the continuous symmetry that is broken in the transition from a liquid to a solid crystal, in the driven systems that the scientists used to create time crystals, the symmetry is discrete, appearing at time intervals corresponding to the time between perturbations. If the system repeats itself at a longer time interval than the one it’s driven at — as the scientists’ time crystal does — that symmetry is broken.

Time crystals are too new for scientists to have a handle on their potential practical applications. “It’s like a baby, you don’t know what it’s going to grow up to be,” Wilczek says. But, he says, “I don’t think we’ve heard the last of this by a long shot.”
There probably are related systems yet to be uncovered, says Nayak. “We’re just kind of scratching the surface of the kinds of amazing phenomena — such as time crystals — that we can have in nonequilibrium quantum systems. So I think it’s the first window into a whole new arena for us to explore.”