Because of the scant information regarding the new canon's Black Squadron, I've used the old canon's Back Squadron pilots as needed to fill things in and make them more personable. This fic supposes Black Squadron's numbers were replaced after the events of the Battle of Yavin. Wookieepedia was my resource for this fic.
The new Black Squadron roster was, like the old, composed of the best pilots in the Imperial Navy. Darth Vader always selected each pilot himself.
He'd had to start over completely after Yavin. Only two pilots had survived the attack on the Death Star, himself and Iden Versio; both of their TIEs had been spun off in opposite directions, and Vader had only later learned of her survival. Now Versio had been recently reassigned to the new Inferno Squad. It was regrettable to lose his third but a new Special Forces team was necessary now that the Alliance was gaining influence and support across the galaxy.
But after personally reviewing the candidates from a pool of Montross' top pilots, he had finally selected eleven of them to reform Black Squadron. That number was down to eight after their dogfight with the small the Rebellion had sent. It was regrettable to lose them in the span of a few minutes, but Black Squadron wasn't his only tool. A Destroyer lurked just beyond the curvature of the planet. If he needed more TIEs it would send them. He had enough pilots in reserve there, and other troops as well. For now, he had the remainder of his squadron to pursue Skywalker.
Luke was strong in the Force, and would only get stronger as he matured. A crash-landing planetside wouldn't kill him. Vader would have felt his death, anyway. It would have been unmistakable.
You've passed another test, my son, he thought. He barely restrained the urge to reach out through the Dark Side and address Luke personally. If Luke really was his son--and the Force confirmed that he was--then he might be able to "hear" Vader's thoughts even as separated as they were. But it wasn't the right time to reach out to Luke. And when he did, he wanted it to be direct and personal.
"We're going into the atmosphere of the planet," Vader said over the squadron's frequency as he adjusted his controls. "Search patrol formations. Ten and Eleven are with me."
"Copy."
"Copy, Lord Vader."
"Remember," Vader addressed the group, "do not fire on any survivors until Skywalker is in custody."
"Very well, Black Leader." That was from Black Two. There was a slightly grudging tone in his voice that made it through the comm unit's transmission. Vader ignored it. No doubt Black Two, a good pilot but somewhat emotional under the surface, was already entertaining thoughts of retaliation for the loss of Four and Nine. But the mission came first. Foolhardy heroism and recklessness were Rebel traits. The Imperial Navy--especially those under his direct command--operated professionally.
Their first course of action would be to scan the planet for Skywalker. After that, making sure he was apprehended without too much damage was a top priority. It shouldn't be too difficult a task; they had only so large an area within the Northern and Eastern hemispheres to cover and Luke, filled with dormant power though he was, still was just a first-year pilot, not trained at the Academy, and definitely not trained even in the rudimentary tenants of the Force. Luke wouldn't be able to evade the best squadron in the Navy, and certainly not the Dark Side--certainly not a Lord of the Sith.
As soon as Luke was captured and safely restrained, Black Two could terminate any remaining Rebels--assuming there were any. He'd been so focused on Luke during the skirmish he wasn't even certain.
But if there were any more survivors, leaving them for his men to deal with would allow them to appease some of their righteous anger, especially his second. He had to give them things like that sometimes, to keep them at their best.
…
Luke still hadn't found a place to refill his canteen, but the greenery suggested that water was plentiful on-planet. Either he'd run into something at some point or rain would fall eventually.
Artoo blipped and chittered uncertainly as they trekked through the green, leafy undergrowth. His treads could handle the uneven terrain well enough, but occasionally Luke had to help him navigate over some difficult root or depression in the ground.
When necessary, he cut the droid a path with his lightsaber. Though the canopy provided by the trees gave enough cover, he tried to avoid igniting his saber for very long and kept it on only long enough to help Artoo along.
The chatter of alien life--squawks and buzzes and chirps--kept things from getting too quiet, but his thoughts about losing Shan, and possibly being hunted, and just the lack of conversation in general, finally prompted Luke to say, "Want to hear something kind of crazy, Artoo?"
Artoo gave the affirmative.
Luke stopped walking, stood still for a few seconds; considered if he really wanted to say what he was thinking. Artoo was a droid, but a very perceptive one. Talking to him wasn't like talking to most astromechs. Artoo would listen. He wouldn't divulge any secret Luke told him, but he wouldn't forget either. And he thought about whatever he was told.
Luke gestured upwards. "When we fell through the atmosphere, Shan went down, too. I can't explain it, but I knew she was going to--to die. Just a fraction of a second before it happened. Then she did. I felt it happen."
Artoo bleated. What about her astromech? he wanted to know.
"I can't sense droids. But I felt her. For a second, it was almost like, like I--" He broke off. Wasn't sure if he should say it--if it was appropriate. "Anyway, then she was gone and I couldn't feel her anymore."
Artoo murmured.
"Ben--Obi-wan--had sensed the destruction of Alderaan, even before he knew what had happened." Luke hadn't sensed anything back then. Lately, though, the ability had slowly developed. It was like seeing or hearing or touching, except he'd gone his life without even knowing he had it. Over the last almost-year, it had gotten more acute.
He'd had bad or weird feelings since childhood, but hadn't known what it meant then. And it had always been vague and fleeting.
"Sometimes," Luke continued, "I can feel the...other side...too. I'll fire on a TIE or at a trooper and I'll feel something. It's similar to what happened with Shan. Like something dropping in my stomach, in the pit of my stomach. Sometimes it's cold like ice. Then I know what happened to them."
Artoo whistled at a lower frequency. It sounded empathetic, but who knew if Artoo really got what he was saying. A fellow sapient organic probably wouldn't relate, either. Unless there were more hidden Jedi, he might be totally alone with the experience.
They walked a little further for a while. Finally Luke said, stopping again, "It's been harder to shoot lately. I wish Ben could explain it all to me. Maybe tell me how to block it. I'm trying to do it on my own right now."
He didn't tell Artoo his other fear: that if he did figure out how to desensitize himself, he'd become some kind of monster. Maybe that was how a Jedi was "seduced by the Dark Side of the Force," as Ben had put it on Tatooine.
A while back, Luke had returned to Tatooine, to visit Ben's old hut and look for something--texts, a data archive, anything--about the Force and the Jedi. He hadn't found much, except an old fashioned journal. It wasn't much of a study guide; mostly just a collection of Ben's thoughts and experiences while camped out on Tatooine. The journal mentioned the Force but in a way that the writer had taken for granted, as he had already understood its properties and the philosophy behind it all. Yet for some reason, Old Ben had hidden it for him with the note "For Luke." Somehow Ben had known Luke would return to look for answers, or maybe assumed he'd return with Luke to present him with the book personally. Maybe he would have explained the stories written down. But Ben had died on the Death Star and Luke had to interpret everything on his own.
"I don't know, " Luke said finally. "Maybe I'm just going cra--"
It was faint, but the shriek of a fighter broke through the chatter of the forest. Luke bristled and flattened himself against a nearby tree. Artoo rolled speedily after him.
The screech of ion engines increased, almost to a deafening volume. Even though the leaves' canopy shielded him, Luke couldn't help but hunch down all the same--and grab the lightsaber on his belt, squeezing the hilt, as if it could help should they decide to open fire.
Then the roaring engines moved on. Artoo moaned softly as the sound faded overhead. Luke expelled a breath he hadn't been consciously holding in.
"Think it's safe?" Luke murmured to Artoo.
Artoo communicated that the TIEs were flying out of range of his scanners.
"Then we're about to be out of range of theirs."
The droid squawked. Questioned his ability to keep moving.
"I'm fine. Shaky, kind of want to vomit, but I'm fine." Luke rubbed his shoulder joint and suppressed a grimace. He suspected that in his old age--if he lived long enough to get old--his body would be riddled with aching joints, not to mention at least a few scars. If he got lucky, that would be the worst of it.
Artoo recommended he use the bacta in his survival pack.
"Can't use anymore." He only had two patches left now. No bacta spray. And he didn't know what else he might encounter before a rescue team got here.
Assuming they get past the Imperials. Who'll be ready for any new "Rebels" that might try to sneak through.
He wanted to sit down under the tree and fall asleep. Sleep for hours, through the rest of the day and into the night. Just the walk, and hiding from the searchers, had been enough to exhaust him completely.
His flight suit was damp with sweat. He stripped it down to his middle and tied it around his waist. Beneath the suit, he wore just a thin, almost threadbare undershirt. It had been white once, but nearly a year of rotating it between only a few others, with occasional washes as the Alliance could provide, had discolored it to a faint gray. He had nothing else.
Artoo beeped inquisitively.
"Just overheated," Luke said. "Although I've got chills, too." Cold sweat was not a good sign. Thank goodness Threepio wasn't here to fret over his condition.
Luke promised himself that when the sun went down, he and Artoo could stop and rest, no matter what.
Black Eleven was fairly confident their missing pilots were dead. But she was also confident that Lord Vader would not allow them to leave until he was satisfied with the results of their search. So she was on the lookout for wreckage, smoke, and disturbed earth or trees.
Visuals were the main thing right now. Scans wouldn't be much good if the pilots were dead, and on the off-chance they were alive, it was too hard to pinpoint anyone amidst the dense population of fauna. Picking up any major functioning tech was also uncertain if their ships were fried.
She still didn't know why Lord Vader's mystery pilot was a top priority. He didn't say--he often didn't explain things--but as she and the others figured, there were only a few reasons for him to give special attention to this Skywalker. Otherwise, any survivor would do if the plan was just interrogation and execution.
Rumors about Lord Vader's obsession with Skywalker implied that he'd been one of the pilots to escape the attack Death Star alive. Only a few Rebel ships had gotten away in total, two X-wings and a freighter. Skywalker was as good a guess as anyone else.
Then again, sometimes Lord Vader just "knew" things. He didn't need to receive intel or see something to know it happened or would happen. And he could sort of divine knowledge about people, too. Maybe he had just received some personal, special insight about Skywalker. She hoped not. Superstition wasn't her thing. But she had to follow his direction either way.
"I see something," Ten's voice broke over the comm. "Crashed fighter remains. My port side."
"I'll check myself, " Lord Vader said. "Stay behind me."
They maneuvered to stay behind his Advanced. And after the next pass, he said, "That is one of the X-wings. Follow me into a landing. We'll approach the fighter on foot. Set your weapons to stun."
They copied.
Because the wreckage was scattered over uneven ground, between some groves of trees, they had to land on more flat earth nearly half a kilometer away.
Ten and Eleven had their E-11s out when they hit the ground, while Darth Vader dismounted unarmed. His lightsaber hung from his belt, though; the armor-weave cloak he usually wore was discarded during flight, so she could see the lightsaber hilt clearly, hanging against the long cloth tabard he wore over his suit.
As they neared the X-wing, or rather its pieces, Lord Vader brushed past them bodily to peer into the overturned cockpit, one gauntleted hand on the smoked and cracked viewport.
"Not alive," he said after a moment. He pulled back and indicated the cockpit. "Drag the body out."
Despite the assertion that there wasn't a survivor inside, Eleven and Ten held their blaster rifles one-handed as they pushed on the cockpit, kicked, and eventually got it open. They drug out the body.
Ten took the helmet off. The pilot was female, and her face had been protected to some degree by her visor. But she was definitely dead.
"Not Skywalker, then," Eleven muttered.
"No," Lord Vader said. "I sense that it's unlikely any other pilots were shot down. The one we find next will be Skywalker."
Despite her own doubts about his obscure religion, Eleven couldn't ignore the frisson of coldness that jolted down between her shoulder blades. Lord Vader spoke without any doubt. He was also rarely wrong when he made his predictions.
She couldn't articulate why, but this time it gave her chills.
TBC