Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            I’m not being needlessly dramatic when I say that it was a whole thing. On Facebook. On the news, including 60 Minutes. Even Oprah talked about it—the Jonathan Smith-Turner Affair, the Theoretical Hoax, the Physics Scandal. Einstein rolled in his grave. Newton puked up his apple. Feynman quietly stepped in a tank of liquid helium. Young Elsie, who in her early teens already knew what she wanted to be when she grew up, seethed and growled and boycotted all coverage of the topic, declaring a ban on all media in the Hannaway household. (The ban was unheeded, as the Hannaway household tended to forget young Elsie existed; her parents were probably too busy trying to stop her brothers from egging the neighbor’s shed.)

            Mainstream interest blew over soon enough. Annals of Theoretical Physics pulled the article and apologized for the oversight, a bunch of theorists in improbable sweaters and spray-on hair took to YouTube to defend their honor, and Jonathan Smith-Turner never spoke publicly on the matter. Thankfully, the amount of mental energy normies like to expend on physics is limited.

            But the hoax was a humiliating, devastating blow, and the field never quite recovered—all because of a stupid prank. Over a decade later, theoretical physics funding has been slashed. Theory job openings are decimated. The running joke is still that theoretical physics is akin to creative writing, books have been written on how theorists are exploitative wackjobs, and Google’s main autofills for theoretical physics are: Not real science. Nonsense. Dead.

            (Slanderous. Google is slanderous and we should all switch to Bing.)

            And yet it gets even worse—for two reasons that make all of this personal to me. First, one of the major downfalls of the article was that the theoretical physics community, needing to save face, quickly found a scapegoat: they formally censured the chief editor of Annals—the academic version of pushing someone into a paddle cactus bed and leaving them for dead.

            That editor was Christophe Laurendeau—my mentor.

            Yup.

            The second reason is that, regrettably, Smith-Turner and I operate in the same subfield of physics. Our work on liquid crystals partially overlaps, and I occasionally wonder if that’s reason enough for me to switch to some other topic. Black holes? Lattices? Quantum supremacy? I’m still debating. In the meantime, I’ve been on a boycott. For years I’ve refused to care about what Jonathan Smith-Turner is doing—I’ve refused to read his papers, to acknowledge his existence, to even mention his name.

            In hindsight, I probably should have kept tabs.

            “Naturally,” Monica is saying, “Jonathan is a talented experimentalist and an asset to the department. He joined us last year—moved from Caltech with sizable grants to lead the MIT Physics Institute. We’re lucky to have him.” Her expression makes it abundantly clear she believes no such thing. “The position you’re interviewing for is a joint one. Half of your salary will be paid by my department, half from the Physics Institute. Which is headed by Jonathan. Who, in turn, strongly favors the other candidate we are interviewing.” Monica sighs. “I cannot tell you who the other candidate is, for obvious reasons.”

            My fingers tighten around the glass. “The other candidate is an experimentalist, I assume.”

            “Yes. And a previous collaborator of Jonathan’s.”

            I close my eyes, and it sinks into me that—shit.

            This interview, it’s a pissing contest. Theorists vs. experimentalists. Physics Department vs. Physics Institute. Monica vs. Jonathan.

            Hiring Committee: Civil War.

            “If I get the job, would Jonathan Smith-Turner be my superior?” There may be a limit to what I’m willing to compromise for protected research time, health insurance, and bottomless cheese-purchasing power.

            Monica shakes her head energetically. “Not in any meaningful way.”

            “I see.” Relief warms my belly. Very well. “Thank you for being straightforward with me. I’ll be equally straightforward: Is there anything I can do to be chosen over the other candidate?”

            She studies me, serious for a moment. Then her face breaks into a fierce grin, and that—that is my tell. That’s how I know who the me Monica wants is: a champion. Her tribute to the Hunger Games of physics. A gladiator to take on Jonathan Smith-Turner, the entitled STEMlord she despises.

            Well, I can do that. Because I happen to despise the very same guy.