The uniform is familiar in a way that might be from passing sleeping officers in the stasis chambers, but might also be an echo of someone else's thoughts. Jim doesn't bother inspecting it; chasing the remnants of Ambassador Spock's mind meld is a futile effort, these days, the threads of it too thin.

But also, he's got the telltale badge on, so.

"Captain James T Kirk," he answers, smiling. His own uniform was mangled during his group's crash landing on the planet below, and while he's also got a Starfleet badge on, it's just an inert piece of metal pinned to him, upside down and half hidden under the edge of his jacket. (Some of these rooms are inexplicably freezing, man.) "Good to meet you, Data."

The sandwich by now is somewhat pitiable, bread stuck in different directions, half-squished. Some lettuce has escaped into the zero-g wilds. Jim's gonna eat it anyway.

"I mean it-- nobody here's even heard of the Federation."