IN The Ogre, the Monk and the Maiden, Margaret Drabble鈥檚 ingenious story for the new sci-fi anthology Collision, a character called Jaz works on 鈥渢he interface of language and quantum physics鈥�. Jaz鈥檚 speciality is 鈥渢he speaking of the inexpressible鈥�. Science fiction authors have long grappled with translating cutting-edge research 鈥� much of it grounded in what Drabble calls 鈥渢he Esperanto of Equations鈥� 鈥� into everyday language and engaging plots.
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Few domains seem to pose a tougher challenge to narrative art than CERN, the particle physics lab near Geneva, Switzerland. Since 1954, its scientists have transformed the boldest ideas about the universe into theories grounded in experimental data. CERN鈥檚 heroic exploits stretch from birthing the world wide web in 1989 to confirming the Higgs boson hypothesis in 2012.
But its combination of gargantuan plant (the Large Hadron Collider, CERN鈥檚 ultimate ring of power, has a circumference of 27 kilometres) and interrogation of the smallest, oldest events in and beyond our galaxy may escape the human middle ground where even high-concept fiction has to dwell.
Undaunted, editors Rob Appleby and Connie Potter matched CERN scientists with writers tasked to turn their research areas into accessible short stories. The 13 tales, accompanied by afterwords from the researchers, take different narrative approaches to elusive quantum ideas, and not every one precisely strikes its target. But the collection grounds speculation in scientific, and social, reality 鈥� unlike Dan Brown鈥檚 Angels and Demons, which turned on the theft of weapons-grade antimatter from CERN.
One story, Bidisha Mamata鈥檚 Afterglow, cleverly delivers a parody of Brown鈥檚 potboiler, complete with an antimatter-obsessed genius and an apocalyptic finale. Her enjoyably outlandish tale triggers a sober discussion (by CERN partner Kristin Lohwasser) of safety measures and the realities of radiation exposure.
Other stories weld idea-rich plots to close-up observation of CERN鈥檚 facilities: a scruffy concrete village, cluttered with tinfoil, cables and yellowing printouts. Some authors tilt towards CERN鈥檚 social context, as Luan Goldie does in Marble Run with a hard-pressed mother (a supersymmetry specialist) who imagines 鈥渢hings that aren鈥檛, but could be鈥� while the real world blocks her path. In Dark Matters, Lucy Caldwell sends her protagonist back to Belfast, and a dying parent, to ponder the pull of family gravity.
In contrast, hardcore sci-fi voyagers may boldly go straight for part of CERN鈥檚 conceptual core, with stories prompted by the quest to understand dark matter. In Going Dark by former Doctor Who showrunner Steven Moffat, snoopers into this hidden substance find themselves 鈥渦npicked from the fabric of reality鈥� (鈥渋mplausible but not impossible鈥�, deems researcher Peter Dong in his afterword). And Ian Watson鈥檚 witty Skipping resolves the hoary sci-fi problem of interstellar travel times with craft that 鈥渏ump鈥� on graviton beams across a scrunched-up, non-Euclidean tablecloth of space.
With Gauguin鈥檚 Questions, veteran sci-fi world-builder Stephen Baxter aims highest of all, inventing a moon-based AI investigator whose millennia-long stewardship of particle colliders identified 鈥渁n intelligence of the past that wrote its story into our sky鈥�. This vision feels light years away from CERN鈥檚 tangled wires and coffee stains. But, as scientist Carole Weydert writes in response to Goldie鈥檚 tale, there 鈥渆very grey concrete wall holds the promise of undiscovered truths just below the surface鈥�. Collision lets laypeople glimpse, and share, some of them.
Boyd Tonkin is a critic based in London
