Mickey 7 by Edward Ashton is the first in a science fiction trilogy that follows Mickey, a member of an intergalactic colonization project that has set its sights on the distant planet Niflheim. What’s special about Mickey is that he’s died six times while carrying out the reigning martials’ bidding, then reanimated with his memories intact. His life on the Drakkar ship, accompanied by his comrades Berto and his love interest Nasha, is highly surveilled, hierarchical, and restrained. Food rations are scarce, and crew members are continually subject to high-risk assignments, with the possibility of death around every corner. As an “Expendable,” Mickey is tasked with the most dangerous missions—those that would be unthinkable for anyone whose life is considered irreplaceable—because his death is not treated as an endpoint, but as part of a cycle. In a life where survival and living aren’t synonymous, how can Mickey find meaning in his many iterations? Is he merely a copy of his former selves with their inherited memories, or a new person altogether? The novel complicates these questions by blurring the boundary between continuity and rupture: each version of Mickey remembers dying, yet must go on as if nothing essential has been lost. This repetition creates a disorienting existence in which identity becomes unstable, and the body itself feels temporary, interchangeable, and ultimately owned by the system that sustains it.

Review

I can see why this book was adapted into a film. The premise is exceptionally original, and Mickey’s internal dialogue comes across as so clever and real. I was shocked by the abruptness of the ending, however, which is when I realized that the story continues on in two other books. While both mediums are redeemable in their own right, the movie version felt much more developed in its commentary on modern issues. Its analyses of disposable labor, authoritarianism, colonial expansion, and biopolitics felt much more full-circle. The film magnifies the structural implications of Mickey’s role, positioning his repeated deaths not simply as a narrative mechanism, but as a systemic condition—one that exposes how easily a body can be reduced to function. In contrast, the novel remains more inward-facing, prioritizing Mickey’s voice and the subdued absurdity of his situation over fully fleshing out the world around him. This makes for a more intimate reading experience, but one that occasionally feels underdeveloped in its larger stakes. Still, the book’s strength resides in its ability to humanize a premise that could easily feel cold or mechanical, grounding its speculative elements in humor, vulnerability, and a persistent questioning of what it means to remain oneself in a life that is constantly being rewritten.