Space Siege: 1,001 Clicks of Excitement!

You know the game kick the can? Space Siege is kind of like that, but with bullets and tchotchkes. What I do, between sniping aliens and cyber-dudes and making trips to the level-up bank, is pulverize thousands of crates and barrels and propel canisters of compressed gas down empty corridors at nothing in particular. Okay, okay, you got me. Ha ha. Occasionally I tweak my sidekick Harvey-the-robot for kicks, but he just whirrs a little and bursts into flames and takes it on the chin. He's a champ.

He's also Eastwood in a dust up, but the little guy needs a leash. He's a soldier, not a sapper, but he keeps charging headfirst into mines like they're track lighting.

I've been trashing all my crew's equipment, the terminals and video screens and hibernation pods. One of them finally radios in and tells me to ride easy, that we might need some of this stuff later. Uh-huh. Fat chance. Shooting makes me happy. I mean, it better -- it's all I'm good for.

Occasionally I find scattered messages from crew members. Some guy can't find his wife. Another's been "screwing around with Sanibots," the ship's saucer-shaped mechanical maids. Some other guy -- I can see his dead body still -- flags a mine field conveniently splayed to let me turn a bunch of dumb aliens into giblets. They've been waiting just for me to trip their trigger, then trip the explosive network beneath their oblivious little spider-legs. Everything's laid out as such, all signs and handholds and "shoot here!"

"Let's go," says the game. "Hustle!"

Fine, whatever. Gimme some upgrades.

Speaking of those, they look a little like bug guts and Legos. I grab what I can, ignoring the ones that get stuck weirdly inside walls, and carry them back to health chambers, where I walk into save-cylinders like Samus in Metroid. You have to appreciate the aid stations. They're literally everywhere. I can't get two steps out of one before I'm running into another. Four health pack carry maximum? Who needs one. Do not go gentle into that good night? I can't go stupid-reckless-wild.

Also: I take things pretty seriously for a dude flogging aliens like The Flash with a weed-whacker. Wish I had a couple funny one-liners, instead of melodramatic pablum like:

"Those aliens will pay for this, one way or another."

I know. Right up there with gems like "It's life, Jim, but not as we know it."

My pals back at command central are egging me on to swap body parts for cyber gear. It's the moral crux of the game, with an obvious and sadly cliched narrative payload.

"I recommend you install that cybernetic gizmo-whatzit as soon as possible, sergeant," goads the ship A.I. Okay. Yeah. You trying sticking your hand in a box that chews it right off. "I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer." Uh-huh. Whatever Frank Herbert.

Still, the perks of going Robocop are much clearer than the negligible little two-percent upgrades to all the combat and engineering abilities I hardly even pay attention anymore. Leveling up in this game is like working your biceps with five pound curl bars.

One of my guys radios out of the blue:

Him: "How you holding up out there?"

Me: "It's bad, really bad." I'm soooo serious. "Bodies everywhere." Oh the humanity.

Unfortunately the game has now become a lock-key quagmire. I can fix a robot like gangbusters, but I've got to slog through half the ship to find some guy just to open a dopey door.

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