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tends to crumble
“Quite distressing,” says the older man, there in the wingback chair. “Though one does not wish to play the churl. A certain degree of disarray must certainly be allowed, given the shocks – the challenge, the duel – ”
“Allowed?” says Agravante, there by the yellow stone fireplace, an elbow up on the mantel, and the older man takes a sip of milky tea from a thin bone china cup. “How is the King’s champion, by the way?” he says.
“Death’s door,” says Agravante. There on the mantel by his elbow a fiendish little basket-box, carved from a chunk of dark red wood. “Shame,” says the older man, shaking his head, stiff grey curls swept back, and the collar of his shirt undone, a blue scarf knotted tidily about his throat. “Though it is distasteful, how they might linger, on that threshold? Neither here, nor there,” and another sip of tea.
“What is it that distresses you, Medardus,” says Agravante. White-gold locks tied neatly black, his grey suit shot with blue.
“It’s a delicate question I’d have answered, Pinabel,” says the older man, setting the cup in the saucer on his lap, clink. “Does the King yet mean to pursue his bold vision?”
Agravante’s brow pinches. “Of course,” he says. “Insofar as I know.”
Medardus smiles. “Delicately put,” he says. “It’s been two days.”
“These things take time.”
“Two days,” says Medardus, “since he took from me mine offer,” knobbled fingers closing in a fist, drawn up by his yet-mild smile. “And not a word said since.”
“There’s much to be considered,” says Agravante. “Four of you do vie for her hand.”
“Please, Pinabel,” says Medardus, dropping his hand, and a clatter of cup and saucer. “It’s an indulgence to pretend the choice isn’t manifestly clear – that mine is not the best offering.”
“The best, perhaps,” says Agravante. “But sufficient?” A slatey shoulder shrugs.
“The King would demand more?”
“How can I answer that,” says Agravante, “when I know nothing of what you’ve promised, or he might require.”
“Nothing,” says Medardus, still smiling. “Such a delicate word.” Setting cup and saucer on the low table between them. “I would hope,” he says, “it could always be said that the Hound has done well by Medardus,” and he knots those knobby fingers in his lap. “Much as it can be said, to a surety, that Medardus has done well by the Hound.”
Rather carefully, Agravante does not smile at that, or nod, his shoulders do not move, nor does his arm, there by the basket-box. “Of course,” he says.
“But it’s also said,” says Medardus, “that a fear grips your court: that the line is not unbroken. That the Queen, despite her, prodigious recovery, has no Bride of her own. That your King’s hand, howsomever reluctantly, is forced. That he means,” and here Medardus leans forward, elbows on knees, “to take the Princess for himself, and that is why our offers go unanswered.” Sitting back, a dismissive fillip of his fingers. “Or so it’s said.”
“By some,” says Agravante.
“Indeed,” says Medardus.
“But not to me,” says Agravante.
“Ah.” Medardus pushes himself to his feet. “Tell me,” he says, as Agravante leads him out of the little drawing room, “how fares the Count?”
“Grandfather?” says Agravante, pushing open the sliding wood-paneled door. “He sleeps.” Beyond, a narrow hall, in the shadow of a long straight staircase.
•
“Oh,” he says. “It’s you.” A glass of wine in his hand, something dark. “She isn’t here.”
“She will be, soon enough,” says Marfisa, muddy boot up on the side porch step. “Jason, can I just, wait inside?” The collar of her sheepskin coat turned up, loose white hair stirred by a gust. He steps back, the door held open, his lips a sour purse between his mustache and his dull red beard.
Up the steps into a mud room, painted blue, forgotten coats and a tangle of umbrellas, a scooter, a chalkboard palimpsested with to-dos and shopping lists, “Ah ah,” he’s saying, pointing, thick-lensed glasses blanked out by the ceiling light, and she scrubs her boots against a mat before stepping up into a kitchen to the left there, ruddy stove and a steaming pot of something, stainless steel refrigerator hung about with coupons and note cards, a calendar, a math test festooned with red checks and gold stars, past a breakfast bar sloppily piled with newspapers and a box of soda cans, into a narrow sitting room, a low brown couch, a girl tucked at one end of it, under a red and yellow blanket, and pink headphones startling against her dark hair, watching something on the tablet on her lap. “Grace,” says Jason, still in the kitchen, but she’s already snatching off the headphones, a burst of chirpy music, as Marfisa steps about the low coffee table. “Hey, Mar,” says the girl on the couch, and “Grace,” says Jason again, “upstairs,” as Marfisa sits herself at the other end. Something bulky’s tucked in her coat, she leans over the table, pulling it out, a flat paper sack that spills out a sheaf of handbills, goldenrod pages splashed with black lines, a dancer rendered in calligraphy, and each marked by the green dot of an eye. “Oh, hey,” says the girl, springing from under the blanket, all elbows and knees and clattering headphones, “is that,” says Jason says “Grace!” again, but she’s already scooped up a handbill, turning it over and back again, nothing else to it but little pull-tabs at the bottom, each printed with an elaborately arabesqued question mark. “You’re putting these up?”
Marfisa shrugs. “You’ve seen them?”
“Yesterday, at Mississippi Pizza?” says Grace. “Did you hang ’em there?” Marfisa shrugs again. “The Mercury just had a thing about these things, like how nobody knows what they are, or who’s, it’s, it’s you! You’re doing it! Is it like, are you putting the band back together?”
“Grace,” says Jason.
“What,” snaps Grace, rolling her eyes away.
“Upstairs,” he says, “now. Flashcards till dinner.”
“Jason,” she says, but she’s kicking off the couch, scooping up the tablet, stomping around the table when back that way there’s a clatter and a squeak of hinges from that side porch, “I’m home!” cries someone, and “Carol!” cries Grace, turning on a dime, scampering off past Jason, through the kitchen, “Guess who’s here!”
Marfisa leans forward, slipping the handbills back in the sack, not looking up at Jason looking down at her.
And there’s Carol, by the breakfast bar, setting a brown leather book bag on the carpet. Draped in a brown and yellow striped serape, her dark hair neatly short. “Mar,” she says. “How are you.”
“Well as I might,” says Marfisa, looking up, pushing back a wave of white-gold hair. “What would you say to a chance to sing again, together?”
•
A hallway narrow, dim, dark doors to either side, silvery numerals set in the walls by each, slender 1s, a wiry 7, great round-bellied 6es, an 8, a 9. Iona in her yellow track suit leads the way around a corner, stops before the door at the end of the hall. 620, the numerals beside it. She plucks a white card from a pocket, holds it up before slipping it into the slot above the knob. “I miss keys,” she says, as the lock chunks, a green light flicking on. “These may be better, but not in any way that matters.” She opens the door. “Go on,” she says.
Within brown walls and gold, bathed in daylight hazed by yellow curtains drawn over corner windows. A comfortable yellow chair, a reading table and a lamp, unlit. A wide bed draped in blue and brown and at the foot of it, sat tailor-fashion, Ysabel, in a white chemise, and soft white leg-warmers thickly rumpled. “Starling,” she says, with a smile.
“My Queen,” says the Starling, a shadow there by yellow Iona, black jeans, black sweatshirt, the hood of it up. “This is not our usual Thursday,” she says, in not much more than a whisper.
“This isn’t a Thursday,” says Ysabel, nodding to Iona, who steps out, closing the door behind her. “This is a whole weekend, if you’d like.”
“But I must dance, ma’am,” says the Starling. “Today and tonight, at the club, and Saturday – ”
“It has been cleared, with your, manager,” says Ysabel. “You’re free, till Monday.”
“Free to be here, with you,” says the Starling. And then, “If it’s just to be the two of us?” Her words worn thin.
“If you’d like,” says Ysabel. “Or, step back through that door. The Chariot will happily take you anywhere in the city you may wish to go.”
The Starling reaches for the strap of the black gym bag slung from her shoulder. “I don’t mind,” she says, “being with you. I’ll just go change,” but “No,” says Ysabel, quickly, “Starling, no. Put that down. Sit with me.”
“My Queen,” says the Starling. “I am not who I am, when I’m with you.”
“Please,” says Ysabel. “Sit.”
The gym bag slumps to the speckled brown carpet. Stepping over, the Starling stands a moment before the foot of that bed, and Ysabel sat there, smiling up, but then she turns, the Starling, and finds the yellow chair behind her, and sits, a darkness in that weak light.
“I’m glad you came,” says Ysabel.
“My Queen desired it,” says the Starling.
“I thought,” says Ysabel, looking away. “I’d thought today that I might dance for you. I have danced, you know. At a party. She said I was quite good.”
“Of course,” says the Starling.
“I settled on an outfit,” says Ysabel, looking down at herself, “nothing too elaborate,” and “Good,” says the Starling, “but,” says Ysabel, “I’ve been flummoxed by my lips. What should the color be?” A hand, lifted to her mouth, her hair, “White?” she says. “To go with the ensemble? Or would that be too much? Would a simple red be enough?”
“No one pays attention to the lipstick,” says the Starling.
“You do,” says Ysabel, quickly, even sharply, and then, “You take such care, with yours.”
That hood shifts, down, to one side, dim light passing over her chin, the tip of her nose. “White’s better for the stage,” she says. “Too bold for such close quarters.”
“A simple red it is.”
“Your majesty is sad,” says the Starling, then. “Why should that be?”
“I,” says Ysabel, shoulders lifting, and her chin, a retort swelling but then suddenly pricked, deflating, and she looks away. “Affairs of the city,” she says.
“Not the heart, then?” says the Starling. “Nor the hips?”
Ysabel untucks herself, a bare foot lowered to the carpet, and her hands on the edge of the bed. “Tell me,” she says. “Do you know the smell, of blood?”
That shadow sits up. “I do, ma’am,” says the Starling.
“She sleeps,” Ysabel’s saying. “Peacefully. Her wound is poulticed with a fief’s portion. The bleeding’s long since stopped, but,” and she takes in a deep breath, shivering at the top of it, a sigh, “wherever I go in those rooms I still can smell it, that – tang, like an armor hot from the sun, and I,” but the Starling’s standing, stepping over, she kneels at the foot of the bed, reaches for a hand that Ysabel lifts away, “here I am,” she says, “holed up in a hotel across town.”
The Starling sits back on her heels. “Would you rather go to her?” but Ysabel’s shaking her head, “The Mason,” she says, “watches over her. She wants for nothing. I am,” but then she stops, and the Starling catches her hand, draws it down, covers it with her own. Ysabel says, “My brother once told me,” but then she stops again, blinking rapidly, looking down at the Starling looking up from under her black hood. “He was once a little boy,” says Ysabel. “Did you know that?”
“The King,” says the Starling, “yes, ma’am, of course. I remember those days.”
“Not even a Prince, just an infant, he came to me, in the little garden, and took my hand, and asked me, sister, why are you crying?” Turning her hand in the Starling’s hand, taking hold of it, squeezing. “And I said, because I do not wish to wed. But I am the Bride, I said, and one day a King will come, and I must take his hand. Whether I will or no, I must, but he,” looking away, “he swore to me, then and there, most earnestly, that he would one day be the King, that I might never need take anyone’s hand.”
The Starling says, “And he did just that.”
“My brother,” says Ysabel, “the King, this,” and her eyes close, the lashes of them shining, “city,” she says, and her mouth closes about another, unsaid word, she swallows, and a lick at her lips. “Jo,” she says.
“My Queen,” says the Starling. “I will go, and change, and dance for you, to take your mind,” but “No,” says Ysabel, leaning forward, her hands on the Starling’s shoulders, “do not change, do not dress, do not perform,” lifting a hand, right to the very hem of that hood, but then pulled back, withdrawn. “I would see you just as you are,” she says, her hands once more in her lap.
“But, my lady,” says the Starling, and she reaches up to draw back that hood. “I am always as I am.” Black hair uncurled, slicked back, clipped down to stubble along her temples, about those ears. Her cheeks, the line of that jaw. The nose. Those eyes, only a hazeled hint of green. Thin lips unpainted, upturned, parting as Ysabel leans close to say, “And you are with me,” and then a feathery kiss, tugging at the Starling’s hands, lifting, the Starling who stands up before her, and her hands fall to the Starling’s hips, rough black denim, the belt loops, her thumb, the wide leather belt, looking up, those green eyes. She yanks at the bulky black sweatshirt, “Get this off,” she says, and the Starling lifts it up and off and tosses it aside. Bare now from the waist up, and the torso of her lean and long, and her long arms sinewy lowering, curling, Ysabel’s darkly hands caught up against the smooth pale chest of her by those wide white hands, and the backs of them snarled with thick blue veins.
“Now would you have me go and change?” murmurs the Starling.
“But you are beautiful,” says Ysabel, slipping her hands free, reaching for the tongue of the belt. The buckle jangles. “Majesty,” says the Starling, “I am many things, but,” and a gasp, at the kiss pressed there below her shadowed navel, as those black jeans loosen, lop, as Ysabel’s fingers dip within to uncurl a palely slender cock, and a stroke for the lengthening lift of it, “oh,” says the Starling, “my Queen, you needn’t,” as her hand cups Ysabel’s face.
“But do you want me to,” says Ysabel, and the Starling, shivering, nods. “The principles, I should think,” says Ysabel, “are essentially the same?” And a lick of a kiss for the tip of it, there on her palm.
•
Pinned to the pole a mulching bark of posters, flyers, handbills, postcards, lapped and shingled one over another, rain-dimpled, sun-faded, twisted, torn, defaced, Thrash or Die, April Showers Burlesque, Snap! at the Holocene, Anodyne Presents, Missing Dog, Laughing Horse, Drum Circle Saturday Rain or Shine, Cinco de Mayo on the Waterfront, big black letters on an enormous sheet, Grupo Samurjay, Grupo Maravilla, Los Supremos de Los Hermanos Flores, Woodburn Rocks. As the bus pulls away she’s pushing back her black hair looking up toward the top of that slithery bristling treeline, there where handfuls of old notices have been ripped away leaving crowded dozens of denuded staples, glinting, by a metal sign that says No Parking This Block, a relatively fresh sheet of goldenrod paper, mad black scribbles limning a dancer, a single eye of bright green ink. She reaches up, to the pull-tabs fluttering the bottom of it, each printed with only an elaborately arabesqued question mark. Her other hand holds fast a black leather knapsack slung from the shoulder of her slick black jacket. Her glasses with thick black frames. With a sudden yank she rips the handbill down.
A broad porch with four front doors set one right next to another, and she unlocks, slips through the third of them, and up an immediate steep staircase, narrow between dark walls, unlit, that yellow page bright in her hand. Around the wall at the top of the stairs through an open room a couch the floor before it piled with cardboard boxes into a long hall once painted white, some time ago, lit by daylight seeping in from somewhere else. At the end of it a dark room, curtains drawn, and she closes the door behind her, a shadow in the shadows. Flump of the knapsack, dropped to the floor, creaking footstep, the thick click of a switch. Light blares from naked bulbs in the fixture in the middle of the ceiling, pink springs from the walls all whorled curlicues and faded bouquets, the bed there, skewed bedclothes striped dull brown and beige, and on the floor at the foot of it a great conical pile knee-high or more of gleaming golden dust.
She steps around it, jacket half-unzipped. A ridge of the pile has settled, slumped, dust trailed over the floor away from it, and the goldenrod poster drops, crumpled, from the hand she’s lifting to her throat, to the bit of black lace tied there. Steps back, around the bed. She grabs a little hand broom from the nightstand. Kneels down by the pile. Begins to sweep up the goldstuff, careful with each thread and grain.
•
Eyelids a-twitch, lips parting just to say not even a whisper, maybe a number, counting, nine or ten, eleven, those lids blink open over mud-colored eyes that swivel, narrow, try to focus, a gleaming edge there, mirror-bright, shifting as she blinks the length of it flat and smooth and slender, somehow deep within it coiling whorls of light and dark chased up and down a shallow groove that cleanly stretches up and up to a glittering net there on the pillow, wiry strands that knot a cage about a simple hilt she jerks away, kicks back sitting up, “Shit,” she says, as the sword’s tangled in the sheets, teetering at the edge of the futon. She’s bent over, thin white T-shirt, wine-red hair, rubbing her shin, a thin dark line of blood beading down by her ankle, “Shit,” she says, again. Snatching the hilt she whips the blade free from the sheets, “this fucking,” but it turns in her hand, a wrench and away it flies across the room to crack and a wibble it’s stabbed the white wall there by the plain black scabbard, hung from a nail, and the painted skull-mask also, the mane of it stirred by that thrust. Jo blinks. “Okay,” she says, to herself.
Without, the hallway’s dark, the little lights strung along the ceiling unlit. The kitchen beyond is empty, only glancing daylight and shadows. Jo leans over to knock at the door across the hall, “Ysabel?” she says, turning the knob. The room within all yellow and white, gauzy curtains, big bed neatly made, the armoire shut, and nothing draped over the dressing screen in the corner. “Ysabel?” says Jo again, but something, she looks down. Something lightly, barely there, faintly wisps, like down, like ash, falling from, brushing her foot, past her knee, caught there in the hem of her T-shirt, falling from, she lifts it, peering down at her belly beneath, and the line that climbs it packed with an ashen crust and a last few spangles of gold and, she touches it crumbling, flaking away, the pink skin taut beneath.
Back against the jamb. Dropping the hem of the shirt her hand to her breast, and quick wincing shallow breaths. Lurching up across and over to the dresser, a bouquet of heavy-headed peonies pink and yellow, she grabs a small brass box and pries it open, frees a cigarette, and a ragged book of matches.
The hall, the back room, dark, the back door and out, outside, out in the grass, under the sky, sunlight and blue sky, and glowering clouds behind, white and blue and grey and blue and greenly black, swollen with the coming rain. Fitting the cigarette to her lips but even as she opens the matchbook she’s falling to her knees in the lushly green, soft grass out to the parapets to either side, and she coughs up a sob, another, doubled over on her shaking shuddering self, her hand a fist to her chest.
The cigarette falls white to the grass before her. Feathers of grey-white ash caught about it, and sparks of gold.
A call behind her, muffled by walls and doors. Sitting up she catches, holds her breath. Swallows. A slam back there, distant, bump of a footfall, she wipes her eyes with the back of her hand and leans forward getting her feet under herself but the back door bangs open boot-thump someone shouting and she springs up turns her arm flung out the sword
The sword in her hand –
Her hand, her arm extended shoulder dropped her torso sidelong and her front foot planted, off leg leaned back straight and true, off hand slung back to balance the thrust that’s ended sword-tip snagged in a corner of his unzipped shortwaisted jacket yanked up one side he’s twisted, turned away from it, both arms flung up and alarm gently folding his face.
“Oh God,” says Jo, dropping the blade, the ring of it soft on the grass.
“You’re awake,” says Luys, lowering his arms. Brushing the front of his soft brown jacket, his finger finding the hole punched there. “Your coat,” says Jo, “I’m so, sorry,” but “No sin espinas,” he’s saying, almost to himself, holding out a hand, “You are awake,” he says, but she rushes past that hand to crash into him tumbling her arms about him there on the rooftop under the clouds, she’s kissing his throat and then as he lowers his head she looks up to kiss his mouth, his mouth.
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JUNE 6, 2023~Hydrogen industry ramp-up in Germany faces raw material supply challenge~ by Benjamin Wehrmann

Hydrogen industry ramp-up in Germany faces raw material supply challenge – agency Clean Energy Wire
SCANDIUM & TITANIUM
The lack of mineral resources could become a challenge for the planned ramp-up of hydrogen industry in Germany, Europe and worldwide, news agency dpa writes in an article published by magazine Der Stern. Minerals like iridium or scandium are often used in electrolysers which split water into hydrogen and oxygen. A report by the German Mineral Resources Agency (DERA) had found that global demand for scandium could be about 24 tonnes by 2040, 150 percent more than was produced in 2018, while demand for iridium could rise five-fold to 34 tonnes. Iridium, which is mainly mined in South Africa and Russia, is currently considered irreplaceable, DERA geologist Viktoriya Tremareva said. “A significant increase in iridium production is unlikely,” the agency said, adding that production outages, which last occurred in 2021, pose the risk of price hikes. Scandium is mostly mined in China and Russia, but Canada and the Philippines also hold sizeable resources, the agency said. However, setting up extraction capacities for these resources takes years and is contingent on secure long-term demand, which will depend on the prospects of a functioning international hydrogen industry, geologist Christoph Hilgers from the Karlsruhe Institute of Technology (KIT) said. “Germany might be a large industrialised country. But you don’t open new mines for a single country,” Hilgers argued. Alternative electrolysis procedures rely on nickel, of which Russia and China are the main suppliers. Other hydrogen production procedures, such as pyrolysis, are being developed, but could only replace a small fraction of electrolysis-based production in a large-scale green hydrogen production industry, says the article.
Raw material supply for the construction of renewable power installations and other clean energy infrastructure is seen as a potential bottleneck for the energy transition, especially since climate action plans in many countries are set to cause a parallel increase in demand for key resources. Apart from developing alternative construction procedures that reduce reliance on certain materials and suppliers, recycling and greater efficiency are regarded as key levers for reducing the risk of supply bottlenecks.
SEE REPORT LINK:

Booklet (deutsche-rohstoffagentur.de)

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JUNE 6, 2023~Example of hydrogen: scarce raw materials are slowing down the energy transition~

Example of hydrogen: scarce raw materials are slowing down the energy transition - Breaking Latest News
Hopes of the energy transition rest on hydrogen, which is produced with electricity from renewable energies. But important raw materials that are required for the process are scarce.
Most people have probably never heard of iridium and SCANDIUM. But both elements are important for the production of hydrogen. However, they are only available to a limited extent.
The example shows how the lack of raw materials endangers the energy transition. Or the other way around: that the farewell to fossil fuels makes other raw materials all the more important.
This is also politically significant, because many of these scarce raw materials have so far come primarily from Russia and China. This also includes iridium and scandium.
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The energy transition is about saying goodbye to fossil fuels. Energy should be won so that less or none climate-damaging gases like CO₂ are released. But the faster the conversion of the energy supply picks up, the clearer it becomes that the use of wind, sun or hydrogen many, often scarce, raw materials are needed. The farewell to fossil energy makes other raw materials more important. This has economic and political consequences. The example of the elements iridium and scandium for the production of hydrogen makes it clear why this is so.
Because with the desired significant expansion of hydrogen production, there is a risk of a shortage of raw materials, rising prices and new dependencies on a few export countries – above all Russia and China. According to experts, to counteract this, in addition to a lot of research and development, more recycling and mining are necessary – which, however, is not neutral for the environment.
Hydrogen is to gradually replace fossil fuels such as natural gas in Germany. Hydrogen can be produced by breaking down water into hydrogen and oxygen. The process is called electrolysis. This requires electricity. If this electricity is generated with renewable energies, we are talking about green hydrogen.
Hydrogen can be a climate-friendly energy source if the electricity required for production is generated in an environmentally friendly manner.Graphic: F. Bökelmann, editor: M. Lorenz
There are different forms of electrolysis. Some work with chemical elements such as scandium and iridium, which are in short supply. According to Study by the German Raw Materials Agency (Dera) the demand for scandium could be around 24 tons in 2040 – that would be more than two and a half times as much as the amount produced in 2018. In the case of iridium, the forecast even assumes that the demand will then be five times the current production at 34 tons.

New dependence on Russia and China

Iridium is currently considered irreplaceable, says Viktoriya Tremareva from Dera. The precious metal is mainly mined in South Africa and Russia as a by-product of platinum and palladium. “A significant increase in iridium production is unlikely,” says Dera. “In the event of production downtime, there can be dramatic price increases – as in 2021.”

Scandium, on the other hand, comes mainly from China. Also followed by Russia, which has ceased to be a trading partner for the West since the attack on Ukraine. Here, however, Dera sees more alternative mining options, for example in Canada and the Philippines.

However, it takes several years to prepare a deposit for production and to make the raw materials available, says Christoph Hilgers from the Institute for Applied Geosciences at the Karlsruhe Institute of Technology (KIT). However, companies only invest when demand is long-term. So they looked at how serious the hydrogen intentions are, says Hilgers. It’s not just about the energy transition in Germany, but about global trends. “Germany is a large industrial country. But new deposits are not only opened for one country.”
Although no rare metals are required for alkaline electrolysis, says Maike Schmidt from the Center for Solar Energy and Hydrogen Research in Baden-Württemberg. However, nickel is needed in this process, from which Germany and Europe as a whole obtained around 35 to 50 percent of their imports from Russia before the start of the war in Ukraine. Although there are alternatives, “nickel processing is heavily concentrated in China. “New geopolitical dependencies can arise from this, which do not represent an acute bottleneck, but must be monitored.”
The scarcity threatens rising prices for raw materials and, as a result, rising costs for the production of hydrogen. “It is currently not possible to foresee the extent to which these increases will take place,” says Schmidt. It is important to use research and development to reduce the use of critical raw materials.

JUNE 9, 2023~Sunak and Biden reach for critical minerals deal in show of unity~

Sunak and Biden reach for critical minerals deal in show of unity – POLITICO

The US and UK will start negotiating a deal immediately to mitigate the impact of the Inflation Reduction Act.

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WASHINGTON, D.C. — Rishi Sunak and Joe Biden have committed to a cooperation deal on defense and critical minerals as the U.K. prime minister moves away from a post-Brexit vision of unfettered free trade in favor of mutual protection.
The Atlantic Declaration, announced as the two men met in the White House, includes pledges to ease certain trade barriers, strengthen defense industry ties and strike a data protection deal in the face of China’s growing influence.
"The economic relationship between our two countries has never been stronger," Sunak said at a joint White House press conference Thursday. "The relationship is strong — it’s booming — but our agreement today focuses on the particular challenges and opportunities of the moment we’re in."
The two nations have vowed to immediately start negotiating an agreement to mitigate the impact of Biden’s Inflation Reduction Act (IRA), which prevents nations without a U.S. trade deal from accessing the law’s tax credits and subsidies.
Sunak hailed “a new standard for economic cooperation” after abandoning the full-fat free trade agreement promised in the wake of Brexit, with U.K. officials lauding the new approach as a better response to the challenges posed by Beijing and Russia’s invasion of Ukraine.
Biden has pledged to allow the U.K. access to critical minerals in a similar agreement to that struck by the U.S. with Japan, easing barriers which affected electric vehicle batteries.
The U.S. president signed the IRA into law last August in a bid to reduce the reliance of electric vehicle supply chains on China. The move sparked fears of a withdrawal of investment from car manufacturers in nations without a free trade agreement with the U.S.
But under the terms of the deal, which is yet to be finalized, U.K. electric car makers will be able to get half the $7,500 tax credits available to U.S. companies under the IRA.
“A fundamental change is taking place in terms of international trade," Biden said. "We found out during the pandemic that the reason why we couldn’t build automobiles was that the outfit that we got our semiconductors from in southeast Asia had shut down because of the pandemic. I decided that no longer would we rely on one center of support for any of the things that are needed for economic growth.
“I made it clear to our NATO allies and our partners as well that although we were going to generate, for example, semiconductor capacity here in the United States … that that was available to all of our allies, all of our friends."
Biden has committed to ask Congress to approve the U.K. as a “domestic source” under U.S. defense procurement laws, allowing for greater American investment in British firms.
Work will be carried out to improve the resilience of supply chains and efforts will be stepped up to shut Vladimir Putin’s Russia out of the global civil nuclear market.
The agreement will also include a push for mutual recognition of qualifications for engineers, although this could require state-by-state approval in the U.S.
A deal on data protection will ease burdens for small firms doing transatlantic trade, potentially saving £92 million.
The two nations will also collaborate on key industries — artificial intelligence, 5G and 6G telecoms, quantum computing, semiconductors and engineering biology.
The U.S. confirmed its support for British ambitions to act as a broker on international efforts to ensure the safe development of AI, starting with a summit to be hosted in the U.K. later this year.
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BLOOM ENERGY, CUMMINGS & OTHER U.S, Manufacturers are ramping up domestic productions of END Products.

APRIL 2023 ~ Cummins welcomes Biden, touts $1B investment in US facilities as President Biden Visits Future Electrolyzer Manufacturing Facility on Investing in America Tour

Cummins welcomes Biden, touts $1B investment in US facilities Manufacturing Dive
Biden’s visit to the Cummins Power Generation plant in Fridley, Minnesota was part of the White House’s Investing in America tour.
The president noted in his remarks that the new facility allows Cummins to manufacture its hydrogen electrolyzers on U.S. soil. Cummins operates existing hydrogen electrolyzer manufacturing sites in China, Spain and Canada.
“These are the machines that make clean hydrogen, a renewable energy used to power our economy, from clean cars to trucks to steel to cement manufacturing,” Biden said. “But now, thanks to the Inflation Reduction Act with the tax credits for renewable energy, Cummins is going to manufacture these electrolyzers here in America for the first time.”
Like other auto parts manufacturers, Cummins is utilizing the Bipartisan Infrastructure Law and Inflation Reduction Act to expand its manufacturing operations, Cummins President and CEO Jennifer Rumsey said in the release.
“The historic investments included in those pieces of legislation played a key role in our decision to manufacture products here in the U.S., creating more clean-tech jobs and positively impacting our communities,” Rumsey said in a statement.
In addition to the 100 jobs Cummins is hiring for at the renovated plant, the company will retrain the facility’s current 600 workers to produce the hydrogen electrolyzers, Biden said in his remarks.
The company also announced plans on Monday to invest $452 million toward upgrading its engine plant in Jamestown, New York, to produce fuel-agnostic, low-carbon internal combustion engine platforms for heavy-duty trucks. Cummins introduced the new engine platform in February 2022.

FORM YOUR OWN OPINIONS & CONCLUSIONS ABOVE!

(Please Scroll down to see earlier Reddit POSTS ON GREEN HYDROGEN & BLOOM ENERGY & ALL RELEVANT NIOCORP POSTS)
AS BLOOM ENERGY, CUMMINGS & OTHER U.S, Manufacturers are ramping up domestic productions of END Products. Bodes well for NIOCORPS CRIITICAL MINERALS IMHO!
GO TEAM NIOCORP!
https://preview.redd.it/crfr4qhqcz4b1.png?width=480&format=png&auto=webp&s=ea94d7cb3ee9db693ba18e2ba7241467e4162967
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Waiting with many!
CHICO

This is the next post in my series to revitalise the image of England in the eyes of people who see it as a bit of culture vacuum adjacent to the much more interesting Scottish, Welsh and Irish. I'll be going through each the AncestryDNA communities and giving my top five most interesting aspects of the region, so maybe people can be a bit less disappointed in their English DNA score. This post is a good one because the Yorkshire & East Midlands are steeped in tradition and customs. I hope you find this interesting, even if you are from this region.
Bottle Kicking
Competitors standing on the Buttercross
The first bizarre tradition comes from Hallaton and Medbourne in the East Midlands. Bottle-Kicking is an annual competition between the villages of Hallaton and Medbourne centred around attempting to move 3 kegs (2 filled with beer) across two streams a mile apart. The competition is as brutal as it is strange, where the only rules are that there's no use of weapons, eye-gouging or strangling. Before the competition begins the vicar of Hallaton blesses a hare pie which is thrown to the crowd for a "scramble", with the some being placed in a bag to be taken to Hare Pie Hill. After the obligatory tug-of-war match and Church service the Hare Pie is distributed across the ground at the top of Hare Pie Bank which was the site of an ancient pagan temple before kick-off. Those competitors that displayed great courage are rewarded with beer from the kegs before being passed to the crowd.
It's likely the competition has it's origins in the celebration of the Anglo-Saxon Goddess ēostre, to whom hares were known to be sacrificed. The competition takes place on Easter Monday and interweaves ancient pagan traditions with Christian ones, such as the Vicar blessing the pie and distributing penny loaves. Whatever the origin there's no uncertainty in it's brutality, with broken bones being a common occurrence:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CPiO5zv6cAk&t=106s&ab_channel=JetLagTraveller
Haxey Hood
The Fool giving his speech surrounded by his Boggins (helpers in red)
Haxey Hood Day is an annual event held on January 6th, known as "Hood Day," in the village of Haxey, North Lincolnshire, England. It involves a traditional game known as the Haxey Hood, which has been played for centuries. The origins of the Haxey Hood game can be traced back to the 14th century. According to legend, Lady de Mowbray, the wife of a local landowner, was out riding when her silk hood was blown away by the wind. Thirteen local men chased after it, and the hood was eventually caught. In gratitude, Lady de Mowbray decreed that the person who returned the hood should be rewarded. This event is said to have sparked the tradition of the Haxey Hood game.
The event begins with the Fool's Speech, given by a character known as the "Fool." The Fool wears distinctive traditional clothing and provides comedic commentary throughout the day's events. He leads a procession through each of the pubs where often the landlord provides free drinks. Traditional folk songs are sung along the way until reaching the Carpenters Arms where his face this marked at this point everyone's pissed and it gets a bit weird. The Fool is allowed to kiss any woman he sees along the way to Parish Church (although I'm sure this right isn't abused). It gets weirder still with the Smoking of the Fool, where the Fool is enclosed in a cloud of smoke from burning wet straw.
At around 2:30 PM, a leather tube, or "hood," is thrown into the air from a mound known as the "Hood," located in Haxey. Once the hood is thrown, a large scrum of players, often numbering in the hundreds, forms around it. The objective is to move the hood towards one of the four local pubs. If the hood reaches one of the four pubs, the landlord becomes the "Lord of the Hood" for the year. The landlord is presented with the hood and enjoys the honour until the following year's event.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=96_lQjLXhsg&ab_channel=Britclip
The Viking ancestry
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Percentage Scandinavian DNA in ancestry results: https://blogs.ancestry.co.uk/cm/are-you-part-viking/
As the title suggests this region was subject to an enormous Viking influence during the middle ages, a fact reflected both in place names (York coming from the Viking settlement of Jorvik) and in the genetics. Yorkshire and the East Midlands formed the core the Viking territory of the Danelaw, a region of England ceded by the Anglo-Saxon kings to the Viking invaders in 865 AD and not to be reconquered for a century. Over this century the region was subject to Scandinavian settlement, customs and to some extent religion. The Viking contribution to the gene pool varies across this region between 10-50%, almost matching the contribution made by the original Anglo-Saxon settlers.
https://www.cambridge.org/core/journals/antiquity/article/people-of-the-british-isles-project-and-viking-settlement-in-england/54E19CAFF9AC2BEB39EAEC826BEDBC63
Sword dancing
Yorkshire Sword Dancing, also known as Longsword Dancing, is a traditional folk dance that originated in the region of Yorkshire, England. It is a form of ritual dance performed by a team of dancers wielding long, flexible swords or "rappers." The exact origins of Yorkshire Sword Dancing are not entirely clear, as it has been passed down through generations as a traditional practice. The dance likely dates back several centuries and is believed to have its roots in ancient pagan and folk customs. Over time, it has evolved and been shaped by the cultural and historical influences of the region.
In Yorkshire Sword Dancing, a team of dancers typically forms a circle or a straight line. They interlock their swords, creating intricate patterns and figures as they weave in and out. The dancers perform coordinated movements, including leaps, jumps, and spins, all while keeping their swords entwined. The swords used in the dance are typically flexible and made of steel or similar materials. They are often worn on the dancers' sides or belts and are brought into play during specific parts of the routine.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h5O-FWdNehc&ab_channel=TheFolkRevivalProject
Well dressing
A couple well in the traditional dressing style
Derbyshire Well Dressing is a traditional art form that involves the decoration of wells, springs, and water sources with intricate designs made from flower petals, leaves, seeds, and other natural materials. It is a unique and visually stunning practice that takes place annually in various villages and towns across the county of Derbyshire, England. It's an ancient ritual that gives thanks to wells for their life giving properties.
Thanks for reading, I hope you found it interesting, if there's anything you think I should have included let me know!