An Awkward Situation

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Over the course of this semester, we've been reading a novel every few weeks, and writing short stories inspired on their themes/techniques. They've just been handed in for assessment (although only one has been marked), so I figured that as I can't do any more tinkering, I would put them up for you.
This one was supposedly inspired by 'On Chesil Beach', by Ian McKewan. I didn't really like the book, so the connection between my story and that is loose, to put it lightly...
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An Awkward Situation

They say that in space, no one can hear you scream. Which is just how Soren liked it. The noise and the hustle and bustle of the Inner Sphere planets got on his nerves something chronic; market traders (roasted peanuts squire? Two bob*1 a pop!), insurance salesmen, the Napahese tourists – it was all just a little too much for someone like him.
Unfortunately for Soren, ‘they’ were in fact wrong. It wasn’t so much that people could hear him screaming, but more that he could hear everybody else doing it instead.
You see Soren was travelling. His cash flow had forced him to do so – not for employment reasons you understand, for he had a very steady job as a middle-management type in a company that dealt in novelty air fresheners*2 – but since the PHS collapsed under the weight of its own debt, the cost of medical care had risen exponentially, and on Ruubeesh the kind of money that he needed was not available to him. To travel on chartered transport to elsewhere worked out cheaper, and consequently he found himself on this...junk heap.
Although the transport freighter was licensed – barely – it was basically falling apart – near un-spaceworthy – which is probably why it was so cheap. But never one to pass up a bargain, Soren purchased a ticket for a flight the very same day, packed his bags, and departed.
And so now here he found himself, sandwiched somewhat uncomfortably between a gastronomically overweight Thoop and particularly expressive two-tongued Athaqi juvenile, who was the main cause of Soren’s present discomfort. Even on a normal day he would have found a thirty-seven parsec flight next to this child testing, but considering the nature of Soren’s condition, it was already near unbearable by the time they had exited the stratosphere. It was all very well being upset about the pain of the atmospheric pressure during take-off, but he wasn’t sure that an entire bag of sweets would help, or that hollering “want Zum-Zums!” incessantly at its parents (or anyone else on the entire ship who might possibly have been within earshot) would yield the desired result.
Two parsecs later and Soren could take no more. All reason and logical forethought went out of the metaphorical window (for of course there were no windows in the “lukshury passenger lownge” – apparently these days bywords for ‘cargo bay’). Before he knew what had happened, the little shit’s caterwauling had ceased, and was instead replaced by a questioning stare, directed solely at Soren. The reason for this wide eyed look became apparent from the rapidly burgeoning red mark on its pure-white cheek in the shape of Soren’s right hand, which now resided in the space by his left cheek as if suspended from the rusty pipes above by an invisible thread.
The respite was brief, however, as seconds later the howling came back anew. Unfortunately for Soren, this break in the atmosphere cut into the passengers’ consciousness like...well, a slap to the face, to use an apt metaphor. In particular, the brat’s mother, apparently oblivious to the prior cacophony, sighed and said “what’s the matter, snookums?”. Only when the answer was a more intense wail did she finally avert her gaze from the in-flight movie to view the scene upon which the rest of the conscious passengers were focussed.
“Mummyyyyyyyheeeeehitmeeeeeeeeeee!” came the wail anew, now given words in between bubbly, snotty sobs.
“You what?” she said menacingly, now focussed entirely on Soren.
“Madame, I...”
“Jhim! Jhim!” she shouted
Moments later a heavy set Athaqi male appeared in the aisle next to the child’s mother.
“Now what’s all this ‘ere nonsense about Moyrah?”
“This little scrote ‘ere just walloped our Usi! What are you gonna do about it?” she raged, both tongues now motoring inside her saliva-ridden gob.
Soren gulped. He was not good with confrontations – not good at all – and this Jhim fellow was a fair sight larger than himself. He started poking the assistance button frantically, praying for swift deliverance.
“Now look ‘ere you, you can’t just going around sockin’ other folks’ bairns willy-nilly! What’ve you got to say for yourself?” said Jhim, frowning and puffing out his chest authoritatively in an attempt to take control of the situation.
“Sir, I assure you, it was entirely – I mean to say, I have this condition –”
“Ooooh, I saw it all!” piped up the elephantine Thoop next to him, “eyes full of thunder he had!”
“Did ‘e now!” shrieked Jhim’s wife, now positively fuming, “never, in all my days!”
Soren’s state of mind was worsening: his breathing shallowed; his cheeks reddened – he was truly beginning to panic.
The stewardess chose this moment to make her entrance, just as Jhim was prodding a thick digit into Soren’s chest, as if trying to push him further back into his chair than he was already trying to do himself.
“Is everything all right here ladies and gentlemen?” came the stewardess’s shrill voice as she bounced onto the scene, trailed by an almost visible cloud of cheap-smelling perfume. She was a slender Okee who sported a thick layer of cosmetics, and had one of those voices that made you want to bang your head into a steel wall.
“I want this man ejected from bloody air lock!” screeched Moyrah, who was now on her feet and nose-to-nose with Soren, “I…I want ‘im…!”
‘Uh-oh’ thought Soren, as his vision started to become hazy and his nostrils flared violently, ‘this is not going to end well.’
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*1 The most widely accepted galactic currency has evolved from the pound, in memory of the ancient British Empire of Earth, who, according to several Important Historians, rose to prominence during the War of the Tea Leaves, during which Britain invaded Indiana, a nation of over-adventurous archaeologists. After two centuries of non-violent resistance, the Indianians realised that as a revolutionary tactic, this wasn’t working very well, and ‘got their freak on’. Britain was eventually ousted after the Battle of Pondicherry, during which the British monarch, King Hugh, former Earl of Grant, was slain, and the British armies sort of retreated apologetically and asked everyone to forget about the entire nonsense.
I say evolved; it’s still essentially much the same – stronger than the dollar.
*2 According to sales figures, the number one air freshener fragrance is still ‘Pine Fresh’, despite the Pine tree having been extinct for nearly six hundred years.