Not now. In the language of the Continuance and the Outbound, a Waterfaller is a hypothetical traveller from another universe—presumably an older, more broken one—entering our own. It might be an object, propelled through the walls of reality by accident, or spat out by some retrograde discontinuity and diffused into our continuum. There’s a theory that says such ejecta keep our universe young, meaning that it won’t decay into senescence as quickly as we might think. There’s another that says the punctures in our fabric are what make the universe so unstable. In the more sophisticated and unlikely constructions, a Waterfaller might be an intelligence, travelling under its own impetus. It might be something in between, invested with an alternative style of awareness that is neither lifeless nor conscious but something else, the way a fungus is neither an animal nor a plant. A true Waterfaller is a resource—and a threat—that I cannot ignore, even if it’s just the littoral end of some cosmic sluice. Such a vagrant might theoretically possess a significantly more advanced understanding of reality than I have, and therefore might know how to win my war—although given the strategy they have adopted is one of flight, they would lack either the know-how or the will to consume a hatching universe, because otherwise they’d have done that instead.