Doctor Who: The BBC Books #112 – Amorality Tale by David Bishop

Doctor Who: The Past Doctor Adventures

#52

Amorality Tale

By David Bishop

Doctor Who often visits historical periods for its stories. This helps to provide a shorthand for the viewer/reader — see The Aztecs or The Roundheads, interesting tales hung on a familiar framework. Amorality Tale on the other hand is a period or event that you might not know about, and yet also one that’s potentially still in living memory: in 1952, somewhere between 4,000 and 12,000 people died in the London smog.

Your mileage may vary but — dreadful as that sounds — to me it doesn’t immediately suggest a story about why these things happen. It’s surely more in the line of how our characters will react to an unavoidable tragedy, like The Fires Of Pompeii. David Bishop’s book isn’t really like that, however: although Sarah Jane does at points want the (Third) Doctor to do something about all those deaths, their hearts are really only in it as far as stopping the catastrophe from spreading further afield — and initially not even that, as she’s just trying to get him out of a funk by investigating the “mystery” of the fog instead. (I did sort of wonder what this investigative journalist was expecting to happen in London at a heavily polluted time in its history.)

Wouldn’t you know it, this is in fact Doctor Who and it turns out the historical event has something to do with aliens. (Lucky Sarah.) Your mileage may vary again on whether it is actually the teensiest bit crass to associate real deaths with a sci-fi doodad. As if aware of this, the book has it both ways: the bad guy aliens state that the fog is just “the dominant native species’ own effluvia,” while later the Doctor says “the smog, it’s not natural. The weather is being controlled by the Xhinn.” (Both statements can be true, but without that second qualifier it might at least be ambiguous.) In any case, there really isn’t much for Sarah or the Doctor to investigate until the nastiness kicks off in earnest a good ways in.

Things at least get off to an interesting start with the Doctor and Sarah already installed in the East End when we arrive. I love stories that begin in media res: it’s intriguing to find Sarah holding her own as a barmaid in a rough pub and the Doctor running a watch-mender’s shop. What a pity then that we immediately undercut this by going right back to the scene where they decided to come here. You don’t need both; you could just as easily tease out the information later on in London.

Ah well: Amorality Tale has other things on its mind, namely gang warfare. Underworld bigshot Tommy Ramsey has just got out of prison and he’s putting his manor in order, little realising that a rebellion is brewing in the ranks. Meanwhile a bunch of youths led by the bloodthirsty Callum is looking to muscle in on Ramsey’s turf.

Amorality Tale is, for much of its initial 100 pages, all gangsters and geezers roughing each other up. There’s a good sense of Bishop doing his research here, such as in the central, easy to picture street filled with housewives all cleaning their doorsteps. Bishop gives suitably distinct voices to his various crooks and lowlifes — which helps where at least two of them are called Billy. The book overall has a simple, no muss no fuss writing style that clings comfortably to the setting and characters, often giving way to little nuggets of wit: “Prison seemed to agree with Tommy Ramsey. But then most things did, if they knew what was good for them.” / “The unbelievable high of winning proved far too addictive for Bob Valentine. One way or another, he’d been going to the dogs ever since.” I can see Terrance Dicks enjoying this writing style: it’s uncomplicated and it pushes things along at a lick. (Fair’s fair, there’s also a clever structure at work: Bishop uses days instead of chapters, which apportions the action into logical yet somewhat unusual intervals while also keeping clear the importance of this brief timespan.)

For a while you’d be forgiven for losing track of any alien threat whatsoever, and we’ll get to that, but it’s worth saying that the “gang stuff” in Amorality Tale makes for compelling enough reading in the meantime. The downside to this is the way Bishop presents his underworld. I’m not naive enough to think that a character’s actions are automatically an endorsement, and sure enough Tommy does some awful things here, like executing an unconscious enemy and being convicted (only on a technicality) for having his girlfriend murdered. But Amorality Tale still overall makes him out as a force for good in the neighbourhood, being the de facto law enforcement once the police fall victim to the alien menace; at one point he spares people’s lives because he reckons they’ve been brainwashed. Tommy, like many famous and/or fictional gangsters, also loves his dear old (slightly awful in her own way) mum.

Crucially he spends a good chunk of the book prodding a would-be romance with Sarah, whose bristly female empowerment excites him. The attraction flutters in both directions, with Sarah at one point considering what they might have been together in another life. (He considers the same.) The writer can turn her around later on and have her call him a small, petty murderer — which she does — but all those moments of domestic closeness have added up by then. See also Brick, aka Alan, Ramsey’s towering enforcer who is also a gentle giant that loves pigeons and hates hitting people. You’d be a bit weird if you came away from the book entirely hating these characters — indeed, Bishop might as well bash you into submission with an actual brick during those pigeon scenes. If Sarah likes somebody, we do too, however bonkers that makes her seem.

And look, it’s okay for characters to have facets or even be quite nice, actually, despite also being appalling. Bunker Soldiers is a fine example of just such a tightrope walk. Amorality Tale, however, is a bit too cute with its cheeky chappies, some of whom seem moments away from departing for Sherwood Forest. Sarah, it must be said, is seeing them on a good day: all their violence is directed at rival gangs, murderous policemen and zombies, with not an innocent bystander in sight. (Well, none that die of criminal violence during the events of the book.) She could still seem a bit less surprised when she weighs it all up and realises that crime does not, in fact, pay.

That’s enough about BBC Books’s answer to Peaky Blinders: show me the aliens! And Amorality Tale does that rather suddenly on page 100, revealing that a gang leader is actually a Xhinn, aka a floating ethereal angel of death. (Bishop forgive me, but I imagined Mr Burns when he’d had too much medication and kept threatening to bring you love.) The book wobbles quite a bit here, having made it significantly far without digging any of the necessary trenches for extra terrestrial bad guys: there’s just a hint of them in the prologue and then later on West Side Story suddenly turns into The War Of The Worlds.

I wish I could say the Xhinn were worth the wait. The Doctor characterises them as “the most petty, vindictive creatures” and he’s not wrong: these awful fellows control and then work people to death, puppeteer them as zombie enforcers, conduct cruel and distinctly Nazi-ish death experiments on them and then to top it off, feed them into horrific (yet nonetheless Penelope Pitstop-esque) conveyer-belts of death. There’s really no coming back from such one note maniacal menaces as these — but Bishop tries, giving the Doctor (and at one point, awkwardly, the prose) some ominous pronouncements about what a famed menace they are throughout the galaxy. The Doctor’s drop-of-a-hat info dumping about the Xhinn is the first time I’ve felt okay about the Eighth Doctor losing his memory; imagine not having to lean on the protagonist to say “Oh, those guys? Hang on, I’ve got it written down somewhere.”

There are a few little wrinkles about them that could be interesting, such as there being three Xhinn that speak almost as one, their method of controlling people without their knowing it, and the way they can create spies in human form. That first one is a damp squib since they don’t say very much of value; the other two really ought to be something, except the spy thing is extremely easy to guess, and the duplicate thing invariably ends in the spy going native, forgetting their roots and then — as if catching an interesting idea on its way out of the window — getting quickly bumped off anyway. The Xhinn’s main contribution, apart from the smog, is an army of brainwashed and/or zombie policemen at the end, but since that’s largely a way into lots and lots of scenes of criminals hacking, slashing and blasting them down, there’s still not a lot to write home about.

This leads to one of Amorality Tale’s little peccadillos: violence. It’s hardly the first BBC Book or Doctor Who novel in general to get nasty, and indeed you should consider yourself forewarned by Bishop’s previous co-written (wink) Who Killed Kennedy, which minced various kindly UNIT chumps and made Dodo extinct. Amorality Tale isn’t entirely gratuitous, but it seems to prioritise actual death rather than triumphs over adversity. There are numerous characters who we follow, get invested in and then place in a cliffhanger-type situation only to — you guessed it — kill ’em anyway. One particularly distraught character decides bluntly “to kill himself when this was over. It was the only way he could ever hope to block out the memories.” You might think that was the beginning of some sort of epiphany but no, eight pages later, off he goes. This kind of all-encompassing horror is perhaps apropos for a book that concerns around 8,000 deaths from the outset, but there comes a point where our noses are simply being rubbed in it. And what’s the takeaway? Violence and death are violent and deadly?

I’m probably missing the wood for the trees here: it’s amoral, after all. But I don’t think it really is on a character level, what with those overall quite personable criminals who have, when all’s said and done, a code of sorts. If the only amoral thing here is the aliens, that doesn’t tell us anything much deeper or more meaningful than, avoid these aliens.

It’s a good thing Amorality Tale is so readable — and it really is. Granted, it’s easy to pick on simpler writing styles like this one, and I’ll own up here and say that there are a few clunkers and redundancies in Amorality Tale. (“The heavy key rattled as it turned, opening the lock on the small door.” / “‘Where’s it coming from?’ Tommy asked. The smog deadened sound, making it difficult to determine from which direction it was emanating.”) I don’t love some of those all-too-neat criminal characterisations, and I wasn’t bowled over by the Doctor and Sarah — the latter runs out of journalistic steam almost immediately, the former tinkers on the sidelines for most of the book until he effortlessly conjures a kill-o-majig for the finale, pausing only to impart useful lore. It’s a violent book without much to say about mass death, but it occasionally finds space to make its impact felt (even, incredibly, letting a few of them survive) and it builds a real sense of escalating disaster as it chunters along. Like some of Uncle Terry’s questionable novel assignments, you can let yourself ease into this one and enjoy the somewhat corny characters and the helpfully A-to-B action that comes in handy chunks. If nothing else, there’s plenty of atmosphere. Smog will do that.

6/10

Doctor Who: The BBC Books #111 – Trading Futures by Lance Parkin

Doctor Who: The Eighth Doctor Adventures

#55

Trading Futures

By Lance Parkin

Lance Parkin is a difficult author to summarise. He likes to invoke (and occasionally invent) lore for the series, so his books gain a certain fan import just by sticking his name on the cover. Cold Fusion and The Infinity Doctors, not to mention his eventual final book in the EDAs, all (presumably!) do cool things and include elements that speak to their respective ranges as a whole, as well as the overall idea of Doctor Who. They’re prestigious. But he can also write more down-to-Earth character pieces like his inaugural book Just War and more recently Father Time, which slowed down life with the Doctor and gave him a daughter.

 

Very big stuff, very small stuff, so far we’ve covered most of the bases… but then he also writes books that set their sights on fun and leave it at that. Beige Planet Mars (co-written with Mark Clapham) is one of the jollier Benny books, which is saying something, and The Dying Days (the first ever Eighth Doctor novel, unless you count the novelisation of the TV Movie) is a repurposed Third Doctor story that’s gung-ho all the way. TL;DR, you never quite know what he’ll do next. (And I’ve not even mentioned his non-fiction effort, The History Of The Universe, which is as ambitious as it sounds.)

 

Trading Futures is unequivocally fun Parkin. (You might have guessed that from the splendid spy movie front cover.) Parkin slips in a bit of arc stuff anyway, enough that it’s very apparent that he’s paying attention to the surrounding novels, but his aim is action adventure right from the jump. And perhaps a commission for a Bond novel while he’s at it.

 

Doctor Who novel openings can be hit and miss, but this one’s an explosive double-header. First a man takes a client into the past to meet Macbeth and display his time travel credentials. Second, the Doctor steals an important suitcase from a well-guarded yacht, blowing it up in the process and escaping via an ejector seat. (You half expect “Nobody Does It Better” to start piping in from the ether.) The pace essentially keeps it up from there, with multiple factions all chasing the time technology. We’ve got – let’s see if I miss one – Secret Service head Cosgrove and his assistant Penny Lik (the name’s a Bond Girl-ish joke about ice cream); time agents Roja and Jaxa; CIA agent Malady Chang and (eventually) the US President; and a spaceship full of angry rhinos called the Onihr – and not, as you might be hoping, the Juddoon. Add to that the Doctor, Anji and Fitz, all three juggling identities at various points in the story, and at least two actual time machines to fight over, not including the TARDIS, and you’ve essentially got a French farce with a very large special effects budget.

 

Parkin keeps at least one foot on the ground, adding some satisfying character moments mostly to the first half. There’s a gentle reminder that Fitz (as well as the Doctor) is having memory problems, but not so much that he doesn’t feel the burden of knowing more about the galaxy’s status quo than the Doctor. The only person he can talk to about all this is the TARDIS, so Parkin writes a lovely scene of that ending with: “You’re a police box, but there aren’t any policemen left.” We get some great expressions of what it’s like to travel in time somewhere that’s mostly recognisable to you, which is something all too easy to take for granted, with Anji musing that she “had no idea if she was meant to feel very, very old or very, very young.” And we get this brilliant assessment of Fitz’s overall slack demeanour: “Long experience of time-travelling had taught him that you answered questions by politely agreeing with the person asking them … so, on his travels, when people asked ‘do you know this is a restricted area?’ or ‘what shall we do with you, rebel scum?’ or the like, he’d learned to shrug and let them carry on with whatever they were going to do anyway.” Yep, tick, that explains a lot.

 

There is also – Bingo blotters are the ready! – yet more stuff about dear departed Dave, as when Anji is provided with the means to travel anywhere in time with precision she chooses Brussels in 2001, hoping to warn Dave away from certain doom. This is one of those things where, yes, it makes sense for Anji to make that choice in that situation, but the novelist choosing to concoct that situation is ignoring the subsequent closures of EarthWorld and Hope – despite referencing both of those stories here. Parkin takes pains to mention that “[Anji] and Dave had been in trouble”, which has been clear since Escape Velocity and makes it even more puzzling that we keep going back to that well. Admittedly the observation that “All the time it was Dave that represented everything she’d left behind and so she’d clung to Dave” goes some way to explaining why she keeps ping-ponging back to this, but good god almighty, are we ever going to be done re-using these tea leaves? (At least this re-do doesn’t last for the whole book; Anji is thoroughly on-the-ball for the rest of it.)

 

Rather more interesting are the little nods to where all this is going, such as Anji’s observation that “there was a pattern to their travels … a bigger picture they were all missing,” and the Doctor once again deliberately failing to mention why he can’t take Anji home as promised, even though he can clearly pilot to order. (I’m pretty sure they’ve already talked it over at this point with her agreeing to the wanderer’s life, but never mind.) There’s also more evidence of Sabbath’s dodgy dealings; in a pleasing boost for the note-takers among us, this involves retroactively recruiting the Time Agents from Eater Of Wasps, before Sabbath even turned up! It’s only a minor inclusion and to be honest you might forget about it by the end of Trading Futures, but it’s good to see that these things are being kept on the boil. Heck, it was a pleasant surprise just to see those Wasps guys again.

 

Lots of good, weighty, sufficiently Lance Parkin-y stuff there – and I’ve not even mentioned the seriously cool idea that a character could use one of the TARDIS crew as an alien interpreter, like seriously why hasn’t that happened before? But as I said earlier, this one is all action. You probably won’t pause to register the other stuff.

 

I’m slightly in two minds about the action. The good: it’s fast and fun, and funny, with Parkin slipping in jokes that would probably have got a smirk out of Douglas Adams. Highlights include: “‘The control box indicates that the Doctor has one heart.’ ‘Er… he’s got two,’ Fitz began. ‘Oh no, hang one, as you were.’” / Fitz chain smokes for a bit specifically because he’s “trying to get off nicotine pills.” / The Onihr have a “pain inducer” that actually makes you remember pain and isn’t very effective, leading to: “The lead Onihr twisted a dial on the pain inducer, and Fitz’s eyes watered as he remembered the time he’d jumped a bit too hard on to the saddle of a scooter.” / There’s this argument with the Time Agents: “‘If this isn’t a time machine, then no crime has been committed.’ ‘But the Doctor himself claims that it is a time machine.’ The Doctor smiled smugly. ‘If you’re going to put me on trial, you’ll need better evidence than that. It’ll be my word against mine!’” / The Doctor’s retort to Malady: “‘We’re in the future?’ The Doctor grinned. ‘Yeah. But here they call it “the present.”’” / And there’s a bit where Anji says she needs to use the loo to get away from a tricky situation, happily bumps into her friends on the way, then needs to discretely ask them to go away because she does need a wee actually. I chuckled while reading it, occasionally synonymising “Lance Parkin” with "comedy" as you do with Dave Stone and he-who-mostly-pens-right-wing-Spectator-columns-nowadays.

 

The bad, or I suppose the less good, is twofold. The action is constant, particularly once we arrive at the finale set in a robot factory. (I’ve not even mentioned the world of roughly 2020-ish is on the brink of war between roughly-the-EU and the United States, and both sides have access to big robots.) Parkin changes settings frequently, which is something I usually hate, but he manages to keep the action flowing and the characters clear enough despite all the deliberate mistaken identities – which, great, but there are points where even the characters are a bit unsure who’s who or doing what, and it all just gets a bit thin. The finale simply goes on a bit.

 

The other issue, or my takeaway at least, is a distinctly casual attitude to death in this. It’s probably normal for an action movie to, for example, drown Athens and kill four thousand people before simply moving onto the next set piece, but it’s peculiar for Doctor Who to do that without really registering the tragedy of what has unfolded. We do get a terrific scene of the Doctor “robbing” a bank in order to protect everyone in it, but the expected hand-wringing isn’t really there to complement it. I suppose he’s too busy? (Malady notices the bodies, at least.) I wondered if this was a “you can’t change history” thing, with the resultant deaths being out of the Doctor’s control apart from say a bank-vault’s worth, but we don’t really have that conversation, or reckon with the fact that what’s going on might not even be that.

Elsewhere people are gunned down like they’re nothing, often characters we’ve been following and got to know a little, all of which can be business as usual in an action story but juxtaposed with that mostly cheerful atmosphere it smacks of callousness. Particularly the bit where a distraught young boy – admittedly up to no good – gets his head blown off at the end of a chapter as the Doctor leaves him behind. Conversely the scene where a villain plunges to either victory or death is handled with brutal black comedy; the Doctor’s lack of response makes more sense there.

 

Perhaps all of that is a commentary on the Eighth Doctor as he exists now, which is to say “not firing on all cylinders” or equivalent cliché. He races through Trading Futures with the confidence and influence of old, but perhaps with less heart(s) than usual, and maybe less deference to changing or not changing history. (Perhaps deep down pondering whether the villain of the piece is really capable of predicting real future events?) I’m not convinced Parkin or Trading Futures is entirely on firm ground with this corner of continuity, however. If, as he does here, the Doctor can expertly shoot bullets out of the air and deftly zip the TARDIS from A to B then you might wonder why he needed that second heart in the first place, and what he’s supposed to be missing. What happened to the weakly human-ish guy from Anachrophobia? But the Doctor is still excellently written here as a character, and so is Fitz (pretending to the be the Doctor, temporarily outfoxing the Onihr), and so is Anji (confidently bullshitting various parties and applying her business knowledge where it will help). All three feel like seasoned adventurers rising to the challenge. Or in Fitz’s case, cheerfully tripping arse over tit through it.

 

Unusually for Parkin this might be a book that you need to think less about. (How, for example, does Anji telephone the President of the United States just by asking for him via Directory Enquiries?) As an action movie it rockets along bloodily, sprinkling in nifty ideas as it goes, such as the smell-based Onihr technology, and it has all the necessary cool bits, such as Fitz bravely resigning himself to self-destruction in order to stop the Onihr only to avert it at the last possible second because whoops there's a solution actually. (Because he’s not the Doctor and he can’t think of everything, okay?) It’s a laugh. It’s just perhaps not advisable to get attached to any of the characters, or expect any deep and meaningful conversations beyond “money, pfft, it sure makes people do crazy things!”

7/10

Doctor Who: The BBC Books #110 – Palace Of The Red Sun by Christopher Bulis

Doctor Who: The Past Doctor Adventures

#51

Palace Of The Red Sun

By Christopher Bulis

Here’s a milestone for the marathon: the last ever Doctor Who novel by Christopher Bulis. He wrote 12 of them if you count the Bernice Summerfield books, which I do. That’s a somewhat load-bearing guy for two different publishers. No mean feat.

I think it’s important to recognise that crazy level of output because, without wishing to be unkind, Bulis is not considered one of the creative trailblazers of Doctor Who lit. Through his fairly long Wilderness Years career he maintained a mostly meat-and-potatoes approach to sci-fi, occasionally pushing the boat out for a State Of Change (famous villain) or a Sorcerer’s Apprentice (SF+fantasy) or a Vanderdeken’s Children (kinda complicated). At his best he wrote novels that seemed familiar but also embraced their genre of choice and rollicked along nicely, such as Imperial Moon. If nothing else he could turn his hand to writing any of the Doctors; in just over five years he wrote for all of them.

I doubt it will surprise anyone to hear that his final book, Palace Of The Red Sun, doesn’t suddenly veer into uncharted territory. It has all the things that cause people who don’t like Christopher Bulis novels to roll their eyes in despair: it borrows greedily from the probable video collections of its readers in order to stitch together an SF-tinged-with-fantasy romp that anyone hoping for a very original work can dismiss out of hand — as indeed they did, based on reviews such as Discontinuity Guide which labelled it “Dire.”

On balance, I don’t think I’m one of those people. Whilst I haven’t exactly been effusive about these things, more often than not I’m swept along by them. Bulis generally sticks to ideas that have been proven to work and he has a good grasp of pacing — you’d hope so after 12 books. I’m a simple man: keep each chapter focused on the same character or group of characters and I’ll be your friend.

Palace Of The Red Sun is an almost constant example of that “DiCaprio pointing at the TV” meme, but I read most of it in a day which ought to count for something. We open an a royal court getting overthrown by some intergalactic bully, only to find that the royals have fled. Shades of Masters Of The Universe or maybe even Krull there. The action moves to a different planet where a primitive society lives in conflict with some uncaring Lords, all of whom are possibly derived from the same society — don’t suppose you’re familiar with The Face Of Evil or State Of Decay? There are aspects of this place such as sprites that lean towards fantasy (The Sorcerer’s Apprentice much) while gardens full of robots somehow give rise to a machine with a mind of its own (too many references to mention, but Bulis’s A Device Of Death is in there), and in the royal court a young princess despairs at having to choose between two strangers as suitors. (How long have you got?!) That’s before we get into the weeds of what’s really going on here, about which I’ll be discrete and just say that several eras of Star Trek got there first.

Some of this is deliberate — and I don’t mean the occasional bits of lampshading. (“Frustrating and possibly anti-climactic, but there it is and we must make the best of it.” / “‘Doctor, isn’t this sort of thing happening twice on one small world a bit much?’ ‘It is not such a great coincidence as it may seem.’” Oh, mate. Yikes.) Dexel Dynes being reused from Bulis’s The Ultimate Treasure is a clear example of here-we-go-again, but he’s harmless enough and it’s a good idea really, since a shady journo probably would continue to follow bad guys in space, and consequently he’d keep getting in the Doctor’s way. The only problem is a) I’d forgotten about him entirely so it wasn’t much of a thrill to see him again, b) he doesn’t interact with the Sixth Doctor or Peri for most of it so they don’t need to remember him much either, and c) Dynes barely distinguishes himself as a character here or even really does anything — which perhaps helps to explain a).

There’s at least one plot point that’s deliberately old hat, about which, mixed feelings. The actual mechanics of this form perhaps the best (only?) surprise in the book, but baking that into a story that’s roughly 80% reused ingredients makes it a bit hollow that the author has successfully identified one hackneyed thing, as if such meta suspicion is usual in his books. (On the other hand, it’s a lot harder to spot that way.)

What about the new stuff, then? We’ve got a villain, Glavis Judd, supposed Protector of multiple planets but obviously in reality a wrong’un. He’s trying to break into Esselven, a very small planetoid with an unusual force shield. Bulis finds Judd pretty interesting, having him reminisce (for no apparent reason) about his back story in ways that recall Silver in Hope. Judd never gets much of a foot in the door though, as first of all it’s quite tricky to get down to that planet, second, hardly anyone down there knows about him anyway. Consequently the main plot of the novel feels, deliberately at least, like a sub-plot. (As for what secrets he’s trying to prise from Esselven, the whole reason for his quest, that ends up being a no-plot.)

It’s what’s on the planet that counts, provided you can stop rolling your eyes at all the familiar story beats. The big stuff admittedly doesn’t quite come off: Esselven is so small and in such an orbit that the days don’t visibly change, meaning the concept of “days” is more of a habit that’s been handed down, but only to the higher classes. That’s interesting! But then you have things like characters referencing winter — how can there be seasons here? And how do the plants survive in constant daylight? It feels like a rare Actually Original Idea (or original enough that it has no immediately obvious analogue) that didn’t quite get the development it needed.

The characters are better. I quite liked Green-8, the sentient robot palling around with the Doctor. (Who adorably fashions a robot disguise so they can sneak about as twinsies.) Green-8 spends most of the book making inroads to having a personality, which honestly isn’t as boring as it sounds. Also quite good, surprisingly: Princess Oralissa. She might have a very old hat predicament on her hands but her gradual suspicions about the world around her, awakening from a more or less fairytale framework to recognise something sci-fi instead, is one of the book’s stronger elements. I even found myself imagining (don’t laugh) a whole book about Oralissa that started as something trite and then spun off elsewhere. She and Green-8 are the ones you’ll care about by the end, if indeed that applies to any characters in your case.

The Scavengers are less enthralling. This is the plot point Peri gets lumbered with, first getting stuck in a work camp (yes I know we’ve done that before) and then escaping to find fellow worker Kel’s dreary hometown. The Scavengers are caveman-style monosyllabic (until, curiously, they’re not any more) and Peri quickly realises she could have just not bothered and stayed hidden in a building instead. On a personal level, there are numerous scenes of Kel either declaring his intentions for Peri or otherwise just copping a feel, which feels like a sorry default setting for an attractive companion from an abrasive era. (It didn’t leave me enamoured with Kel either.) Peri is at least better written here than in The Ultimate Treasure, but that still doesn’t transform her Scavenger scenes into something that needed to happen to progress the story. Bulis is clearly just keeping her busy.

The same is true of the Doctor, as he doesn’t do anything other than look for Peri and vaguely investigate Esselven until Page 180, and he doesn’t find out about Judd until it’s nearly over. It’s perhaps fair to say that the situation on Esselven is important enough on its own, but something’s got to give when you’re doing both, especially when Esselven is a lords vs peasants story but also an ancient mystery but also a potential robot uprising but also a [Star Trek thing] and a [twist ending thing]. Judd seems inconsequential after all that, which of course is what he deserves and then what he gets, which is sort of neat?

Hmm… wasn’t I saying something about Palace Of The Red Sun being good, actually? Here’s the thing: reviewing it is when all its flaws become more apparent and harder to ignore. Many of Bulis’s books work just well enough while you’re reading them, and I found that to be the case here. The characters are a mixed bag, but I found the two most significant ones likeable and interesting enough to care how those plot threads turned out. There are too many plot threads but a few of them paid off. (The collective sense of business also reaches a sort of critical mass that’s always moving, at least.) The Doctor and Peri don’t have a huge impact on events, but they join in with a certain sense of camaraderie by the end that I found quite winning. It all comes together nicely enough, with perhaps an awkward nod to the Doctor’s rather unilateral decisions at the very end.

I’m aware that I’m damning it with faint praise. Bulis might be my most damned-with-faint-praise author, this book possibly being the starkest example. Nevertheless, despite a host of flaws and are-we-sure-about-thats I found Palace Of The Red Sun pacey enough and fun enough to make it through 280 pages quickly and in a good mood. It’s jolly. Whatever else you can take away from it, that is simply not always a given when you pick up a Doctor Who book, and it might be Bulis’s legacy that he managed it more often than not.

6/10

Doctor Who: The BBC Books #109 – Anachrophobia by Jonathan Morris

Doctor Who: The Eighth Doctor Adventures

#54

Anachrophobia

By Jonathan Morris

Likes a bit of time travel, does Jonathan Morris. His last book, Festival Of Death, was notable for its more-than-usual amount of temporal jiggery pokery: it had the Fourth Doctor and Romana reliving the same events at different points and also in the wrong order. Anachrophobia plays in a similar toybox, but there are some key differences between the two books.

First, the treatment of time travel. Anachrophobia is set on a world where time can be made to go too slow or too fast. It’s a weapon used by both sides in a war, and it’s used incrementally as the plot demands rather than shaping the book as a whole; we don’t spend the whole thing cleverly nipping back and forth. There’s also a difference in how the characters deal with time, as instead of the indomitable experts of Season 17 our heroes are a diminished Eighth Doctor, Fitz and Anji. They are seriously, rather than just whimsically on the back foot about all this which tweaks the dynamic further from Festival.

Second, and this is perhaps an even bigger one, Anachrophobia is not a comedy. Festival was somewhat complicated but also light-hearted, with the characters often seeming as bewildered as the reader. That helped considerably to pull me through its diagram-based time antics. Anachrophobia wants nothing to do with the fizzy wine and good mood of Season 17: it’s a base under siege story that leans into uncanny horror, and it’s a pretty miserable time for the regulars to boot. When the story gets into somewhat complicated time mechanics (as I think we all knew it would) it’s coming from a different place. This time it’s tense and it demands a lot from the Doctor, rather than just going “How is our cheeky chappie going to get out of this one?”

There’s nothing wrong with not going down the comedic route – good for Morris, trying something new on his second book. But some elements still lean comedic, such as the situation on the (unnamed) planet at war. It’s not so much a war really as a legal dispute, with the colonists having “leased” the planet from the Plutocratic Empire and now defaulting on their payments. That’s a pretty obvious basis for a Sun Makers-esque satire, and it’s a valid enough idea to pursue it without the ironic laughs, except without them you’re left with a conflict that’s not about anything meaningful. It’s just people doing awful things for money. Of course most wars are generally that when you peel back the distractions: the bottom line is always money, which is a valid enough observation. (Albeit not one that the book actually makes.) The problem here is that when you take away anything more than a base level of satire you’re left finger-wagging about the evils of capitalism, which makes much the same point at the end of a book as it does at the start. Killing people just because a spreadsheet told you to is, well, wrong, innit? No one here has a hope of mounting a compelling counter-argument to that, so we’re done here pretty much as soon as we start.

Anachrophobia has a similar problem with its monsters of the week. Don’t let the front cover fool you – there’s nothing abstract about the image of a man with a clock for a face. After crash landing the Doctor and co. make it through fast-then-slow time storms only to find a military base running time travel experiments, which naturally go wrong and promptly turn people into clock heads. (They are deliberately left unnamed for mystique purposes.) These are walking, somehow-still-talking people that no longer have souls but do have seemingly random time-pieces instead of the usual eyes, nose and mouth assortment. It’s a great image that would make for an intriguing New Who menace. They have special abilities too, such as reversing time by a couple of minutes to undo damage or secure an advantage. New Who loves monsters with rules.

The trouble is, well, that’s it. For great chunks of the book we’re just spamming the “scary clock people” button, which gets diminishing returns. So many scenes rely on the unbelievable shock value of a character… with… a clock… for a FACE! Which yes, creepy, but we’ve been there and done it now. There’s an entire village of them at one point, hammering us over and over with the idea that this image is simply killer enough all by itself. I was reminded of the zombies in Festival Of Death – one of its downsides, really, a lumbering monster that’s not all that interesting. At least this one has a better aesthetic, although that’s all it has after a while. (They don’t even do much to you. You’ll just also be a clock person.)

There’s an interesting character reason for the clocks (although it doesn’t explain, you know, the clocks) which loosely recalls Nightshade. An unknown force is taunting people with their past misdeeds and offering to put them right, Quantum Leap-style. Only the second they do it they will unwittingly “unwrite” their lives and leave a vacancy for a clock zombie. Not bad, and it gives you a terrific excuse to dredge up people’s back stories out of nowhere. The trouble here (there’s a lot of trouble in this one, isn’t there?) is that the characters aren’t interesting. They’ve got a pretty lousy society as a backdrop – no need to go over all that again, but it’s worth adding that the novel barely includes the colonists. (They at least have a reason to fight.) Individually they’re not much better. There’s a doctor, Lane, who has her moments and a very tragic past, but once you get clocked you cannot get unclocked, so that’s that. I forgot most of the rest of them, but Leader Bragg is the worst: an insecure guy who, at the drop of the hat, decides that the Doctor and his friends are actually spies. Oh, goodie. He couldn’t turn into a clock fast enough for me. (Morris should get points for making an early character, Oake, quite sympathetic before killing him on Page 7. It shows he means business. He then proceeds to not make anyone else sympathetic.)

The gimmick here seems like pretty promising stuff for the three regulars, and we do get whiffs of that. Fitz, poor duck, once again doesn’t amount to very much, although Morris reminds us that his memories are diminishing, which arguably gets him off the hook. (This has been in at least one other book so far – I forget which. Watch this space I guess.) Anji is very well realised, although she isn’t massively tempted by the “past misdeeds” virus: yes, there is a mention of Dave, but she genuinely seems to be over the worst of that, only wobbling because of her questionable choices in Hope. It’s Anji’s commitment to the Doctor, despite occasionally thinking harshly of his choices, that stands out here. She sticks by him and that feels hard-won after several books.

It’s a memorable one for the Doctor, who seems particularly scraggly in his post-Henrietta Street configuration. He falls ill, catches himself by surprise thinking he still has a respiratory bypass system and nearly dies a couple of times. Anji and Fitz more than once remark that he seems more vulnerable now. It lends the time stuff an element of danger that perhaps wouldn’t be there otherwise, and definitely wasn’t there in Festival Of Death. Anachrophobia treats the Doctor sufficiently nastily that suspension of disbelief allowed me to think, sheesh, he’s not getting out of this one without scars.

The memory stuff is perhaps a bit unfortunate since it has come along during a run of books where the Doctor does not remember his past, including the misdeeds. There’s still a surprisingly thrilling sequence where he remembers the last couple of books – although as it turns out those don’t rank among the Doctor’s greatest mistakes. The Adventuress Of Henrietta Street at least presents a clear What If, but considering the alternative would have been for him to die, I’m not sure it’s really all that tempting.

The best bit is probably the Doctor’s grand plan to stop the clock people, which involves time travel but not in the usual way, and not with the usual outcome. I could feel it knitting together so it wasn’t exactly a surprise, but somehow the punchline was still very satisfying. It’s like a little soupcon of Festival Of Death – surprising, really, that there’s so little of this sort of thing on a planet covered in time jiggery pokery, but since most of that is really just another word for “bomb” the ending doesn’t feel like repetition or over-doing it. That’s pretty good going for an author who has, if not spammed the “time travel is complicated” button, certainly tapped it a bit across two books.

There are good things here. I liked that ending; the clock people are pretty cool at first glance; the time storms present a few interesting challenges and some gruesome visuals. But the actual guts of Anachrophobia aren’t that interesting. This is standard base under siege stuff for the most part, with characters running away from lumbering monsters and/or boringly intransigent soldiers. Yeah, the monsters have a pretty decent gimmick, but you need a fundamentally interesting bunch of characters to sell that, and Anachrophobia traded those in for its war “satire”. By the time you reach the end there’s a bonus/nasty surprise, with one character turning out not to be who he appears, which ought to elevate the whole thing and set us up for next time. Perhaps that works for some readers. For me though, nah: I don’t really enjoy rubber mask bad guy reveals, and anyway, I thought we were trying to get away from massive continuity links between books? Why not let this one stand on its own? (It’s fine if not, I’m a Doctor Who fan for god’s sake, but if the editors really are fine with massive continuity links then why did they go to all that effort to erase the Doctor’s memory, and why are we keeping it that way?)

Clever ideas in small doses, not altogether linked, scattered over a pretty dusty framework. It’s a good thing this isn’t a comedy or I’d have made a joke about undoing things.

5/10