Make no mistake; we Doctor Who fans are a lucky crowd. It’s rare to find many television shows these days whose cult following is rewarded with such plentiful bonus releases on top of the annual new run of episodes, yet since 2006, BBC Books have consistently offered us the chance to indulge yearly Quick Reads adventures featuring the latest Doctor. Aimed at those fans who either simply don’t have the time to pick up Gareth Roberts’s lengthy one-hundred-and-ninth adaptation of Shada, or indeed those who wouldn’t be caught dead leaving WHSmith with anything heavier than the new Doctor Who Magazine, these brief jaunts have nevertheless enthralled readers young and old over the years, and The Silurian Gift aims to appeal to much the same wide audience.

Of course, with the 50th Anniversary year now upon us, and a multitude of celebratory series landmarks and live events undoubtedly on the way, it’s inevitable that Mike Tucker’s new novel carries with it a weight of expectation. Tucker rightfully opts out of including the new companion Clara in proceedings, so the words "Run, you clever boy, and remember" anywhere aren’t anywhere to be found this time around. While some might call this a missed opportunity on the author’s part, if anything in terms of both continuity and the ongoing Clara mystery it make things far simpler- much as Jacqueline Rayner’s 2009 romp The Sontaran Games served as a neat interlude between The Next Doctor and Planet Of The Dead, so too do the Eleventh Doctor’s adventures at the South Pole fit delicately between The Snowmen and Steven Moffat’s upcoming anniversary season premiere coming our way on March 30th.

Crucially, though, it’s the narrative fans will want to assess- can Tucker possibly live up to the series’ fifty-year legacy in the midst of such a rare event in television? Thankfully, the answer is in the affirmative: by reintroducing the Silurians in their 2010-2013 guise, yet meanwhile integrating elements of their classic series lore, the man behind the proverbial camera (or indeed, ‘behind the pen’ in this case) has created an innovative and unique adventure that would be impressive even by the show’s increasingly-high standards on screen. I won’t reveal anything concrete for fear of River Song knocking down my door moments later, but suffice to say that fans of Doctor Who And The Silurians, The Sea Devils and Warriors Of The Deep won’t be disappointed in terms of the reverence and respect that Tucker pays to those three iconic tales.

An author’s characterisation of the Doctor himself is always a vital component to the success of any Who novel, and in this respect Tucker excels. Clearly the three years that Matt Smith has spent in the role so far have given the writer time to accurately develop an incredibly realistic version of the eleventh incarnation of the Time Lord on paper, channelling Smith’s eccentric and humorous dialogue, his active physicality in adventures and indeed his hopeless sense of authority into each and every chapter in which the Doctor appears. The story’s other protagonist is a young journalist, Lizzie, who pretty much fits the bill as the average one-off companion, portrayed in a subdued manner with little overall impact on the Time Lord’s character arc. Tucker’s adversary characters are believable too, each of them either driven by that same lust for power as the likes of Van Statten and Solomon, or indeed a desperate desire to survive on a world which they previously inhabited.

There are one or two shortcomings that hold The Silurian Gift back from aspiring to the level of Human Nature and other iconic Who novels, however. The first flaw is one that’s plagued the Quick Reads saga that the show has adopted ever since 2006, the ultimate brevity of the text and thus the inevitably rushed pacing on Tucker’s part. Perhaps this is a drawback that these annual jaunts will never be able to avoid, yet seasoned readers could well wonder if building towards a climax earlier in the novel would have allowed the author to provide a more meaningful dénouement. Subsequently, although The Silurian Gift’s narrative contains a few unexpected surprises, it’s difficult to shake the feeling of déjà vu of another Silurian tale focusing on the eponymous reptiles’ attempts to take back the Earth, and indeed the inevitable final assertion that humans cannot yet live in peace with their predecessors; seriously, just how many taskforces will awake from hibernation thanks to the Doctor’s choice of postponing their return by 100 years or so? Steven Moffat appears to have grasped the fact that repetition can spawn tedium in this respect, having taken this intriguing race and utilising them in innovative ways in A Good Man Goes To War and The Snowmen, but it’s something that clearly still needs to be addressed in the New Series Adventures novels.

Nevertheless, having been provided with such a sterling first novel for the 50th Anniversary, it feels almost churlish to pick up on its minor stumbles. The Silurian Gift is without question one of the better outings produced within the BBC Books range of Doctor Who novels since they returned in 2005, a fast-paced and enthralling romp that should capture the imagination of both its intended reading-averse target audience and indeed the wider fanbase as a whole. Just as we’re no doubt hoping that this year’s episodes will feature blasts to the past while looking ahead to the future, Mike Tucker manages both challenges with aplomb and confidence. If great reads such as this and indeed the wealth of other CD and DVD releases and news announcements we’ve had so far in 2013 are any indication, then it seems this will be a truly sensational 50th Anniversary year for Doctor Who. Bring on the next ten months…

This review contains plot spoilers and is based on the UK edition of the ebook.

This title kicks off Puffin’s monthly series of ‘eshorts’ (or short stories available electronically), featuring the first Doctor and his granddaughter Susan. Having recently rewatched An Unearthly Child at the BFI, and also having recently read Phil Sandifer’s sharp analysis of Kim Newman’s Time and Relative novella, the first thing that struck me about Eoin Colfer’s story was how unrecognisable his first Doctor seemed to be. This rendition isn’t loath to intervene, acting like a sort of anti-hero or proto-hero (as in Newman’s pre-Unearthly Child tale). No, this version of the William Hartnell Doctor has been busy pursuing Soul Pirates through space and time in order to combat their evil ways. He’s a swashbuckling action hero trapped in an ageing body. He even sees visions of his later and more physical selves, mainly so that younger readers can be reminded that this figure is the same character played today by Matt Smith. It’s a device, a convenience, that probably wreaks havoc with Doctor Who continuity, but neither Colfer nor whoever signed off on this short story are overly concerned with capturing the spirit of 1960s Who. Instead, the Doctor is a generic do-gooder who refers to things such as Hogwarts, referencing pop culture familiar to 2013 readers.

And as if symbolic of the way that Colfer has grafted his own approach into the world of the first Doctor, the integrity of the Time Lord’s body has also been violated. He’s lost a hand – sliced off by a Soul Pirate Captain – and so has to make do with a two-fingered ceramic model housed inside an ill-gendered spare. Surely Colfer isn’t putting two literary fingers up at fans who might be dismayed by this turn of events? Although the mental image of William Hartnell’s Doctor sporting a woman’s hand, painted fingernails and all, is certainly a striking and incongruous one, it’s not quite how I expected to be thinking of the first Doctor at the beginning of this anniversary year. It’s a good gag, sure. But it's one that isn’t afraid to ride roughshod over the dignity of the Doctor. This is a full-blooded contrast to the first Doctor instalment of Destiny of the Doctor, and each series looks set to work in very different ways for very different audiences. Destiny is era-appropriate fan service, while this eshort strikes a vastly revisionist, irreverent tone. This is Doctor Who’s history rewritten from a present-day perspective, enclosing younger readers in demographic now-ness rather than truly opening a window on mysterious other times.

And Doctor Who of fifty years ago, a strange and wonderful and enigmatic thing, is further reworked here as a burst of auteurist whimsy. Yes, Colfer’s authorial voice shines through – making this part of a marketing strategy where ‘name’ authors take the Doctor in hand – but I still would’ve liked to witness more of a meeting of author and character rather than the scales being tipped very much in the writer’s favour. And some jokes (e.g. a Time Lord known as the Interior Designer) breezily transform Gallifrey into a planet of Time Morons. The Doctor himself is depicted as unsmiling, and chided about his unrelaxed state, as if readers are being warned they need to take what follows in good humour.

Without spoilering the story’s Epilogue, there is a neat twist that frames Colfer’s heightened fantasy version of Who. H.G. Wells and his time machine have made a few appearances across Doctor Who’s lifespan, with ‘scientifiction’ (early science fiction) being positioned as one source for the Doctor’s time-travelling adventures. Colfer takes a rather different intertextual tack, however, in line with his genre-shifting towards children's fantasy adventure, and in the end this conceit works rather beautifully. It’s a handy pay-off which bathes events in a clever, new glow. And it makes excellent use of the short story form; there can be little doubting Colfer’s skill as a writer. Indeed, he retraces Douglas Adams' fingerprints here by adding Who as well as The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy to his CV.

Like The Coming of the Terraphiles before it, though, this title is more concerned with being a publishing industry ‘event’ than with addressing fandom’s notions of authenticity. In short, this simply isn’t speaking to long-term adult fans. The signal it sends, loud and clear, is that the 50th anniversary is for all sorts of audiences, and for varied generations who have become fascinated by the Doctor. It's a post-Potter first Doctor. Bill Hartnell for Generation Z. And perhaps such diversity and plurality can only be a good thing.

That said, this eshort still sticks out like a sore thumb.

This review contains plot spoilers and is based on the UK edition of the ebook.

Certain quarters of fandom have been clamouring for a Madame Vastra and Jenny spin-off for a while, and this ebook pretty much fulfills the brief – albeit as a “media tie-in” (in old money) rather than a fully-fledged series all of its own. Following the release of The Angel’s Kiss (which itself linked into The Angels Take Manhattan), I wonder whether every ‘event’ episode – or even just every episode, full-stop – will now arrive complete with its own commercially-available ebook. Personally, though I’m more than happy to buy DVD releases containing the TV series plus additional material, it feels a little odd to pay (seemingly on a per-episode basis) for prequel novellas to what’s still a public service TV series. But muttering about Doctor Who’s ongoing commercialization is a futile act – akin to trying to catch smoke in your hands – especially on the verge of an anniversary year and what will no doubt be a vast new plume of merchandise. Instead, fans and reviewers may as well just let it all swirl around them; like the weather, there’s seemingly nothing that can be done about Who’s corpulent growth as a mega-brand. And here’s something else for completists to enjoy (though Dan Starkey’s audiobook reading may well prove to be the more entertaining version, given the skill and verve with which he tackles character voicing).

Scrooge-like grumblings aside, there are some lovely moments in this tale, such as an observation of snow settling on the cold-blooded Vastra, as well as a mysterious death which sets everything in motion and features rather more “viscous carmine” blood than I’d expect to see in televised Doctor Who (particularly at 5:15pm on Christmas Day). There’s also some clever use of settings. Justin Richards plays with the reader’s expectation of a showdown set amid generic, grimy industrialism – all smoke, soot and merchants of menace – instead opting for a glassy, atmospheric location that greatly boosts his finale. However, the sense of place and time on show throughout is largely sketched in chocolate-box mode, relying on too many stock characters and shorthand sentiments. There are workhouses, and thugs, and baddies with names like Able Hecklington. Given that Justin Richards has to set out his stall pretty sharpish, and then wrap everything up just as quickly, it feels as if there’s little room for character development here, or indeed for very much which transcends the imitation of pastiche. Mocktoriana is drawn from how we remember collections of assorted cliché: the popular image of Dickens adaptations; jumbled TV Christmas Specials from over the years; big-budget advertising and its jacketing of history into seasonal prettiness. Furthermore, Vastra and Jenny are not really developed in any major way, and intimations of their relationship remain largely off-screen, or off the page. Devil in the Smoke, with its workhouse boys providing a point of identification, is self-consciously suitable for readers of most ages.

It may sound as though I’m being overly negative about this release – bah humbug! – but it has one feature that leaps off the screen and brings vitality to a sometimes insubstantial runaround. For me, the true saving grace here is none other than Strax. Justin Richards writes comedy just as fluently as he does action set-pieces, and his Strax one-liners are consistently laugh-out-loud superb. As a result, Strax pretty much gets all the best dialogue and effortlessly steals the show, for example with his Paternoster Row battle cry, not to mention his emphasis on “regrouping”. Richards clearly relishes the opportunity to subvert Sontaran militarism, but Strax’s forward planning is also valued, and he’s shown to be far more than just a comedic figure, but also one who is an important and respected part of the team.

The Snowmen has already provoked multiple prequels, whether for Children in Need, online, or in this guise. Like snowflakes, perhaps no two prequels are identical – some feature the Doctor, some (like this one) don’t really, some focus on Madame Vastra as ‘The Great Detective’, and others (like this one) amount to a colourful, undemanding romp compressed into less than a hundred pages. Can there ever be too much of a good prequel thing? In its favour, Devil in the Smoke ties into the imminent Christmas extravaganza in more ways than one. Not only does it draw on characters who have already become fan favourites, it also deploys its snowy backdrop for ambience, mood, and for the substance of plotting. Richards intelligently offers a different take on snowscapes (and a snowman) to the one we’re about to receive, and his closing line deliciously resonates with all the trailers and promotion for The Snowmen, setting the pulses racing of those of us “impatient for Christmas”.

I hope this ebook trend doesn’t expand to take in every episode next year, but instead remains an occasional and special treat, like all the trimmings that accompany Christmas dinner. With Devil in the Smoke, Justin Richards has served up something combining traditional, seasonal Who flavours with glorious notes of (potato-headed) piquancy.

This review contains plot spoilers

Arguably, the greatest blessing of Torchwood is in danger of becoming a curse. I’m referring to Children of Earth – five episodes that pushed the TV show into a brave new world, and won it newfound international critical acclaim. And where Miracle Day seemed overly keen to repeat the CoE trick, this novel very much follows the same template yet again. It could almost be entitled Women of Earth; this time it’s women at locations around the globe who are affected by a mysterious madness which may have an alien origin. Like CoE, there’s an epic feel, and a historical precursor involving none other than Captain Jack Harkness. And like Miracle Day, the remnants of team Torchwood have a unique inside-track on exactly what’s happening. In line with its TV predecessors, there’s also a significant issue raised by fantastical events: patriarchal society’s reaction to an outbreak of ‘mad’ women. Captain Jack gets a lecture on the reactionary nature of presumed female “hysteria” (p.149), and mental health services are rapidly overwhelmed.

There must surely be a limit to the number of times that a CoE-style storyline can plausibly be mounted, and Exodus Code flirts with reaching this limit. No sooner has planet Earth put the Miracle behind it – seemingly carrying on without any real, lasting changes – then there’s another worldwide threat to contend with. What seemed format-breaking, edgy and energizing in the case of CoE now threatens to ossify constrictively into Torchwood’s latter-day format.

Exodus Code works best when it dares to innovate rather than when it’s slavishly aligned with recent TV incarnations. The introduction of “a Hub” (p.293) radically unlike the old Cardiff base is a clever, much-needed move, and has the potential to generate many more future stories. New team members are a little under-written, however, and few characters really come to life beyond the established gang of Gwen, Captain Jack, Rhys and Andy Davidson (all of whom are notably well captured). By contrast, Torchwood’s new fellow travellers seem more like a collection of gimmicks rather than rounded, fleshed-out people, although this may be a result of the breathless thriller genre that Exodus Code belongs to. For example, government adviser Alan Pride sounds like a fascinating figure, but we are only really told this via various info-dumps, rather than being shown Pride in action.

As might be expected from writers John and Carole E. Barrowman, there are some lovely nods to Torchwood continuity, whether it’s a mention of “Suzie”, discussion of morphic resonance, or the specific Torchwood kit that Gwen makes use of. And Rex Matheson even makes an appearance, ultimately amounting to little more than a guest cameo. Exodus Code ties back to Miracle Day in multiple, deft ways, though it’s hard to avoid inferring that The Powers That Be have placed Rex’s unusual status firmly off-limits. The same problem has dogged post-Miracle Day audios, leaving the odd feeling that these tales aren’t quite allowed to whole-heartedly continue Torchwood’s adventures.

Of course, a big part of this novel’s selling point lies with its authors. Captain Jack is especially well served throughout, returning to his omnisexual, zesty self after the detours of Miracle Day. There’s a real love and respect for Torchwood on show, as well as a beautifully unexpected nod to Sarah Jane Smith. Jack is pretty much rendered as Exodus Code’s central figure; Gwen doesn’t directly feature until roughly a quarter of the way into things.

The non-linear storytelling works effectively, even if events of the finale do become a little compressed and complicated. For instance, a clunky explanation on page 328 indicates that the scenario could probably have been more smoothly conveyed, though Gwen’s humorous response deflects any excess melodrama. And there are some compelling ideas woven around the title’s “code”, with the Barrowmans working unusual medical conditions, enigmatic designs, genetics, computer code and even artificial intelligence into the rich brew of thriller elements.

This page-turner revitalizes Torchwood by suggesting a possible way forward for the show, and by introducing a host of new characters who could be further developed in future. It’s just a shame that the consequences of Miracle Day seem so muted, particularly in terms of Rex’s character. John and Carole Barrowman are clearly gifted storytellers (both on this evidence and that of their earlier novel, Hollow Earth). I, for one, would welcome another Torchwood tale from the pair, perhaps something finally marking an exodus from the CoE code, and its gradually diminishing returns.

For a show that revels in them, it is perhaps surprising that there haven't been as many books dedicated about the monsters of Doctor Who as one might expect. In the past, 'oldies' amongst us can look fondly upon our battered copies of the 1970s The Doctor Who Monster Book from Uncle Terrance, or more recently with 2005's Monsters and Villains by Justin Richards, but with several more years of 'monstrous' adventures to explore here we are presenting with a new tome from Graham Sleight.

However, those looking for a nice "A-Z" type book are likely to be disappointed, as the aim of this book is somewhat different, as the back cover explains:
Such a description immediately conjures up an image of in-depth analyses of monsters and their environment, and how contemporary socio-political influences affected the way in which they were realised - fortunately, we don't have to worry about the redundancy of auxiliary performance codes, however, as Sleight presents his arguments in clear, concise prose, and in a reader-friendly manner.

The Book

On opening the book, the first thing you notice is what appears to be a very strange ordering of monsters within the Contents. The Autons ... check ... The Weeping Angels ... check ... Kroll ... erm, okay ... The Primords ... pardon ... The Borad ... WTF? There is method in Sleight's madness, of course, as his intention is to show how the different monsters relate to one another. Thus, Kroll in couched within terms of its being a force of nature like the Angels; after the Primords, the Borad is compared with Stahlman from their story in a "Faustian overreacher" role. The next chapter deals with the Axons and a theme of beauty and ugliness formulated from Timelash. And so on. Building an ongoing narrative between chapters is a great idea, but is hard to maintain, becoming absent in a number of chapters later in the book.

All the big-bads are there of course, with the two major monsters split into 'eras' (four for the Daleks and three for the Cybermen). The coverage does seem a little 'random' at times (eg. the Mandrells), but as Sleight points out, the book can't be completely comprehensive and everybody has their favourites that might not be covered (what, no Zygons?!!). However, there is a handy Glossary at the back that does provide a brief A-Z of monsters in the show.





I also found that the story synopses tended to be quite lengthy; whilst I can appreciate that some readers may not be familiar with the stories in question, such information is readily available elsewhere so a simple summary would suffice and we can get into the monster nitty-gritty. There was also a tendency to slip into 'series politics' which obscured the monstrous discussion that I actually expected. This reached its nadir in "The Cybermen II", which concerned itself more with why the Cybermen stories epitomised what was wrong with eighties rather than the creatures themselves - indeed, with Attack of the Cybermen I thought the depictions of how the Cyber-conversion process depersonalised humanity and the mental affects of partial conversion had on the Telos workforce would be more worthy of exploration than the interminable debate over who actually wrote the story!




However, in many ways I found the book a little too light for my tastes, and for me it was hard to judge who was the intended audience for the book. It clearly isn't for children or the casual reader, but neither is it for those fans who love to delve into heady intellectual debate or critique. Instead, the chapters tended to paint broad strokes over the various monsters covered, and I often wondered what point was being made.










All the standard themes are covered, so oil-drilling in the North Sea is debated for Inferno, the European Union and Miner's Strikes in for Peladon, etc.

Marshmen - not Solonians?

Conclusion:

The book sets out to look into the meaning of the monstrous, and certainly covers a variety of the creatures that populate the series




and falls firmly into same style of related non-fiction from IB Tauris (like Booy's Love and Monsters published earlier this year).

This review contains plot spoilers

As you might expect from SF luminary Stephen Baxter, one of the great strengths of this novel is its vivid creation of worlds and environments. The Wheel – a mining operation out at Saturn – and its frontier society are sharply delineated. Saturn’s rings also become a key part of the narrative, and Baxter has fun extrapolating from technologies such as “matter printing” and waste recyling. Overall, there’s a sense of vastness to this Doctor Who story, and not just because it deals with our solar system, but also thanks to the way it covers an epic sweep of time, going all the way back to the ‘Silurian’ era of Earth’s history. Appropriate Who technologies are also drawn upon, as Baxter deftly works in some crucial T-Mat action. The Doctor’s previous adventures are seen to have unintended consequences and unexpected outcomes over time, bringing them into the panoramic vista of Stephen Baxter’s work. Even UNIT get a few important mentions.

But perhaps this publication will always be remembered as a double event: firstly, it’s the return of ‘Past Doctor Adventures’ given that it features the second Doctor, Jamie and Zoe, and secondly it’s another novel that, like The Coming of the Terraphiles, brings a “name” SF author to the franchise. And whilst it certainly carries those historical lures for the reader, reducing The Wheel of Ice to milestones or markers does the book a bit of a disservice. Baxter’s affection for the show’s lead characters shines through, and he cleverly makes use of Zoe’s eidetic memory, for example, as well as finding a crafty way of making the artificial intelligence/service robot MMAC relevant to Jamie’s sense of identity. Furthermore, Zoe’s experiences from ‘The Wheel in Space’ and ‘The Mind Robber’ are variously tapped into, and Baxter exploits the gaps in her life experience when she’s confronted with a set of tasks that logic and scientific training can’t quite prepare her for. Both McCrimmon and Heriot are very well served throughout, without their subplots feeling too forced or too overly designed for them.

Baxter intersperses his linear adventure with “Interludes” which focus on different characters’ points of view and fill in moments of back story. For me, these were some of the most intriguing sequences of the novel, allowing Baxter to flashback through history (and weave in some great continuity references to Tom Baker and Peter Davison TV stories). One interlude offers a wonderful few pages tackling the emergence of consciousness itself: there’s no shortage of ambition to these set pieces, and their literary tangents greatly enrich the whole.

If Jamie and Zoe get plenty to do, then what of the second Doctor himself? On the whole, Troughton’s incarnation breezes playfully through situations, although sometimes he displays an angst which seems more in keeping with the parameters of ‘new Who’. He almost seems affronted to have encountered a mind bigger than his own, and the story’s eventual resolution calls for greater commitment than even a Time Lord can offer. Baxter preserves the Doctor’s essential mystery, but shows how his perspective on events differs crucially from all those around him, particularly when it comes to trying to communicate with alien artefacts or races.

In fact, communication emerges as a major theme. The Doctor is keen to speak to the strange blue beings who threaten the Wheel’s human colonists, and the entity known in Gallifreyan libraries as ‘Arkive’ is also seeking to communicate with others from its past. And even MMAC, the ‘cute robot’ character, unexpectedly discovers the value of communication. For all its ‘harder-than-usual’ SF stylings, epic scale, and scientific learning, The Wheel of Ice turns out to be about the emotional importance of being in touch. It may seem a rather cerebral read at times, but the head and the heart are both firmly and poetically in play here.

The book’s cover announces: “Resilience. Remembrance. Resolution. Whatever the cost.” Yet curiously the three words ritualistically recounted by the protagonist facing the Doctor are given as “Resilience. Remembrance. Restoration” as soon as one actually starts reading. In fact, these are the opening three words of the Prologue on page seven, and so can hardly be taken to constitute huge spoilers. Quite why “Restoration” has been substituted for “Resolution” remains unclear, especially as the latter doesn’t seem any more threatening or dramatic as a piece of book jacket self-promotion.

Given Baxter’s final flourish – a tribute to the always ongoing narratives of Doctor Who – I hope we hear more from him and this TARDIS crew. In short, this is a beautiful, artful novel that knowingly throws its characters into a range of scenarios which 1960s' television drama could never have brought to the screen. I found myself thinking more than a few times, “Jamie just did what?” Transcending TV budgets and special effects, The Wheel of Ice generates a true sense of wonder at the marvels of the universe, and the treasures of the Whoniverse.