His tone warns me how on edge he is. He has no weapons (thankfully), but he looks ready to drag me back to the ship or punch the octopus in the eye to give me time to escape.

“It’ll work,” I say.

I never realized how much of leadership is learning to sound confident when you’re actually terrified.

In truth, I have no idea whether my plan will work. I don’t know if I’m about to make a breakthrough in octopus–human communication or infuriate a one-ton lovesick cephalopod that could snap me like a twig.

“Nautilus, I need your help,” I say in Bundeli. “I think you brought us here to meet your…your friend. If that’s the case, help me talk to him.”

As I’m explaining to the Nautilus what I want to ask Romeo, I realize how many things could go wrong. Just translating from one language to another is hard enough. I’m trying to talk to a Victorian-era AI in a rare Indo-Aryan dialect, hoping she can help me accurately relay a message to a creature from another species. But I have to try. I’m a Dolphin. I believe that communication can solve any problem if the parties have the will and the intelligence to learn to understand each other.

I turn on the keyboard. I test a few notes. As Ester suspected, the instrument works just fine underwater. Over my comm, I can hear the notes resonating throughout the ship. I can also feel the vibrations rippling outward from the hull, as if the Nautilus is acting as one massive amplifier.

I turn the keytar’s color wheel. Romeo seems to find this fascinating. The lights reflect in his great dark eye like Christmas decorations through a rain-streaked window.

I hold a C chord. The notes synchronize with the ship’s lights, turning the dark water an intense shade of indigo. Romeo’s coloration begins to change, matching the blue. The sound waves are strong enough to rattle the seal of my helmet.

“Is it working?” Gem asks.

“Hold on,” I tell him. “I’m still saying hello.”

I play a verse of Adele, just to see how it goes. The Nautilus puts on her light show. Romeo watches my hands on the keyboard. His skin ripples with different colors, as if he’s trying to absorb a new spectrum of information.

“I think he likes puzzles,” Ester decides. “Try the Bach, something intricate.”

Organ Sonata Number 4 is about as intricate as I can get without tying my fingers in knots. I turn the color wheel, setting it to brighter hues that normally wouldn’t be visible this deep, then I start to play. The Nautilus obliges with bursts of red and yellow, more like Romeo’s natural pigmentation. About halfway through the song, the Nautilus starts adding harmonic riffs.

Romeo responds with his own palette of colors. His enormous head pulses. Maybe I’m crazy, but I think the Nautilus is using my song to send a message.

I hope that message is not Hi, buddy! I brought you lunch!