Malicean

The general has sent me a Class Four tactical armor vest that actually fits me – and such a thing should not exist.
Class Four is frontline combat armor that can stop a blaster or even rifle shot at point blank range, anything portable at more than that and even light vehicle guns at middle distances. High-ranking stormtrooper officers wear Class Four in battle.
Women, however, are banned from all combat positions – which leaves SciCorps one of the few branches where one can actually make a career in the military – and even if that weren't the case, I'm still a couple of centimeters below the minimum height requirement for stormtroopers. Eerie.

You show initiative once while his lordship is watching, and the next time he gives you enough rope to hang yourself properly – or gain success fully on your own merit.

The rest of me wonders what sort of idiot makes an alien head of Quality Control in a facility working exclusively on governmental contracts. Either motivated by personal disgruntlement or easily coerced, that's a written invitation for manipulation.

His explanation is utterly rational, its logic flawless, as long as you start on the basic premise that a trooper's life is of negligible worth – a premise all too many people would subscribe to.

"What about the other thing …, sir?"
"Also true. Captain Goran regularly volunteered SciCorps, administrative staff, nonessential techs, etc., in short, the entire list of supernumeraries. All of which were proud members of the Imperial Navy, of course, unlike those poor, deluded fools who joined the Army …."
Another, definitely stunned, pause, before the second trooper replies, absolutely deadpan, "Yes, sir. Poor, that's me, and Deluded is the trooper on your right, sir."
Laughing, I find, still hurts despite the painkiller.