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Chapter Text

“Only the right name gives beings and things their reality. A wrong name makes everything unreal.”

-Michael Ende, "The Neverending Story"

The infant Changeling looked just like Odo always had in his gelatinous state, but smaller. Kira never would have considered calling a puddle of goo ‘cute’ before, but when they entered the infirmary, it extended a shaky tendril towards Odo, who beamed at it and let it curl around his fingers.

She’d never seen that expression on his face before. Just like Miles and Keiko, who had been too distracted in their joy to take much notice when she’d excused herself from the party. But on them the expression sat so naturally, and the same could not be said for Odo. For him, it was transformative.

“He almost died. I almost lost him.”

Kira took his other hand and squeezed it, understanding that feeling all too well. Her whole life had been one of close calls, after all. The little Changeling glimmered faintly as it continued creeping up Odo’s arm, leaving its glass container behind.

“Why he?” asked Kira curiously. “How can you tell, if you can’t talk to him?”

“Oh. I don’t know.” Odo frowned. “I didn’t really give it much thought.”

“Maybe you should.”

“I’m not really sure how any of that works in my species. Changelings don’t have reproductive organs.”

“Huh. How do they make new Changelings, then?”

“From what I understand, they’re formed by the Link. No, er, mating involved. The Founders can appear male or female or anything else, of course, but it’s just an affectation they use when dealing with ‘solids.’ I don’t think it actually means anything to them.”

“What about you?”

Odo harrumphed. “In the lab, Dr. Mora was usually the only humanoid who interacted with me. I tried to look like him because I was trying to figure out how to communicate. So they all called me male and I never saw much point in changing into something else.”

“Well, in that case, maybe you should let zem choose for zemself.”

(As with any aspect of Bajoran culture the Cardassians had tried to ban, Kira relished any opportunity to use that pronoun, savoring the taste of it on her tongue. The Cardassians hated anything that didn’t fit within their regimented view of the universe, and had tried over and over again to impose their idea of order on what they saw as Bajoran chaos.)

“I think ze likes that idea,” said Odo, though how he could tell, Kira didn’t know. The baby Changeling now appeared to be trying to swallow his hand.

A chime sounded on Odo’s PADD, signaling a message. Bad news, judging by the change in Odo’s expression. Kira wanted to throw a punch at whoever had made Odo’s face fall like that, when he’d been glowing so uncharacteristically a moment before.

“It’s from Starfleet.” His mouth twisted into a grimace. “Dr. Mora informed them about the Changeling’s recent ‘episode of ill-health’ and now they’re ‘concerned about my ability to provide adequate support for its unique needs.’”

“That’s ridiculous! How could anyone be better qualified to care for a Changeling than you!”

“They’re looking for any excuse they can to take zem away and study zem.”

“They can’t do that!”

“They can,” said Odo darkly. “There’s only so much Sisko can do to dissuade them. And they’re certainly not going to listen to me.”

Swallowing down her indignation, Kira said, more calmly, “They can’t do that if ze’s a Bajoran citizen. Ze was found in Bajoran space. We have laws about foundlings. You just have to formally adopt zem, and then Starfleet can’t take zem without causing a diplomatic incident.”

“I’m not exactly a Bajoran citizen, though, am I? No offense, Major, but I don’t trust the Bajoran government to defend my status to the Federation, especially not if it means keeping a rogue Changeling on the station.”

As they spoke, the ‘rogue Changeling’ had mostly disappeared under Odo’s sleeve, just visible at his wrist like a quivering gold bracelet. Like a child hiding under the bed, Kira thought. Maybe ze didn’t understand what was happening, but ze could probably sense Odo’s distress, even in his currently humanoid state.

“No one can argue with my status,” said Kira.

“You—” Odo swallowed. “You want to adopt zem?”

“Are you sure about this, Nerys?” asked Dr. Bashir quietly, so Keiko—half-conscious and bleeding—wouldn’t hear.

Kira shook off her uncertainty now just as she had then, letting determination drown out everything else. At least this time she didn’t need to offer up her uterus. “It’s zir best option, isn’t it?”

The nurse on duty took less convincing than Dr. Bashir would have to let them take the baby with them when they departed for Odo’s office. (Lucky for them that Julian was currently at the party Kira was avoiding.) Odo was clearly loathe to let zem out of his sight for even a minute. Between her administrative duties on DS9 and her relationship with the first minister, Kira had little difficulty finding the right forms.

“What are you going to call zem?” she asked.

Odo shrugged. “Haven’t given that much thought, either.”

“You have to call zem something. You can’t just keep calling zem ‘you.’ We need a name to put on the paperwork, at least.”

“I’m no good at coming up with names.”

Neither was Kira. “It should be something Bajoran.”

“That makes sense, I suppose.” Odo’s brow furrowed. “I don’t think my people use names. Not for themselves.”

“Sounds confusing.”

He made a noncommittal noise, and Kira couldn’t tell if he agreed or not. “There are so many Bajoran names… How do you choose one?”

“We’re often named for family members. Usually people we’ve lost.”

“The closest thing I have to family is Dr. Mora,” said Odo. “I don’t think I want to call zem Pol. Ze doesn’t look like a Pol.”

Sitting in the glass Odo had transfered zem to when they left the infirmary, ze currently looked like a shimmery, viscous beverage, like one of the cheaper varieties of kanar.

“You also have me,” said Kira. “I could pick one for you.”

“I—” Odo’s eyes looked very big. “Thank you.”

Kira reached out a tentative hand, hovering uncertainly over the glass. A little tendril of goo raised up to meet it, prodding carefully at her palm before wrapping itself around her finger.

“Ze likes you.” Odo smiled at her, an expression filled with such naked joy and wonder that it nearly took her breath away.

Kira had never wanted children. Or perhaps it was more accurate to say that she had never wanted to be a mother. Motherhood always seemed a fraught and miserable condition during the occupation, and led to mixed loyalties. A terrorist could only afford to be loyal to one thing: the Cause. You couldn’t fight for the children of Bajor (abstract and hypothetical) if you prioritized your own children.

Her mother had been an artist, not a fighter.

“What would you have called Kirayoshi,” asked Odo softly, “if he’d really been yours?”

“Meru,” whispered Kira.

“Meru?”

“It was my mother’s name.” The tendril uncoiled itself from her finger and spread out until there was a rough model of a hand adhering to the underside of hers. “You can use it, if you like.”

“I think ze approves,” said Odo. “Are you certain?”

“It’s a good name,” said Kira. “Someone should have it.”

Chapter Text

“Kang?” tried Jadzia.

“That is a male name,” replied Worf.

“So?” said Jadzia innocently, though her eyes twinkled.

“It is not traditional,” insisted Worf. “If the child later decides that a female name does not suit her, she may perform the Rite of Aitchar’Tey and seize a male one, after defeating her designated avatar in ritual combat.”

“Are there any Klingon rituals that don’t involve committing acts of violence?”

“Yes. Some only require submitting to pain sticks,” said Worf, speaking with a degree of gravity that Jadzia had eventually learned to associate with his sense of humor (a thing so dry and subtle that many believed he didn’t have one).

“We could use the feminine form, Kanga,” suggested Jadzia, going back to the topic at hand.

“That is the name of a well-known character in Terran children’s literature. Human’s will find it amusing.”

Yes, if their daughter inherited Worf’s disposition, it probably was best not to set her up for that kind of childish mockery.

“What about Mara?”

“After Mara, daughter of Garkog?”

Jadzia nodded. “She was one of the most brilliant scientists who ever served in the Klingon fleet.”

In retrospect, Dax regretted that Curzon had primarily seen her as Kang’s wife, and had never made much of an effort to get to know her beyond that—not that Curzon would have been able to ask the questions that most interested Jadzia. Science had never been a passion of his.

Worf frowned. “It would displease Sirella. The House of D'Chok had a territorial dispute with hers that lasted for two decades.”

“That was over two centuries ago!”

“Sirella is not known for her forgiving nature.”

“Do you have any suggestions? Your mother’s name, perhaps?”

A dark shadow passed over his face. “I would prefer… not.”

He did not elaborate. Jadzia wasn’t surprised. She’d rarely heard him mention his Klingon mother. She decided not to press, for now.

“Sirella doesn’t have any outstanding blood feuds with the House of Gorkon that I don’t know about, does she?”

“She does not.”

“Then what about Azetbur? Curzon was a great admirer of hers.”

“An admirer,” said Worf, flatly.

“Don’t look so suspicious. It wasn’t that kind of admiration. Not really.”

“So they were never involved?”

“I never slept with her, if that’s what you’re asking.”

There had been rumors to that effect, spread mainly by her political enemies, but for once there hadn’t been anything behind them. They hadn’t even been friends, really. They had been representatives of their respective peoples who found themselves allied in a common goal.

“I should hope not, considering that she was assassinated when you were an infant.”

“You know what I mean. I’m not saying Curzon didn’t find her attractive—he found most women attractive, and more than a few men—but whatever else he might have been, he was a professional. Even then, he knew that the negotiations at Khitomer would be the most important of his career. Whatever happened there would shape the future of the Federation: a history defining moment. Everyone was watching, our allies and enemies alike. Curzon was just one diplomat in the Federation delegation, albeit one who turned out to have the greatest affinity for Klingons. But Chancellor Azetbur was at the center of everything. If she hadn’t held to her father’s vision, to her vision, in spite of all the mistrust and misunderstandings, you wouldn’t be standing here wearing that uniform, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Her name is an honored one, though not uncontroversial.”

“You’re not exactly uncontroversial yourself. Curzon didn’t always like her, but he respected her. He admired her dignity, and her courage, and her commitment to her cause and her people.”

“I can think of no better name for a child of both the Federation and the Klingon Empire than that of the chancellor who signed the Khitomer Accords. It is a fitting choice.”

“You hear that kid, you’ve got a name.”

“Azetbur, daughter of Worf—”

“Azetbur Idaris,” corrected Jadzia. “I may not use it anymore, but I can still pass it on. That’s how it works on Trill.”

Worf nodded. “Azetbur Idaris, daughter of Worf, of the House of Martok.”

Chapter Text

“I feel a bit weird about changing his name. Like we’re erasing part of his identity.”

“He would feel much ‘weirder’ about it if we did not change it,” said Garak. “Besides, it’s really not optional under Cardassian law.”

“Yes, I realize that.”

Garak considered revealing his suspicion that the child’s current surname was an assumed one, in a manner of speaking: a Kardasi adaptation of his Romulan father’s name, a name he had no right to under Cardassian law (or Romulan, for that matter). Once again, he decided against it.

When Julian had first mentioned the half-Romulan orphan he’d taken an interest in, Garak had not mentioned his suspicions about the child’s origins because he’d wanted to avoid piquing Julian’s curiosity any further. That tactic had failed, obviously. In spite of his trepidations about the wisdom of bringing this child into their home, he didn’t regret this failure. But it did leave him in a quandary about what to do with the information he possessed.

His relationship with Julian often left him feeling unbalanced in this way. Instincts finely honed over decades of training and experience could no longer be fully trusted. The instinct to conceal potentially vital information until divulging it proved necessary or advantageous was deeply ingrained. Was it also, in this circumstance, wrong? Surely disclosing this information would have no real effect on the outcome? They would go through with the adoption regardless. The paperwork was nearly complete. With the addition of a few more signatures and thumbprints, Galen Remec (who, as an assumed bastard, should have more properly been Galen Lemas), statusless ward of the state, would be legitimized into Galen Bashir-Garak (a name that might well damn him to ignominy, half-alien and half-infamous as it was).

Not for the first time he wondered if they were doing the ‘right’ thing (even as an inner voice chided him for thinking in terms as simplistic as ‘right’ and ‘wrong’). Julian’s instincts insisted they were. Garak wished he could trust them as he’d once trusted his own.

Not that Julian didn’t have doubts of his own about some aspects of this venture. “I’m still a bit concerned that giving him my name will attract too much unwanted attention.”

“I’m afraid ‘unwanted attention’ is going to be unavoidable, unless Cardassian culture changes radically.”

“Which it might.”

“Perhaps,” conceded Garak. “But not overnight. A shared family name will make it easier for you to assert your parental rights.”

The ‘especially if something happens to me’ went unspoken, but Garak hoped Julian heard it anyway.

“And if his Romulan father comes looking for him?”

“That is extremely unlikely.” If Garak was correct in his suppositions, then the man in question had been dead for years. “Romulans are not so concerned with legitimacy as Cardassians are, and while they certainly demand cultural uniformity from all their citizens, alien genetics are not as much of a disadvantage.”

“Looking like a Romulan is less important than acting like one, in other words.”

“Exactly. So his father could have claimed him. Either he chose not to, or the mother had good reason for keeping the child from him, or he is dead.”

“I wonder who they were,” mused Julian. “What they were like.”

Aleka Lemas had been an orphan, too, the daughter of two servants in the household of a gul stationed on Bajor, killed in a terrorist attack. She’d escaped a Bajoran orphanage and managed to stow herself away on a supply ship returning to Cardassia Prime. She’d been caught before disembarking, but the ingenuity and determination she’d shown in making it so far before being discovered had not gone unnoticed by the all-seeing eyes of the Obsidian Order. She’d never been one of the Order’s zealots, merely a girl with no prospects and an offer she couldn’t refuse. Garak had found her demeanor dull and sullen and thought she’d fit right in on Romulus.

The most likely candidate for the father of her child was a young senator with somewhat maverick views who Garak had included in the mission briefing on a list of potential assets. Their intelligence indicated that he might be susceptible to Cardassian influence. He had eventually been executed for treason shortly after Tain’s failed invasion of the Dominion—shortly after the conception of a son he’d never known.

How terribly maudlin it all sounded.

(Julian would love it, no doubt.)

“It doesn’t matter,” said Garak. “They’re not here. We are.”