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“I am increasingly becoming irrelevant in the public conversation,” says Kate Marvel, a climate scientist who until recently worked at NASA’s Goddard Institute for Space Studies. “And I love it.”
For years, such an exalted state was denied to Marvel. Every week, it seemed, someone — a high-profile politician, maybe, or a CEO — would say something idiotic about climate science. Journalists would dutifully call her to get a rebuttal: Yes, climate change is real, she would say, yes, we’re really certain. The media would print the story. Rinse, repeat.
A few years ago, she told a panel, half as a joke, that her highest professional ambition was not fame or a Nobel Prize but total irrelevance — a moment when climate scientists would no longer have anything useful to tell the public.
That 2020 dream is now her 2023 reality. “It’s incredible,” she told me last week. “Science is no longer even a dominant part of the climate story anymore, and I think that’s great. I think that represents just shattering progress.”
We were talking about a question, a private heresy, I’ve been musing about for some time. Because it’s not just the scientists who have faded into the background — over the past few years, the role of climate science itself has shifted. Gradually, then suddenly, a field once defined by urgent questions and dire warnings has become practical and specialized. So for the past few weeks, I’ve started to ask researchers my big question: Have we reached the end of climate science?
“Science is never done,” Michael Oppenheimer, a professor of geosciences and international affairs at Princeton, told me. “There’s always things that we thought we knew that we didn’t.”
“Your title is provocative, but not without basis,” Katharine Hayhoe, a climate scientist at Texas Tech University and one of the lead authors of the National Climate Assessment, said.
Not necessarily no, then. My question, I always clarified, had a few layers.
Since it first took shape, climate science has sought to answer a handful of big questions: Why does Earth’s temperature change so much across millennia? What role do specific gases play in regulating that temperature? If we keep burning fossil fuels, how bad could it be — and how hot could it get?
The field has now answered those questions to any useful degree. But what’s more, scientists have advocated and won widespread acceptance of the idea that inevitably follows from those answers, which is that humanity must decarbonize its economy as fast as it reasonably can. Climate science, in other words, didn’t just end. It reached its end — its ultimate state, its Really Big Important Point.
In the past few years, the world has begun to accept that Really Big Important Point. Since 2020, the world’s three largest climate polluters — China, the United States, and the European Union — have adopted more aggressive climate policies. Last year, the global clean-energy market cracked $1 trillion in annual investment for the first time; one of every seven new cars sold worldwide is now an electric vehicle. In other words, serious decarbonization — the end of climate science — has begun.
At the same time, climate science has resolved some of its niggling mysteries. When I became a climate reporter in 2015, questions still lingered about just how bad climate change would be. Researchers struggled to understand how clouds or melting permafrost fed back into the climate system; in 2016, a major paper argued that some Antarctic glaciers could collapse by the end of the century, leading to hyper-accelerated sea-level rise within my lifetime.
Today, not all of those questions have been completely put aside. But scientists now have a better grasp of how clouds work, and some of the most catastrophic Antarctic scenarios have been pushed into the next century. In 2020, researchers even made progress on one of the oldest mysteries in climate science — a variable called “climate sensitivity” — for the first time in 41 years.
Does the field have any mysteries left? “I wouldn’t go quite so far as angels dancing on the head of a pin” to describe them, Hayhoe told me. “But in order to act, we already know what we need.”
“I think at the macro level, what we discover [next] is not necessarily going to change policymakers’ decisions, but you could argue that’s been true since the late 90s,” Zeke Hausfather, a climate scientist at Berkeley Earth, agreed.
“Physics didn’t end when we figured out how to do engineering, and now they are both incredibly important,” Marvel said.
Yet across the discipline, you can see research switching their focus from learning to building — from physics, as it were, to engineering. Marvel herself left NASA last year to join Project Drawdown, a nonprofit that focuses on emissions reduction. Hausfather now works at Frontier, a tech-industry consortium that studies carbon-removal technology. Even Hayhoe — who trained as a climate scientist — joined a political-science department a decade ago. “I concluded that the biggest barriers to action were not more science,” she said this week.
To fully understand whether climate science has ended, it might help to go back to the very beginning of the field.
By the late 19th century, scientists knew that Earth was incredibly ancient. They also knew that over long enough timescales, the weather in one place changed dramatically. (Even the ancient Greeks and Chinese had noticed misplaced seashores or fossilized bamboo and figured out what they meant.) But only slowly did questions from chemistry, physics, and meteorology congeal into a new field of study.
The first climate scientist, we now know, was Eunice Newton Foote, an amateur inventor and feminist. In 1856, she observed that glass jars filled with carbon dioxide or water vapor trapped more of the sun’s heat than a jar containing dry air. “An atmosphere of that gas,” she wrote of CO₂, “would give to our earth a high temperature.”
But due to her gender and nationality, her work was lost. So the field began instead with the contributions of two Europeans: John Tyndall, an Irish physicist who in 1859 first identified which gases cause the greenhouse effect; and Svante Arrhenius, a Swedish chemist who in 1896 first described Earth’s climate sensitivity, perhaps the discipline’s most important number.
Arrhenius asked: If the amount of CO₂ in the atmosphere were to double, how much would the planet warm? Somewhere from five to six degrees Celsius, he concluded. Although he knew that humanity’s coal consumption was causing carbon pollution, his calculation was a purely academic exercise: We would not double atmospheric CO₂ for another 3,000 years.
In fact, it might take only two centuries. Atmospheric carbon-dioxide levels are now 50 percent higher than they were when the Industrial Revolution began — we are halfway to doubling.
Not until after World War II did climate science become an urgent field, as nuclear war, the space race, and the birth of environmentalism forced scientists to think about the whole Earth system for the first time — and computers made such a daring thing possible. In the late 1950s and 1960s, the physicists Syukuro Manabe and Richard Wetherald produced the first computer models of the atmosphere, confirming that climate sensitivity was real. (Last year, Manabe won the Nobel Prize in Physics for that work.) Half a hemisphere away, the oceanographer Charles Keeling used data collected from Hawaii’s Mauna Loa Observatory to show that fossil-fuel use was rapidly increasing the atmosphere’s carbon concentration.
Suddenly, the greenhouse effect — and climate sensitivity — were no longer theoretical. “If the human race survives into the 21st century,” Keeling warned, “the people living then … may also face the threat of climatic change brought about by an uncontrolled increase in atmospheric CO₂ from fossil fuels.”
Faced with a near-term threat, climate science took shape. An ever-growing group of scientists sketched what human-caused climate change might mean for droughts, storms, floods, glaciers, and sea levels. Even oil companies opened climate-research divisions — although they would later hide this fact and fund efforts to discredit the science. In 1979, the MIT meteorologist Jules Charney led a national report concluding that global warming was essentially inevitable. He also estimated climate sensitivity at 1.5 to 4 degrees Celsius, a range that would stand for the next four decades.
“In one sense, we’ve already known enough for over 50 years to do what we have to do,” Hayhoe, the Texas Tech professor, told me. “Some parts of climate science have been simply crossing the T’s and dotting the I’s since then.”
Crossing the T’s and dotting the I’s—such an idea would have made sense to the historian Thomas Kuhn. In his book, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, he argued that science doesn’t progress in a dependable and linear way, but through spasmodic “paradigm shifts,” when a new theory supplants an older one and casts everything that scientists once knew in doubt. These revolutions are followed by happy doldrums that he called “normal science,” where researchers work to fit their observations of the world into the moment’s dominant paradigm.
By 1988, climate science had advanced to the degree that James Hansen, the head of NASA’s Goddard Institute, could confidently warn the Senate that global warming had begun. A few months later, the United Nations convened the first Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, an expert body of scientists asked to report on current scientific consensus.
Yet core scientific questions remained. In the 1990s, the federal scientist Ben Santer and his colleagues provided the first evidence of climate change’s “fingerprint” in the atmosphere — key observations that showed the lower atmosphere was warming in such a way as to implicate carbon dioxide.
By this point, any major scientific questions about climate change were effectively resolved. Paul N. Edwards, a Stanford historian and IPCC author, remembers musing in the early 2000s about whether the IPCC’s physical-science team should pack it up: They had done the job and shown that climate change was real.
Yet climate science had not yet won politically. Santer was harassed over his research; fossil-fuel companies continued to seed lies and doubt about the science for years. Across the West, only some politicians acted as if climate change was real; even the new U.S. president, Barack Obama, could not get a climate law through a liberal Congress in 2010.
It took one final slog for climate science to win. Through the 2010s, scientists ironed out remaining questions around clouds, glaciers, and other runaway feedbacks. “It’s become harder in the last decade to make a publicly skeptical case against mainstream climate science,” Hausfather said. “Part of that is climate science advancing one funeral at a time. But it’s also become so clear and self-evident — and so much of the scientific community supports it — that it’s harder to argue against with any credibility.”
Three years ago, a team of more than two dozen researchers — including Hausfather and Marvel — finally made progress on solving climate science’s biggest outstanding mystery, cutting our uncertainty around climate sensitivity in half. Since 1979, Charney’s estimate had remained essentially unchanged; it was quoted nearly verbatim in the 2013 IPCC report. Now, scientists know that if atmospheric CO₂ were to double, Earth’s temperature would rise 2.6 to 3.9 degrees Celsius.
That’s about as much specificity as we’ll ever need, Hayhoe told me. Now, “we know that climate sensitivity is either bad, really bad, or catastrophic.”
So isn’t climate science over, then? It’s resolved the big uncertainties; it’s even cleared up climate sensitivity. Not quite, Marvel said. She and other researchers described a few areas where science is still vital.
The first — and perhaps most important — is the object that covers two-thirds of Earth’s surface area: the ocean, Edwards told me. Since the 1990s, it has absorbed more than 90% of the excess heat caused by greenhouse gases, but we still don’t understand how it formed, much less how it will change over the next century.
Researchers also know some theories need to be revisited. “Antarctica is melting way faster than in the models,” Marvel said, which could change the climate much more quickly than previously imagined. And though the runaway collapse of Antarctica now seems less likely, we could be wrong, Oppenheimer reminded me. “The money that we put into understanding Antarctica is a pittance compared to what you would need to truly understand such a big object,” he said.
And these, mind you, are the known unknowns. There’s still the chance that we discover some huge new climatic process out there — at the bottom of the Mariana Trench, perhaps, or at the base of an Antarctic glacier — that has so far eluded us.
Yet in the wildfires of the old climate science, a new field is being born. The scientists who I spoke with see three big projects.
First, in the past decade, researchers have gotten much better at attributing individual weather events to climate change. They now know that the Lower 48 states are three times more likely to see a warm February than they would without human-caused climate change, for instance, or that Oregon and Washington’s record-breaking 2021 heat wave was “virtually impossible” without warming. This work will keep improving, Marvel said, and it will help us understand where climate models fail to predict the actual experience of climate change.
Second, scientists want to make the tools of climate science more useful to people at the scales where they live, work, and play. “We just don’t yet have the ability to understand in a detailed way and at a small-enough scale” what climate impacts will look like, Oppenheimer told me. Cities should be able to predict how drought or sea-level rise will affect their bridges or infrastructure. Members of Congress should know what a once-in-a-decade heat wave will look like in their district five, 10, or 20 years hence.
“It’s not so much that we don’t need science anymore; it’s that we need science focused on the questions that are going to save lives,” Oppenheimer said. The task before climate science is to steward humanity through the “treacherous next decades where we are likely to warm through the danger zone of 1.5 degrees.”
That brings us to the third project: That climatologists must create a “smoother interface between physical science and social science,” he said. The Yale economist Richard Nordhaus recently won a Nobel Prize for linking climate science with economics, “but other aspects of the human system are still totally undone.” Edwards wanted to get beyond economics altogether: “We need an anthropology and sociology of climate adaptation,” he said. Marvel, meanwhile, wanted to zoom the lens beyond just people. “We don’t really understand ... what the hell plants do,” she told me. Plants and plankton have absorbed half of all carbon pollution, but it’s unclear if they’ll keep doing so or how all that extra carbon has changed how they might respond to warming.
Economics, sociology, botany, politics — you can begin to see a new field taking shape here, a kind of climate post-science. Rooted in climatology’s theories and ideas, it stretches to embrace the breadth of the Earth system. The climate is everything, after all, and in order to survive an era when human desire has altered the planet’s geology, this new field of study must encompass humanity itself — and all the rest of the Earthly mess.
Nearly a century ago, the philosopher Alexander Kojéve concluded it was possible for political philosophy to gain a level of absolute knowledge about the world and, second, that it had done so. In the wake of the French Revolution, some fusion of socialism or capitalism would win the day, he concluded, meaning that much of the remaining “work to do” in society lay not in large-scale philosophizing about human nature, but in essentially bureaucratic questions of economic and social governance. So he became a technocrat, and helped design the market entity that later became the European Union.
Is this climate science’s Kojéve era? It just may be — but it won’t last forever, Oppenheimer reminded me.
“Generations in the future will still be dealing with this problem,” he said. “Even if we get off fossil fuels, some future idiot genius will invent some other climate altering substance. We can never put climate aside — it’s part of the responsibility we inherited when we started being clever enough to invent problems like this in future.”
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It sure looks that way, at least. Democrats should start coming up with a plan.
For the first six months of President Trump’s term, the big question was about what would happen to the Inflation Reduction Act. We now have something like an answer.
President Trump’s memorably named One Big Beautiful Bill Act repealed many of the IRA’s most important clean energy tax credits, including incentives for wind, solar, and electric vehicles. And while it’s still unclear whether the Trump administration will let developers actually use the tax credits that remain on the books — especially the now-denuded credits for wind and solar — fewer “unknown unknowns” remain about what might come next.
So I’ve been trying to figure out where climate and energy policy might go from here. And one story that I keep coming back to is the flashing red lights around what could become a serious electricity affordability crisis.
It’s now widely understood that electricity demand is rising in the United States for the first time in a generation. The Energy Information Administration projects that electricity use will grow 1.7% in the next few years, after increasing by just 0.1% per year from 2005 to 2020. That growth is projected to come from new data centers, new factories, the (now) slow(er) but (still) steady adoption of electric vehicles, and population growth.
What is less well understood is how poorly the United States is prepared to match this rise in electricity demand with an equivalent increase in supply. To some degree, American electricity prices are already rising: So far this year, utilities have received or requested permission to increase customers’ bills by $29 billion, according to a July report from PowerLines, a think tank and advocacy group. That’s a large number in its own right, and it’s more than twice as much as had been approved at this time last year.
But when you look across the power system, virtually every trend is setting us up for electricity price spikes:
On top of all this, of course, the Trump administration has made it much more uncertain which new solar, wind, and battery projects will be able to secure tax credits — and with them, secure bank financing.
None of these trends alone would guarantee price increases or electricity supply constraints. But taken together, they reveal an electricity system that is coming under a variety of strains.
In the 2010s, cheap natural gas and technological advances in energy efficiency pacified much of the power system. We won’t have the same luxury this decade.
This is all going to be bad for the economy, bad for the climate, and bad for climate policy.
It’s a setback for the U.S. economy because, as President Trump somewhat alluded to in his second inaugural address, energy is a key input to virtually every other economic process, including manufacturing. But it’s especially bad for climate policy. The dominant plan to decarbonize much of the U.S. economy is to “electrify everything” — cars, appliances, home heating, and even many industrial processes. Americans will be far less eager to electrify everything if electricity is expensive.
If energy price hikes do arrive, Democrats are going to have a relatively straightforward time communicating about them in a narrow political sense. The story is just too simple: Democrats passed a law to encourage clean energy called the Inflation Reduction Act. Republicans repealed it. Energy prices inflated. QED.
That story alone might be too contrived, but the evidence we have suggests that OBBBA will raise energy bills. The REPEAT Project at Princeton University — led by Jesse Jenkins, my Shift Key podcast cohost — has a new report out projecting that the One Big Beautiful Bill Act will increase Americans’ electricity bills by $165 a year by the end of the decade. (If the law is allowed to stick around, and in the absence of intervening policies, it could raise bills by hundreds of dollars a year by the middle of next decade.)
OBBBA’s explosion of the federal deficit will make the situation worse: By expanding the deficit for such little public gain — that is, merely to memorialize earlier tax cuts, not even to make new ones — the Federal Reserve will have a more difficult time cutting interest rates in the future. That will in turn make it even more difficult for utilities and developers to finance new energy projects.
The political story will be so compelling here, I think, that Democrats will come under a lot of pressure to reinstate the wind and solar tax credits. And maybe they should do that — it could make sense as part of a larger energy or permitting deal. But stacking more solar and wind on the grid will not on its own lower people’s electricity bills.
Going into 2028, Democrats will need an actual plan to stabilize or cut electricity costs. They will need ideas about how (and whether) to speed up permitting, restructure wholesale power markets, and build new power plants in order to stabilize the power grid.
One thing that’s already clear is that in this inflationary environment, states like New York with publicly owned power authorities are able to intervene more forcefully in their own power markets than states that lack such capability. That’s because the state itself can act to build its own large-scale power plants. New York Governor Kathy Hochul recently directed the state’s power authority to build a new nuclear power plant upstate in order to grow the supply of zero-emissions electricity. Using their state own power authorities, governors in other states — or even the federal government, with an entity like the TVA— could take a similar step.
With all that said, I’ve been trying to come up with a scenario under which these price hikes will not materialize. In the late 2010s, for instance, America’s liquified natural gas exports surged essentially from zero, but domestic consumers didn’t see significant price hikes because drillers increased gas production to match the exports. Maybe that could happen again. And maybe utilities will — and this would, to be clear, be horrible for the climate — run their aging coal plants much more than they once anticipated doing.
Or maybe load growth won’t be as bad as we think. When Jesse and I spoke to Peter Freed, Meta’s former director of energy strategy, for Shift Key, he told us that the current data center boom is different from any previous buildout because of the presence of speculators. For the first time, he said, speculative data center developers are buying up prospective sites and requesting utility-scale hookups with the expectation that they will find a tenant for the data center in the future. In other words, the demand side of the electricity system is filled with an unusual amount of froth at the moment.
We also know that, more generally, the demand side of the power system is a mess. In the past few years, climate analysts have gotten used to talking about the power grid’s interconnection queue — that is, its supply side. But the demand-side queue — the process that lets new data centers, factories, and other new electricity users connect — is even more broken. In some jurisdictions, it’s little more than an Excel file that projects move up and down within as local politics requires.
We also know that one source of new demand — one planned factory or, more often, one data center — will sometimes apply to hook up to multiple states or utilities at the same time. It will get utilities to bid against each other, suss out the best construction sites and power rates, and only relatively late in the process make a final decision about where to build.
So if I were putting together a bear case for electricity demand, I would start here. Maybe aggressive data center speculators are bidding in multiple utilities, driving up projections across many states. That’s causing utilities to freak out about their supply, leading them to project the need for a lot of new investment — and, with it, a lot of electricity rate increases. But as data center speculators actually begin to build (or abandon) projects — and as some of the air inevitably comes out of the AI boom — some of this projected demand will start to evaporate. Perhaps the data centers that do get built will find ways to reduce their power usage, too.
Even this story won’t fully eliminate load growth on its own, though. Data centers make up the largest share of new electricity demand, but even then, they’re not the majority of it. The rest comes from, roughly, new factories, the slow electrification of the vehicle fleet, and new residential construction. But let’s say the One Big Beautiful Bill Act succeeds in hobbling the electric vehicle sector in the United States, many EV and battery factories get canceled, and fewer Americans buy EVs overall. Calculate in a mild recession, too, since all the AI and EV investment will be drying up.
In that world, most new sources of power demand really will be in abeyance. That’s how some of these power projections might not come true. But in most other scenarios, it’s time to hold on — and for blue-state leaders to think about how they can find cheap, zero-emissions electrons, as soon as possible.
The Department of Energy announced Wednesday that it was scrapping the loan guarantee.
The Department of Energy canceled a nearly $5 billion loan guarantee for the Grain Belt Express, a transmission project intended to connect wind power in Kansas with demand in Illinois that would eventually stretch all the way to Indiana.
“After a thorough review of the project’s financials, DOE found that the conditions necessary to issue the guarantee are unlikely to be met and it is not critical for the federal government to have a role in supporting this project. To ensure more responsible stewardship of taxpayer resources, DOE has terminated its conditional commitment,” the Department of Energy said in a statement Wednesday.
The $11 billion project had been in the works for more than a decade and had won bipartisan approval from state governments and regulators across the Midwest. The conditional loan guarantee announced in November 2024 would have secured up to $4.9 billion in financing to fund phase one of the project, which would run from Ford County in Kansas to Callaway County in Missouri.
In response to a request for comment, an Invenergy spokesperson said, “While we are disappointed about the LPO loan guarantee, a privately financed Grain Belt Express transmission superhighway will advance President Trump’s agenda of American energy and technology dominance while delivering billions of dollars in energy cost savings, strengthening grid reliability and resiliency, and creating thousands of American jobs.”
The project had long been the object of ire from Missouri Senator Josh Hawley, who recently stepped up his attacks in the hopes that a more friendly administration could help scrap the project. Two weeks ago, Hawley posted on X that he’d had “a great conversation today with @realDonaldTrump and Energy Secretary Chris Wright. Wright said he will be putting a stop to the Grain Belt Express green scam. It’s costing taxpayers BILLIONS! Thank you, President Trump.” The New York Times later reported that Trump had made a call to Wright on the issue with Hawley in the Oval Office.
Hawley celebrated the Grain Belt Express decision, writing on X, “It’s done. Thank you, President Trump,” and exulting in a separate post that “Department of Energy officially TERMINATES taxpayer funding for Green New Deal ‘grain belt express.’”
The senator had claimed that the plan would hurt Missouri farmers due to the use of eminent domain to acquire land for the project. In 2023, Hawley wrote a letter to Invenergy chief executive Michael Polsky claiming that “your company’s Grain Belt Express construction campaign has hurt Missouri’s farmers,” and that “they have lost the use of arable land, seen their property values decline, and been forced to operate under a cloud of uncertainty.”
Controversy over eminent domain and the use of agricultural land by transmission lines illustrates the difficulties in building the long-distance energy infrastructure necessary to decarbonize the grid.
Opposition to the project had been gestating for years but picked up steam in recent weeks. Earlier this month, Andrew Bailey, the Republican attorney general of Missouri, announced an investigation into the project. “This is a HUGE win for Missouri landowners and taxpayers who should not have to fund these green energy scams,” he wrote on X Wednesday following the DOE’s announcement.
As the project appeared to be more imminently imperiled, Invenergy scrambled to preserve its future, including making plans to connect gas to the transmission line. In a letter to Secretary of Energy Chris Wright written earlier this month, the Invenergy vice president overseeing the project wrote that the Grain Belt Express “has been the target of egregious politically motivated lawfare,” echoing language President Trump has used to describe his own travails.
If the author’s intent was to generate sympathy from the administration, it didn’t work. The end of the loan guarantee could be a death blow to the project, and will at the very least force Invenergy into a mad dash to try to match the lost capital.
Editor’s note: This story has been updated to include a comment from Invenergy.
The grant from Washington State will fund a facility where all kinds of fusion labs can run tests of their own.
Flash back to four summers ago, when aspiring fusion pioneers Robin Langtry and Brian Riordan were stuck designing rockets at Blue Origin, Amazon CEO Jeff Bezos’ aerospace and space tourism company. More specifically, they were ruminating on how their engine’s large size was preventing the team from iterating quickly.
“If your rocket engine is 12 feet tall, there’s like, three places in the country where you can get castings,” Langtry told me. One simple design change could mean another eight to nine months before the redesigned part came in. Smaller designs, they hypothesized, would lead to faster development cycles.
They decided to quit their jobs in June of 2021 and put their thesis to the test with what would become Avalanche Energy, a fusion startup aiming to commercialize tabletop-sized reactors via magneto-electrostatic fusion, a nascent technology that’s far less well-understood than even still-experimental large-scale fusion machines like tokamaks and stellarators. Today, though, Washington State is giving this emergent tech a big vote of confidence by announcing one of the largest government-led fusion investments to date: A $10 million grant for Avalanche to build out a commercial-scale test facility for fusion technologies.
This facility, called FusionWERX, is where Avalanche will test its own prototypes with the goal of achieving scientific breakeven — the point at which a fusion reaction produces more energy than the energy used to initiate the reaction. But as Langtry, the company’s CEO, explained to me, it will also be a hub where other fusion companies, universities, and national labs can come test their own proprietary technologies while keeping their intellectual property intact.
“It’s almost like a commercial wind tunnel test facility, but for fusion,” Langtry told me. For example, Avalanche’s early-stage reactors will produce neutrons that researchers can use to test novel materials and ensure they can withstand the extreme conditions found inside fusion reactors. Organizations can also test their own neutron capture methods, often referred to as "neutron blankets,” which are critical for producing the tritium fuel that’s needed for a sustained fusion reaction.
Thus, Avalanche will earn revenue from the groups using the FusionWERX facility well before it makes any money from commercial energy production. The startup also plans to bring in additional income by making and selling radioisotopes — atoms that emit radiation as they decay — for medical and energy applications such as diagnostic imaging, radiation therapy, and nuclear batteries that can generate electricity in space or remote areas like the deep ocean.
Langtry told me these additional opportunities make Avalanche attractive to a wider variety of investors than simply climate tech venture capitalists interested in fusion’s potential for utility-scale power generation. “There’s much bigger sources of capital if you can build a true business that commercializes this technology and generates revenue and scales it,” Langtry told me. “That’s really what we’re about.”
Prior to the $10 million grant, Avalanche had raised a total of $50 million from investors such as Lowercarbon Capital, Peter Thiel’s Founders Fund, and Toyota Ventures. And while the startup’s lineup of near-term use cases sets it apart, Avalanche too is ultimately aiming to produce commercially-relevant energy, with an eye towards replacing diesel generators for data center backup power or for use in remote communities or military outposts.
Avalanche’s chosen method, magneto-electrostatic fusion, uses ions that are injected into the reactor’s chamber and confined with extremely high voltage. This strong electric field accelerates the ions towards the center of the reactor, where they collide to produce a fusion reaction. Magnets surrounding the chamber also work to trap electrons alongside the ions, increasing the density of the plasma to achieve high fusion rates.
Avalanche announced today that it has successfully operated its machine at 300 kilovolts for multiple hours. When adjusted for size, this equates to 6 megavolts per meter, twice the voltage density of lightning. To reach breakeven, the company will need to operate its machine at about 700 kilovolts, which Langtry told me can be done by doubling the size of the reactor’s radius from 6 centimeters to 12 centimeters. Avalanche said in a follow up email that the company is waiting to gain operational experience at its current scale before raising the capital it will take to build a larger reactor.
The magneto-electrostatic method is well-suited to micro reactors as it doesn’t rely on giant magnets or lasers to create the fusion reaction. Ultimately, Avalanche plans to produce modular reactors from 5 kilowatts to 1 megawatt in size — enough to power just a couple homes at the least, and about 1,000 homes at the most.
But powering homes isn’t what Avalanche will actually do. Before energy dominance was even in vogue, the company was already focused on military applications for its tech. It received a contract from the Department of Defense’s Defense Innovation Unit in 2022 to develop technology for a nuclear-powered spacecraft by 2027. Avalanche did not elaborate on what its initial prototype might look like or be used for, only writing in a follow-up email that it’s “in active discussions about next steps for maturing this technology with DOD.”
“We were sort of contrarian, in that we always thought our path to commercial operations was through DOD and space, whereas most of the fusion companies were raising on climate and clean energy and building massive clean energy power plants,” Langtry told me. He cited support from Thiel, perhaps Silicon Valley’s most influential conservative voice, as helping influence the company’s direction.
At this moment, Langtry told me, there’s excitement around using Avalanche’s tech to make President Trump’s vision of a so-called “Golden Dome” missile defense system a reality. This would involve using satellites — theoretically powered by Avalanche — that could track and shoot down ballistic missiles fired at the U.S. “Right now, with solar, [satellites] could probably only take one shot during an engagement. But if you had 100 kilowatts or a megawatt, you could shoot continuously, and that system would be a lot more capable,” Langtry explained to me.
Depending on your feelings about nuclear war, this vision may bring more anxiety than comfort. It’s also a far cry from the more typical — and endlessly more idyllic — narrative of limitless clean energy and unprecedented prosperity that I’m used to hearing fusion enthusiasts promote. But such is the moment. And if the path to commercial fusion ends up running through a satellite-powered missile defense system, it probably won’t be the weirdest clean energy story of the Trump era.